#he skies were a steely gray

[suparhythm]

A Tapestry of Dreams: A Wanderer's Tale of Beauty Across Worlds

Hark, gentle listener, and lend thine ear to a tale of love and wonder, a tale that spans the ages and traverses the realms of dreams. I am but a humble wanderer, a traveler through time and space, a witness to the ephemeral beauty that dances between the stars. My journey began in a world of ethereal hues, where the skies were painted with strokes of lavender and gold, and the air hummed with…

[jrreigns]

Goodbyes

Levi couldn’t give you what you wanted.

No amount of hoping and praying would lead you anywhere. Despite the love you both shared, the tribulations you both faced, it just wasn’t enough. No amount of peace or space would heal the tattered heart he bore in his chest. The heart he had dedicated to the Survey Corps was the same heart that he was now attempting to dedicate to you.

Blissful domesticity and healing, things you gushed about, things you joked about; they were things you secretly hoped for being with him.

Healing, healing did not come second nature to the former captain. Fighting, fighting did come second nature. But this semblance of peace had removed Levi from this element and try as he might, he just couldn’t find himself getting accustomed to it.

Living, he was trying his best to just live. Live for those that couldn’t, relish in the peace that others had longed for, in the peace that others had died for. He tried to find peace with you, but when others began to get married and have children and you turned to look at Levi expectantly, he couldn’t find it in him to continue the facade. Though peace had been achieved, Levi’s thoughts continued a battle that raged on.

Titans were the target before, then Marley, then Eren. Now there was nothing left to fight, only the flashbacks and the nightmares that tormented him. The nightmares were the worse of the two and even if you were there to soothe him afterward, it was impossible to ward off everything with your touch. He’d inadvertently lash at you occasionally and though he’d apologize shortly after, it still didn’t eliminate the hurt in your eyes.

I need you to leave.

You both saw it coming. You didn’t know when you had fallen out of love with Levi; no, actually you’d never fallen out of love with him. All you knew then was that you were tired. Tired of giving all your support and receiving very little back. You had fought the same battles Levi had, but you were forced to try and hide it all in order to be of full support for him. You did this wholeheartedly, but the ache in your mind was beginning to exert its full weight and you needed relief.

You felt terrible. You wanted to argue back, you wanted to fight him, tell him that you loved him and wanted to stay, that you wanted to stay with him for what was left for the rest of your lives. But the exhaustion was apparent on your face and from the wheelchair Levi sat on, he could tell there was no fight in you left. You cried, you both cried. He shed his tears silently but you broke out in choked sobs. Life continued being cruel, even if the skies above you were bluer then they had ever been, even if the breeze was tamer than it had ever been.

The goodbye was strange. It didn’t feel like goodbye. As you packed a small bag with your belongings and turned to him. You shared your goodbyes, but neither of you felt like you had meant it.

I’ll be back, your eyes read.

We’ll see, his steely gray ones replied.

Goodbye hadn’t meant goodbye.

You still saw each other once a week. Whenever Gabi and Falco wheeled Levi to the park, you’d happen to be there too.

Goodbye hadn’t meant goodbye, he could tell by the way you still hung around, always asking Gabi and Falco if he was getting enough sleep, and if he had seen the doctor this week, and if he was eating well, and if he was doing this or that.

Goodbye hadn’t meant goodbye when you were both back in his room, you on top of him, kissing him with a fury. Sex didn’t come easily to Levi, but being with you after what felt like an eternity away… it came just a little easier, and so did he.

We can’t keep doing this.

You had cried, not as bad as he thought you would, but nonetheless you cried. You hoped that in the time apart, perhaps Levi’d come to his senses. Although Levi was certainly healing, it still wasn’t enough to drag you back down into the murky depths of his mind. You deserved better.

Goodbye hadn’t meant goodbye then either, but at least you stopped coming around as frequently as you did and if you did, you’d leave before his arrival. Avoiding him like the plague, this was the best case scenario for him, even if he wanted nothing more than to see you again. Throughout the years and on more than one occasion would you stumble back to him, but those meetings were growing far and few in between, until you stopped coming altogether.

No regrets…or at least, making choices one will regret the least, this is what this was to him. To ensure your future, to ensure your happiness.

He loved you, despite the distance.

The years had passed.

When Levi saw you again, a gold band glittered against your ring finger. You hadn’t seen him, but he saw you. You were at a public market alongside a man that must’ve been your husband. From where Levi stood, he couldn’t see the boy that stood between you both, a boy that had your eyes, but your husband’s face. As your husband moved to make the necessary purchases, you looked up and caught Levi staring. Although caught off guard, you still utter a hello and bring your hand up in a wave.

Levi wants to say something, anything, but with his heart rapidly beating in his chest, he could barely think straight. Suddenly, you smiled at him, your eyes shutting to display tiny wrinkles forming on the corners of your eyes, the sign of a life filled with happiness and laughter.

“It was nice to see you,” you say quickly and quietly.

You loved him, despite the distance.

Levi wanted to stop you. He wanted to tell you he loved you, to come back to him, to forget the goodbyes and the pain and the suffering; he was better now and he could tell you how big Gabi and Falco had gotten, and how much better his knee felt. He called out your name and you turned to him, your face was laced with a clear anticipation, a face he had come to recognize long ago, a face you make whenever you wanted to hear something from him.

From where he stood, the boy peered from around the stand and only then were Levi’s thoughts interrupted.

The boy eyed the old veteran curiously, waiting and wondering why it seemed like an eternity you both were there, just standing.

A sad smile graced Levi’s features as he caught sight of the boy observing him. With a final look to the small boy and your beautiful face, he swallowed all the words he wanted to tell you.

Goodbye.

Your breath hitched as he said this. You clutched your small son closer and gave him a nod in understanding.

“Goodbye Levi.”

An actual goodbye.

You knew it was by the way your heart suddenly filled with grief and the way Levi refused to look at you again, the same sad smile plastered on his face.

You held you son’s hand as you walked away, back to your home, back to your husband, back to the new life you had built away from Levi.

He watched as you walked away. You deserved this, he thought calmly to himself. His thoughts might run amok at times, but this particular thought reverberated clearly throughout his head. Blissful domesticity, something you yearned for alongside Levi, but could never have it. The regrets regarding you stumbled into his mind once in a while; seeing you hold your son close, he didn’t have to wonder anymore.

As you and your family became specks in the distance, Levi could hear the voices of Gabi and Falco approaching. Still, he watched you until you vanished from his view. This time, goodbye had been goodbye.

[somewhereincairparavel]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write Jason x daughter of Apollo reader who’s always overworking herself at the infirmary

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when the skies are gray"

author's note: I intended it to be full fluffy but I made it hurt comfort instead, I hope you don't mind <3

Jason hadn't seen you in days…. recently the infirmary was packed with patients, Jason literally being one of the dozens. The apollo healers were at their peak of pressure. You were performing stitches while the others were performing surgeries. After all the chaotic rush cooled down a little, you told Will to take some rest, while you checked off the list of patients that were admitted in your notepad.

That was when Jason stepped inside the infirmary, you didn't even notice until jason vigorously back hugged you.

“What?” You snapped, you were exhausted and didn't really want to see anyone at the moment, not even your boyfriend. Jason pulled out a bouquet of sunflowers, smiling brightly while giving them to you. What a sweetheart.

Unfortunately, you had too much coffee and that made you cranky.

“thanks. Put them in the vase.” You said, not taking your eyes off of your notepad while aloofly gesturing to the empty vase on your desk.

You felt Jason frown genuinely. He put the flowers inside the vase as you asked him too, which you did albeit a little coldly. But he knew you were stressed out, so he didn't think much of it. He put a hand on your shoulder gently and moved closer to whisper in your ear.

“sunshine, don't you think you should be taking a break? You look exhausted and you didn't show up to dinner yesterday, have you even eaten? Be honest please” he asked in concern

You always loved Jason's worried mom behavior because you thought it was endearing, but today, the pressure levels of the past few days, witnessing your siblings in distress because they failed to save one patient, watching fellow campers in physical pain, just got too much, that you snapped.

“I am FINE Jason! Just because I didn't show up yesterday does not mean I didn't eat. Have you considered the possibility that I had food sent to me over here in the infirmary? Gosh.. can't you see I'm busy? Why are you so overbearing? Leave me alone, please.” you regretted your words the moment they spilled out. Jason looked like a kicked puppy, as a flash of hurt went through his eyes. But they disappeared almost immediately as his eyes were replaced with steely coldness.

“I was just checking on you, babe. because I was worried.....tell me how many of your friends have actually come in to see how you were, the past week?” He asked, with a dangerously calm and steady voice, staring at you deeply while making a very fair point. That's what happens when you were raised in the most unemotional camp ever. You switch back to your old ways.

You looked at him a little stunned, and were unable to respond to his question. Because you had no answer. Nobody apart from your siblings had come to check on you, up until Jason arrived.

“Exactly. So if you think that me caring about my girlfriend’s health and being worried about her is “overbearing” then fine. If you continue to push me away when I clearly mean well, then so be it. I hope you like the flowers, and please, for the love of god, get some rest. We'll talk when you're feeling less mad” he added.

But this time, you could've sworn that his voice was shaky and that broke you. You had never said mean stuff to him like this before, and this time, it had clearly affected him. He had done nothing but be sweet to you. Even now, he was talking you calmly without telling at your outburst.

You watched miserably as Jason walked out of the infirmary. Tears slipped out of your eyes as you reached your breaking point of the week. You had officially pushed away the one person who loves you more than anything. Simply because you were stubborn to hear him out.

It was currently 1:00 AM, and you finally collected yourself to go apologize to Jason. You needed to fix what you broke before it was too late. You found yourself staring at the flowers he'd oh so happily given you before you ruined his mood.

You tentatively stepped into his cabin, trying to make as less noise as possible. You couldn't wait until morning for this, you missed him to death. Jason was sleeping quietly, he was never the one for snoring, he wasn't a deep sleeper either, so every time you had even accidentally brushed against him, he'd wake up with a jolt.

You gently got into his bed, and wrapped your arms around him from behind while burying your face into his hair. This time though, he didn't wake up with an alert jolt. Instead, he took your hands and tightened your grip around himself.

“You're awake?” You whispered to him curiously.

“Well, what do you think?” Jason whispered back, the smile in his voice evident. He turned around to face you, and you held his cheeks with both your hands, softly stroking them. He was staring at you, this time, any trace of coldness had vanished. You took a few seconds to admire his gorgeous eyes before you spoke.

“Jason… I'm sorry… I didn't mean anything I said. I really didn't.. I was just feeling cranky about how shitty my week had been, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.. I had no right, especially not when you were so sweet abou-” you were cut off with his lips pressing on yours.

“That's okay, love. I know you didn't mean it, I just wanted to give you space to think everything through. I was never mad. Just upset that you were overworking yourself too much.” he replied after pulling away.

You teared up again.

“I love you so much.” You said, pressing your forehead onto his. He smiled brightly.

“I love you too. Now, do you want to talk about how you've been feeling? You need it, Let it out babe. I'm always here.”

Both of you spent the rest of the night, talking about each other's feelings and cuddling. Jason felt fulfilled as he saw you peacefully napping, getting the rest you deserve.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine.” He whispered, kissing your hair.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 83

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 83: The Death of a Son

AO3 - Masterlist

The halls of Dragonstone lay shrouded in silence, the stillness seeping into every crevice, deepening the shadows that clung to the ancient stone walls. Daemon moved through these dim corridors, his footsteps reverberating softly in the quiet. The weariness of a long day of training weighed heavily on him, each muscle straining under the fatigue, particularly along the curve of his spine and his right shoulder. Though aged had tempered his body, he remained strong and resilient, familiar with the depths of his endurance and how to push beyond his limits. 

He had hoped the rigorous training would quell the restlessness that churned within him—a simmering irritation and agitation that coiled like a serpent beneath his skin, driving his need for action. The physical exertion, however, had done little to alleviate the restlessness prickling at his fingertips, refusing to dissipate. 

“My prince!” A voice called out, halting Daemon in his march towards the Chamber of the Painted Table—where he’d lend his voice to the efforts of war. 

Daemon turned to see Maester Gerardys approaching, his face carved with shadows that accentuated a deep, solemn sadness. The maester’s chains clinked softly with each step, swaying from his neck to below his belly, draped over the plain gray robes characteristic of his order. 

Gerardys moved with a noticeable heaviness, his brows lifted in an expression that blended sympathy with a touch of fear. Daemon’s gaze sharpened, his spine straightening in anticipation of the news the Maester bore. 

“A raven has flown in from Storm’s End…” Maester Gerardys began, his voice trailing off as Daemon turned fully towards him, a steely resolve hardening his features. 

Daemon’s immediate thought was that Storm’s End had refused to heed Rhaenyra’s call—cowards and lickspittles, every one of them. If House Baratheon had declared to the usurpers, they had chosen the losing side, and he would ensure they faced the consequences, as would all who stood against them.

 “It is the prince…” Maester Gerardys continued, hesitating and looking down at the small note in his hand. “He’s… he’s been slain—”

Daemon snatched the note from Maester Gerardys, unfurling it with a swift motion. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, dread and rage spilling into his stomach. As his eyes scanned the scribbled words of the parchment, the weight of the news settled heavily upon him, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach.

It grieves me to inform you that Prince Lucerys Velaryon is dead. House Baratheon welcomed the prince, and he delivered his missive. Discussions arose, and Prince Lucerys made to leave when Prince Aemond demanded that a debt be paid, insisting that Prince Lucerys put out his eye as payment for his own. Prince Lucerys refused and left. No blood was spilled beneath my roof, I assure you. What transpired occurred in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay.

I have sent my men to scour the coast of the Bay for the remains of the boy, if there is anything left for them to find. House Baratheon condemns Prince Aemond’s actions against the Princess’s son. No blood was spilled within our halls, and guest rights were upheld. I offer my condolences, and those of my house, for what happened to the young prince.

Borros Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End 

The words confirmed his worst fears, each sentence like a blow, draining the color from his face. The scribbled note detailed the death of Lucerys, and the grim truth of what had happened once he arrived at Storm’s End. 

An ache formed at the back of Daemon’s throat, his chest tightening as he read over the words again, as though needing to reaffirm them. He gritted his teeth, swallowing his emotions, allowing them to cut down his throat and fester in his stomach, steeling himself against the tide of grief and rage threatening to consume him. 

Daemon rolled the parchment tightly in his hand, his grip like a vice. He blinked against the prickle of tears that burned at the back of his eyes and turned on his heels, forcing himself to move forward, leaving Maester Gerardys behind. A dismissal wasn’t necessary; Daemon knew it was his responsibility to deliver his news to his wife personally. It should come from him. 

As Daemon strode through the dimly lit halls, his footsteps echoed with a somber resonance, each step heavy with the weight of the news he carried. The burden felt like a tangible cloak upon his shoulders, pressing down relentlessly. Dread coiled and writhed in his stomach, a restless serpent, as he anticipated the impact his news would have on his wife. A twist of fear slipped between his ribs and lodged itself in his heart at the thought that this news might break her, might shatter her so completely that she could not put herself back together again—loss compounded, wave after wave of it; Viserys, her throne, Daenera, Visenya, and now, Lucerys. It was a fresh wound cutting through her already bleeding heart. His fist curled tighter around the letter, the parchment bruning against his palm as his skin tightened over his knuckles. 

No, it would not break her completely—it could not. Rhaenyra was strong, she was fierce, she was a dragon. 

The weight of his grief and anger settled deep within his bones, a cold heaviness that seemed to anchor him, slowing his movements as he advanced through the castle. He pushed his own grief down, forcing his emotions into the back of his mind, letting it linger like a shadow trailing after him. 

Reaching the Chamber of the Painted Table, Daemon halted just outside, poised at the threshold, hidden from view. The archway loomed before him, a daunting barrier between him and the devastation he was about to impart. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, the tightness in his chest persisting, the cold weight settling more firmly upon him. He steeled his expression, and then, pushed forth. 

Daemon entered the room, shoulders taut and head low. A low murmur of conversation hung in the air as strategies and plans were deliberated, though to him it was nothing more than a distant buzz. His wife stood at the head of it all, framed by the crackling hearth behind her and the long, intricately carved table before her, candles burning and sputtering among the markers for allies and foes. 

He moved through the bustling scene like a blade cleaving through flesh, his presence commanding. He felt her eyes on him, could almost sense the erratic beat of her heart as she watched him approach, a silent understanding–and anticipation of—the ill tidings he brought. 

Their eyes met, hers searching and inquisitive, a light furrow on her brow as she seemed to note the solemnity in his expression. Daemon reached for her, gesturing for them to step away from the Painted Table, seeking a moment of privacy to deliver the news of her son’s passing. The room, filled with advisors and lords, seemed to blur into the background as they moved towards the hearth.

His hand found hers, her skin warm and soft against his own calloused and weary fingers. There was a heartbeat of hesitation, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. The low murmur of discussions had faded into a tense silence only filled by the knitting fire and the wind howling outside. 

Finally, the words managed to find his lips, laden with sorrow, “Your son, Lucerys… He and his dragon have been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

The revelation seemed to strike her like a blade, twisting cruelly into her stomach and arching upwards towards her heart. She drew in a sharp breath, swallowing whatever cry that might have emerged. Her brows furrowed together, and her eyes searched his desperately for any sign that it wasn’t true. Daemon could offer nothing but the cold bite of reality—her son was gone. 

Daemon watched as the impact of his words washed over her, her face a canvas of raw, unfiltered pain. He wished he could shield her from this agony, but the truth was an unyielding force. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra…”

He squeezed her hand, a steely resolve hardening his voice. “I swear to you, my love, we shall avenge your son.”

Rhaenyra’s hand slipped from his grasp, the warmth of her touch leaving a burning ache on his skin. He longed to reach out to her again, to hold her close, but he stepped back, offering her the space she needed. He watched as she struggled to reconcile with the devastating news, her breath hitching and her eyes brimming with unshed tears. 

Daemon stood silently, his heart aching, but his face set in a mask of determination. He understood that she needed this moment to herself, to process the loss and grief that threatened to overwhelm her. 

“Rhaenyra…” Daemon’s voice was barely a whisper as he watched the devastation rip through her. A broken inhale shuddered through her body, her hands clawing at her stomach, grasping at anything as though she could claw out the pain. Her body folded in on itself, her face contorted with raw grief and agony. A strangled cry tore from her throat, a sound broken and harrowing, cut short as she swallowed the sob—the sound more horrifying than the ones she had released during the agonizing labor of their child just days ago. 

The cry seemed to claw its way into existence, echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through Daemon’s body. He felt it as though it broke his chest apart, the force of her anguish snapping his bones and rendering his heart to nothing but torn flesh.

In the midst of that terrible, awful tearing, an ember of rage ignited within him. It smoldered, feeding off the pain and growing into a fierce, burning resolve. Daemon clenched his fists, the fire in his chest growing stronger, fueled by the sight of his wife’s suffering. 

As she teetered on the brink of collapse, Daemon moved towards her. Her knees wobbled, but she steadied herself before he could reach her, inhaling sharply and muffling her sob as she regained some composure. A palpable change enveloped her—a chilling, ghastly transformation—as if the air itself ignited in flames around her. With a vengeful expression, she spun to face the map of Westeros, her skin illuminated by the orange glow that seemed to consume her. Her eyes blazed with a fierce intensity.

Her gaze swept across the room, locking briefly with each set of eyes that dared meet hers. Her brows furrowed, deeping with each pass, as another surge of sorrow seemed to wash over her. The fire in her eyes flickered and waned, doused by the waves of grief, stealing her away from the flames of rage and dragging her out into the sea of sorrow.

It was an awful thing to watch her choke on it. 

Her desperate eyes seemed to search each face surrounding her, seeking a glimpse of the son she lost, before her gaze finally settled on Daemon.

Daemon shared a silent exchange with her–a moment of a silent question and quiet answer. He reached for her, but she held up her hand, the moment stretching as a visible shudder passed through her, and she inhaled deeply, seemingly knitting herself together to maintain some semblance of composure. Her gaze then shifted towards Lord Bartimos Celtigar and her councilors. 

“I must recuse myself, my lords,” she managed to say, her voice thick with sorrow and trembling with barely contained emotion. Without waiting for their response or even a nod of acknowledgement, she turned away. 

Rhaenyra moved through the hushed room, each step measured and fraught with visible effort. The tension in her movements suggested that simply walking took great strength, each step laborious and pained.

The only sound that filled the heavy air was the mournful howl of the wind outside. Daemon’s gaze followed her as she walked away, tracing her descent down the few steps to the archway where she vanished from sight. He could feel the collective eyes of the room on him, sensing a growing restlessness as his fingers twitched at his sides. Then, a heart-wrenching cry echoed through the hall–a sound raw and primal, like that of a wounded animal, embodying the despair of a mother bereft of her child.  

A stunned silence thrummed throughout the room, with everyone seemingly holding their breath in shock and confusion–and a palpable dread that seemed to ring out in the space between her sobs. As Daemon made his way towards the archway, he felt the intensity of their stares prickling against his skin like needles. Their unspoken questions and the weight of their scrutiny felt almost tangible in the air, though none dared to give voice to their questions. 

“Father,” Baela’s voice pierced the heavy silence, halting Daemon as she stepped down the stairs. He paused, turning to finally face the gathered lords and ladies who had answered their summons and bent the knee to their queen. His gaze shifted to his daughters–one whose face was wrought with worry, brow in a flat line and the corner’s of her lips downturned, and the other with tears pooling in her eyes. 

“Stay,” Daemon instructed firmly, then swept his eyes over the assembly, silently commanding them to remain while he saw to his wife. He pivoted sharply, descending the last steps before passing into the hallway, following her haunting cries.

Daemon didn’t hesitate as he found her collapsed on the cold stone floor, her nails clawing desperately as her body was wracked by sobs, quickly kneeling by her side. When she turned to him, tears streamed down her face, eyes burning with grief. Each tearful gasp echoed off the stone walls, amplifying the agony of her grief as her fingers clenched his doublet, pulling herself into his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. His arms encircled her, holding her close with a firm yet gentle embrace. Leaning close, he whispered into the top of her head, “We need to get you out the hall.”

Rhaenyra nodded. 

Daemon carefully positioned her arms around his neck, her fingers gripping him tightly. With a firm arm scooped beneath her knees and the one securing her against his chest, he lifted her from the cold stone floor. Despite the strain it put on his body, and the protesting ache in his muscles, he managed to lift her, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. 

He carried her through the hall, each step deliberate as he ascended the stairs to their bedchamber. As they passed, he issued a gruff command to Lady Elinda Massey without breaking his stride.

“Fetch the Maester,” he ordered, his voice a low rumble filled with urgency. His focus remained steadfast on Rhaenyra, ensuring her comfort despite the physical demands of carrying her had on his body. 

As the lady-in-waiting hurried out the room, her footsteps fading down the corridor, Daemon gently lowered Rhaenyra on their bed and settled himself on the edge. His hand moved soothingly across her back, murmuring soft, comforting words against her temple as her body trembled under his touch, her cries of sorrow enveloping him like a cold tide. 

He whispered a solemn vow in her ear, his voice a steady, quiet force amid her storm of grief. “Tolvie qūvy bona ropagon hen aōha laesi, kesi addemmagon zirȳ arlī ampa jēdi toliot.”

For every tear that falls from your eyes, we will pay them back tenfold. 

He would deliver each of their treacherous heads on a silver platter for Syrax to devour if she so desired–all she needed to do was command it, and he would obey. And he would start with taking that one-eyed cunt’s head. 

Daemon tenderly stroked her back, his touch meant as a quiet solace amidst the storm of her grief. Rhaenyra clung to him, her grip on his doublet desperate and unyielding, as if he were the sole tether keeping her afloat in a tumultuous sea of despair. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, her fear palpable–that he might slip away and leave her adrift. 

“It can’t be,” Rhaenyra sobbed, her voice hearse and laden with fatigue, her words nearly lost in her tears. She leaned back to look into his eyes, her own red and swollen, eyelashes matted together with tears. The rails glistening on her cheeks reflected in the dim candlelight, her head slightly as if to deny the truth before her. Her brows arched in a plea for reassurance. “It can’t be–tell me it isn’t true, Daemon. He–he can’t–” She struggled for breath, her voice breaking, “he can’t be dead. He was just an envoy, not a warrior… I–I assured him it was safe, that he would be welcomed!”

Daemon attempted to offer comfort, reaching up to gently brush back her hair, his hand cradling the side of her face to anchor her as she spiraled deeper into despair. “Rhaenrya…”

“He can’t be dead,” Rhaenyra interrupted abruptly, her grip tightening on his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin–a sting that was almost comforting in its realness–as he choked down his own sorrow to steady her. “Please, Daemon. It can’t be true–”

“It is true,” Daemon whispered back softly, the gentle timbre of his voice was meant to soften the blow, yet the truth still cut deep. 

“No,” she croaked in delian, her voice barely above a whisper. “It can’t be true–it can’t be… what happened?” Her eyes searched his for an explanation, desperate for something, anything, that might undo the grim news he had confirmed. “What happened? W–what happened?”

Daemon’s voice was heavy with the weight of the truth as he spoke, his eyes firmly on her. “Aemond Targaryen was at Storm’s End for the same reasons Lucerys was,” he explained, his tone deliberate and measured. “Lucerys had delivered his message for his Queen and made to leave when Aemond demanded he put out his eye for payment for his…”

Rhaenyra’s face contorted with raw anguish, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief as she searched Daemon’s face for some glimmer of hope. “And he took my son’s life for it?”

Daemon lowered his head, the fortification of his heart momentarily giving way to a flicker of grief of his own, and the sharp stab of anger. “Lucerys refused Aemond’s demand for retribution, and attempted to leave… Luke… Luke and Aemond clashed in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay,” he recounted solemnly, his voice thick with the gravity of the event. 

“It must be a mistake. He could–”Rhaenyra started, her brows knitting together as she desperately clung to any other choice than the grim truth–that her son had met his end at the hands of Aemond Targaryen. “He could still be alive, right? He might have fallen into the sea…”

“Rhaenyra–” Daemon tried to interject, his voice laden with empathy.

“Or perhaps they’ve taken him hostage, like they did Daenera…” she continued, her voice pleading, gripping him with a desperate strength, her face etched with torment and hope.

“If they had taken him hostage, we would have received a raven from the Hightowers with their demands–”

“So we are to trust the words that tell us my son is dead?!”

The letter he had tucked away seemed to scorch the fabric of his trousers, its weight oppressive in the pocket where he had hastily stashed it to free up his hands. Now, Daemon carefully withdrew the damning parchment and placed it on the side table beside them. It lay there, a simple roll of parchment, yet its mere existence was a curse. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze fixed on the rolled parchment, her eyes wide with dread–the terror of a mother bracing herself to confront the devastating words it contained. She drew a ragged, shuddering breath, tearing her eyes away from the note that delivered such heartbreaking news. Her gaze drifted aimlessly, unfocused as her face contorted with pain. The muscles twitched involuntarily as something seemed to dawn on her. Her voice was a whisper of horror, a mother’s guilt flooding through her in a crushing wave. “Did I send him to his death? Oh, gods, did I send him to his death?”

“No,” Daemon counted firmly, his touch intensifying with his insistence. “The blame lies solely with Aemond Targaryen and those usurper cunts who stole your birthright.”

“I can’t–I can’t do this,” she gasped, her face contouring with unbearable anguish as she clawed at him. “I can’t bear it–”

Daemon’s hands tightened reassuringly around her, cradling her face and bringing her forehead to his. His voice was resolute, yet tender as he murmured, “You can and you will.”

Her nails pressed into his wrists, the sting barely registering to him as he remained wholly focused on her. As he slightly withdrew, he noticed Maester Gerardys and Lady Elinda poised at the threshold of their bedchamber, ready to assist. 

Turning his attention back on his wife, Daemon’s tone softened to a gentle whisper, “Let the Maester see to you.”

Daemon kissed her forehead gently, a soft gesture meant to reassure. As he drew back, he felt her grip on him loosen. Rising from the bed, he noted the deep frown etching her features, a look of utter desolation that mirrored the expression she had worn no more than days ago as they mourned the loss of their daughter–a visage marked by profound loss and emptiness, an echo of a woman. He turned away, his heart heavy, as he began to move towards the doors.

As he did, Maester Gerardys entered, their paths crossing in a silent exchange of roles. Daemon found himself at the threshold when her voice, fragile yet piercing, stopped him.

“You’re leaving me…” And though she didn’t continue the indictment, it was still there; again. When I need you.

The words hit Daemon like a physical blow, and he turned to face her again. Her eyes held a desolate scorn that seemed to almost burn, the glow of an ember in the fading light. He frowned, his response firm, “I’ll see to the council and come back.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted away from him, a silent acquiescence to his necessary departure. With a heavy heart, Daemon left the room, the cho of her despair lingering in the air as he stepped out. 

Daemon moved with purpose through the halls towards the Chamber of the Painted Table, his expression set in a deep frown, his thoughts consumed by the daunting steps ahead. His heart pounded heavily in his chest, the restless energy tingling at his fingertips as he quickened his pace. Each of his footfalls echoed off the stone walls, a low thrum of urgency that permeated the corridors. 

As he ascended the steps into the chamber, a low murmur of conversations filled the air, but his arrival swiftly cut through the noise, commanding immediate silence. The room’s attention snapped to him, a palpable and solemn tension hanging in the air. 

Daemon’s gaze swept over the assembled lords and ladies, each one shifting uneasily under his intense scrutiny. Their faces were etched with apprehension and worry, waiting for him to speak, to explain what had happened with their queen and the course of action they were to take. His eyes lingered briefly on each face, measuring their resolve and their fear, before he prepared to address the council. 

His gaze drifted across the Chamber of the Painted Table to the hearth at the far end, where it burned brightly–where his wife had once stood at the head of the table. A twitch of his fingers betrayed his unease. He led his ground, choosing instead to remain at the opposite end, near the steps. 

From this position, he commanded the room just as effectively. Daemon drew in a deep, controlled breath before his voice cut through the silence, firm and clear: “Lucerys Velaryon is dead.” He paused, then continued. “He has been slain by Aemond Targaryen.”

A palpable stir swept through the assembly, the room descending into a heavy solemnity. Corlys Velaryon, seemingly overcome by the news, stepped back from the Painted Table, the tap of his cane piercing the quiet as he sank into a chair. His hands gripped the cane tightly, head bowed in a silent shroud of grief. Beside him, Rhaenys placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her presence a silent pillar of support. 

Nearby, Rhaena turned and sought solace in her sister’s embrace, burying her face in the crook of her neck, seeking a refuge from the storm of emotions unleashed by the news. 

Daemon continued, his stance firm and voice resolute, fingers twitching at his sides. “The Queen needs her rest.” His tone left no room for debate. “The council meeting will resume on the morrow.”

Rhaenys, her resolve evident despite the tremble in her voice, declared her own intentions, “I will take Meleys and return to patrolling the Gullet.”

Daemon nodded decisively, signaling his intention to conclude the council for the night and return to Rhaenyra’s side. However, as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on his daughters–Rhaena, her head bowed in sorrow, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs, and Baela, gently rubbing her sister’s back, her own tears barely held back. 

As the council began to disperse, the chamber filled with shocked murmurs and was heavy with apprehension. The shuffle of feet across the smooth floor created a low, continuous thrum. In this solemnity, Daemon approached his daughters. He placed a comforting hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze, a simple gesture. 

He drew them close, enveloping them in a firm embrace–and though it was mostly to soothe their grief, Daemon found a semblance of comfort in holding them close. He had held them the same way once before, when their mother had died. 

As they eventually stepped back, they moved only as far as his reach allowed, keeping his hands on their shoulders as he met their teary gazes. “You must be strong now. Rhaenyra will need you in the days ahead…”

Wiping away a tear and summoning a look of determined courage, Baela stood tall as she spoke, “We should take Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, and Moondancer and fly to King’s Landing.”

Daemon responded with equal firmness, “You are needed here to look after and care for your younger siblings as their mother gathers herself.”

As much as Daemon wanted to mount Caraxes and fly to King’s Landing to lay waste to the usurper cunts, he knew that the city would undoubtedly be on high alert, with defenses primed for such an assault. They’d be expecting them and that put them at a disadvantage. He understood that confronting Aemond Targaryen would necessitate at least the strength of Meleys to stand any chance against Vhagar in aerial combat. 

Yet, despite his readiness to seek vengeance, Daemon knew he could not act on his impulse without Rhaenyra’s explicit command–and perhaps, more importantly, she needed him here. 

“The Greens would have prepared for an attack,” Daemon said, when Rhaena wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, adding, “And they still have Daenera…”

Daemon nodded, “If we attack now, we risk her life…”

“If we do not bring the fight to them, at least let me fly to the Eyrie and inform Jace of his brother’s death,” Baela argued, her resolve hardening as she pressed her point. 

A surge of solemn pride swelled in Daemon’s chest as he observed his daughter’s readiness to act, her resolve reflecting the strength of her lineage. Despite the turmoil within him, a faint smile curved his lips as he gently but firmly refused her proposal. “I will have a raven sent in the morning.”

“But–” Baela started to protest, seeking to push her argument further. 

“You are needed here,” Daemon interrupted, shaking his head to reinforce his point. “Moondancer is needed here to protect Dragonstone.” 

Accepting her father’s decision, Baela took a deep breath, lifting her head high, and nodded firmly in acknowledgement. Daemon gave his daughters a final squeeze, releasing his hold on them. Then, turning on his heels, descended the steps and began the long, solemn walk back to the chambers he shared with his wife. Each step echoed through the halls, the night alive with the news of the prince’s death. 

Daemon’s steps quickened as he approached the bedchambers he shared with Rhaenyra, his heart laden with the dread of finding her inconsolable. Upon entering, his eyes immediately sought the familiar comfort of their bed, but it was empty–a stark, unsettling void instead of the presence of the person he loved the most. He halted, a grown creasing his brow as he stared at the desolate bed, feeling his heart drop. 

“Rhaenyra?” He called out, his voice encoding slightly in the spacious room. 

Only silence greeted him, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind sweeping over the ancient stones of the castle, as if lamenting in chorus with his own unease. The fire in the hearth crackled, the only other sound in the tense quiet. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides. 

With a sense of urgency, Daemon turned and hastily exited the room, the doors closing behind him with a definitive thud. His footsteps thundered against the stone floor, each echo resonating through the darkened halls like a determined march, as he searched the castle for any sign of his missing wife. 

As soon as Daemon spotted Ser Erryk and Ser Lorent standing outside the Chamber of the Painted Table, deep in conversation, he approached them briskly, biting out, “Have you seen Rhaenyra?”

The two Queensguard members bowed quickly, their expressions growing concerned. “No, my prince.”

Without pausing for further discussion, Daemon issued a crisp command, “Find her.”

He moved swiftly past them, his presence commanding immediate action. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of their armor as they sprang into motion, Ser Erryk falling in step behind him while Ser Lorent headed in the opposite direction, likely to alert the guards. 

Continuing his relentless search, Daemon descended the serpentine steps and walked through another hall. There, he found Maester Gerardys in conversation with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. Both men stopped and greeted him with the same deference as the Queensguard had. Without breaking stride, Daemon turned his intense gaze upon Maester Gerardys, his voice sharp as he addressed Maester Gerardys, “Where’s the Queen?”

“My prince?” Maester Gerardys responded, looking momentarily taken aback, his eyebrows knitting together in both surprise and confusion, then continuing uncertainty, “She’s in your chambers…”

“She is not,” Daemon retorted quickly, his tone terse. His agitation was palpable, each word punctuating by a rising beat of apprehension in his chest. 

The maester shifted uncomfortably, a look of concern crossing his features. “I made Her Grace a draught to ease her nerves and help her sleep,” he explained, his voice steady despite the growing tension. “She thanked me and dismissed me afterward–”

Daemon did not linger to hear more from Maester Gerardys; instead, he quickly pushed past, his strides hurried as he made his way down another flight of stairs towards the lower levels of the castle, descending into its bowels. The halls were dimly lit by flickering torches and glowing braziers, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.

Accompanied by Ser Erryk, Daemon passed through the Library, a grand space with shelves reach up to the high, roughly hewn ceiling. It was a place where he had often found Rhaenyra lost in a book, bathed in the soft light streaming through the sparse windows. Tonight, however, the library stood silent, haunted by the echoes of their lineages storied past. The air was thick with dust moats and below the scent of aged parchment and the fire of the braziers, the scent of dragon reached them. 

Apprehension pricked his skin, his heart pounding with increasing dread as they moved deeper into the castle. The familiar scent of dragon intensified, and a cold draft whispered through the corridors, adding a chill to the already tense atmosphere. In the distance, the low rush of waves against the cliffs at the foot of Dragonstone could be heard, accompanied by the mournful howl of the wind through the openings in the rock face of the Dragonmont. 

As Daemon and Ser Erryk’s urgent footsteps resonated along the corridors, they penetrated deep into the cavernous expanse beneath the dragonmont, passing through an archway that led to the dragon landing. The cavern around them expanded massively, its edges swallowed by the enveloping darkness. Here, the thick smell of sulfur and dragon intensified–there was a usual comfort to be found in these familiar scents. Now, however, there was no comfort to be found–only a growing sense of urgency and dread. 

A whistled roar suddenly split the air, echoing off the cavern walls and reverberating through the tunnels within the Dragonmont. The sound filled the vast empty space, twisting through the shadows and vibrating powerfully within Daemon’s chest–a clear expression of apprehension and frustration that echoed his own. 

As they progressed, dragonkeepers emerged to meet them, carrying long staffs that towered above their heads. One of these keepers stopped directly in front of Daemon, bowing his head. The gesture, though respectful, did little to alleviate the palpable tension as Daemon prepared to engage with thim, his mind focused on the pressing need to find his wife. His fingers twitched at his sides, a visible sign of his growing frustration and agitation as he confronted the dragonkeeper, “Ñuha ābrazȳrys, skoriot iksis ziry?”

My wife, where is she?

The dragonkeeper responded with a solemn expression, the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes. “Mazēdas Syraks.”

She left on Syrax.

Daemon’s frustration boiled over, his demand sharp and clipped. “Skorkydoso bōsa?”

How long?

“Daor bōsa, yn kesā daor māzigon zirȳla.” The keeper answered, the words heavy with a weight that seemed to echo in the vast cavern. His words hung in the air, suggesting a chase that might already be too late to begin. Not long, but you will not reach her.

Daemon exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze to the cavern’s ceiling, where the darkness stretched so thick and complete it seemed to swallow all light. His heart twisted with turmoil, and a vibration of frustration ran through him. He momentarily closed his eyes, attempting to ease the strain from his tense muscles, his agitation coiling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike. 

How could she abandon her duties? How could she fly off to the gods know where without protection, without him?

“Skoriot?” Where?

“Naejuragon zirȳla eikon.” To face her loss.

A heavy weight seemed to drop into Daemon’s chest as he stared into the weathered eyes of the dragonkeeper. He was painfully aware of where Rhaenyra had gone and what she intended to do, yet a part of him had clung to the hope that perhaps he was wrong. Storm’s End offered her nothing; if any trace of her son remained, it would have been claimed by the sea. Worse still, the Stormlands had pledged their allegiance to the Greens–the enemy. Her decision to venture into enemy territory alone and undefeated was not just reckless, it was perilous. 

With a sneer tinged with frustration and concern, Daemon bit out, “Se ao ivestragī zirȳla jikagon?” 

And you let her go?

“Konīr iksin daor keligon zirȳla.” There was no stopping her.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the onset of a headache. His chest tightened, the sensation almost like a physical constriction around his lungs. “Issa iā mittys naejot jikagon mērī.”

She was a fool to go alone. 

With a deep breath, Daemon steeled himself and issued a command. “Osaishad Karaksys.”

Summon Caraxes.

The dragonkeeper’s response was measured, his expression somber with the knowledge he intoned, “Kessa daor āmāzinon, Ñuha dārilaros.”

She will not return.

Daemon’s hands balled into tight fists, the skin over his knuckles stretched taut as he clenched his jaw in frustration. The restless energy prickled beneath his skin, coiling tightly within his chest as he fixed a hardened gaze on the dragonkeeper. The keeper nodded in understanding of Daemon’s earlier command, then turned to signal the other dragonkeepers, who turned back around to call Caraxes forth and prepare the dragon for flight.

With a swift turn on his heels, Daemon headed back along the path he had come, Ser Erryk following closely behind. “Alert the guards that the Queen has left, and have them keep an eye out for her return. And inform Rhaenys.”

“Yes, my prince,” Ser Erryk replied, his tone respectful yet tinged with concern. After a brief pause, he ventured, “might I ask what you’re going to do?”

Daemon’s stride did not falter as he answered tersely, his voice echoing slightly as they moved through the library, their steps echoing off the stone walls as they wound their way back from the depths of the Dragonmont. “I’m going to find my wife.”

“And leave Dragonstone undefended?”

“Do you believe yourself incapable of protecting the royal family while I am away?” Daemon retorted sharply, his gaze piercing as he spun around to face Ser Erryk, who stopped abruptly. The white cloak of the Queensguard fluttered around him as he halted. Although Ser Erryk stood taller, Daemon’s intense glower seemed to diminish the knight slightly. 

“No, my prince,” Ser Erryk responded, his voice steady. “But with the Princess Rhaenys patrolling the Gullet and you gone, you leave us without the defense of a dragon.”

“My daughter will be here to defend Dragonstone,” Daemon answered, turning to ascend the stairs, dismissing the knight's concerns. He could feel his patience waning, tethering on the terrible edge of a blade. 

“Forgive me, my prince, but your daughter and her dragon are untested in battle,” Ser Erryk called out, holding his ground as Daemon paused and turned back, now standing higher on the steps and looking down at the Queensguard. “They are young–”

“You would have me abandon your Queen to fend for herself?” Daemon interjected sharply, his irritation flaring as he felt his patience snap. “Here I thought the Queensguard  would wish to protect and defend their Queen…” He descended the steps to confront Ser Erryk more directly, his tone biting. “But I suppose you take your duty lightly, otherwise you wouldn’t have stood by and watched as the Hightowers usurped the throne. You and your traitorous twin.”

Daemon turned to walk away, granting Ser Erryk the opportunity to let the matter rest. However, Ser Erryk followed him, each of his footsteps echoing in the hall and push Daemon closer to the edge of his patience. 

“No, my prince, Ser Erryk said, his voice firm, and his hand resting unthreatingly on the pummel of his sword. He stood tall, his expression solemn and serious. “I am ashamed by it. That is why I abandoned the Kingsguard, and my brother, and came here. I take my duty and honor–”

Daemon’s patience finally frayed completely, his voice snapping with unrestrained anger, stripping away any remaining pretense of civility. “I don’t care,” he retorted sharply, the frustration clearly sharpening his tone as he stepped closer to Ser Erryk, his face set in a sneer. “Aegon was in your grasp. You could have killed him yourself.”

“Arryk and I were named to the Kingsguard at just eight and ten,” Erryk responded, his voice firm with conviction as his expression hardened, his eyebrows knitting together as he stood his ground. “And we swore the same oath: to defend the whole of the royal family.” He paused, head shaking slightly with sad exasperation. “So what are we to do when they turn against one another?”

Fixing Ser Erryk with a long, asserting stare, Daemon’s eyes bore into the knight as he contemplated the cascading consequences of past decisions. If Ser Erryk had seized the opportunity to eliminate Aegon, the current strife might have been avoided–Lucerys would still be alive, and his wife would never be swallowed by her grief. The Hightowers would have found it a challenge to consolidate power behind a child or to crown that one-eyed cunt. The path to the throne for Rhaenyra would have been smoother if Erryk had set aside his notions of honor to take decisive action that truly protected his Queen’s claim. 

His gaze intensified, laden with judgment. “The very least you could have done was protect your Queen’s daughter.”

The accusation struck a nerve. Ser Erryk’s gaze dropped, a visible flicker of shame crossing his features. “And it shames me that I could not,” he admitted quietly, his voice reflecting the depths of his regret over his failures. The Hightowers kept her tightly locked up after her attempted escapes. There were guards posted at her doors, and she was never alone. I regret that I couldn’t help her escape, but it was impossible. Had I attempted, I wouldn't have succeeded–I would be dead. I did what I could. I released Rhaenys and took the crown, and then I came here.”

Daemon absorbed the explanation, his frustration simmering beneath a stoic exterior. Finally, he responded, his voice cold and final. “That’s not enough.”

With those parting words, Daemon turned sharply on his heels and left. 

Rhaenys methodically adjusted the last buckle on her armor, ensuring the armguard confirmed perfectly to the curve of her arm. She could feel the firmness of the cool metal through the thick tunic she wore beneath it as she reached for her riding gloves, crafted from supple leather. A heavy sorrow lingered in her chest, a constant and familiar companion once again making its presence known after receiving the news of Lucerys’s death. It eased only slightly when Corlys’s strong arms encircled her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. She melted into the warmth of his hold, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The anguish of losing Lucerys had settled deeply on her husband, robbing him not only of an heir and a grandson but also taking something else from him–something Rhaenys had already lost. 

“Be careful,” Corlys murmured, his voice a soft, low hum that vibrated against her temple. His lips grazed her skin gently, each word infused with a tender urgency. His touch conveyed depths of unspoken fears and desperate hope, sending a clear, heartfelt message without words: I cannot lose you too. 

Rhaenys responded with a gentle assurance, “I always am.”

She turned within his embrace to face her husband, her hands racing up to cradle his face tenderly. “We’ve endured losses before. We’ll get through this one too.”

Corlys leaned into her caress, his eyes revealing the unasked question that haunted him: Am I cursed to lose every heir I make? Rhaenys understood the depth of hope he had invested in Lucerys, the profound love he held for his grandson, bound not by blood but by another deep bond–a choice. He had been preparing Lucerys to succeed him as Lord of the Tides and Commander of the Velaryon fleet, placing upon him the same expectations and dreams once reserved for Laenor. Lucerys had been his legacy, his pride. The loss was another profound blow to his heart. 

Corlys responded to her comforting words with a soft, reassuring kiss, their lips meeting in a moment of shared sorrow and support. After a brief, tender connection, he drew back, his dark eyes conveying both gratitude and resignation as he gently released her, nodding for her to fulfill her duties. 

“I’m not sure when I’ll set feet upon solid ground again,” Rhaenys remarked, adjusting her boot where it pinched her leg uncomfortably, steadying herself with a hand on Corlys for balance. “There’s a council tomorrow, and Daemon will be restless, as usual–”

Her words were abruptly interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Enter,” Corlys called out authoritatively. 

Ser Erryk Cargyll stepped into the room, bowing his bread respectfully. “Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys.”

“Ser Erryk,” Rhaenys greeted him, noting the solemn expression on his face and she felt a tightening of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. “What news do you bring?”

“The prince sent me to inform you that the Queen has departed from Dragonstone,” Ser Erryk announced, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his brow furrowed with concern, drawing a line between them. 

Rhaenys’s gaze met her husbands, who voiced their shared concern first, “The Queen has left?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Rhaenys furrowed her brow, her voice laden with concern as she asked, “And what of Daemon?”

“The prince is… understandably worried that the Queen may be heading into danger,” Ser Erryk responded, his tone cautious.

A scoff escaped Rhaenys as she glanced down, fidgeting with the straps of her armguards.

“Of course, he is. We all should be, Corlys interjected with a measured tone, giving Rhaenys a significant look. Rhaenys returned the look with a lifted brow, challenging him to disprove her concern for her younger cousin. 

Rhaenys shook her head slightly, a knowing expression crossing her features. “If I know my cousin well, he’d wish to go after her.”

Daemon, ever the impulsive one, had earned the moniker ‘The Rogue Prince’ for good reason, though under current circumstances, she found it hard to fault his urge to act. However, she understood that even if Daemon pursued Rhaenyra, she would not return until she had achieved what she sought–until she was ready to return. Rhaenys suspected that, deep down, Daemon recognized this truth as well, and she could only hope it would temper him. 

“He cannot leave,” Corlys asserted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “With the Queen absent, the council will need him to assume her duties.”

At this, Ser Erryk shifted, the sound of his armor rustling softly and his white cloak swaying behind him. “He intended to leave, but it seems he has reconsidered and called it off…”

“At least he regains some sense,” Rhaenys muttered under her breath, her words barely a whisper. 

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” Corlys said, effectively dismissing the knight. Ser Erryk bowed respectfully to both of them before exiting the room. Corlys then turned to Rhaenys, his dark eyes meeting hers with an expression that hovered between a shrug and exasperation. “The council meeting will be interesting.”

“I have a feeling that will be an understatement,” Rhaenys remarked, her tone laden with foreboding. “Temper him if you can, he shouldn’t be making rash decisions in place of the Queen.”

“Daemon may be reckless and impulsive, but age has tempered him,” Corlys replied, trying to reassure her. Despite his words, Rhaenys couldn’t help but scoff in disbelief. Undeterred, Corlys moved closer, placing his hands on her arms gently. “He understands his duty and will do anything to protect Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“That is what I fear,” Rhaenys answered apprehensively.

Corlys expression softened slightly at her words. He pressed another tender kiss to her brow, a gesture of support and affection. Rhaenys squeezed his hand in gratitude and acknowledgement, then walked past him and out the door. 

With a heavy heart but a resolved demeanor, Rhaenys departed their chambers to make her way to the caves beneath the castle. Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone as she moved through the corridors of Dragonstone. A slight frown creased her brow, her thoughts with Rhaenyra and the profound grief that she must be enduring–a grief all too familiar to her own. 

“Wait!” A familiar voice suddenly pierced the air, “Stop, Joffrey!”

Rhaenys halted, her foot poised to step into the flickering light of a new corridor. Her gaze followed the voice down the hallway where she saw her granddaughter, Rhaena, in a flurry of motion. Rhaena scrambled after a small, determined Joffrey, managing to thrust herself in front of him, effectively blocking his path. Rhaenys remained concealed in the shadows, observing the scene unfold as Joffre, bristling with frustration, tried to push past Rhaena. Despite his efforts, Rhaena’s hands clasped firmly around him, holding him in place even as he resisted. 

“Where are you going?” Rhaena demanded, her brow furrowed with concern as she gripped him tightly, refusing to let go.

“I’m going to find my mother!” Joffrey retorted, his small fingers struggling to pry hers away. “And we’re going to find Luke and bring him back!”

Hearing Joffrey’s words, Rhaenys felt a pang of grief stab between her ribs, the loss of Luke piercing her heart anew. Her fingers clenched tightly around her riding gloves, a surge of sorrow gripping her. Meanwhile, Rhaena gently lowered herself to Joffrey’s level, her grip softening slightly yet remaining secure. Her voice shook as she tried to explain, “Luke is gone, Joff–”

“No he is not!” Joffrey’s scream echoed through the hallway, his defiance clear. “Mother will find him and bring him back, and I will help her–I will protect her and bring them back home!”

“And how are you going to do that?” Rhaena’s voice was gentle, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she posed the question.

“I will mount Tyraxes and we’ll protect them together,” Joffrey declared resolutely, struggling to free himself from her grip.

“Tyraxes is too young to carry you,” Rhaena corrected him, her tone firm yet tender, not yet letting him slip away. “He can’t fly you all the way to Storm’s End–”

“I don’t care!” Joffrey shouted, then continued, “Then I will ride Caraxes or Moondancer; they’re big enough to make the journey!”

Rhaenys watched as her granddaughter fought to keep her composure, blinking rapidly to ward off the tears. A slight tremor tugged at the corner of Rhaena’s lips, her gaze softening and her head tilting slightly as she inhaled deeply. Her hands, previously firm around Joffrey, now gently rubbed up and down his arms, maintaining a comforting yet restraining touch. 

“You cannot mount another rider’s dragon,” she gently informed the boy.

“Why not?” 

“A dragon can only have one rider at the time,” Rhaena explained, her voice carrying a hint of sadness, even as she strived to remain composed. “You cannot mount another rider’s dragon; it won’t recognize you. If you try, it will throw you off or worse.”

“I don’t care, if Tyraxes is too small to fly to Storm’s End, I have to try! I have to take another dragon!” Joffrey protested, undeterred by the consequences such actions could have. His voice trembled then, thick with tears as he insisted, “I have to protect mother and find Luke.”

“I know you want to protect your mother, but I promise you, she will be fine–”

“You can’t promise that!”

Rhaena softened her approach, racing out to gently touch his shoulder. “Your mother is strong and fierce. She has Syrax with her to protect her. You know she won’t let anything happen to your mother,” she reassured him, hoping to ease his fears about his mother’s safety. “Rhaenyra will return to you soon.”

“And Luke?” Joffrey’s voice was a whisper now, a mix of hope and dread lingering in his question. 

As Rhaena tried to maintain her composure, her expression faltered momentarily and she swallowed thickly, her distress evident even as Rhaenys observed her heartache from a distance. Finally, with a voice barely steady, she managed to say, “Luke is gone. He won’t come back.”

The words shattered the fragile calm around Joffrey, triggering his tears as he vehemently insisted on finding his brother and bringing him back and protecting his mother. Struggling free from Rhaena’s grasp, he pushed away from her, angrily wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his doublet as he shouted. “It’s not true! He is not gone! If you had a dragon, you could go and bring them back!”

Overwhelmed, he spun on his heels and dashed back to his room, slamming the door with such force that it echoed through the hall. Rhaenys stepped fully into the corridor then, her own heart heavy. She watched as Rhaena lingered crouched for a moment longer, then rose and wiped away her tears upon noticing Rhaenys approaching. 

“Do not take his words to heart,” Rhaenys advised softly. “He is grieving and lashing out. He did not mean anything of it. It will take some time for him to understand.”

“He is not wrong, though,” Rhaena admitted, her voice breaking as the pain she felt was etched clearly on her face. “If I had a dragon, I could have gone with him–I could have protected him…” Her head shook and she looked down at her hands. “Maybe if I had been quicker, I could have claimed Vhagar,” she continued, her voice trembling as a sob broke through. Her eyebrows lifted in despair, tears welling in her eyes once more, “If I had claimed Vhagar, none of this would have happened–Luke would still be alive.”

Rhaenys felt the sting of tears in her own eyes as she reached out to her granddaughter, gently brushing a long lock of pale hair over her shoulder. She then firmly gripped her, meeting Rhaena’s grief-stricken gaze with her own steady one. “None of this is on you. The fault lies solely with Aemond,” she affirmed, her tone both soothing and firm, seeking to assuage the heavy burden of guilt Rhaena seemed to have taken on. “You are not to blame for his actions.”

“But Vhagar was my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena choked out, her voice faltering as she blinked back a relentless tide of sorrow, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I had claimed Vhagar before Aemond–”

“A dragon chooses its rider,” Rhaenys interjected firmly, her voice steady. “I don’t know what Vhagar saw in Aemond, but she chose him as her rider.” Her hand gently slid to lift Rhaena’s chin, ensuring their eyes met again. “Regrets of the past do nothing for the present. You cannot torment yourself with ‘what ifs’–believe me, it will only haunt you. Vhagar made her choice, and we cannot say there would have been another outcome. 

As much as Rhaenys wished to believe that Vhagar might have accepted Rhaena, had she attempted to claim her, she knew there was no certainty in the perilous ritual of dragon claiming. Vhagar made her choice; she had accepted Aemond as her rider, and nothing could alter that now. 

“I feel useless,” Rhaena confessed, her large, dark eyes–so reminiscent of her mother’s–reflecing a depths of despair. “Baela is patrolling Dragonstone, and Jace is at the Eyrie. If I had a dragon, I could help, I could… I could be useful.”

Her voice trailed off, seeming to choke on the weight of her unfulfilled potential and the feeling of being sidelined at a time when every action could tip the scales. Rhaenys listened intently, her heart aching for her granddaughter’s feeling of helplessness in the face of such family responsibility and danger. 

“There’s still time,” Rhaenys reassured gently, her eyes locking with Rhaena’s in a moment of comfort. “You are your mother’s daughter. I see so much of her in you.” Seeming to feel the weight of Rhaenys’s words, Rhaena leaned into her embrace, resting her cheek against Rhaenys’s armored collarbone, her arms wrapping tightly around her. 

“You are Laena’s daughter, never forget that. And your mother was more than just a dragon rider; she was a force in her own right. So are you.” Rhaenys’s voice was firm and encouraging, emphasizing the strengths that lay within Rhaena beyond the legacy of dragon riding.

In the bedchamber, the fire crackled and sputtered within the hearth, casting a warm glow that fought against the creeping chill of the darkness. Daemon sat slumped in his chair, his gaze locked on the dancing flames, one leg bouncing with restless energy. A cup of spiced wine stood on the table beside the chair, the flagon at its side half-empty. Night dominated the chamber, its dark, heavy silence broken only by the occasional pop and hiss from the fire. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision as he watched the flames twist and writhe. 

He had dismissed the dragonkeepers earlier, sending Caraxes back to the hidden recesses of the Dragonmont. With Rhaenyra gon, the weight of the crown rested squarely on his shoulders, yet her absence left him feeling powerless, confined to waiting and watching. 

The longing to follow Rhaenyra tugged relentlessly at Daemon’s heart, yet he remained in place. He harbored a deep desire to mount his dragon, fly to Storm’s End, and bring her safely back to Dragonstone. However, he knew all too well that she would never consent to such an action. Equally, while his instinct was to stand by her side as she grieved, he recognized that they could not both forsake their duties. The responsibility to defend her claim to the throne, especially in her absence, anchored him firmly to Dragonstone, compelling him to set aside his personal desires in favor of the greater need at the moment. 

Irritation simmered beneath Daemon’s skin, his frustration mounting with each passing hour. He understood Rhaenyra’s need to mourn her son, yet he also knew the realm couldn’t afford for its Queen to linger long in her grief. Responsibilities to the crown couldn't be so easily set aside–not like his brother had done so often. His mind echoed with troubling questions: How long would she be consumed by her sorrow before she could return to rule? How long before the alliances of the great houses and their men began to waver in her absence? How much time could pass before their support crumbled completely?

As he gritted his teeth, a more haunting question emerged–would she ever return? The possibility that she might not twisted inside him like a knife, stroking the dark embers of fear and doubt that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. These uncertainties echoed ominously, feeding the shadows that flickered in the corners of the room, mirroring the turmoil within him. 

Rhaenyra was queen now to a throne that had been usurped. She had to be a queen before a mother. The longer she remained absent, the weaker her claim became and the weaker their alliances grew. It pained him deeply that they had lost Luke, yet he recognized the necessity for them to remain steadfast. More was at stake than their personal grief–there were the futures and lives of their children, and the legacy of their house to consider. 

Had they taken decisive action earlier as he had pressed for, their circumstances would be different. They would have been able to lay siege around King’s Landing by now, with the Hightowers facing justice, displayed on spies as a grim testament to their treachery, and Rhaenyra would be seated on her rightful throne. But they hadn’t heeded him. Instead, they had engaged in a drawn-out war of diplomacy and ravens. 

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the persistent throb of tension behind his eyes. With a weary sigh, he reached for the cup of wine on the table beside him, quickly draining the remnants of its contents. The wine, rich with spices, briefly masked the sour taste that had settled in his mouth. Setting the empty cup aside, he leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. He rubbed at the tension behind his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing just enough to send a swirl of colors dancing behind his closed eyelids. 

Lucerys had been like a son to Daemon–in truth, he was a son to him. Daemon had raised him since the boy was eight, witnessing his growth from a child into a young man. He had presented Lucerys with his first saddle for Arrax on his tenths birthday, and had proudly watched as he had mounted his dragon for the first time. He was there, too, when Lucerys had dismounted, albeit shakinly, losing his footing and hitting his head against the saddle before falling to his ass on the beach, his teeth leaving a permanent impression in the leather. 

Daemon had overseen Jace and Lukes training with swords, joining the boys in mock battles and regaling them with tales of their father, Laenor, and his own battles in the Stepstones–and had at times mentioned Ser Harwin’s service under him as the Commander of the City Watch. 

He had loved Lucerys, and yet, like so much else that was theirs, the Hightowers had cruelly ripped him away. 

Part of Daemon felt a deep, gnawing responsibility for Luke's death. He replayed the events in his mind, knowing he should have been present at the council meeting when the decision was made. Instead, he had been patrolling with Caraxes, driven by his frustration. He should have advised Rhaenyra to send Rhaenys to Storm’s End—Rhaenys, with Baratheon blood in her veins, would have secured the allegiance of the blustering stag.

If Rhaenyra insisted on sending Luke, Daemon should have accompanied him. He should have done something—anything—to protect the boy. Now, the guilt weighed heavily on him, mingling with the cold fury that simmered just beneath the surface.

The relentless itch for action tingled at Daemon’s fingertips, a deep-seated need for decisive moves. Vhagar, the oldest and most formidable dragon alive, had witnessed the conquest of Westeros by Aegon and his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya. She had survived a hundred battles and was part of the Targaryen legacy. He loathed to see such  a historic creature destroyed, yet Daemon recognized the necessity of the act. 

Eliminating Vhagar and her rider, that one-eyed cunt, would critically wound the Greens. With Vhagar gone, their most potent weapon against Rhaenyra would be lost, leaving them undefended. The only other battle-ready dragon they possessed was Sunfyre–a young, untested dragon ridden by their usurper king, whom Otto Hightower would hardly risk in open battle. Without Vhagar the Greens’ defenses and position would be severely weakened, diminishing their ability to maintain power.

Given Vhagar’s immense size and formidable battle prowess, Daemon know that facing her alone was tantamount to suicide. But Vhagar, for all her might and experience, had grown old and slow–this was to their advantage. Still, victory against such a behemoth would require more than just bravery; it necessitated more than one dragon. With the help of Meleys, he was sure they could take on that gaudy old bitch. Her agility and speed, coupled with Caraxes’ own strengths, would provide crucial advantage.

Daemon’s plan was to set a trap: he needed to draw Aemond and Vhagar away from the safety of King’s Landing and into an ambush where Meleys and Caraxes could engage them. By leveraging the combined might of the two dragons against the aging Vhagar, they could hope to overcome her defenses swiftly and with minimal casualties.

By successfully eliminating Vhagar and Aemond, Daemon could not only avenge Lucerys but strategically cripple the Greens. The loss of their strongest dragon and its rider would leave King’s Landing vulnerable and ripe for siege, especially with the Velaryon fleet starving the city of its recourse. 

With King’s Landing surrounded, Daemon’s forces could press the city hard, leveraging their newfound advantage to compel the Greens into making concessions–most crucially, the release of Daenera. 

Exhausted and infuriated, Daemon rubbed his brow, exhaling deeply. Just then, a soft knock at the door broke the silence of the room. There was no response from him, and yet the door slowly creaked open, allowing a frail stream of light to slice through the darkness, mingling with the flickering glow from the hearth. Daemon’s gaze shifted wearily to the figure hesitating at the threshold of his chambers, who, after a moment’s pause, gathered the courage to step inside. 

Rhaena moved gracefully through the dimly lit room, her form draped in a loose dress covered by a robe. Her hair was neatly tied back, secured with silk–a trick she had picked up on from her mother. The firelight softened her delicate features, casting gentle shadows that accentuated a slight furrow in her brows as she looked at him. Her presence brought a quiet tension to the air as Daemon withdrew his gaze. 

With a gruff exhale, Daemon leaned back in his chair, wearily pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m in no mind to offer good company right now.”

“I know,” Rhaena replied softly, hesitating on the fringe of the hearth’s light before gathering her resolve once more and moving to sit in the chair opposite him. “But I don’t think you should be alone.” There was a moment of silence before she continued, “Joffrey tried to mount Tyraxes and fly off…”

Daemon let out a humorless, sardonic laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. He shook his head slightly, turning his attention back to the flames in the hearth.

“He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t…” Rhaena’s voice wavered, her emotions barely contained. “He doesn’t understand that Luke isn’t coming back. He wants to find his brother.”

Daemon poured himself another cup of wine then, with a gesture of subdued generosity, filled another cup halfway and slid it across the table towards Rhaena. She acknowledged the gesture with a gentle smile but left the wine untouched. Settling the flagon aside, Daemon took up his own cup, cradling it in his hands. He absentmindedly toyed with the foot of the cup, his blunt nails tracing the grooves etched into its surface. 

They sat together in silence, the only sound the crackling of the flames, each lost in their own thoughts. The quiet stretched between them, a comfortable yet heavy blanket, until Rhaena finally spoke, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of pain. “If mother had been alive, Luke would be too…”

Dameon let out a breath, his voice laden with weary warning, “Rhaena…”

He closed his eyes briefly, signaling his exhaustion. Comforting words and reminiscing were beyond him at the moment; solitude with his thoughts were what he craved, and more than anything, he yearned to hold his wife close again. 

But Rhaena did not heed his warning, her voice quivering with emotion, tears threatening to break through her composure. “Vhagar was mother’s dragon,” she said, the pain evident in her trembling words. “I can’t–she was mother’s dragon… If I had been quicker, if I had claimed Vhagar then–”

The volatile, restless energy that had been simmering within Daemon reached a boiling point. Abruptly, he slammed the cup of wine down on the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap through the dimly lit room. Wine splaced from the cup, staining his hand and spilling over the table onto the floor. He fixed his daughter with a long, stern look, wrestling with the urge to lash out as frustration and grief mingled within him. 

Rhaena, with her eyes wide and filled with unshed tears, stared at a spot on the floor, deliberately avoiding his gaze. 

Daemon understood the pain behind her words–he knew that she was grappling with knowing that the dragon, who had once belonged to her fierce and gentle mother, Laena, had killed someone she loved. They had once chosen each other. Rhaena struggled to reconcile that her mother’s dragon could be part of the violence they now face. Daemon, however, was painfully aware of the harsh truth–that the bond between dragon and rider had perished with Laena, leaving Vhagar a different creature altogether, driven by new allegiances and the brutal instincts of its rider. 

Claiming a dragon was more than an act of dominion; it was the forging of a deep and profound bond, almost as if their souls were intertwined. A dragon was not a pet but an extension of the baser instincts that reside within all beings, a tangible connection to a primal force dwelling within each person. A dragon was a weapon with a mind of its own, the greatest force of nature that existed and it was to be respected, revered and feared. When Aemond claimed Vhagar, their souls became intertwined, uniting rider and beast, man and his purest, most unguarded instincts. In response, Vhagar had become an instrument of Aemond’s will, embodying his desires and ambitions as only a dragon could. 

Regret gnawed at Daemon’s stomach as he processed Rhaena’s expression. Reaching out, he took his daughter's hand in his own, enveloping it warmly as he offered the only comfort he could muster–a gentle squeeze. “A dragon is not a pet to be inherited. Vhagar chose Aemond as much as he chose her. There was nothing you could have done to prevent that. Aemond wanted Luke dead, and Vhagar acted on that desire. It was Aemond who killed Luke–his will, his desire. The bond between a dragon and its rider is profound.”

Rhaena’s voice was soft as she met Daemon’s eyes, her hand gently squeezing his. “Is it like that for all dragonriders?”

“It should be,” Daemon responded, a slight furrow on his brow. His thoughts briefly touched upon his own connection with Caraxes. To Daemon, Caraxes was more than just a dragon; he was an extension of himself, much like Dark Sister was. Riding Caraxes allowed him to embody his truest form: a fusion of immense power and potential for destruction, yet also a profound source of unconditional love and support. This bond was not merely about the might Caraxes brought to battle but also the deep, unwavering companionship he offered–he was a mirror of Daemon’s nature. “A dragon is both an extension of the rider’s will and a creature with its own nature. It is to be respected.”

Rhaena grew quiet.

Together, they remained seated in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. 

After a while, Rhaena broke the quiet, bidding him goodnight with a soft voice. She then quietly withdrew, leaving Daemon alone with his contemplations. The room felt emptier without her presence, and the weight of his desired solitude pressed heavily on him as he sat back, left to wrestle with his thoughts in the flickering light of the dying fire. 

As the first light of dawn filtered through the tall, narrow windows, the council convened with an air thick with solemnity. The Chamber of the Painted Table was tense as Daemon entered, the members of Rhaenyra’s council seated apprehensively around the table. Daemon moved with purposeful strides, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, drawing a sense of comfort from its familiar weight on his hip as he assumed the position as the head of the table–a position rightfully belonging to his wife. 

Lord Bartimos Celtigar adjusted in his seat, a frown creasing his features as he spoke warily, “The Queen?”

“Is indisposed,” Daemon replied curtly, his tone as sharp as the edge of his blade. His expression darkened as he continued, “The death of Lucerys has taken a toll on her, and she needs time to properly mourn her son.”

The night had dragged on slowly for Daemon, who had spent the hours gazing into the flickering flames of the hearth, lost in the solitude of his contemplation. His thoughts turned over their next strategic moves and how best to avenge his stepson’s death. Despite the growing unease in his heart, he had held onto a sliver of hope, waiting for Rhaenyra’s return. Against his better judgment, he had hoped she would walk through the door and take up her responsibilities once more. But as dawn crept in and the shadows receded, it became clear she would not return–not until she had found whatever she needed outthere. She had left him alone, burdened with the weight of continuing in her stead, steering their course forward without her. 

Lord Simon Staunton shifted uneasily, the black wings upon a white fess emblazoned across his doublet standing out against the black and gray checkered background. He nervously fiddled with a ring on his fingers, clearly unsettled by Daemon’s intense glare. “Is it true that the Queen has left Dragonstone?

“She has gone to Storm’s End.”Lord Corlys Velaryon responded when Daemon remained silent, informing them of where their Queen had gone. 

“Alone?” Lord Gormn Massey interjected sharply, his voice laden with exasperation. The idea that their Queen venturing out alone, without any protection, seemed not only foolhardy but utterly preposterous to him. His disbelief was evident, echoing the concerns of many in the room about the implications of such a decision. 

Lord Corlys Velaryon attempted to calm the nerves of his fellow council members with a measured tone, his fingers tapping gently on the head of his cane. “The Queen has her dragon–”

“She is heading into enemy territory!” Lord Gormon Massey interrupted, his voice rising in alarm. “She could be walking into an ambush! The Hightowers have shown no qualms with spilling blood, and House Baratheon has declared for them, have they not?”

Corlys responded with a firmness that matched his calm, “House Baratheon might have declared for the Greens, but they are not likely to strike down a grieving mother and spill the blood of a Queen.” He paused, allowing his words to resonate before adding, “They know that should they harm her, Storm’s End would become a second Harrenhal.”

The room fell into a tense silence as the gravity of the situation settled over the council. Rhaena moved through the tense atmosphere, acting as the intermediary in the strained silence. She approached Lord Simon Staunton first, deftly pouring wine into his cup before turning to her grandfather to offer him wine as well. Corlys, however, gently placed his hand over his cup, signaling his refusal. He offered Rhaena a gentle smile, appreciating her efforts despite his decision to abstain. Acknowledging his gesture with a nod, Rhaena continued her duties, moving down the line to Lord Bar Emmon. He sat quietly, his eyes set on the table, seemingly lost in thought.

 In the absence of Rhaenyra’s heir, Jace, and her sister Baela, she took up this responsibility as a cup-bearer. 

Completing her service to Lord Bar Emmon, Rhaena crossed to the other side of the room to pour wine into Lord Staunton’s cup.  It was then that he turned to Daemon, seeking reassurance. “When will she return?”

Daemon responded to the pressing question with a stern, silent gaze that swept across the faces of the council before he replied curtly, “When she is ready.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar carefully chose his next words, aware of the tension thickening in the room. “We all mourn the loss of the young prince,” he began, his eyes slowly scanning the council members, who all nodded in agreement. His hand rested on the Painted Table, a gesture indicating the gravity of his next statement. He then lifted his gaze to meet Daemon’s, continuing, “But we cannot hold off–”

“I agree, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon interrupted, his voice firm, cutting through any further elaboration. “Which is why I stand in her place.”

His statement was clear, signaling his temporary assumption of Rhaenyra’s duties and authority. 

Lord Bartimos, seeming to recognize the finality in Daemon’s tone, averted his gaze in a gesture of deference. He seemed to sense Daemon’s rising agitation–as did the rest of the council–and chose not to challenge him further. Daemon was not in the mood for prolonged discussions or objections. He was familiar with the tension building within him, a craving for the clear-cut simplicity of the battlefield, rather than the complexities of court politics, and while he’d wage war in Rhaenyra’s name, there was little he could do without her final decision.

Just then, Lord Gunthor Darklyn interjected with a new concern, shifting the focus of the conversation. “Has Prince Jacaerys been informed of his brother’s passing?”

With a swift, almost exasperated gesture, Daemon produced two rolled parchments from his pocket. Each was neatly sealed with red wax, embossed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He set the letters down on the table, clearly intended for dispatch. 

“Have these letters sent to both the Eyrie and Winterfell,” he instructed crisply.

“Yes, my prince,” Maester Gerardys responded, his voice a calm contrast to Daemon’s terse command. He rose from his seat, his movements measured as he rounded the table. The maester’s chain clinked softly with each step. And while picking up the two letters, said, “I will send them immediately.”

“No need,” Daemon answered, dismissing the need to make haste of it.

Maester Gerardys returned to his seat, laying aside the letters that would be sent after the conclusion of the council meeting.

Daemon had contemplated how to break the news to Jace, and had finally settled on being direct: 

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. He was slain by Aemond Targaryen after leaving Storm’s End. Your mother has left Dragonstone in her grief, and her return is uncertain. I will send a raven once she returns, but until then, you must ensure that our alliances are solidified. Your mother will need the support of the North and the Vale in this war. Lay aside your grief and fulfill her duty as her heir. 

Daemon recognized that no further words could change the necessity of their situation. The support of the Vale and the North, as a whole, was crucial, and he trusted that Jace would understand the gravity and respond accordingly. 

Lord Bartimos Celitgar, showing visible signs of agitation, seemingly couldn’t contain his frustration any longer and let out a heavy huff, shaking his head in disbelief. “The murder of Prince Lucerys will shock the realm,” he asserted, voice tinged with both anger and conviction. “We must inform the great houses of the nature of this treachery. If they have not declared for us, they will now. Kinslaying will not win the usurpers any supporters…” He continued to shake his head, the disgust palpable in his expression. “None are so accursed as the kinslayer, and Aemond Targaryen has doomed himself with this wretched act.”

Corlys Velaryon’s voice carried a mix of concern and urgency as he turned to Maester Gerardys. “Is there any news from King’s Landing?”

“Nothing yet, my lord,” the maester responded with a measured tone, shifting slightly in his seat. “If there is any information to come out of the Red Keep, we should receive it shortly–within a matter of hours, maybe days.”

Daemon addressed the council, stating firmly. “While the Queen is away, we will continue our efforts. How does the Velaryon fleet stand?”

Corlys Velaryon straightened in his seat, his presence commanding as he turned his attention from Daemon to the rest of the council. “The fleet is slowly moving into position, my prince. The shipwrights are tirelessly working day and night to repair the ships that took damage in the Stepstones. Within the fortnight, we expect at least seven of those ships to be seaworthy enough to join the rest of the fleet as they position near the Gullet. Once all of the ships have been repaired and are ready to set sail, we’ll be able to completely seal the Gullet.” He paused, assessing the impact of his words before continuing. “Currently, Rhaenys manages to prevent most ships from entering or exiting Blackwater Bay, though not all. However, King’s Landing will soon start to feel the effects of our blockade, if they haven’t already.”

Corlys then turned his gaze back to Daemon, his expression serious. “If you will permit, I would like to return to Driftmark to personally oversee the repairs. I will keep you well informed of our progress.”

Daemon responded with a measured nod, signaling his approval. He stood, his movements signaling a shift towards the conclusion of the council’s discussion. “When the Queen returns, we shall inform her of our progress. I want to be kept informed about everything happening in King’s Landing as well as the Stormlands.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the council members to ensure he had their full attention. “Send raves–inform the realm of the usurpers and their act of kinslaying.”

Then, pausing for a moment to let the weight of his words sink in, he concluded with a declaration that reverberated off the ancient stone walls, “And prepare for a war fought with steel.”

[korpuskat]

Eleven Years - Epilogue

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: PG-13 WC: 521 Warnings: Kidnapping; Stockholm Syndrome, imprisonment, isolation, manipulation, mind break (previously) [Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5]

==

“I’ll never get used to the view.” Perfect aquamarine skies, the sun casting rays and shadows across the handful of clouds. So high up you can see the coastline, where land meets water. You’re over a city- popular enough to have a boardwalk, a pier that extends far into cold steely blue.

You’re thankful for the warm cup in your hands. Spiced tea.

“Good,” Ramattra says, drawing you into his arms, your back to his chest.

She remembered you. A decade later and the vendor in Annapurna’s face lit up when she saw you. And you still have him trailing behind, she had smiled, motioned towards the hooded shadow that lingered tensely outside her shop.

As though nothing had changed.

No one travels, because of the war. She had confessed, I tell them, there’s no war here, but they’re too scared. The world is changing again…

You didn’t have the heart to tell her it’s your fault. You hope your monthly orders are enough to tide her over. A penance with money you don’t even know the source of.

But Nepal is far away now. Not that you know where exactly you are. From here you can barely make out the shimmering white specks of waves crashing just as they reach the sand. Further up the coast is the actual port, barely distinguishable; the air that way is hazed, graying.. Now and then it flashes red, orange, purple.

Your stomach hurts.

You sip your tea to settle it.

The world has changed because he changed. Because he was alone. You could’ve been there. Should’ve. All you did was hurt yourself and him and everyone else because you were selfish and greedy and-

A white plume of exhaust rises up and up between towering pillars of glass- and the ship doesn’t even shudder as a cannon fires. A single projectile intercepts the missile before it can even pass the skyscrapers.

Another burst of purple in the city below. Bright, unimpeded. And smoke follows.

“Dearest?” One arm laid across your belly holds you tighter- the other draws your chin up, sideways until he can see your face. In the daylight, he’s beautiful. It was the first thing you thought when he brought you up here.. Electric lights of your room were nothing compared to how the sun softens his hard ridges, dulls the bright reds of his lights.

The faded gold in the sun had been stunning. You hope when this is over he’ll change it back.

You lay your hand over his and you love him, love him so much it makes your chest ache. Love him despite the fire and war and destruction that you sowed in him. Ramattra’s thumb swipes away a tear. “I love you.”

His whole body jitters, joints locking and unlocking piecemeal. Your view of the daylight vanishes as he engulfs you in his wide frame, draws you closer, closer against him while he drops his head to press it to yours. “I-” He starts. His synth clicks off. You stroke his back, his jaw, and finally he can barely whisper, “I love you too.”

[toast-com]

Affray of the Otherworldly (4-30-24)

“What’s the matter Seira?” Khaos taunted the other god as he dodged another of his clones, whirling and stabbing another through the heart. “Getting tired?” He continued killing clones, summoning weapons and stabbing them.

Seira scowled, blue eyes steely and glinting as frost magic gathered at the tip of his horn. His face was as cold as the spell he was preparing to attack with.

His wings flared, and he leapt into the air, energy enveloping his feathered form. Seira began to glow as Khaos turned, launching himself in the air.

Khaos picked up speed, flapping wildly as Seira launched the spell. A blinding beam of blue magic pierced the cloudy, gray skies, heading directly for the chaos god.

Khaos tucked his wings in, swooping to avoid it. He was too slow, however, and the magic clipped him, hitting his wing. He shrieked, trying to flap his iced-over wing, and failing, careening and crashing into the ground below.

As he struggled to his feet, Seira alighted, body still faintly aglow with magic. Khaos’ own magic flared, melting the ice encasing his wing, and he whirled to face the feathered god with a snarl. He lunged at Seira, tackling him.

The pair fought on the ground, Khaos ripping feathers out of his skin and tearing the flesh beneath with vicious claws. Below him, Seira’s horn was glowing wildly and his mouth was moving as he uttered a spell under his breath. Khaos hissed, grabbing his horn and crushing it in his clawed hand.

“My horn!” Seira’s wings beat against the ground as he screamed. He reared up, hands reaching for Khaos’ throat. The scaled god leapt back, narrowly avoiding a bolt of ice that embedded itself in the ground. In front of him, Seira stood, magic haloing his head as he chanted, his words clipped and cold.

At his hooves, frost began to spread, racing across the ground, overtaking everything, and heading directly towards his foe.

Khaos growled and took to the air, chanting a spell of his own, smoke trickling from his open mouth. He banked a turn as shards of glinting ice launched at him. With a roar, he summoned an inferno, and it overcame Seira.

He landed a few feet away, watching as the flames raged and burned. A grin stretched quickly across his face, falling away just as fast when the fire was extinguished by a gale of frigid wind, revealing the unburnt form of Seira. A smug look adorned his face as he stood there, sizing the scaled god up.

“Is that the best you can do?” With a wave of his hand, Seira summoned another wave of ice shards. But, Khaos could see that he was faltering, somewhat.

“You seem to be shaking.” Khaos sneered, rushing him down. “Running low on magic? Maybe you should rest.” The feathered god scowled.

“Be quiet!” He snapped, launching the shards, which were immediately vaporized by Khaos’ fire as the scaled god ran at him. The battle devolved into a brawl, a frenzied dance with claws and teeth that both knew all too well.

With a grunt, Seira shoved Khaos away from him. He was panting heavily, covered in various wounds.

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse.” Khaos stared at him, just as bloody as the feathered god was.

“...It seems we have.”

[dreaming-of-the-end]

In Another Life: Percy x Annabeth

A/N: I want comments more than some sick sunglasses! Sierra went and enabled me!! I hope you’re prepared for the consequences!! (Ask game 50: kisses with their last dying breath)

Summary: They will meet again, in another life. They’ll find a way.

TW: death, blood, wound, grief, fire/smoke, tell me if I should add more!

Taglist: @real-smooth @completekeefitztrash​  @sovereign-of-the-skittles @rune-and-rising @venecs @lavender-and-rainy-days @chasteliac @confuzzilinh @in-a-fever-dream @stardustanddaffodils @a-harmless-poison

Tell me if you want to be added or removed from my taglist!

Percy was well accustomed to loss.

He was used to the numbness that accompanied death, the frozen world around him, the blisters on his hands that bloomed from digging the endless graves.

He was versed in the tears that would slip down his face as the burial shroud burned, in the thick smoke and flames that rose to the sky. Sometimes, there was a rumbling in the skies, and rain. Perhaps a random animal watched from the shadows or wove around a demigod’s body one last time.

Yes, Percy knew exactly what would happen when someone he knew drew their last breath, when those he loved, those he couldn’t shield collapsed in a heap.

He comforted others. He cried his tears. He went on with his life, because what else was there to do? He thought he was prepared for death, resigned to it, for the last whispering breath exiting a friend’s lungs and the screams and sobs, the rising flames.

Turned out he wasn’t completely ready for death. Not hers. Never hers.

And yet it seemed he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He never had a choice in anything.

And no matter how much he screamed to the gods to save her, he still had to be satisfied with the owl that swooped from the sky to land on his arm and allowed him to stroke its head.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. He could never be enough.

…

Annabeth could hardly walk, but she gritted her teeth as she forced her legs to keep moving. Her arm wrapped around her stomach, putting pressure on her wound, and the other one held her knife in a weakening grip.

Her ankle collapsed under her as she tried to take another step, and she fell to one knee. Her knee hardly burned with the bruise that would be forming if she survived, as if her nerves were already overworked.

An arm wrapped around her waist, hoisting her up, and Annabeth’s breath escaped her in a gasp as she managed to stay upright. A tear leaked out of her eye, but she couldn’t wipe it away.

“Come on,” his voice urged desperately, and she swallowed hard as a sob escaped her throat. “Come on, Wise Girl, don’t give up on me now.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

She was going to tease him mercilessly for that when she was healed. If she was healed.

By the way her legs were collapsing under her with each step, that possibility was growing slimmer with each moment.

“Just a little longer,” Percy pleaded, but she knew he wasn’t talking to her anymore. This was for the gods.

But they wouldn’t intervene. They never did.

Not for Thalia, not for Silena, not for Luke, not for Jason or Michael or the countless others she’d lost. The best they would ever do was sending a sign down to the funeral pyre.

Perhaps Athena would send an owl for her.

“Stop it,” Percy ordered, as if he could sense her giving up. “Please.”

His words dissolved into the blood puddling beneath their shuffling steps. She took a deep breath to tell him what she needed to, but a cough racked her instead.

Blood flecked her lips, and she tightened the arm around her waist to hold in the blood spilling out of her.

“Hey,” she whispered, and Percy sagged against her as he recognized her tone.

He’d heard it many times before. They both had. The exhaustion. The resignation. The fear.

Percy gently set her down, and she didn’t bother hiding her flinch as her body connected with the ground, sending a shockwave through her wound.

“Sorry, Seaweed Brain,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes as if he was the one in pain.

“Please don’t go,” he begged, opening his eyes as he laid her head on his lap. “Don’t leave me.”

He traced the back of his hand down her cheek, and she blinked slowly. He cupped her face in his palm, and a smile traced her lips. It almost hid the terror in her eyes.

“Stay with me,” he tried hopelessly, his voice breaking. A tear splashed from his eye as he blinked, trickling down Annabeth’s forehead. “Annabeth…”

“I want to tell you it’ll be okay, that it’s my time, and I’m not scared,” Annabeth rasped slowly, and a sob shook Percy’s shoulders. “But that would be a lie.”

She was fearless. She was brave. She was invincible.

She was dying in his arms.

“I know,” Percy murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her hair. He gently rested their foreheads together. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t tell her she would be going to Elysium, because she already knew that.

He didn’t tell her that he would get through this. He didn’t tell her it would be over soon.

She didn’t need any lies right now.

“I’ll see you again,” Annabeth breathed, and Percy blinked hard as he nodded. “I will find you. Whatever happens.”

They’d talked about this, come to a conclusion.

“I’ll wait for you,” she promised. “We’ll go together.”

They would go to the Lethe together.

Become new people together.

And maybe, just maybe… they could find each other again. In another life.

Percy kissed her one last time, and her eyes dulled, stormy gray losing their spark.

“Together,” he said softly. “We’ll be together again. I swear it on the River Styx.”

There was no one to hear his oath but the gods, and thunder rumbles above them.

…

Sometimes when the pressure became too much, he swam down into the ocean to scream.

To scream, and scream, until his throat was ravaged and raw and broken.

To cry and cry and cry where no one could hear him besides his father. But Poseidon knew better than to bother him. He, too, was well experienced with grief.

“Your fatal flaw is loyalty. You will sacrifice the world for your friends,” Percy remembered Athena saying.

But what happened when he couldn’t save those he loved?

Percy thought he might just let the world burn.

There would be others left to extinguish the flames.

…

“Hey,” the blonde girl said distractedly, sparing him a single glance with her stormy gray eyes. They sparked in the light, and he found himself studying them curiously. “Can I help you with something, or are you just gonna stand there?”

He grinned, brushing dark hair out of his eyes as he leaned against the girl’s desk. “Would you want to get some coffee sometime? Or lunch?”

She glanced up at that, and he swallowed hard at the steely look in her eyes, as if she were preparing for a battle as she scanned his features. She looked like she was struggling to put something together in her mind, to order what she didn’t know into a neat equation. But something in her face relaxed, and she nodded. “Sure.”

And something in her voice was strangely familiar as she added, “Maybe we can check out a museum or something.”

He wasn’t usually particularly interested in checking out a museum, but something in him made him say, “Sounds good.”

And when she shot him a surprised and satisfied smile, he knew he made the right choice.

[strawberry-skies-xx]

a million reasons to let you go

C H A P T E R   N I N E

word count: 3279

tags: eventual hiccup/astrid, slow burn, fluff, angst, happy ending, feral hiccup, hiccup whump, bamf hiccup, protective astrid, protective hiccup, interrogation, aftermath of torture, implied/referenced torture, hurt/comfort, stoick’s a+ parenting, stoick’s bad parenting, hiccstrid fluff, hiccup and toothless friendship

main masterlist | story on ao3 | next chapter >>

Hiccup wakes up with Toothless’s growl rumbling by his ear, and when Toothless feels him shift, he moves his wing and loosens his paws enough to allow Hiccup’s head to peek past his wing, watching Stoick and Astrid from where they stand in front of his cell.

Astrid is staring at him, but Hiccup doesn’t look at her. She made her choice, so Hiccup makes his, and instead he focuses on Stoick, who glares down at his position with Toothless.

The Viking chief walks forward and crouches down in front of his cell, gaze meeting Hiccup’s. “I want to know your name,” he says, voice rumbling and threatening. “I want to know what ye were doin’ on my island, and why ye’re with a devil like that.”

He glares at Toothless, and both Toothless and Hiccup growl at the same time. Hiccup retreats back underneath Toothless’s wing. He isn’t in the mood for dealing with Stoick, or Astrid. He doesn’t want any of this. The prison is cold, he’s cold, and all he wants is to soar the skies with Toothless again, without Vikings in the way.

Stoick doesn’t have the same feelings. He persists, banging on the bars hard enough to make Hiccup flinch, and Toothless roars at him, curling tighter around his human half, glaring fiercer at the Vikings, teeth bared. Hiccup pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, wrapping his arms around and studying the pattern on Toothless’s wing.

“Tell me your name,” he hears Stoick growl, and Hiccup pulls himself in tighter. His predicament is dropping down on him, now, closing in and suffocating him. He’s in Berk’s prison, surrounded by Vikings, with his father. No way out, and they could take Toothless and hurt him at any time, they could do so many things and Hiccup couldn’t stop them-

Hiccup breathes. Slowly, in, out. He feels Toothless sense his near panic attack, feels his chest push against his back as he exaggerates his breathing, letting Hiccup easily match his own breaths to Toothless’s.

Hiccup puts one hand on Toothless’s scales, tracing the patterns and focusing only on tracing the patterns. Toothless is here, now, and not hurt. They’re safe, they’re mostly alone, and whatever comes in the future will be dealt with together, like always.

Stoick, however, is unsatisfied, and Hiccup tenses further as his tone gets darker and yet more threatening.

“How about this,” he growls. “You tell me your name, and I give you food.”

Hiccup twitches, burying his face in his knees. The people on the Dragon Hunter ship starved him too; he doesn’t know how long he’d last on Berk, already feeling the hunger pains start up again from when they’d last given him a small meal of hard, dry bread on the Hunter’s ship.

And then there’s the matter of it being his father starving him. Even if Stoick doesn’t know, it still hurts Hiccup, both knowing that his father would stoop to that level for a boy who is friends with a dragon, and for his son, however unknowing he is. They’re the same age, and Hiccup doubts that Stoick hasn’t been reminded of his exiled son at least once during his capture. He’s taken a cold sort of satisfaction from it, even.

“Chief,” he hears Astrid say, half indignance and half forced calm, and he stills, listening intently.

“Yes, Astrid?” comes Stoick’s voice, sounding as if it’s been forcibly pulled from that threatening growl of his and barely held back.

“Isn’t that a bit… harsh?” Astrid’s voice replies. Hiccup raises his head from his knees, hearing the slight sound of Toothless’s ear twitch as he listens as well. The anger from Astrid’s betrayal still burns through him, but it lessens slightly - just slightly - listening to her defend him. If that’s what this is. He can’t assume. Assumptions about Astrid are what got him here in the first place.

“It’s interrogation, Astrid. It’s what needs to be done,” Stoick says harshly.

“Yeah, I know, but…” she pauses, and Hiccup slowly moves to the side. Toothless lifts his wing to allow Hiccup to slide over, knees still pulled against his chest and arms wrapped around them, half-visible from beneath Toothless’s wing and watching Astrid from where she stands facing Stoick.

She glances over, meeting his gaze from beneath his hood. He tilts his head in both passive interest and silent judgment, and watches the minute, subconscious shift of her body, recognizing that what she says now will be a part of determining whether she is trusted again in the future. Toothless watches her next to Hiccup, and her eyes flick to him as well for a brief moment.

She looks back up at Stoick. “He’s as young as I am, Chief. I’d see doing this to an adult, but even then…  he’s not a murderer, Chief. He washed up on our island. He hasn’t killed anyone, or committed any crime.”

Washed up. So Astrid lied to Stoick about where she found him - which, he still regrets that Toothless trusted her enough to let her help him rescue him, and that he pushed Toothless to those measures in the first place with his capture. He has to make it clear to her that that won’t happen again, not after her betrayal, even if he’s grateful for the rescue and the lie.

“He made friends with a dragon,” Stoick growls in response.

Stoick looks at him, starting when he sees Hiccup and Toothless both watching back. Hiccup meets his gaze, tilting his head like he did with Astrid, in only passive interest this time, but he studies Stoick too; the gray streaks in his beard, the lines on his face and the way he’s aged since Hiccup last saw him eleven years ago, and then Stoick looks down. His shoulders drop and he turns his face away after a long moment.

“You’re right,” he says, more defeatedly than Hiccup’s ever heard him. “I was being too harsh.”

“You try talking to him,” he continues, gruff again and no longer vulnerable. “I have things to do.”

Astrid watches Stoick leave, and then turns to Hiccup, who is seriously considering moving back beneath Toothless’s wing. He feels it lift slightly in silent, tempting invitation.

He stays, though, if only to hear her out. She gave him a chance, when she could’ve killed him and Toothless on the Hunter’s ship. It’s only fair for him to return the favor, and some traitorous part of him wants to give her a chance anyway, despite her betrayal and even if he hadn’t let her get close enough to both him and Toothless.

“Hiccup,” she says as she sits down in front of the cage, in that same placating quiet voice that somehow works on him, instantly calming some deep, buried part of him and holding his attention the way nothing else but his inventions do. He shoves it down, keeping his gaze to mere interest and judgment and nothing else. “I’m on your side,” she pleads. “I don’t want to hurt you, you have to know that.”

Hiccup’s brow furrows and his tone is steely. “I’m in Berk’s prisons,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. He knows she knows, by the way her shoulders drop slightly.

She looks down. Hiccup watches her every movement, having spent enough years with dragons that he can tell the intent in even the smallest motions, the most minuscule twitches. It’s a kind of body language that most humans don’t learn by themselves, but dragons communicate only in those signals, except when they exaggerate them. Hiccup had to learn them, or he wouldn’t survive.

“When I found you on that ship, you were starved and injured, bruised and branded. I took you back to the cove, but Toothless-“ she pauses as the Night Fury gives a soft growl at his name - not harsh, though. They’re both listening too intently to truly threaten her. “Toothless was hit with two arrows. We barely made it back.”

Hiccup goes still, and then he looks at Toothless. His other half glances back, guilt in his eyes at Hiccup’s silent question of why didn’t you tell me. He knows now why Astrid couldn’t leave him; Toothless was injured, too, and he feels traitorous hope rise in him thinking about Astrid bandaging Toothless and then trying to help him.

The moment breaks a pause later, when Astrid continues and both their gazes are torn away to look back at her.

“I bandaged Toothless, who’d passed out, and left him in the cave, but Hiccup…” she looks up at him, and Hiccup feels the deep, buried part of him leap at the pained desperation in her eyes. “You were unconscious too. You’d been hit hard by the fall, and you were already severely injured. I had to take you to Berk. I couldn’t sneak away to treat you with medicine every day, and Gothi needed you in a healing sleep anyway. I didn’t have a choice. If I did, you wouldn’t be here.”

Astrid glances down again, staring at her knees. Hiccup watches her, and feels Toothless’s gaze turn to him, the soft breath of air on his shoulder whispering question.

Astrid’s body signals read guilt and regret and despair, in the way she pulls her knees up to her chest like him and she stares down at them, wrapping her arms around them and slumping her shoulders. Hiccup watches her for a moment longer, and then he puts a light hand on Toothless’s wing, lifting it so he can rise into a crouch with his hands for balance, and move towards her.

She doesn’t look up as he does, but he sees her body freeze. She knows he’s moving, knows that he stops a breath away from the cell bars and hesitates.

He watches her again, just for a long moment to be sure. He’s been with dragons eleven out of nineteen years of his life, he’s learned their mannerisms better than he has humans and the expression in his eyes is that of sharp draconic interest, gaze flitting from place to place on her body, from golden-blond hair to lowered crystal-blue eyes, to slumped shoulders and long, pale fingers interlaced from where her arms wrap around her knees. There’s nothing that signals her betrayal again, and every part of his traitorous body wants to forgive her, wants to see her smile at him and be able to talk to her freely again. It’s not something he’s used to feeling, and it’s maybe that which allows him to follow it just a little, and reach out to the bars.

“Astrid,” he says quietly, nearly a whisper, flinching slightly as she looks up sharply. This is foreign territory for him, and the draconic, Toothless part of him is shrinking away in alarm at the unknown of it all.

His reach for her turns into an aborted movement as he instead curls his fingers around the cold iron bars, heart rate speeding up. He doesn’t know what to say, now, because she isn’t forgiven. This is Berk’s prisons; she’s not forgiven, but he will let her build her case. That is all she can do, build her case and maybe Hiccup will forgive her in the future, after all of this is over. Maybe she will be able to gain his fragile trust again.

Toothless whines worry behind him, a low hiss of threat and betray-us threaded beneath it. Hiccup doesn’t respond, instead glancing down at the floor. Astrid shifts, her body reading briefly surprise at the way he ignores Toothless.

“I will listen,” he says simply, looking back up and meeting Astrid’s gaze. He watches it dawn on her, watches the way she realizes what he means and the way her entire body sags relief.

He will listen to what she has to say, and what she does, and then he will decide whether he can forgive and trust her again. It’s a chance; not forgiveness, not trust, but a chance, and some part of him, buried deep, wants to simply trust her again, wants to revel in the warmth of her again.

“Thank you,” she says.

Hiccup tenses after a long moment, glancing away and shifting slightly away from the bars, the suffocating feeling of being close to humans starting to press in on him - and then somehow, like she always managed to do before, Astrid recognizes that he’s done with the encounter and she stands up without another word.

He looks up at her as she looks down one more time, the nearly overwhelming sense of danger at the way she looks down at him and back-to-Toothless almost forcing him to turn away.

He stays just long enough to hear her final words, though, spoken softly and somehow calming his draconic instincts just enough for him to watch her leave.

“I’ll find a way to get you out,” she says. “No matter if I never regain your trust, I will get you and Toothless out.”

She turns away and leaves after a long moment. Hiccup watches; you already have my trust, from some buried part of me, he doesn’t say. And, from an even deeper, human part of him that he’s smothered for eleven years: come back.

The door slams, and Hiccup watches the door for another long moment before he turns back to Toothless, walking over to him and clicking question and where are you hurt? and why not tell me? about his injuries.

It’s another two days before Astrid comes back with Stoick; in that time, Stoick has come twice, once with food and water and another with a weapon. Both times, Hiccup refused to answer his question, instead sitting in stony silence even when Stoick dragged him out from underneath Toothless’s wing and nearly got his hand bitten off for it.

Hiccup ignores the sound of the prison door slamming and the heavy, familiar footsteps that follow, curling up tighter in the safe curve of Toothless’s body and feeling the dragon give a low purr in response.

His eyes flick open, though, when he hears the soft, familiar scuff of Astrid’s boots in front of his cell, and he feels Toothless shift as well, both of them listening intently.

“Dragon-boy,” Stoick rumbles, in that angry-yet-defeated growl he’s adopted over the past four days.

Hiccup hesitates. He can still feel the heated touch of Stoick’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, dragging him out from the safety of Toothless’s wing, and more than anything he wants the Chief to leave. Astrid can stay, he wants her to stay and just… be near him. She’s comforting in a little the same way Toothless is, as someone he can trust and turn his back to no matter what, and he won’t be hurt.

But that isn’t going to happen, and he’s already been hurt. So Hiccup sighs and shifts just enough to sit up and lean against Toothless’s side, barely visible from beneath Toothless’s wing to the two watching him but able to see them nearly perfectly clearly.

Stoick is crouched in front of the bars, and his eyes lock onto Hiccup when he appears.

��I’m going to try this again,” he says. “You will tell me your name, or I am going to separate you and that dragon so you don’t see each other again.”

Astrid inhales sharply, her gaze flicking to Hiccup and meeting his own as he looks at her, eyes wide and his fingers pressing into Toothless’s scales. Toothless gives a low whimper next to him, nudging his nose into Hiccup’s side.

Hiccup turns to him, rubbing his hands on black scales and meeting Toothless’s mournful gaze as he looks up at him.

Toothless warbles that soft noise that means love and affection and together and eternity all in one. Hiccup responds with a similar sound, pressing his face to Toothless and closing his eyes.

Won’t leave you, he says, in a series of draconic clicks and whistles.

Toothless whistles Alpha hurt you-me back, glaring at Stoick, and Hiccup glares as well before they look back at the other and Toothless warbles sorrow.

It’s been a long time since Hiccup ever prioritized his identity and past over Toothless, but now he does, a glimmer of a hope forming as he presses his forehead to Toothless’s nose, humming the quiet sound of us, and then he pulls back and walks to the bars. Part of him wants to run; every instinct is telling him to run, but he stays and raises his chin and stares defiantly up into the angry green gaze of his father.

The hope that he was bluffing dies when Stoick gives a nod and reaches to unlock the cell door.

Hiccup doesn’t look at the key, or give any indication of what he’s going to do, but as soon as the door swings open he ducks underneath Stoick’s reaching arm and starts running at full speed to the door.

The cell door slams behind him and Hiccup turns at the sound of Toothless’s shriek, seeing him with his claws against the bars and Stoick glaring at Hiccup.

“Come with me or your dragon dies,” Stoick says.

The sheer horror of it makes Hiccup shriek no in a noise more dragon than human, and Stoick pulls out a dagger in a deliberate motion.

Hiccup is moving forward before he knows what he’s doing, ignoring Toothless’s hisses and whistles of no and save-you-leave-me, pausing just two feet from Stoick. His eyes are down, staring at the ground, heart still racing and mind still stuck on the thought of Toothless dying, cold horror paralyzing him with fear.

He flinches when Stoick grabs his shoulders, roughly pushing him to walk upright down the corridor of empty cells until they reach the end. Hiccup looks up only to see Astrid’s eyes, filled with pain and apology as they watch him, and then Stoick opens the door and pushes him inside.

He drops to a half-crouch and instantly leaps to the corner, crouching there in as small a form as he can make himself and turning to look at Stoick as he glares at Hiccup before leaving with an annoyed huff.

Astrid watches Stoick, and then she turns to Hiccup, walking to the cell bars and crouching down. She reaches her hand through hesitantly. “I’m sorry, Hiccup. I don’t have a plan yet, but I will get you out. I promise.”

Hiccup doesn’t move, finding that he’s far past verbal interaction with humans today, let alone physical, and Astrid slowly pulls her hand back after a long moment, slumping slightly when she sees Hiccup press himself into a tighter curl, the only visible part of him his green eyes as they look sharply out from beneath his fur hood.

He doesn’t move as she leaves without another word, and it’s only when the prison door slams that he tilts his head back and lets out a mournful dragon-call, grieving and hurt.

There isn’t a response. Hiccup buries his head in his knees and staves off the panic and the fear, channeling it into his long-accumulated anger at his father and at Berk.

He’s so tired of this cell, tired of being locked up in Berk and unable to fly with Toothless. They’re meant for the sky, meant to weave through clouds and dive down to the ocean and soar up to the sky, meant to be free. The cage presses in on him like a heavy weight, unnatural and strange and human.

He buries his head in his knees, spending the hours thinking until he falls asleep in the cell.

next chapter >>

[kiliinstinct]

Flame’s Desire: Ch 11

Rating: T Pairing: Nalu FF.Net || AO3

[Ch: 1] ||| [Prev] | [Next] 

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---

Lucy saw the cove through the cracked stone window of her room. Grey skies, Roma and Romni she recognized bustling about one direction to the other and many others she had never seen before. Some didn’t hold the mark of the clan. Not in places she could see. The cove looked to reach around a wide stretch of a closed off bay, with salty ocean water moving along the tides and it’s scent struck her with every gust of wind.  It was a beautiful sight, something new that she had never seen before. She wanted to see more, but the doors to her room had been locked tight, much like a prison. Scorch marks and ash residue stained the door served as a reminder of Natsu’s poor opinion to this change. She gave a tired grin at the sight of it. It helped to reassure her that, despite everything they learned over the last two days, he still believed in her, no matter what was said otherwise. Lucy remembered what lead to this point and the decision she made that sealed itl:

“Ya’ can’t just lock her up!” The day her fever broke had been a day full of shouting and bitter words. Lucy remembered waking to the sound of snarling as Natsu blocked the path to her cot. “So what if that Kagu - whatever his name is- said she’s dangerous! She hasn’t done a damn thing to us!”

“Natsu, there’s more to it than that,” Erza snapped from the doorway, her voice calm in comparison. It was steely and brook no grounds for argument. “We have to take into account what Laxus heard from Jose-”

Natsu’s interruption felt like an explosion of force as a burst of hot air filled the room, “I couldn’t give a damn what THAT bastard says! Since when did we ever trust that snake?!”

“That’s enough, Natsu!” Makarov shouted, silencing them both. He stood between them with arms crossed and mustache bristling. “You know as well as anyone that I wouldn’t trust that man with the life of a slug, but we can’t take any risks until we have more information.” Lucy’s eyes had opened by then, viewing Natsu before her as he attempted to block the Chief's view. Makarov’s expression did not fit one of a leader protecting his clan from danger, but of a tired man, riddled in guilt. His narrowed brows made his expression harsher than the downcast of his eyes, but they met hers with shame,  “Considering her condition, Lucy won't be leaving this room for a few days, this is just a precaution.”  He didn’t bring attention towards her waking up.. Instead, the elder forced his gaze to meet Natsu’s, whose entire frame had grown stiff.  

“How is locking her up like some kinda criminal a precaution? Are ya losing your mind, gramps?!” 

“Natsu!” Erza interjected, stepping from her position she grasped the pommel of her sword, “You will show the Master the respect he deserves or be punished by my ha-”

A flare of fire and heat surged from Natsu’s feet, drowning out the sound of Lucy’s surprise. “Just try it Erza, I don’t care that you can pummel my face into the dirt- you draw that sword and I won't hesitate to melt it!”

“Quiet! Both of you!” Makarov barked, causing them to jump as a heavy pressure emanated from the smaller man’s body. The weight pressed against Lucy like weights and her weak body struggled to breathe at the onslaught. It rippled away as fast as it struck and Makarov cleared his throat, eyes meeting hers again in apology. Makarov straightened his back, motioning his fingers for the female warrior to retreat back to the doorway.. “I’ll not have you threatening Natsu for doing what he thinks is right. He’s attached to the girl and for good reason. Even I would rather protect her in some way that didn’t involve locking her up.”

“Protect her?” The two warriors, perplexed, questioned in unison. 

“ - but you said she was gonna get locked up,” Natsu wavered, his earlier tenacity simmering. He took a step back to Lucy’s bed, “what are you talkin’ about?”

Makarov rubbed his temples, lips thinned in consternation as he grumbled, “Listen here, you knucklehead. For some reason, Jose and his men are looking for the girl. We don’t know why, but it’s enough for them to risk entering our woods and feeding information to Laxus. We know he would never allow something to threaten our home. Corroborating that information is the young man in our cells, Kage. Rather than give that information up himself, he implied what Laxus knew to already be fact. Something is amiss here, and I don’t want to leave anything to chance!”

“Yes, exactly.” Erza nodded, her expression as fierce as ever.

Natsu snarled, his fury rekindled, “and how does treating Lucy like some kinda criminal, protect her?”

“Natsu, use your head for a moment, would you?” Makarov groaned. “They are trying to make us give her up without attempting to break through our defenses. Whether they’re speaking the truth or not is not the issue. They want her and have already made it clear they will attack us to get her. In her state, if they somehow managed to break in, do you think she could fight them off as she is? Until we get answers, she’s safer where we can keep an eye on her.”

The words sunk in, filling the room with a permeable silence that was suffocating. Natsu’ back was still  facing Lucy, but she could imagine the expression on his face, mouth open as he struggled for words- his dark eyes glittering fiercely. Erza’s features had softened, no longer attempting to intimidate the Draconis into submission One that spoke of a quiet remorse that matched their Chief.

“I just,” Natsu swallowed, tongue swiping along his lips as he put his thoughts to vocalization, “I don’t get how that’s fair to her, that’s... That’s all.” 

The tension broke, all shoulders relaxed and Makarov’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps it’s not, but she needs rest and a way to stay safe for now. I don’t intend for her to stay in these stone walls forever, you know. That’s not a life for anyone.”

“... but-” 

His eyes twinkled knowingly, “Perhaps Lucy can tell us what she thinks?” 

His gaze met hers once again while two heads twisted to look back, Natsu’s cheeks were flushed from emotion, eyes wide. “You’re awake? Is the fever broke? Are you better?!” Lucy blinked owlishly and wondered if Natsu realized just how loud they were being to expect her to still be sleeping. Carefully, she sat up, fingers twisting the thin blankets that covered her. “Yes and I heard everything, Natsu.”

The discussion that followed lead to a tantrum from Natsu. He never expected Lucy to agree to the terms and his agitated shouts still echoed through her mind. When the Draconis left, his heated hand slammed against the wall at his exit. Lucy could still smell the charred door frame upon examination even after the few days that passed.

 Her leg throbbed where she stood, but Lucy ignored it. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but she couldn’t deny the logic. If they felt this was the best course of action, then her best option was to listen and hope for the best.  How else could she prove her innocence? Truthfully, being distrusted due to some rumors being spread, struck her heart like knives, but she couldn’t blame them for being careful. They didn’t know her. Not really. Blinking back a sting of emotion, her pale fingers clenched tightly together. 

“It’s not as if they are my family,” She sighed, “they can’t be expected to trust me that easy.” 

Except, they did trust her. So many assured her as they passed by to deliver food, water or to provide other needs. Natsu more than most. He visited for hours at a time. As did Cana, Wendy and Mirajane. Even Gray shuffled by her window at times to check in on her. All those she had spent the end of Summer and Fall with, attempted to give her company at any moment they could spare. It was heartwarming, but not enough for the rest. Not yet. 

Lucy hadn’t realized the clan would be so large, or so full of people who didn’t travel all year round. The cove was like their own village, working together just as any other, and not everyone carried a source of magic within them. Mirajane had tried to answer a few other questions during her visits, but while the knowledge had been interesting, it wasn’t the same as experience.

Watching a few waves crash against the beach, Lucy’s lip trembled and she struggled to hold back a wave of tears. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come with them, after all.” 

“And what makes you think that?”  A voice came from below and Lucy yelped. She jumped away and narrowly grazing her hair against the upper window frame.  “Goodness, your observation skills need some work, don’t they?”

“M-Makarov-?” She asked, breathless, blood pounded in her ears and she struggled to calm her heart rate. Resisting the urge to step away further, she tilted her gaze downward for the interloper, surprised to find the Clan Chief seated calmly beneath her.

Makarov sat comfortably on the cool, dead grass, arms crossed under his fur cloak, the top of his balding head the only thing she could see from her angle. Sputtering, the Romni cleared her throat and wondered how long he’d been there. Did he do this often? 

“I didn’t think anyone would sit there,” She admitted, “then again, most people don’t think to look under their windows.”

He chuckled and tilted his gaze up to grin at her, “Of course they don’t. Now then, are you going to answer my question or aren’t you?”

“Question?” She deadpanned, only just processing the words that had startled her. “Isn’t that answer a little obvious? You welcomed me to stay as long as I wanted, but look where it got me. Stuck in a small room. The view is lovely, but that doesn’t really make up for it.”

“Ah yes,” He said, pushing himself up to face her, “I knew you were putting on a brave face for the others. I wish it hadn’t come to this.” “I know.” Lucy said, eyes moving away from his. The look on his face was full of pity. She couldn’t bare to see it. “I know why you did it, I just…” She couldn’t help how she felt, the words dropping before she could finish, hanging in the air and dispersing, but the elder understood. He gripped his staff and inhaled slowly, as if mentally counting the seconds before he spoke. 

“You’re a strong, girl.” He said, “Though I don’t think you realize it yet. I’ve noticed many of the others visiting you. They seem to accept you just fine, haven’t you noticed?” Lucy made no effort to respond, unwilling to state her fear of the opposite. She didn’t have a family, and this new clan couldn’t trust her. What right did she have to hope for more?  Licking her lips, she looked over Makarov’s head, searching for a new subject.  “Where’s Natsu?”

She missed him, strangely enough He often poked his head through the window as if he could fit right through it. (His shoulders were too too broad, but that didn’t stop him any.) The day they had locked her in, he had complained and dug his heels in, refusing to give an inch- even more so when she agreed to it. His anger at her decision was clear, but that never stopped him from visiting. However, she hadn’t seen him since the night before, and it left her anxious. Was he still upset?

“He’s on patrol today.” Makarov  broke through her thoughts, full of amusement, “I’m sure the minute he returns he’ll be trying to dive through your window again, don’t worry about that.”

“Patrol?” Somehow, Lucy had never thought the need for patrolling would be necessary. 

“Hmm, yes- while Erza and a few others are tracking down the men who attacked, he’s part of another group that’s keeping watch over all entrances. He’ll be back once off rotation.”

It was then that Lucy remembered Natsu was one of the many warriors and hunters in the clan. She’d become so used to having him near, watching out for her, that the day they had met was almost a distant memory. The revelation left an empty feeling inside. Not a day went by that she didn’t recall the days and nights with the slavers, but the singular night that lead to her escape had somehow become a blurred vision. Had she grown so used to the clan? Had her guard been lowered?

“Now, I did have a reason for my visit,” Makarov pulled her from her reverie once again and she flushed at being caught distracted twice. His mustache twitched in amusement, but his eyes were narrowed: serious. “Do you recall what I told you when you first awoke from your fever?”

Her eyes lit up, “Yes?” After accepting his order to be shut in, Lucy had asked about the man they’d captured. In her state, she missed far too many things.  Who was Jose? And what were they told to make them distrust her so? When she asked, Natsu and Erza had stiffened, their expressions cloudy. Makarov was undeterred and shook his head. “I’d rather not reopen old wounds by repeating them to you. Just know it has raised many concerns that need looking into if we’re to keep you here.”

It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but at his order, no one would tell her otherwise and she knew it. Looking upon the Chief now, she hoped he was ready to give her the answers she requested. No, the answers she needed and deserved to know. “I’m still not telling you what was said.”  She deflated instantly, but he raised a hand to interrupt an outburst.  “Lucy, I need you to trust me.  I know it’s hard to feel as if we’re on the same side, but I assure you that all my decisions have been made in your interest, not just my own. What was mentioned spoke of the deaths of your family, and I won’t force you to relive that telling again.”

She bit her lip enough to draw blood and winced, her own brows knit together as she shook in silent fury. “I’m sorry, Makarov, but I have WANTED to trust you since I was saved. I’ve wanted to heal and to feel safe and, and- “ to find a new home! She couldn’t finish the words as a strangled sob burst through her. Lucy’s knuckles hurt from her as she slammed the flat of her fists against the stone, “h-how do you expect me to do that when you wont even tell me what I’m being locked up for?”

He let her talk, calmly watching as she shook and poured forth her frustration and feelings of helplessness, but when she fell silent- his gaze no longer held the pity it once had. “You were accused of something dreadful, and I won’t lay that burden on you.”  She opened her mouth to speak, but his voice turned harsh, “Lucy! I need you to be quiet and listen!”

Her mouth ran dry, eyes wide while emotions boiled over into more tears that clouded her vision. “What is it?”

“I don’t believe what that man told Laxus is true. I refuse to believe it!” The passion in his words surprised her, belied everything said before, it filled her with jarring confusion. “That being said, I still have to make absolute certain that my own intuition is correct. I have to ask this of you, Lucy. One more time, please tell me that you gave me and Natsu the full truth about the attack on your Clan.. Tell me you gave every. last. detail.”

Lucy froze.  So that was it. Whatever this Jose had said, whatever this Kage intended when he attacked, it all had made her sound as if she had something to hide. Air left her as her lungs constricted, refusing to breathe and her eyes stung with tears she couldn’t contain. Swallowing thickly, her mind ran through her previous account: the route they had traveled, the sudden attack, the wagon that covered her… surviving, listless and alone, traveling like a wilting corpse until … 

The men that caught her, outside of a town, as if they had known exactly where to find her. Had she lied? Emotions and memory flurried together in her heart and mind; they whispered and circled, giving visions of memories she had forgotten or dreamt of nightly. Had she hidden some terrible truth? Did Makarov know something she didn't about her own family?

Lucy met his gaze, her voice cold and gaze blazing. Lucy answered with every emotion she could feel boiling beneath her skin, throbbing in her knee, “I told you everything I know.”

That was the truth and she prayed he would feel her earnest emotions and know them for what they were. He grew silent as the wind grew in force, rustling empty branches and dying leaves across the turf as sand from the beach scattered against the stone wall.  His gaze searched hers, as if burrowing into her eyes to pick apart her brain, but the Romni refused to turn her eyes away. 

The tension faded, melting into a sigh of relief and a small smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, “That’s all I needed, Lucy. Thank you.” 

She didn’t know what string had pulled taut inside her, but it snapped- releasing the tension in her body as the last ounce of energy inside her faded. Limbs felt boneless and her knee panged like an electric shock. Lucy mustered what strength she had in her to hold herself up and looked towards the village beyond. She felt as if she’d been put through her paces and took a deep breath to fill her shuddering lungs. 

“I don’t know what I did to ease your mind,” She said, “but you’re welcome, I suppose.”

“Never you mind that,” he replied, reclasping his cloak as he turned from her, “Your eyes told me all I needed. I’m sorry I had to put you through that. Now rest up, please. “

She didn’t move as he left, a lightness to his steps she hadn’t noticed until then. Lucy pursed her lips, her heart still raw from their discussion. She refused to rest, not until he had left her sight, but Makarov didn’t remain alone for long. Joining him at a nearby corner was a tall blond man she had yet to meet. He spoke with the chief before narrowed eyes looked her way. Lucy felt rather than heard the threat that came from his stare. 

He didn’t trust her and wouldn’t hesitate to strike her down if he had to; that she knew. Though the expression on his face was difficult to distinguish from a distance, she knew the intense feel of it. It was the same look she had given the slaver’s when captured. A look she never expected to have aimed at herself. 

“That… must be Laxus,” She surmised, exhaustion forced her to finally drift from the window to fall against the ragged cot that was her bed, “It almost felt like an angry bear was staring me down.”

Lucy laughed, her voice empty, and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t sleep, not now. Lucy felt she had slept long enough in recent days and the Romni refused to succumb to further daytime napping. She would rest her body and wait to rise again. Maybe her next visitor would give her a reason to smile and hope, rather than jump through emotional hoops. 

Her breathing began to even out, but the wind and sounds of others  rushing by her window, echoed in and out of her ears, keeping her aware. With each intake of oxygen, her limbs grew heavier- the release of all tension in her body relieved Lucy and allowed the last vestiges of tears to fall, stain her cheeks and dampen her pillow. Only a few, and her crying stopped after a few stricken gasps. 

She didn’t want to think anymore, only listen.

… forgive us…. 

What?

We didn’t mean to hurt you.

She couldn’t open her eyes, but the voices whispered in her mind as if beside her, it caused goosebumps to travel up her arm.  ‘Who are you?’ Lucy froze, realizing that while her mouth moved- she couldn’t hear herself. Muted, quiet, no voice to echo along the walls of her room. 

‘What’s going on?’

Don’t you remember us, yet?

We wanted to help. 

It’s our fault… please… please…

‘Wait, I can’t-’ Lucy struggled for the words to come, but the barrage of voices continued echoing through her skull. Memories of Natsu rushing off to fight without her flooded her senses, the sudden ability to see his every move, the aches in her head the… 

The voices…

Forgive us! 

The sudden paralysis broke and Lucy shot up from her bed to shout furiously. “Tell me who you are already!” 

Lucy’s words echoed off the stone walls with brilliant vibrations and her chest heaved from the exertion. The voices scattered, dispersing as quickly as they came and a strange pressure in her skull released. Lucy blinked the vestiges of sleep from her eyes and gasped. Why was this happening so much?

“Last I checked I was the same as I always was. Do I sound different to you or something?”  As if the world was set to continue throwing surprise visitors at her, Natsu’s familiar voice struck Lucy like cannon fire and in her sudden fright, she slipped from the cot with a loud thud. 

“Ow! - W-when did you get here?!” She whined as her fingers searched for the nearby cane to pull herself up. 

“Just now.” He said, beaming from the window as he watched, but the smile was forced. “You doing all right? That didn’t hurt you did it?” 

“I’m fine!” She shouted, teeth ground together as she managed to stand, “Just perfect!” Rubbing her stiff knee, Lucy gripped her cane tighty. Makarov sounded as if he would be gone for most of the day, what brought Natsu back so soon? She was about to ask, but froze mid-sentence when she realized the sun was well-beyond the horizon behind Natsu’s head.

“-But, I wasn’t sleeping, how did-” She stammered, looking back from her cot and towards the window again. Was all that just a dream? The Draconis at her window watched her with a deep interest, nose scrunched as she looked between them. His lips pulled back under his teeth as he examined her from the distance.

“And you’re sure you didn’t hit your head?” He asked quizzically, one pink brow lifting into his fringe. “Cause you’re sounding a little strange right now, Lucy.”

“I said I was fine, Natsu,” She snapped as she trudged back towards the window. His hair was a mess, much like the time she’d picked leaves from it. His outfit had changed as well. No longer clothed in just a vest and pants- a loose shirt was worn beneath. She ignored the appreciative voice in her head that enjoyed the view of its open neck. Clearing her throat, she tore her eyes away and sighed, “Sorry, you didn’t deserve that.”

Natsu used his forearms to hold himself up pushing  partially through the window with feet splayed out behind him. Not for the first time, it looked as if he would attempt to crawl through. Instead, he hung in the air, head closer to hers while his frown deepened. “Nah, I probably do.”

“Natsu?” 

His eyes were solemn, a dark brooding simmered in the depths of them. The past few days were full of the Draconis bouncing between anger and energized movement; Each time he came, he either threatened to break down her doors and pull her free or bring her new items from the village to look at. She saw nothing on his person today, but the dirt and scuff marks on his clothing told a clear story. He’d run straight to her from his patrol. Lucy felt a lightness in her chest at the realization, but ignored it too. He was too close, even if he was barely through the opening. 

“I couldn’t convince them to let ya’ out,” His rumbling complaint turned to a low growl, full of frustration, “And instead of bustin’ the doors down like I should be doin’, I’m just letting them keep ya here.”

“It makes me sick!”  Lucy flinched at his fervor, it dripped in bitter toxicity and spewed from his mouth like hissing fire. His gaze darkened as he shifted back to his feet and he ground his teeth together, sucking in air to calm himself. 

Lucy hated seeing him like this, closing in the distance to reach out. He froze at her touch, her hand cupping his cheek and lightly rubbing his skin and unseen stubble.His focus turned back to her with wide and blinking eyes. She knew he’d been against Makarov’s decision from the start, but she never realized just how much he placed the blame on himself for it. “No, you’re not. I agreed to it, remember?”

His dark gaze melded with her own, the simple effect of her hand against him made his shoulders relax and the Roma relaxed further, tilting his head to nudge into her palm before moving away. He reached out and flicked her on the nose. “Ya shouldn’t have, that’s my whole point!”

“H-hey!” She recoiled instantly, but avenged herself seconds after by pinching his nose with enough force to make his eyes cross. “Don’t be rude! I only agreed to it because I know it’s not going to be forever! You’d know that too if you had any faith in me!”

“Oi! I do have faith, why else would I think you shouldn’t be stuck in here?!”

“I don’t know, maybe because you don’t think everything through?”

“Now you’re just being mean, Lucy!”

“No, I’m being practical! You should try it sometime!”

Breathing mingled together as they continued their back and forth. It was a tug-o-war match over who could make the other retreat from the window first, but neither did. A few more well-placed barbs and the two fell silent, glowering at each other in mock offense. A cricket chirped, interrupting the moment and their downturned expressions lifted to a fit of giggles instead.  They leaned against the sil, laughing and gasping for air as they wiped their watery eyes. 

“I needed that.” Lucy admitted, her quiet chortles became muffled behind her hand and Natsu’s fanged grin grew wide as he agreed. But he fell silent faster than her, his expression pensieve. The silent consideration sobered her and she stared in confusion. What was it now? 

“You know what?” He asked, leaning further into her personal space, eyes gleamed with a sudden, mischievous light, “I think you need a better view. What do you say?”

Lucy blinked, casting her eyes to the frame of the window and around the landscape between them. All things considered, her view was fairly decent, if not limited, “And how am I supposed to get that?” She asked, her arms crossed. “Are you going to make me a new window?”

“Nope!” He exclaimed, pointing pass her towards a stool in the corner, “Bring that over and stand on it.”

Not understanding his intentions, but seeing no reason to disagree, Lucy hobbled to do as requested. The stool was lighter than it looked, and wobbled when she placed her foot upon it. After a few adjustments, she managed to stand, balancing on the seat while it boosted her an extra foot: the view was extraordinary.

“I never thought I’d see a wall this close up.” She said dryly. 

Natsu snickered, “Don’t be weird and bend down through the window. It’s too narrow for me, but your shoulders should fit through just fine!”

His plan finally dawned on her, “Wait, are you wanting me to sneak out?” What other reason could he have? Curiosity urged her to follow his instructions, feeling just a graze of the stone frame brush across her shoulders. Natsu was right, she could fit through, but the stool wobbled and her balance faltered. “N-Natsu this is- I shouldn’t be doing this!”

He used a steady hand to hold her by the shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you get back in again,. Just trust me, will you?” With guided movements, he pulled her through, clicking his tongue as she wriggled through the opening. The pain of her knee was a dull throb in response to the movement, but to Lucy’s surprise, Natsu’s grip did not falter and he swung her gently down to place her on solid ground without fuss. 

She smelled the woods on him as her fingers searched for purchase in the hem of his vest to hold herself. “If I can’t get back in later, I’m blaming you. What are you planning?”

“Keh, I’ll take the blame no problem!” Natsu’s chest puffed and he turned to look towards the starlit beach. “Not everyone sleeps early, but you still haven’t got much of a tour yet have you? Let’s change that.”

A part of her knew that it was better to have him help her crawl right back into her locked room. To be patient and wait for Makarov to release her, but soft whispers, familiar and unheard, spoke into her mind and urged her to listen. Grasping his hand - her cane forgotten in the confines of her room- Lucy smiled. 

The stars were bright. It felt like their own brilliant glitter agreed with the voice inside her. 

“I’d like that.”

Natsu’s only response was to smile so brightly, it was like the sun was still shining.

[rebelwith0utacause]

Daydreaming, vol.1, part 1

Hiya, don’t know if anyone of you would like to read this, but I enjoy reading your stuff, so here goes nothing. @talkfastromance4 @5sosnsfw @lukeisbaby

P.S. I wrote this with Luke in mind, but I’m kinda weird like that and I don’t really like writing his actual name in fics, so yep.

P.P.S. Here’s part two and part three.

It was a gloomy Sunday morning, not entirely too uncharacteristic for the month of April. The sky was overcast and the slight chill in the air made you want to stay under the bedcovers a little while longer. But you knew better than to postpone the inevitable. At one point you would have to use the toilet and put some food in your belly, might as well do it right away. 

People have called you a few choice words throughout the years, but lazy wasn’t one of them. If anything, you were always the one to get things done on time. Your thinking behind it all was that someone had to do it, and it might as well be you, the sooner, the better. The only activity that might slightly interfere with your other plans was your morning coffee ritual.

You made sure to reach into the cupboard to get your designated coffee cup with a rounded bottom. It made sure that all of the coffee granules were pressed and dissolved once you started mixing it. It always started the same way - one and a half teaspoons of granulated coffee, three spoons of sugar and a teaspoon of water. You vigorously swirled the teaspoon in the cup, making sure that everything got incorporated and you were left with a light brown creamy texture. Drop by drop, you added the milk and mixed it all, until you were left with your daily dose of life sustenance. It’s not like this was the best way to make your coffee, it was just something you learned from your mom and dad at a young age and it just stuck.

Taking the cup in your left hand, you went to open the balcony door, making sure to shut it right away so that the cold air won’t enter the already too chilly apartment. Taking a seat on the cheap IKEA set, you let your eyes wander. You liked this kind of weather, autumn in spring. You were never the greatest fan of sunshine, preferring to live with chilly fingertips over sweaty armpits any day of the week.

As it always happened, the grey skies were a trigger for your thoughts to go down memory lane. The steely gray color reminded you of another pair of blue eyes that held the power of a thousand storms behind them. Once upon a time, you could’ve caught yourself in the eye of that storm, lost for hours upon hours. They were the center of your world, your raison d’etre, your salvation, your damnation.

You were both young. Not young enough to say that you should’ve known better, but not nearly as old to know how to glide through all of life’s problems. Looking back at it now, it seems like you spent an eternity in each other’s arms, when, really, it all bloomed and spiraled out of control in the span of a year.

He had had a few too many shots of tequila the night you met. You were acting as a plus one to a friend trying to get over her cheating ex, he was celebrating a successful career with his best friends when your eyes crossed for the first time. You can’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself clumsily dancing to an early 2000s pop song, keeping your eyes on the sparse curls of his chest hair peeking through the half-opened white cotton shirt. You don’t know when you became so shy, but something was telling you to keep your eyes on anything except his own, knowing that once you did look up, you’d be a goner. 

You should’ve listened to your gut, should’ve left it at a dance, but your inhibitions were low, he was incredibly gorgeous, had the most honest laugh you’ve heard in a while and after literally no hesitation on your part, you found yourself sprawled out on a hotel bed, softly moaning your pleasure in his ear. Funny how you didn’t mind the sweat then. You didn’t mind the heat in his eyes or the sunshine gold of his curls. The only thing that mattered was that you felt like you found your missing part, where he ended, you began.

It wasn’t supposed to happen twice, let alone stretch out all year long. He had his whole career ahead of him, shows lined up all around the world, fans screaming his name, paps waiting for his every mistake. You were happy to stay low-key, proofreading articles online until you got hired as an English teacher. You were both satisfied with where your lives’ trajectory was heading. But you couldn’t stay away from each other.

You were seeing him as larger than life. He was seeing you as an anchor, something that grounded him in the chaotic whirlwind of fame. The problem was finding the time to stay together. The first half was like a fairytale, sneaking visits whenever you had the chance, getting wasted and thoroughly immersed in each other. The endorphin levels were off the charts and your addictive personalities couldn’t get enough. 

Looking at it now, you realize that that was your problem. You forgot to exist for yourselves and you started depending on one another. You set a Google alert for his name on your account, feeding off of every new picture of him, every new tweet and every gossip article. He sought to control his addiction to you with another, highly destructive addiction. Towards the end, you were the only one conscious enough to read the latest article about him exiting clubs with bloodshot eyes and wobbly legs, cold sweat dripping off his hairline. It made you sick, long enough to realize that you were harmful to the other person and time apart might help you get better. 

So you broke it off. It felt like cutting a limb off, but it was necessary. You couldn’t make sure that he was going to get help, but a last plea to his best friends made them make sure he got help. In the meanwhile, you disappeared from the face of the earth, made sure he won’t ever be able to find you, lest he repeat his behavior.

The years passed, you maintained a pretty quiet lifestyle and tried to ignore social media as much as you could. You couldn’t really get away from hearing his songs on the radio every now and then, and if you admit it to yourself, it hurt to hear his voice crack whenever he sang about you, but you knew you made the right call. Even though his eyes still looked like a storm brewing on the horizon and accepting his shortcomings brought a steely glaze over them, he sounded happier. He sounded older, wiser and ultimately cured, and it was everything you wanted for him.

Your coffee cup was empty, a few rings of froth stretched out on the edges. The sky was still overcast, the air a little less chilly and your balcony door wide open with a 6’4’’, curly-haired boy blocking the exit. 

“You were thinking about him again, weren’t you?” He looked at you with his all-knowing, familiar blue eyes.

You smiled at him, faint crow’s feet crinkling with the motion. “When did you get so smart on me, young man?” 

He stepped outside, literally no more than a step for him and wrapped his long lanky arms around you tight, kissing the crown of your head. “Love you, too, mom.”

[aisumadoushi]

            impish bearing unveiled in a lunar-like curve of lips, a charm bound smile was etched upon honeyed mirth with downy veils of boyish charisma. replenishing joyous guise sincerest rise, ARCTICS INHERITOR narrowly sped down jagged mountain terrain━━━━ gliding with serene grace & magical ease. effortlessly / instantly creating a wave-like wall of ice, gray giddily surfed along the otherwise vicious landscape (prodigal artistry showcased for all the wayward creatures populating the land). northern squalls rampaged freely; volatile gales carrying brisk sensations upon the ice mages form as his haste descent continued with aerial dramatics. having a flare for style & the finer things, gray instinctively swerved with a dancers poise & allure- narrowly avoiding obstacles & worrying gaps in the mountainside.

               ❝ huh? ❞ promptly raising his head upon feeling a sudden erratic drizzle, ashen clouds foretelling ROARING TEMPESTS cruel siege were seen speedily overtaking clear skies of blue. ❝ guess i’m not making as much headway as i thought.  .  . might need to take shelter for a bit, ❞ the young mage thought aloud while rerouting his trek & aligning his trail to the imposing evergreens broad adornment on lush, verdant acres at the mountains base. wintry prowess slowly lay to rest, gray swiftly halted his wild coasting & returned to a gentle jog unto the welcoming forest. a mans composure readied steely & unwavering with darkened skies relentless looming dread. though he’s seen far worse circumstances (nonpareil THREATS uncaring assault, time & after time, since ones brief━━━━ sweet youth), camaraderie’s tender, enveloping warmth / fairy lights unbridled blessing isn’t accompanying as it normally would. he’d ventured out alone this time. a decision he may soon come to regret, after having fixated his gaze on a secluded cavern beyond the many towering trees.

               ❝ well, that’s as good as it’s gonna get around here, ❞ he softly mumbled under the raging winds ruthless passage over the surrounding land. noting the lack of animal life, gray understood the situations seemingly escalating severity, & hurriedly scurried with a frantic & unflattering jolt to take up refuge within the cave.

@cuelebres​ !!

[era-eu]

Wordtober 3 - Moon

This is so weird bc I used Portuguese names for my characters but wrote the entire thing in english during my lunch break. So excuse this mess.

It was the seventh night of the seventh day, and the pale moon hung luminous in the sky behind a veil of trailing clouds. Winter in Porto hadn't brought any purifying rain this year either, only dull gray morning skies and cloudy nights,  and the sharp black fingers of winter-dead trees clawing across dreary backdrops.

The wind was silent that night, but the world was not, and frost-touched fallen branches and leaves cracked under shoe soles, a sharp staccato in air already filled with distant sounds of animal growls and yelps. Breath frosting before them, three figures staggered from the forest line and into the clearing stretching towards the still distant road ahead.

A sudden howl, holding the sharp note of vicious anger, rose out of the woods behind them, joined by others, answered and challenged by even more. The three teenagers jerked almost as one, as if the howls were physical blows. As one they turned to stare into the woods behind them, the moon’s flickering light dancing shadows among the trunks.

"It's okay," João said with a voice steadier than should have been expected in the situation. He motioned his companions towards the road still yards ahead of them. "It's gonna be… be okay. Come on."

He motioned again when he saw the others hadn't budged, and repeated insistently, "Come on."

Another chorus of howls rang through the night, and another shudder in unison followed. João reached out, grabbed at the nearest figure and shoved her forward, away from the forest and towards the distant road.

"Okay... It's okay..." The words left cold lips mechanically; there was little certainty, little belief, in Mariana's voice as she stumbled onward in the direction João had pushed her. Her left arm hung stiffly at her side, and she wiped the fingers of her right hand over her face and eyes repeatedly. Her fingers, dark and wet, only served to further smear the blood and tears on her face, the taste thick on her lips and tongue, salty and metallic. She hiccupped through sobs and moved, moved, moved.

"Go... go ahead," and this time the words were spoken to João. He balked, started to speak, was ready to argue with the dark haired girl, but Sofia held his eyes with a steely gaze, one only made more stern by the claw marks stretching down her face. She readied her bow and arrow as the sounds of growls grew slightly closer. "Go, I'm right behind you."

João stopped arguing; she only had three arrows left, he could see that, but if anyone was able to do anything in their situation it was her, so he bit his tongue and turned to follow Mariana. The road was ahead of them, and with the pale light of the moon he could just make out the shape of his car. He just needed to get them to his car, he thought. If he could get them to his car, they'd be fine. They'd be fine. He gritted his teeth and pressed his arm tighter to his side.

Sofia stared down the tree line resolutely; she knew she couldn't do much. As another howl broke through the night air she felt her blood run ice in her veins. She didn't recognize the howl, and she didn't have to look at the others to know they don't either; the rising tone of Mariana's panicked sobs and João's curses played out as a suitable soundtrack to her roiling thoughts. She listened intently, through the growls and yelps and whimpers, and the growing sounds of bodies hitting bodies, for anything familiar, any sound she would be able to place with their pack, their pack, anything at all. Her resolve was steel but her hands were shaking as she realized she couldn't. She was still standing steady on two feet, and every arrow she'd sent flying had hit its mark, and yet she felt she'd failed them somehow, failed them all, because she was still standing strong and Mariana was barely walking and João was pale and shaking and limping and she wasn't able to hear their pack anymore.

"Sofia!"

She jerked around, instinctively raising her bow and sighting a target. Her arrow was pointed at João's forehead but he didn't look surprised. He looked distraught, and she was shaking, biting her lip to keep from crying out. He called to her again, voice desperate and raw, and she lowered her bow. Mariana was not far ahead of him, doubled over, shaking with barely silenced sobs.

Another howl, this one vicious and cold and almost a roar, broke through the air, sounding much closer than the previous. There were no more words; panic and desperation set all three into motion. The car gleamed ahead of them, bathed in the cold dead light of the moon above, a beacon among the dark and twisted landscape around them. Low bushes and scattered branches reached them, twisting their ankles, pulling at pants, scratching legs.

Mariana tripped, crying out in pain as her left arm slammed against the ground and the broken bones ground against one another. The sound of her voice was loud in the cold air, but she was already struggling to her feet as João stumbled over to her. Sofia was there in a moment, helping to pull the redhead up her feet. Supporting one another they crashed through the winter-dead bushes and leaves, growls growing and echoing among the trees they'd left yards behind. They were almost at the car now, the blue paint gleaming silver in the moonlight, and Sofia pushed them on, nearly dragging Mariana in her desperation. The growls, the sounds of bodies moving through the woods behind them, seemed amplified in the winter air. She didn't believe that sound should work like that, wondered if it was a side effect of the adrenaline that coursed through her body. She was burning but ice cold at the same time, struggling not to think of how there were no more sounds of fighting behind them.

"W...wait..." Mariana stammered, pulling back suddenly. Sofia wanted to pull her again, but the redhead twisted in her grasp, and Sofia realized João was no longer next to them. She glanced back to find him standing only a few steps behind them, clouds of breath puffing before him as he stared intently at the tree line behind them.

It was the silence that had stopped him, an unnatural silence that seemed to buzz in his ears, that seemed to stretch for eons below the cold light of the moon. And then, there, a low sound, a lone howl rising slowly in volume over the chilled tree tops. It was almost breathless, and horribly empty, and if the world had been waiting for a signal, that was it. Behind the howl rose a chorus of growls, growing into a cacophony of roaring that set the forest trees shaking, and the howl, that lone low howl rose in pitch, rose in volume, rose in a shrieking cry that nearly rivaled the roars.

Mariana tore out of Sofia's grip and raced almost blindly towards the car, her left arm twisted unnaturally, her face streaked with tear trails through the fresh red blood. Sofia reached after her, crying out, but the redhead was out of her reach too quickly. João stumbled towards the dark-haired girl, right arm still wrapped tightly around his middle. He ignored Sofia's outstretched hand, her offer of help, and instead shoved her forward, pushing her ahead of him. There were low growls in the woods, and other sounds they did their best not to focus on, and the car was right in front of them and they were almost there. Another chorus of grating, rage-pitched howls, alien howls, unknown and unfamiliar, filled the air - but they were almost there.

And then Mariana was there already; she stood a few feet shy of the car, sobs wracking her body, deepening in scope until they were nearly hysterical, until she was shaking on her feet so badly she seemed to be at risk at collapsing at any moment.

"Mariana, it's okay, we... We're getting in and... And we're getting out... Out of here," João stammered out as he and Sofia reached the redhead. Leaning heavily on the dark-haired girl with his shoulder, his breath coming out almost as gasps, he dug in his pocket with a shaking hand. Sofia reached towards the redhead, and Mariana's sobs lowered in volume as her friend’s hand touched her back. Shaking her head almost uncontrollably, Mariana waved her good hand at the car helplessly and repeatedly.

"W-what now what d-d-do we do n-now what..." She repeated herself, over and over, and for the first time the other two looked at the car. It stood where João had left it, half on the road with two wheels on the blacktop… and two wheels on the dirt with tires so shredded it looked like black confetti had been scattered around the rims.

“W… what.” João choked out, stumbling away from Sofia and towards the car. He stared at the car wordlessly, at the littering of black rubber, as Mariana’s words slowly changed to sobs again.

Low growls were reaching them from across the clearing; somewhere not far behind them a branch snapped.

“It’s okay.” João gasped out, finally pulling his keys out and holding them to Sofia with a shaking hand. “You… you can still drive. It’s n-not far…”

“You…?” Sofia reached for the keys automatically, “What… what do you mean yo-“

“You can’t dr-drive too fast,” João pulled his hand away as soon as the keys were in her hand. “The… the rims’ll spark, but it’s not far. You can make it.”

“João…” Mariana choked words out, fighting sobs; her eyes were watery but clear and she was stern and she was scared. “João, you… are coming… with us.”

A silence had descended, slowly and almost unnoticeably; the realization sent prickling along the back of their necks.

“It’s a full moon,” João said, and he curled his arm tighter against his side, and he winced and he spoke again. “If they... they get pissed off enough, they can g-get distracted. Distracted en… enough to give you some time…”

Sofia had started shaking her head when he had started speaking, and she continued to shake it, and she breathed a single, low “no” but she wasn’t sure if it was in response to what he’d said, or to the situation they were in, or because in the silence that surrounded them she could for the first time hear the watery bubbling as he breathed and in the moon’s light see the dark line trailing its deep crimson way down from the corner of his mouth, and she had realized once again that of all she could do she still couldn’t do anything, not really.

And maybe it wasn’t until that moment, when no one was speaking and only the sound of their breath was in the air between them, that they realized just how empty the world had become around them.

And it was Mariana that reached out first, and touched Sofia’s arm, and Sofia reached out to touch João’s shoulder, and their eyes wandered over the empty clearing, and their sight touched on the distant tree line.

Nothing moved in the shadows, nothing moved along the clearing, and though their eyes searched, strained to see through the shades of gray on gray on black they could see nothing.

And behind their backs the car creaked.

And from just above their heads, there sounded a howl.

[benes-diction]

There are no words at first, just the shifting of his steely eyes as he stands close. His hand reaches out gently, taking hers with caution. His thumb mindlessly caressing the back of her hand. He stays like this a moment, before pulling her close, resting her head against him. His heart beating almost to the rhythm of her name. "Even if you have forgotten me, my heart can not forget you. You were my blue sky back home. Endless and free. You are, and always will be, where I belong. My Celia.."

The massive dark-haired stranger brought the tiny Garlean to a standstill, and as he approached, she could only stand there and stare, afraid to even move. He was so much... larger than she was. Celia was almost certain he could crush her head between his hands with the smallest bit of force. But the rasp of his calloused palms against her hand, the steady thud of his heart in her ear--that was all familiar. It was all... comforting. Steady and solid, unwavering.

Unwavering.

That was familiar, too. Steely eyes that never wavered. Steely eyes that she knew.

As he spoke to her, she frowned, listening to his voice. It rumbled like thunder. She knew its deep baritone. She remembered it ringing out across the grounds, barking orders. She knew it. She knew him.

Blue skies.

There was a blue, blue sky dotted with puffs of white clouds when he’d left her behind. 

That time when she thought she would never see him again. 

Her... tall. No. Her ‘tol.’ 

Her shield. Her protective wall.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew this man. She knew he was terribly important to her. Had she truly forgotten him? How could she have forgotten someone like him? Why couldn’t she remember his name? He knew hers. She was his Celia. So why couldn’t she remember?

Celia stared up at him, lips parted. Such steely eyes, she mused to herself. As gray as fog on the horizon. Eyes like the sea before a storm. Her eyes went to the scar cutting down his brow, down his cheek, and her hand lifted to trace the same spot on her own cheek, fingers shifting to sign an ‘A.’ 

An ‘A’ tracing the path of his scar--the injury that had been their first meeting. That was his sign. That was his name.

A... for Arduro. 

[artemis-entreri]

Just One Word

Part 2: Prayer | Part 1: Despair

Rain. It bore down like a relentless army, clattering against slick rooftops like blades against shields. Peals of thunder beat incessantly like the drums of war. Lightning streaks ignited the sky like volleys of flaming arrows. The city, which was barely more than a town, shuddered against the relentless onslaught, its citizens as subdued as farmers huddling in a barn while swords drank their red fill less than a field's length away. Even those surrounded by stone that was wrapped about sturdy frames and thick beams had much to fear, for upon the waves of the Sea of Swords came squalls like charging cavalry with sabers raised high.

In hushed tones, the town-city's denizens whispered to one another, hesitant to raise their voices despite the nigh-impossibility of being heard above the tumultuous cacophony. Despite the shadows that deepened every corner, few candles were lit, as though folk feared challenging the effulgence of blinding light that so oft seared the skies. The Storm Lord Talos might as well have made the fledgling coastal city his domain, the aberrant intensity of the storm befitting the will of a god of destruction. Indeed, it was beyond foolhardiness to attempt to brave the tempest, and even a fool would've been wise enough to recognize the folly of challenging a god.

The lone human who walked the street was neither foolhardy nor a fool. Shielded from the scrutiny of other mortals he was, his heavy dark cloak rendering him no more than another flickering shadow on the darkened street. But shielded from the judgment of the heavens he was not, for although it was not The Storm Lord nor any named deity whom battered Luskan this night, the prowess of the rainstorm and its gales were sufficient to force even this most capable character to acknowledge the divine-like dominance. His normally balanced gait was irregular as he picked his path across the cobblestones, their slick unevenness making them as dangerous as sharpened knives. The sodden man's characteristic surefootedness surrendered to shuffles and stumbles, for it was all that he could do to keep himself upright against the raging storm that buffeted him this way and that, changing directions as unpredictably as though the gusts were driven by the wings of a crazed dragon.

A few times, he came close to falling, but the most that he'd allow was the touch of one leather gauntlet-covered hand against the craggy stone street. As though to punish him for his hubris, a blast of wind that was at least as much water as it was air slammed the defiant man against a rickety wall, the impact sending a  loud crash shuddering through the boards. Startled cries rang out from the people cowering behind the dubious cover, but much quieter was the grunt that the collision drew from behind the cloaked man's clenched teeth.

As he allowed a breath to compose himself, the assassin glared at the stormy skies with mutinous gray eyes. The heavens mocked him by whipping ice-cold globules directly into his steely gaze. But he didn't blink, paying no heed to the trailing beads that ran down his face, where they lingered imperceptibly upon his high cheekbones before rushing down the deep grooves that outlined his scowl. The watery trails might've looked like tears, but for the defiance so unconditionally written in the resolute man’s countenance that it belied even the faintest suggestion of weakness.

But even the strongest will has limits, the most tenacious discipline its outer edge. The resolute man's hand betrayed a quiver before he stilled it, his shoulders slumping before he forced them square once more. As he lurched to a stop before a sturdy two-floor building, he summoned a facsimile of the reserves of energy that'd already been spent, and pushed in the door.

Like starving wolves sensing fresh prey, the torrent rushed in through the exposed entryway. A streak of lightning threw an elongated impression of a humanoid across the newly-wetted floor, a gust nearly extinguished the single lamp sitting on the counter. The small flame flickered dangerously but did not die out, stubborn as the figure whose shadow was many times longer than its caster. Though normally, a warm light in the adumbral space would've been a welcoming sight to the thoroughly soaked man, he hesitated. For many heartbeats longer than it took his darkvision-enhanced eyes to ascertain that no threat lingered amidst the seemingly secure refuge, Artemis Entreri paused in the doorway. Meanwhile, the downpour lost none of its chill as it permeated his weatherproofed heavy cloak, passing through his already saturated dark locks and flowing down his neck as though threatening to drown him from within. Yet, still he stood, accepting the deluge, his hand too tired to grip the door's handle even whilst each drop in the streams that ran from his boots stole away a bit more of his already thoroughly-tapped reserves of life-sustaining heat.

Finally, when he felt as though he might be forced to enter the room by gracefully toppling onto his own face, the assassin yanked himself past the threshold with a forward jerk of his neck, as though it were a rope tied to the leaden block that was his body. His feet clomped against the wet floor, loud as falling bricks and no less unfeeling. A sudden reverse in the current sucked the door shut, and it was instinct alone that drew the exhausted man's hand out of danger. Had he a chance to think about it, he might've attempted to stop the door from shutting out the maelstrom, for although the elements had battered and besieged him, they stung his skin with acute sensation and rang in his ears with a deafening noise that at least served to force consciousness upon him. 

But now, even though the sturdy walls barely muffled the tumult outside, Entreri felt as though a layer of wax coated his ears, just as the familiar but unwelcome numbness spread through his chest and mind. Mechanically, he shrugged off his cloak and tossed it at the rack. The entire ensemble tipped, unable to support the multiplied weight of the water-laden garment. It clattered loudly against the floor, a plain white mask tumbling free of the cloak and rack and rolling a few paces away, but all of that only drew an absentminded glance from the items’ owner. One who'd gazed into those same dark eyes out in the storm would not be able to recognize their stare now, vacant, uncomprehending, diffuse. The owner of those empty eyes started to move towards the fallen apparatus, then stopped, the disorientation within his gaze spreading through the rest of him. As in so many instances in his life, Entreri forced his body into motion again, but it wasn't with a growl, but with something akin to a deep moan. As he lifted the pole and attempted different ways to balance it with his soaked cloak, his hands moved with the imprecise ponderousness of a dock worker rather than the graceful cadence of an artisan. As he struggled to keep the whole ensemble upright, his attention was the coarse survey of a digger rather than the acuity of a surveyor. 

When the cloak hanger was finally re-erected, its intended burden laid in a soggy pile at its base. The puddle forming around the heap grew with the contribution from other shed garments, which were similarly tossed aside and lying in a sloppy arrangement formed from convenience rather than pragmatism. The puddle continued to grow, augmented by the run-off from the shivering man standing amidst the haphazard assortment. The direction of his eyes pointed at the cabinet with drawers full of neatly-sorted towels, clean shirts and trousers, but his gaze did not take any of them in. When Entreri's mind finally reeled his vision back to that which was before him, still, he didn't move, his body even turning slightly away as though preparing to enter a defensive crouch against the inanimate items. 

Outside, water continued to fall in unrelenting sheets. The assassin's vigilance was suddenly shattered by his body starting to keel forward without his behest. Only then did the exhausted man break his stillness, catching himself and transforming his momentum forward into the hooking of a handle, his recovery of his balance pulling the drawer open. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, the soaked garment falling into itself like a fishing net on the floor. However, the burden that should've fallen away with it instead shifted to his chest, adding to the weight that already sat upon his heart. Removing his breeches was like pulling hide from his flesh, so thoroughly had the water permeated the leather, but so, too, did freeing his skin from the confines shift the constraints inwards. Entreri kicked the leggings to the side but found no satisfaction from the motion, instead feeling as though he kicked away a stone from the base of an already-crumbling wall. His frame shivered violently, but he did not snatch up a dry towel, instead pinching it by an edge as though it were a soiled rag. He did not work the water from his dripping black locks, instead settling the towel over his shoulders as if it were a short cloak. This brought him no true measure of warmth, and were he himself, he might've felt ridiculous for his utter inefficiency at performing this most simple of tasks.

But neither efficiency nor efficacy even neared the forlorn assassin's thoughts as he gazed upon the pitch-black staircase stretching up away from him. He stared, motionless again, until his body gave another forward lurch, and this time, he only managed to catch himself after one, two, three stumbles. With a long sigh that was drowned out by the din of the cascading cacophony, Entreri halfheartedly wiped the moisture from his skin and hair. Without bothering to sidestep the the discarded towel, the assassin forced his bare feet one in front of the other until he could set his hand on the railing that accompanied the steps.

The flickering candlelight faded behind him, taking with it touches of color but none of the forms. So, too, did the fading light take the colors from inside him. Entreri shifted his mind to his soles, feeling the balls of his feet rolling against the cooled wood, counting the half-breaths that his heels grazed against the smooth boards. This alone kept him moving, toes flexing with each rhythmic touchdown, the predictability of the pattern an anchor in a life that had become so unpredictable.

Suddenly, the the forlorn sequence froze. A rattle sounded from above, feeble as distress signal amidst the relentless onslaught, but promising that hope yet lived. The assassin's pause lasted not even a heartbeat, and before he knew it, his body was at the top of the landing, his quickened exhales bouncing off of the closed door even while his mind still counted his heel-falls. Before Entreri could understand his own thoughts, his fingers had already disarmed all of his meticulously-set traps. A twitch of his muscles had already thrown the door wide, before his mind could warn them to not move. 

Despite his self-preservation instinct, his eyes went to the bed first. He knew that his magically-enhanced sight could see perfectly in the total darkness, but still he stared, disbelieving. He'd heard movement, so why did Jarlaxle still lay so still? 

A ruse, Entreri thought, as his heart thrust forward against his chest, as though eager to leap to the prone form’s side, even if it meant doing so without the rest of his body.

It's just like him to try to trick me as soon as he woke up, the assassin told himself, but his leaden feet would not move. 

He then saw the empty cup, still rolling back and forth where it'd fallen, and felt the remaining strength leave him. Entreri managed to catch the frame of the door with a hand that felt like it had no bones in it. He told himself that he held fast to avoid going to his knees, but a guilty voice deep within whispered the truth of his cowardice. 

As the rain had soaked him until it threatened to permeate his skin, so too did the gnawing ache burrow through his limbs like a devouring worm. Shame of his early dawdling sped the enervated man to the vulnerable figure's side, whereupon all haste was lost, transformed into delicate exactitude. Tenderly, he laid a palm against the smooth ebony forehead, then winced when he felt less warmth than from his own rain-chilled skin. Nonetheless, the assassin carefully drew the blankets around the lithe form. As he'd done countless times already, he slid one hand behind the unconscious drow's back while the other tucked the blankets around the lifeless body. The tired man's arms repeated the motions that'd become so painfully familiar to him while his mind balked, until the mercenary sat partially-upright against the headboard. 

A rumble of thunder sounded so close by that Entreri felt it reverberate within his rib cage, but so tightly had he boarded the shutters closed that no flash of lightning distorted the colorless consistency of the room. No matter what elements raged outside, he'd ensured that the space he'd "sanctified" in his own way was as peaceful as it could be. His usual thoroughness had paid off, as everything was consistent -- too consistent, Entreri noted with anguish. As he studied his companion, the only other occupant in the room, he felt as though he were frozen in time. Jarlaxle was as still as the furnishings, yet so at ease that he could've been simply closing his eyes for a moment. 

A moment without end.

Entreri roughly shook the thought from his head and gruffly grabbed two dark blue berries from a small bowl on the nearby table. He'd long stopped reaching for the ones at the bottom, for those that he didn't use disappeared after a day anyway. Even though he needed its magic, the assassin almost wished that the bowl didn't replenish itself, for each morning that he looked upon the newly-spawned pile of dew-kissed fruit, it seemed as though he were taken back to the previous day in a torturous cycle without end.

With eyes fixed upon his companion, Entreri set the two berries carefully between his teeth. He gingerly slid onto the bed with the immobile figure, his attention focused to such a degree upon minimally jostling the mattress that he didn't notice the soft coos and assurances he breathed around the berries. He eased the unconscious drow's head close enough until he could lift it with a nudge of his own, and, with one hand gently but firmly cupping Jarlaxle's shoulder, Entreri pulled open the mercenary's mouth, took one of the berries from between his teeth, and pushed it onto his companion's tongue. With practiced ease, the assassin then guided the mercenary's jaw up and down. He paused to nuzzle his cheek against his companion's forehead, whispering a soft apology as the bristles on his jaw brushed roughly against the smooth black skin. Before the drow's head could tip too far back, the attentive human caught it with a raised shoulder, his free hand already massaging the bared throat. Purple juices leaked from the corners of the mercenary's pale gray lips, but the assassin's hand was already there, accepting the staining onto his own skin. 

As he guided his companion, Entreri tipped the remaining berry back into his own mouth. Chewing and swallowing in conjunction with the mercenary both soothed and stung his heart. This had become how they would dine together, and tonight, the weeping heavens serenaded them.

The bitter melody was almost too much to bear.

"The other 'Lords' are as obnoxious as ever." the assassin began, the way his words cracked marking his throat as the only part of him not having been soaked by the relentless rain. His voice echoed hollowly in the empty room. He attempted to swallow what felt like a rock lodged in his throat. 

"So fixated are they upon their delusions of grandeur that they still have not noticed that I've taken your place."

Entreri felt his breath catch, so he pasted a self-deprecating smile on his face. The forced flexing of muscles briefly distracted him from the intensifying feelings of despair rising inexorably within his heart.

"They've finally agreed to allow Luskan to use their precious highways," he pushed on. "You would've found much humor in their chagrin in being forced to acknowledge the fruits of your work."

Your work.

Pain flooded the assassin's chest, as though a hole had ruptured his flesh and bone and the still-hungry wolves had found him in the same instant. The deluge of depression, despair, doubt and defeat poured in. He gasped for calming breaths, desperate not to allow the flood to distort his voice. His shaking frame shifted the precious consignment in his arms, causing the drow's head to fall forward against his neck to rest perfectly in the crook.

“This was made specifically for me,” Entreri heard Jarlaxle’s musical tone croon in his thoughts. 

The embankment that he had struggled so hard to build over the past months blasted wide apart. 

Even while his mind screamed at him in horrified admonition, the distraught human roughly gathered up the far too still form, pulling the drow over his own legs and encircling him with his arms. Unable to stop the convulsions of his own body and the disgusting racket coming out of his own mouth, the assassin threw his mind far out beyond the walls, where the tumult spared him his own shameful display. He imagined himself floating weightlessly amidst the maelstrom, the sheets of water passing through him as easily as did the streaks of harsh light. He wanted to drift away even farther, but he could not, perhaps as penance for his indulgence.

Moistness on his arm called his mind back to his body. Entreri looked down and saw the cooling streams that ran off of the smooth black arms onto his own, the hairs of the latter delaying the wetting of the blankets around them. Cursing, the assassin slipped out from the bed before his show of weakness could cause further disruption, roughly wiping his arm against his bare back and berating himself with words sharper than any blade that'd ever punctured his skin. Delicately, he straightened the sheets that he'd ruffled around the drow, then gently smoothed the covers over the still and quiet mercenary. He found and flattened every ripple in his ritual of atonement, until he realized that his efforts achieved an effect akin to a burial shroud.

Entreri’s hands dropped to his sides and he slowly sank down until he felt his heels dig into his bare thighs. His mind began issuing the customary instructions for climbing onto the mattress with minimal disturbance of his unconscious bedfellow, instructions that he'd followed for countless nights, but his body didn't move. It wasn't exhaustion that pinned him there, but the weight of  awareness. Awareness that his skin was still chilled from the rain, awareness that the deluge had tainted him with the city's filth. Awareness that the garments that would provide an acceptable barrier between his companion and his disgrace were absent, and an awareness that "acceptable" was far from sufficient.

Entreri's forehead fell until his messy black locks splayed out against the neat white sheet. His fingers clasped before himself in a vain effort to still the shaking of his hands. 

"Jarlaxle, open your eyes." His voice was quiet, subdued. "Open your eyes, and look upon your city. Look upon this place that you've carved for yourself, in a world that wasn't meant for you. Look upon your accomplishments. You finally have all that you'd ever wanted. Please, open your eyes, and look upon them."

He swallowed. He could keep his heavy lids open no more. His willpower and discipline were stolen from him by the grueling passage of time, a merciless ravaging reaver that stole, too, words from his very lips.

"Jarlaxle, please, open your eyes, and look upon me."

[cissathebookworm]

Demigod Draco Malfoy-Drabble

So this particular one has been living on my computer for a while and has never moved past this point. It's kinda crack treated seriously.... 

 “This year,” Headmaster Dumbledore tells the students gathered in the Great Hall for dinner on the first night back. “we will be having guests joining us from America. They are from a camp called Camp Half-Blood where demigods go. Demigods, as you may be wondering, are the offspring of a mortal and of a god. In this case, we are talking about the Greek gods and goddesses.

“You may also be wondering how is this true. I assure you that they exist as I myself am the child of Athena, the goddess of wisdom. There are several demigods currently living at Hogwarts, having been born to a Greek deity and a witch or wizard. Those demigods currently at Hogwarts are not required to share their status but are certainly welcome to do so. Any who choose to share are going to be welcomed with open arms.” Dumbledore then gestures to a side door into the hall, “Joining us know from Camp Half-Blood are our esteemed guests…”

The door opens and out steps a group of rather ordinary looking teenagers. “And now,” Dumbledore continues, “for the introductions.”

A blonde female with steely gray eyes steps forward, “I am Annabeth, daughter of Athena, goddess of wisdom and war strategy.”  Annabeth then starts to gesture to the other demigods as they come forward one by one. “Leo Valdez, son of Hephaestus, god of blacksmiths.

“Nico di Angelo, son of Hades who is King of the Underworld. Then Jason Grace, who is the son of the Roman version of Zeus, Jupiter, the ruler of Olympus and god of the skies. Piper McLean is the daughter of Aphrodite, goddess of love. Hazel Levesque is a daughter of Pluto, the Roman name for Hades.

“Frank Zhang is the son of Mars, the Roman equivalent of the god of war Ares. Thalia Grace is a Huntress of Artemis and the daughter of Zeus. Will Solace is the son of the god of the sun, medicine, and archery, Apollo. Clarisse La Rue is the daughter of Ares. Connor Stoll is the son of Hermes, the messenger god and the patron god of thieves and travelers. Then Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, the god of the seas.”

Annabeth gestures for Dumbledore to take the stage again. Dumbledore smiles at his young half-sister and once again speaks, “Any demigod currently residing at Hogwarts is more than welcome to come forward and introduce themselves.”

In his pause, several random Hogwarts students come to the front and introduce themselves. There were several children of minor gods and goddess, with two children of Ares, and three children of Athena. Luna Lovegood floats forward towards the end of the introductions and pronounces herself a daughter of Athena.

In his seat, Draco Malfoy dithers, unsure whether or not he should go forward and pronounce himself a demigod and ruin the Malfoy name or stay put and pretend that the Malfoys were every inch of the purebloods that they claimed to be. Hesitating too long, Dumbledore goes on to explain the open fire pit that appears in the front of the hall, telling the students that it was so the demigods could sacrifice a bit of their meal to their godly parent. He also explains that the demigods would be living in their own dormitory and any current Hogwarts student that announced their heritage would remain living in their house. The demigods would attend a few relevant classes with the Hogwarts students, but for the most part, they would attend a few of their own lessons. Hogwarts demigods would be expected to attend their regular classes as well as few other classes along with the demigods.

Draco is stuck in his own little world, conflicted. There would still be time to approach Dumbledore and tell him of his heritage if he did not already know.

The meals begins, Draco noticing only through the clatter of silverware on dishes. He absent-mindedly fills his plate and stares at it. The demigods form a line and one by one scrape a portion of their meal into the fire with a quietly whispered name. After a few minutes of staring at his plate, Blaise bumps into his friend and asks, “What’s up mate?”

Draco responds in a hushed voice, “I feel conflicted. I know I should sacrifice a bit of my meal, but…”

Blaise nods in agreement and responds equally hushed, “I know what you mean, I’d love to go up there and give this amazing looking biscuit to my mother…”

“But should we ruin our ‘pureblood’ status for this?” Draco demands.

“I feel as if our parents would not forgive us if we denied them like this.” Blaise tries to ration, “We have the chance to proclaim our identity and give a bit of our meal.” Blaise thinks for another second, “I’m going to do it.” Blaise swiftly stands up and makes his way to the front. He scrapes a bit of food into the fire and proclaims loudly enough for anyone paying attention to hear, “Aphrodite.”

Many stare in shock at Blaise, but the shocked silence is quickly broken by a jubilant, “Yes! A brother who doesn’t look totally crazy!”

Blaise sends Piper a smile and a small wave as he makes his way back to the Slytherin table. After sitting down, Blaise sends Draco an expectant look, “You really should do it.”

Draco nods his resignation, “I know.”

“Go on mate, it’s not so bad.”

“Do I drop the glamour as well?”

“You’re wearing a glamour?” Blaise hisses in confusion, “I figured your mum was Athena!”

“My godly parent is actually a male.”

“Who?” Blaise demands, “I told you who mine was and you let me assume!”

“I wasn’t really wanting to divulge in such secrets when I’d only really begun to trust you!” Draco snaps back irritably before he stands up, plate in hand, and makes his way swiftly to the front. Draco scrapes a large portion of his meal into the fire and clearly states, “Poseidon.”

Percy and everyone else in the hall stared at Draco in shock. As he makes his way back to the table, Draco allows the glamour that had almost always surround him drop. In place of what everyone had expected of the Malfoy heir, stood a black haired, sea green-eyed boy, a replica of Percy Jackson.

[foxofthedesert]

One Green Apple, a RedQueen story

Prologue (Ao3 Link)

The writing of a new, monumental page in history begins with one green apple that changes not only one world but two. What might be an absurd notion to the rational thinker will be proven as unequivocally true with a single bite of what appears to be an ordinary piece of fruit. In time, that seemingly innocuous act will be universally viewed as the impetus for momentous events spanning two disparate realms, events that will resonate into the future far beyond the capacity for any contemporary prognosticator to grasp.

To arrive at the pivotal fulcrum upon which this story rests, we must begin with a recounting of the fortuitous meeting between the axial figures of our narrative. One is a humble heroine, whose ferocious and loyal heart possesses a unique ability to see the good in others, which gets her into as much trouble with miscreants as it endears her to those she gently coaxes out of the darkness and back into the light. The other is an ignoble figure of ill repute, perhaps the most infamous villain of her generation whose dastardly feats have made an indelible imprint upon the collective memory of a nation. Inspired by a devotion that surpasses any arbitrary boundaries of tradition and which challenges the limits of human experience, these two remarkable women will prove erroneous the condescension of their numerous detractors. Together, they will labor together to build a kingdom which will serve as the linchpin of an alliance that spans from the fabled realm of Misthaven to the enchanted foreign fields of Oz.

The extraordinary tale of the Queens of Misthaven begins with a highly anticipated report from a reliable source in Queen Regina's intelligence network: Snow White has been spotted. Details indicate the outlaw princess has been sheltering in a village to the north in order to recuperate from minor injuries incurred during a recent run in with a roving knot of brigands.

Unfortunately by the time Regina's spy entered the village, the notorious outlaw was mobile again and preparing to escape her jurisdiction via the mountain range nearby. There a narrow, hazardous pass terminates less than half a mile short of the border. On the other side, freedom awaits Snow within the ordinarily unfriendly confines of the realm ruled by King George.

No doubt that snide bastard will make an exception for Snow just to spite me, Regina thinks, seething at the possibility of her hated enemy escaping into the welcoming arms of another, albeit less important, nemesis. With no time to waste to prevent this catastrophe, she hastily organizes a platoon of her finest soldiers in a field to the southeast of the Dark Palace.

The sky overhead is a brilliant blue, white puffy clouds in various whimsical shapes dancing through the atmosphere. There is a slight chill in the air that indicates the onset of autumn. Soon enough, winter will blanket the land with freezing temperatures and a fine, perpetual layer of white.

The news has come just in time. I hate chasing fugitives in the snow. She almost smiles at the thought. Snow in the snow has always held a strangely fond connotation for her outside of the amusing pun.

When Snow was a child, Regina would often venture outside with the young princess to watch her build snowmen and make snow angels or toss snowballs at the few friends she kept from the noble class that occupied the castle with the royal family. After Regina's wedding, Leopold essentially foisted his daughter upon her, which only reinforced the widespread view of their marriage – that it was little more than a convenient arrangement for his sporadic pleasure and general relief, both of which came at Regina's expense. Most of the time she hated her husband for his lack of parental responsibility. Bad enough that she had to let him touch her in places only Daniel ever had. Forcing her to become primary caretaker to a spoiled, daft, annoying princess was adding insult to injury. Occasionally, though, when Snow had no one to play with, Regina would join her stepdaughter in the frozen fun. Those rare outings were some of the few good memories she has of raising Snow. But because they also give her a minuscule reason to reconsider her vendetta, she does not often reminisce upon them. Best to forget there was ever a time she might have loved Snow lest she lose even an ounce of her conviction to kill the insipid brat.

"The traitor Snow White has been located," she tells her assembled troops from her regale perch atop Rocinante.

The company stands in formation before her, proud and grave with their weapons at the ready. These men are not only her most skilled but are also her most loyal. To the last, they are grim-faced and battle-tested soldiers of steely determination, none of whom retain any love for the deposed House of White. All of them lost friends or family to Leopold's secret excesses or had justice denied them by the blatant whitewashing of crimes committed by his many loyal sycophants. Snow, to them, is no rightful heir but a living reminder of their grief and rage. For that reason alone, she trusts all of them to pursue their quarry without mercy.

"She will be taking the pass between our realm and that of King George in order to escape justice," she goes on as the men listen intently. "While George has no love for the White family, he has even less for me. Thus, he will surely offer her sanctuary as a means to goad me. It goes without saying, then, that the outlaw must not under any circumstances be allowed to cross the border on the other side of the mountain. Your orders are to apprehend her alive, not necessarily unharmed, and then bring her to me."

"What of her rumored compatriot? That freakish girl that murdered half of Perrault. What do we do with her?" says Captain Renford, a grizzled survivor of many bloody conflicts.

Disregarding the exaggeration and contempt with which he spat out his inquiry, Regina gives him a dark smile. Ah, yes. The werewolf, she muses to herself. What, indeed, shall I do with that most fascinating morsel? She has long desired to catch a glimpse of Snow's mythical sidekick. According to hearsay among the peasantry, the girl is largely to be credited with Snow's continued survival. While all good rumors are rooted in at least a minimal amount of truth, this one has been verified more than once.

Many of her sorties against Snow have been thwarted by the great beast that has assumed a role as the exiled princess's protector. As might be obvious, this continual interference makes the werewolf a thorn in her side, as is anyone else brave or stupid enough to ally with the bane of her existence. For the crime of aiding and abetting alone she should order the girl's immediate execution. Yet for reasons beyond comprehension, she is inclined to spare so unique a quarry if only to satisfy a highly piqued curiosity.

During her reign, Regina has encountered a handful of the ancient magical species. None of them proved worthy of her time or continued interest, as they were either wholly given over to their animalistic compulsions and lacking even a modicum of self-control or intelligence or both. Thus they were of no use to her. But from what she has gathered via tales spread far and wide of Snow's friend, her peerless beauty, prowess in battle, unshakable loyalty, and impressive mastery over her condition make her not only special but of immense potential value. Few, if any, are as capable of appropriately appreciating the attributes Snow's wolf brings to the table quite like Regina can. There is also the not-so-insignificant consideration that such a weapon under her sway, either via persuasion or forceful subjugation, would be an advantage she would be a moron to dismiss.

And yet her somewhat irrational if not unreasonable compulsion to acquire Snow's werewolf can never come at the cost of her revenge. No matter what must be sacrificed, she is not about to allow this welcome stroke of good fortune to go to waste.

"Try to do the same," she answers the commander after a brief pause to consider her options. "Apprehend the wolf if possible but kill her if you must. Capturing Snow White is to be your primary concern. All other interests are irrelevant."

Renford bows his head submissively, ever the obedient soldier. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Regina's lips turn up at seeing her orders are well received. "Very well, then. Let us be off." She lifts her hands to the sky, summoning vast amounts of energy to teleport herself, her prized steed, and her troops to the base of the mountain pass.

Upon arrival, none of the men stumble – they are well accustomed by now to magical transportation. Perfectly composed, their eyes are swiftly upon her, awaiting further orders without a hint of trepidation.

Up here at elevation the pleasant weather at the Dark Palace seems a distant memory. Snow falls in spurts of large crystalline flakes and the temperature is low enough that it sticks to the rocky ground. The sky is overcast with huge billowing gray clouds, indicating the precipitation is unlikely to do anything but increase in volume and intensity. Likely within hours, the whole pass will be blanketed ankle deep with snow. Lovely. Much as she wishes for clear skies and warm weather, though, her enthusiasm for the pending victory is unaffected.

"You will be taking a company of men up the pass, Captain," she begins relaying her more detailed instructions. "I will linger behind so that I can deposit a squad at the far end to block our prey from slipping the net. Lieutenant Allen!" At her terse bark, said officer steps out and crisply salutes. "Your squad will be tasked with closing off this entrance. Let no one enter or exit on pain of death. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, your Majesty," the Lieutenant replies, and then salutes before departing to deploy his men at the mouth of the pass.

"Lieutenant Rodrigo," she calls, summoning the third officer attending this mission. He, as Lieutenant Allen had, steps out with a crisp salute.

Rodrigo is a personal favorite who hails from her home country, to the southwest of her family's ancestral domain. She appointed him to her personal guard upon seizing the crown. As he was born a peasant, it was not becoming to immediately place him into the officer corps, so she arranged for him to be under the command of an officer with similarly humble beginnings who had risen through the ranks via toil, dedication, and skill. Since then Rodrigo has flourished, serving faithfully and accruing various noteworthy commendations along the way. Complete confidence in the Lieutenant is not difficult for her to summon when he has yet to fail her.

Pride for her countryman swells in her breast. She allows it to show as she instructs him, "Gather your squad around me, please, Lieutenant."

"Form ranks around the Queen!" Rodrigo commands, swirling his ornate cavalry sabre in the air. After his men are encircling Rocinante, the Lieutenant joins them, coming to stand at her left.

Regina turns her eyes to the commanding officer before departing for the far end of the pass. "Captain Renford," she says, "you may begin your ascent. Should you encounter resistance, do not wait for me to begin the assault. I shall join you shortly."

"Yes, your Majesty," Renford bows, then glances back up at her. "Shall I leave two men behind to make the ascent with you upon your return?"

Regina shakes her head, a bit impatient, but appreciative of the thoughtful nature of his query. The captain is an excellent soldier with an unwavering dutifulness and an attention to detail that will be sorely missed should he perish on this mission. Not that such a potential negative consequence can deter her when obsession with capturing Snow supersedes every other consideration. In the end, he is a pawn on her chess board, nothing more and nothing less.

"That is not necessary, Captain," she says dismissively. "I will not linger far enough behind for trouble to find me, and although I will be low on reserve energy after situating Lieutenant Rodrigo's squad, I will not be completely depleted. I can defend myself if I must. Mind you, I am also accomplished with a sword, as you have learned personally."

When she first promoted Renford, he was full of himself – an arrogant, misogynistic prick that needed to be reigned in before those unfavorable attributes outweighed the favorable ones. She challenged him to a non-lethal duel, privately of course to avoid shaming him in front of his men, which he accepted. Her skill with a blade has never been a closely guarded secret. Many uppity men who dismissed her because of her gender have crossed swords with her and not lived to tell the tale. Renford, like most of her officer corps, thought himself above all of the enemies she had dispatched and thus required a harsh lesson. He touched her only once in their best of five contest. After that, he was far more humble and obedient.

When Renford bows his head in obeisance, Regina gives him an encouraging smile. As she had told him after their duel, bygones are bygones. He had conducted himself well to put her to the test as he did and unlike many who trod his path before did not let his defeat at the hands of a woman much smaller and ostensibly weaker than him break him. Instead, it motivated him to be better and opened his eyes to the value of women in combat roles. A month later, Renford started taking women who wished to be warriors into his company. Three of his first recruits are with him today, themselves grizzled veterans of many bloody engagements.

"I will be fine, Gerald," she says to him, knowing he only spoke up out of concern for her well being. "Do not allow my safety to be a distraction. Capturing Snow is one thing. Her companion, however, will present a vastly more difficult challenge that will require all of your concentration."

He nods in acquiescence then calls out for his men to fall in line. Looking to her one last time, Regina waves her hand in permission for him to orders the advance. He does so promptly. As she watches his company begin a confident march up the pass, a deep sense of satisfaction warms her bones. She has all but assured her impending triumph.

Brimming with assurance that encroaches upon hubris, she conjures up an image of the opposite end of the pass in her mind and then immediately summons her magic once again to transport Rodrigo's squad there. Located just on the side of the border belonging to her kingdom, the outlet spreads out from the base of the mountain like a yawning jaw. Rimmed with craggy tooth outcroppings, it empties into dense foliage that quickly gives way to unending forest, making it a perfect location in which to stage an ambush.

Before returning to follow Renford's company up the pass from the rear, Regina relays the same instructions to Rodrigo as she had to Allen: hold his position on pain of death. He accepts the charge with a crisp salute and then orders his men into position. With all of the pieces carefully arranged, she at last returns to where she'd departed Captain Renford.

Back at the entrance to the pass, she spurs Rocinante forward into a leisurely trot. Her magic is significantly drained from her efforts to place her troops but that is of little concern. With both ends of the pass blocked and a company of thirty men on the route itself, Snow and her furry friend are hemmed in and all but finished. She deems it highly unlikely that she will be forced to risk her health summoning large spells when she doubts any magic whatsoever will be required to accomplish her objective. How are two young women going to defeat so many soldiers trained to deadly precision along with the most infamous sorceress to ever live? Even if one of them is a fearsome werewolf, the thought is laughably absurd.

As she ascends the path, Regina lags a ways behind her soldiers while they slog up the treacherous path to intercept their quarry. Being alone gives her a chance to revel in her pending triumph. The thrill of finally having Snow at her mercy has her approaching a state of preemptive euphoria.

So sure is she of victory that she begins to envision the plethora of creative ways in which she can dispose of her archenemy. Firstly she contemplates beheading Snow, but swiftly decides that is simply too quick a method of execution. No, Snow must suffer endless agony before she is allowed the mercy of death. With that option eliminated, she considers gifting Snow some quality time in the rack, after which the brutalized prisoner would be drawn and quartered. But the thought of involving horses, so majestic an animal, in Snow's death seems distasteful – although considering the way Snow had entered her life, an equestrian related demise would be somewhat perversely appropriate. In the end, she settles on a grim series of tortures involving publicly flogging Snow over a period of weeks followed by nightly visits from the Head Inquisitor, a man Regina had hired for his special creativity with punishments. Only once Snow is hovering at death's door, begging to be put down like the animal she is, will the torment end, and then just so whatever quivering lump of flesh remains can be unceremoniously roasted at the stake.

By the time Regina catches up to Captain Renford's company, she is practically salivating from the delicious fantasies involving Snow's prodigious suffering. To her utter dismay, however, she does not arrive to the joyous sight of a subdued Snow White, nor is she welcomed by the corpse the dead compatriot who was unlucky enough to have accompanied the outlaw princess upon the lonely and perilous mountain pass. Instead she is met with the distressing reality of her troops being thoroughly trounced.

Seeing as the soldiers she deployed are the most skilled fighters in her entire realm, she is quite perplexed by the development. That shock promptly turns into awe upon noticing dead soldiers strewn in grotesque positions – many lacking significant portions of their anatomy – at the humongous paws of the most magnificent beast she has ever laid eyes upon.

Enraptured, she watches the massive wolf with midnight fur and huge glowing yellow eyes rend into pieces what remains of her men one by one. The fugitives have chosen to make their stand at a section of the pass wide enough for three broad shouldered men to navigate side-by-side. On one side, a sheer wall of rock the most talented climber could not scale, and on the other a drop so long a cat could not survive. The tactic virtually eliminates the numerical advantage of the attackers and makes it that much easier for an enormous werewolf to dispatch her enemies with extreme prejudice.

To get at the two, Renford's troops are forced to kick or hurtle their slain comrades over the narrow pass, sending corpses tumbling down the mountainside. Meanwhile Snow hovers behind the wolf by a step or two, safely guarded from harm by her four-legged protector as she cuts down her fair share of opponents one arrow at a time with deadly precision. While Snow's talent with the bow is impressive, it is glaringly evident that the lion's share of the damage has been done by the gorgeous wolf whose ebony fur now glistens with the blood of the soldiers she has slain.

To Regina it feels like the slaughter takes hours. And there is nothing she can do about it. Her magic is unavailable except in emergency and there is no room for her to enter the fray. So she sits upon Rocinante and watches, half horrified and half captivated.

After the wolf has dispatched the last of her enemies, Captain Renford himself, she stands there motionless with baleful yellow eyes fixated unflinchingly upon Regina. The complete lack of fear in the creature is emphasized by a level of contempt that sends a lance of cold through her suddenly frigid body. She starts to summon her magic but stops before it arcs at her fingertips upon spotting something strange. Hidden within the depths of those wild eyes, underneath all of the rancor, she there is allure directed toward her that, while impossible to explain, nonetheless beckons her to momentarily disregard her sole purpose for being here. Snow is so tantalizingly close at hand, and yet Regina becomes too distracted to care. An instant surge of interest in Snow's beast that is both tantalizing and disgusting has for the moment overridden her primary objective.

Every subsequent attempt to suppress whatever mystical cords are being drawn between her and the wolf ends in failure as her instinct to slaughter every living thing before her wrestles with this disconcerting fascination. Regina languishes in indecision, paralyzed and hardly able to breathe. It is almost as if she has succumbed to the inescapable tendrils of some previously undiscovered exotic enchantment. The thought would surely seem ridiculous except for the pleasant warmth suffusing her chest, the prickling of an excitement-induced sweat beading at her temple, and the rapid beating of her heart within her breast.

For a long spell, nothing on the mountain moves aside from the spits of snow raining down from the sky. The air is astonishingly still. All of the soldiers Regina has sent up the mountain pass are dead, and without full use of her power, she recognizes her own vulnerability all too well. She loathes the feeling almost as much as she does the stark reality of the mission having so spectacularly failed.

During the years she suffered indignity after indignity trapped in a loveless marriage she didn't want, she had become close acquaintances with vulnerability. Fear was her constant mode of being back then. How could it not be when she was constantly forced to relinquish control over her life and her body to a man who held no regard for her outside of her usefulness to his infuriatingly ignorant daughter and to his pathetically tiny dick. Only magic had made her strong enough to take back possession of her own life by avenging herself upon her chauvinistic oppressor.

Unfortunately her magic is mostly useless now, having spent the bulk of it transporting her troops only for them to be slain down to the last man. With woefully inadequate reserves at her disposal, she is suddenly reduced to that helpless young woman who just lost the love of her life along with all hope of a happy future. Despair sets in at the periphery of her consciousness, pressing against the ever-present rage that has defined her for so long.

She levels a murderous glare at Snow. Were she faced with the exiled princess alone, there is no doubt in her mind that her superior swordsmanship would prevail in a contest to the death. But Snow is not alone. To her increasing alarm, a beast of epic grandeur is poised forebodingly between them, forbidding her from achieving her ultimate victory.

And then something truly bizarre happens. Deep within her chest, she feels a tug on her attention coming from the direction of the majestic wolf. When her eyes meet those glowing yellow furnaces of emotion once more, she watches intently as they shift from open hatred, to muted surprise, and then finally to a beguiled tint that indicates the wolf is as subconsciously invested in Regina as she is in her.

The most astounding part is that the development is not at all unpleasant. For whatever reason, she feels drawn to this beast, and can only wonder as to why. Never before has she experienced so strong an urge to interact with another being, especially one whom she has just encountered for the first time.

Unbidden, Rocinante takes a step forward, completely unafraid as if spurred by his mistress's magnetic reaction to the creature before him. To Regina's surprise, the wolf meets that step with a nonthreatening one of its own.

In typical fashion, Snow chooses that moment to open her accursed trap, breaking the magical connection. "Well, well. Not what you anticipated would happen, was it Regina?" The gloating is delivered with haughty disdain indicating excessive pleasure that her paltry party of two has annihilated a company thirty strong.

"Not quite," Regina retorts, eyes still locked upon the black wolf as it settles down on its haunches to hover protectively at Snow's side. "You had an advantage that I did not. Now that I have been so rudely enlightened, believe me when I say I won't make the same mistake twice."

Regina audibly gasps as the werewolf begins to transform. She stares on, unashamedly transfixed by the process of an entire skeleton rearranging and stretching out as bones are reshaped from the compact ones of an awesomely powerful wolf into the familiar lengths belonging to a human being. However, the human who has so recently appeared from the furry form of her counterpart is far from ordinary. On the contrary, she is a statuesque specimen of womanhood that steals away Regina's ability to form either coherent sentences or cogent thoughts.

Lush dark hair tumbles in curls down the planes of a shapely back and surprisingly delicate shoulders to frame a striking face which flushes brightly at being intently gawked at. The young woman before her is so unearthly beautiful that Regina surmises her to features to have been carved by the hands of the gods themselves. To her horror, she realizes her once passive interest is morphing at a dizzying rate into an acutely active one. This strange, mystical girl has so enraptured her that she can only dimly recognize the altogether alien sensation of being bewitched – an irony considering she is an expert practitioner of the dark arts.

"Oh, please do send some more fodder for my wolf to dispatch," Snow's alluringly mysterious protector then replies, her voice as sweet as warm honey to Regina's ears – her insides as well, it seems, judging by the way her chest suffuses with heat and her belly stirs pleasantly. Still partially under the effects of the transformation, the girl's eyes glow a latent, ethereal yellow. Her enticingly full lips turn up in a self-satisfied smirk. As if being pulled by the same invisible thread Regina had felt earlier, the werewolf moves closer and closer as she speaks, "She so enjoys playing with the toys you send her. This lot was the funnest yet, but still not quite up to snuff as you can see."

Unable to help herself, Regina barks out a full, throaty laugh. She is absolutely delighted by the emboldened gall of a peasant who has brazenly aligned herself with the Evil Queen's mortal enemy.

"Oh, my dear, if you think that's the best I've got, you're sorely mistaken," Regina shoots back.

While she possesses the power to obliterate the painfully young and naive woman before her, she lacks the energy to summon it without completely draining herself. And that is not to mention the fact that the girl had slaughtered a contingent of her best men with what was evidently little effort on her part. Impressed as she is by Snow's werewolf companion, she is yet unwilling to show any form of weakness. Thus the half-lie.

Eyeing the girl with barely restrained lust, she smiles wickedly. "That said, I am so very pleased you enjoyed my gifts. Perhaps in the near future I'll have to work up something extra special just for you."

Flashing Regina an almost playful grin, the dark haired beauty chuckles in amusement even as a blush colors her face, which then spreads southward through the swath of pale flesh covering her neck to the portion of her upper chest left exposed by otherwise modest garments. Her brilliant green eyes dilate, the clear hint of arousal in them thrilling Regina to no end. It also does not escape her notice that Snow is watching the exchange in open consternation, which only serves to fuel Regina's escalating excitement.

"I'll be eagerly awaiting whatever you come up with, Your Majesty," the werewolf replies, having drifted to stand only a handful of paces away – close enough that Regina is at last able to fully appreciate her unnatural beauty.

Frankly, it is outright disgusting how gorgeous the girl is. Regina does not often encounter women whose attractiveness can even marginally rival her own, but in the person of this otherworldly werewolf, she is sure she has finally met someone who surpasses her. If it were not for the fact that she is so curiously enamored, she would be positively green with envy.

Eyeing the subject of her fascination with unveiled eyes, Regina hums with anticipation. "Is that a challenge? My, my aren't you brave. Or stupid."

"Neither. I'm just a girl doing what she's gotta do." The mysterious young woman beams a smile that reveals perfect rows of large pearly white teeth.

Regina's heart begins to race with so tempting a prize almost within reach. She can barely refrain from using up her limited reserves of energy in order to snatch the girl up and transport them both to her castle, to hell with Snow and her revenge. Not wanting to give in to such a frivolous and dangerous impulse, she settles instead for drawing out more information.

"What's your name then, girl?"

"Red, Your Majesty," the werewolf boldly declares. "My name is Red." The name falling from those alluring lips feels almost tangible, like sweetly scented rose petals brushing against Regina's sensitive flesh. She shudders involuntarily, and though the reaction is subtle enough to be hidden from Snow, Red does not miss it. Taking another step forward, her smoldering green eyes dilate even more, causing them to appear almost wholly black. Regina cannot hold back a gasp of surprise at the blatant, almost aggressive nature of Red's pursuit of whatever inexplicable attraction is building between them.

It is at that point Snow once again decides to intervene. Stepping between Red and Regina, she halts Red's progress and at the same time partially blocks Regina's view of the too-pretty werewolf. As short as Snow is, Red's face remains visible despite Snow's interference, and because of that Regina is able to observe a strange mixture of emotions play across those too-pretty features aimed directly at her companion. First is appreciation of Snow's protective nature, after which comes affection for the defense of her virtue. It the last that most interests Regina, though, as it is an uneasy aggravation that settles into Red's expression. Apparently she is rather upset at their charged interplay being interrupted.

Regina latches onto that unexpected sentiment with both hands, realizing it means that the beguiling shapeshifter has been enjoying their repartee as much as she has. As it was with every other aspect of her life, though, Snow simply had to ruin it.

"That's quite enough," the insufferable nitwit then interjects. "I'll thank you to leave her out of this. This is between you and me, Regina, so let's keep it that way."

Regina scoffs at the implied and utterly unintimidating threat. Rolling her eyes, she snarls back, "Even if I were to ignore the rather impressive fact that she effortlessly destroyed so many of my men, you are my enemy, Snow. Therefore, those who commiserate with you are my enemies also, a fact of which I'm sure Red here is well aware. And we all know what I do to my enemies."

Regina is secretly delighted to see the girl shiver noticeably upon hearing her name spoken. Another flush works its way up her cheeks as well, coloring them the same lovely shade as her moniker. Enthralled as she is by the reaction, Regina is tempted to continue her exchange with Red in spite of Snow only to be thwarted by Snow nocking a bolt into her bow. The bandit aims it straight at Regina's heart.

"In that case let's just end this tired game of ours right now," Snow grits out and then looses the string of her bow, firing the bolt with deadly accuracy.

Out of pure instinct, Regina reacts with swift movements, catching the offending bolt with a careful application of magic. To her aggravation, she does not recover in time to prevent the two outlaws from slipping away down the pass, Snow all but dragging Red, who is peering back despondently at Regina over her shoulder, away by the hand. Left alone and with her magic at dangerously low levels, she quickly analyzes the situation.

On one hand, she can be reckless and follow after her quarry or on the other she can simply abandon pursuit of them altogether. She has just enough energy left to teleport back home to regroup, conceding that this particular opportunity has all but slipped away. She already knows that the handful of men guarding the exit of the pass will be unable to stand against Red and Snow's combined skill, even with her limited help.

The rational choice would be to return home and wait for another opportunity to present itself, but she is simply not feeling rational at the moment, and for more than one reason. That she wants Snow to be apprehended is a given, but beyond that she is also loathe to let Red slip so easily from her grasp. The look on Red's face as Snow dragged away has imprinted upon her brain – that ragged desperation to have just one more minute of interaction, to be allowed to get just one step closer. Something about Red has disrupted Regina's carefully constructed goals so that she finds herself feeling that same desperation. Desire to secure the werewolf by whatever means necessary before returning to the Dark Palace usurps any further rationalization.

Unsure as to precisely why she feels so compelled, Regina dismounts and then commands Rocinante to return to the entrance of the pass where a squadron of her troops are waiting. Risking herself is one thing, but her only true friend in the world should not have to pay for her current bout of foolishness. As always Rocinante obeys, and once he is loping steadily down the pass, she sets her shoulders, withdraws her sword from its scabbard, and sets out after the two fugitives.

Whilst traversing the narrow path it the snow begins to fall in earnest. Without her magic to provide artificial heat, the bitter chill starts to soak down through the layers of her clothes, past her skin, and on into her bones. For at least five minutes, she stumbles onward, staying close to the rough cliff face on her right to keep her bearings and her balance.

So thick is the snowfall and so discombobulated is she in the cold that she does not see or hear an enormous boulder working free somewhere above her head. Upon releasing from its outcropping, it hurtles toward her, poised to crush her fragile human frame like an ant, and would have done just that had it not been for a blur of red plowing unexpectedly into her body. The impact launches her away from the incoming slab of solid stone, sending her sprawling onto her side, dislodging her sword, which slides over the lip of the pass and clanks down the unforgiving slope.

Regina does not have to wonder at what has happened, her brain having instantly made the connection. Snow's werewolf has chosen to double back, and in so doing, saved her life.

After standing up and brushing the dirt off her damp clothes, Regina glares daggers at her now-cloaked savior. She summons a fireball that flickers in and out of existence – she is now drawing on magical fumes, as it were.

"Sorry," Red says in lieu of explanation, holding her hands up to show she means no harm. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. For some reason I just felt like I needed to come back. When I heard the boulder coming down and saw it was about to crush you, I didn't have time to shout a warning."

"What perplexes me is why you would help me at all," Regina says, and then risks extinguishing the fireball. Her cynical nature refuses to fully relax. Crossing her arms, she narrows her eyes and studies her unlikely savior, searching for any indication the girl might be playing games after all and was merely toying with her prey before deciding to pounce for the slaughter. It is an insensible thought borne out of years of paranoia. If Red wanted her dead, she would have watched that oversized rock turn her into a flesh pancake.

The werewolf shrugs sheepishly, ducking her head and batting her lashes as if chagrined. "I can't really explain it," she offers demurely. "Something kept tugging at my chest, a feeling like I've never had before. It was pleading with me to turn back, and I couldn't deny it. I don't fight my instincts as they have served me well over the years. After I saw Snow safely over the border, I decided to listen to them." She gestures lamely, biting her lip in an apologetic manner before saying, "I had to kill some more of your warriors. Sorry. I left some of them alive, though, including the commander. He's unconscious but alive."

"That surprises me," Regina replies with no small amount of confusion, though she is relieved to hear Rodrigo lives. Still, she wonders how someone who has risked life and limb for Snow White could ignore so fortuitous an opportunity to observe the demise of Snow's greatest enemy. Red's act of mercy makes no sense to a woman unfamiliar with that particularly odious word. "Not that you killed more of my men," she clarifies, "or spared some for that matter, but that you risked your own life to save mine. I would have thought you'd be gladly rid of me seeing as I want your friend dead."

At that, Red quirks her head to the side, a secretive smile playing at the edges of full lips that simply beg to be kissed. "But do you really?" Regina frowns, both at the question and herself, unable to fathom where the thought of kissing Red came from. "Think about it," Red then goes on to make her point, "you could have blasted Snow off the face of the earth earlier, but you didn't. I know how powerful you are. I can smell it on you. No one stopped you from killing her but yourself."

However much Regina desires to object to Red's assessment, there is a kernel of truth there that she is unable to deny, no matter how much she wants to. The ability to find Snow via magic mirror has been part of her repertoire for years, and as Red had so aptly declared, she possesses the power to snuff her enemy out of existence with little effort. Why hadn't she then? Regina finds it difficult to put her finger on any one reason, and that unnerves her more than she cares to admit.

She has always plotted for Snow to suffer before killing her, so that is certainly a motive behind her convoluted tactics. And yet that does not explain why she continually allowed Snow to slip through her fingers. She is many things – vindictive, reckless, and perhaps blind in some areas – but she is not stupid. Not only was she raised by a woman who touted the importance of knowledge and intellect, she had also been trained in the magical arts by a man who amused himself for centuries outwitting people in his nefarious deals. By Cora's unyielding hand she was forced to understand that her mind was every bit as vital as her beauty in determining how successful she could be in a world ruled by men. Rumple, on the other hand, made sure she understood the leverage that power afforded over those whose logic had been trumped by impulse or necessity.

Once Snow was banished from her privileged life, the naive and unprepared princess was fit for being easily outmaneuvered, a lamb practically served up for the slaughter. And yet Regina had failed to capitalize on that inexperience and general lack of survival skills in her prey. Hubris, she now realizes, had convinced her Snow would fail to adapt and would therefore be easily caught. Even when that did not happen, she had continued to squander every chance she had to apprehend the girl she'd sworn to kill on Daniel's grave, a sacred oath if ever there was one.

There is something to what Red has said, but seeing as she is freezing and aggravated at her setback today, Regina is not in the mood to further analyze her own motivations for revenge.

"Careful now," she warns with a sharp sneer, feeling put on the spot and lashing out accordingly. "You're treading on thin ice."

Rather than recoil, Red steps closer with an unreadable expression on her face. "Am I?" Glancing down, she deliberately stomps her boot against unforgiving stone and then gives Regina a wide, gorgeous smile that reaches all the way into twinkling eyes. "Seems like solid ground to me."

"That can be amended," Regina counters, giving a smile of her own that is more edgy, though it lacks any real bite.

Red's entire countenance shimmers with playful delight. "Again, you could have killed me earlier, but you didn't."

"Ah, but if it is a woman's prerogative to change her mind, how much more so for a Queen?" Regina returns, feeling a bit of her discomfort fade. Some intangible aura Red exudes is able to disarm her and make her feel at ease when she should be irate at the cheek being displaying. Instead, she is seized by a thrill that races up her spine as Red takes another deliberate step forward.

"Are you going to?" Red then asks, lips still turned up. "Change your mind, that is."

"I may," Regina replies, settling into their repartee as smoothly as she had earlier. "Step closer and find out if you dare."

Instead of testing her, Red stills, smile remaining firmly in place, though her eyes are now crinkling merrily at the corners. She extends her hand toward Regina and then says, "I know I mentioned my name earlier, but I should probably properly introduce myself. Most folks call me Red Riding Hood for obvious reasons," she shrugs her shoulders and gestures at her eponymous cloak, "but my friends know me as Red Lucas."

Not caring about propriety on so secluded a mountain so far away from the suffocating rituals and rules of court, Regina takes the proffered appendage, leather-bound hand clasping another leather-bound hand.

"How quaint and unoriginal, Red," she replies, surliness evaporating at the feel of Red's impressive grip. She is surprised by the softness of her own voice, by how unladen from scathing sarcasm or anger or needless meanness it is, and especially by how very much she had enjoyed the way the girl's name rolled off her tongue. "I am Queen Regina, of course," she then states, straightening as regally as she can considering the circumstances. "Enigmatic though your reasoning may be, your instincts have served me well this evening. I owe you my life. Thank you."

Red's smile widens almost impossibly at her heroics being recognized, stretching into something toothy and as brilliant as the sun on a clear summer afternoon. From the first time Regina laid eyes on the werewolf, she'd thought her impossibly beautiful; but when Red smiles from her heart as she is at that moment, the celestial bodies of night and day that paint the heavens in awesome grandeur are diminished by comparison.

"You're very welcome, Your Majesty," Red returns, hand still firmly grasping Regina's. The muscles in her forearms ripple beneath ivory skin, and the sight fills Regina with a second onset of warmth that temporarily banishes the cold. After releasing her hand, Red gestures toward the path behind her. "You were following us alone, on foot, and clearly exhausted. I could have taken you without breaking a sweat. Not the smartest play from a woman I've come to respect for her intelligence if not for her tenacity."

Although Regina bristles, it is not in offense. In such close proximity to Red, able now to see the flecks of gold in those mesmerizing green eyes and note the flush coloring the girl's pale cheeks and neck both from the cold and from something else entirely, she feels uncharacteristically charitable. She waves a hand dismissively.

"Yes, well, I saw an opportunity and took it," she says, corners of her lips quirking up, eyes dancing. "Not my best decision, I'll admit, but it's the closest to Snow I've been in months. The thought of letting her get away may have influenced my reckless behavior." The admission, while only partially true, is admittedly difficult to make. All the same Red's arched brow and satisfied smirk – indicating her own engagement in the exchange – make it easier to swallow. "And besides," she then offers a secondary justification that is as irrelevant as the first, "I couldn't very well let the loss of my men go unanswered, now, could I? They represented a significant investment of time and resources to the kingdom. I felt obliged to pursue from a purely economical standpoint."

"Pretending for a moment I buy that," Red counters, eyes dancing in amusement again, "what I really want to know is what are you going to do now? I mean, here I am, the monster that decimated your soldiers. I am at your mercy, wholly human, and I know you have enough fuel left in your tank to do whatever you wish with me."

Regina studies Red carefully, struck by inspiration. Having already been wondering what kind of exquisite frame might be hidden beneath the rough fabrics of Red's peasant garb, she sweeps appraising eyes up and down the body that is currently covered by far too many layers of clothing. Judging by the toned forearms she's already been afforded a glimpse of, her imagination starts to run amok.

With wholly inappropriate intensity, she aches to discover just how defined the girl's muscles are, imagining that she might closely resemble the flawless goddesses whose statues inhabit the ancient temples found in the countries to the south. Almost desperately Regina longs to roam lazy fingers down what is sure to be a taut tummy, and then skim the palms of her hands up silky smooth yet powerfully carved thighs that propel what are certain to be impossibly long legs judging by Red's height.

If only you knew the sort of things I wish to do to you. Regina's skin itches with want, and even though Snow is tantalizingly within her reach, she is far too enamored to even care. In this paradoxical girl, simple of appearance yet deceptively complex, she has a new obsession to occupy her. Determined at present to indulge it, all thoughts of Snow recede to the fringes of her mind.

Suddenly besieged by an irresistible urge to claim the werewolf as her own, Regina decides she wants this girl on her side. Just the same, she is also aware her normal tactics will be insufficient. Offers of riches and power will hold no interest for a woman who is clearly willing to cast her life away for a criminal with zero prospects of accruing any substantial wealth. The possibility of hurtling colorful threats seems equally futile, as Red seems to have little to no fear of her whatsoever. There is also the rather unfortunate fact that magically enslaving a werewolf is a fool's errand many a magician has attempted, only to for the enchantment to break at the most inopportune moment and their victim turn upon them with savage instincts provoked to a frenzied high. All of this means she is left with only one recourse: to rely solely upon her womanly charms.

Difficult as it may be, she will have to rein in her mile-wide impulsive streak and calm the roiling molten seas of her volcanic temper. Like a feral animal first encountering human civilization, Red will require a measured patience and a gentle touch, neither of which Regina is known to possess aside from her dealings with innocent children and her precious horses. To her, no one has proven worth the effort til now.

However it is possible, Red has seen through the formerly impenetrable facade that conceals the woman carefully entombed beneath the shell of the Evil Queen. What's more, Red has witnessed the Queen in all her terrible splendor and neither balked nor batted a lovely eyelash upon catching a manic interest that sends most fleeing in fear or cowering in pitiful submission. If anything, the Queen seems to excite Red more than the werewolf would probably ever admit to her insufferably pure friend.

Red, it appears, is far more interesting and unusual than Regina had first believed. Few are capable of taking the good with the bad without favoring one over the other depending upon moral inclination. It doesn't seem to matter to Red that Regina presents her evil side to the world while keeping what scant goodness lingers securely buried. It's been made perfectly clear during this brief interaction that Snow remaining alive is, to Red, proof that the woman she used to be is still present inside her. And that appears to be more than enough reason for Red to have committed such a startling act of proactive trust, not only by saving her life but by entrusting her with her own.

Honestly, it's a little intimidating – and terrifying – to be the recipient of such trust when the last person who'd done so destroyed her entire life. But no matter the association, Red is not Snow. That much Regina knows without a doubt. Snow could never look at Regina the way Red is right now, not with her in full Evil Queen regalia and coldblooded murder still inhabiting her charred heart. With Snow, it was always pity, guilt, or disgust whereas Red's steady gaze is marked by an attraction underscored by a deep, almost fathomless level of understanding. Only someone who is herself a monster can appreciate another monster without the stigma of morality sullying an intense, rapidly forming, and rare connection such as theirs.

So if she is required to entice Red with more of the witty banter and molten glances they have been sharing, sweetened by glimpses of a goodness she'd perhaps mistakenly thought forever in her past, she was willing to do so. Miraculously, Red believes her to be worth a lavish attention she had not recognized until now that she craves. It is the least she could do to return the favor. And with any luck, Red will soon enough succumb to the undeniable chemistry between them, the prospect of which sends a shiver coursing through Regina's limbs.

As far as she is concerned, this is an all or nothing proposition. Scant as her experience interacting with Red is, she has already concluded that a simple companionship will not suffice for either of them. Empty sex is something she already has at a ready supply, and judging by how loyal to a fault Red is, that option is not available for her at all. There is, she realizes, a real possibility of something meaningful forming between them.

A day earlier, she would have laughed until she was hoarse at the idea that she would ever willingly risk her heart again over a love affair. And yet she cannot bridle her suddenly runaway desires. She wants Red, wants all of her, wants the magnificent creature writhing beneath her fervent ministrations, bared to her not only in body but in mind, heart, and soul as well. Regina wants Red to be her woman and her wolf, not Snow's, and admitting that to herself is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

"What happens next depends solely upon you," she offers enigmatically, her decision made. A subtle leer is present in her perusal of Red that causes the girl to yet again blush prettily.

Red worries artfully shaped lips for a moment before responding. "How so?"

Feeling audacious, Regina steps toward Red and is pleased to see that she does not flinch back even slightly. Rather, she remains bravely in place, head held high and eyes burning with anticipation.

As Regina maneuvers herself into Red's personal space, she hums out in approval at the response. She has grown tired of lovers who cow to her every whim, who lack the spine to stand up to her and take what they want when she is in the rare mood to give a little. She is hungry for someone whose strength of character is as immutable and whose will as intractable as her own, someone who can feed her mind and spirit as well as her body by challenging her without posing a threat to her sovereignty because they are trustworthy. In Red she believes she has glimpsed a potential partner who would do all of those things for her, a partner who is capable of standing by her side rather than folding up under the tremendous pressures of her life only to then be inevitably crushed beneath her heel.

"Since you saved my life," she answers, making sure to allow for invitation in her tone, "I am inclined to ignore your status as co-conspirator to and your abetting of an infamous outlaw in order to offer you a modest reward. It is one I personally believe you would be a fool to decline." Upon noticing that Red's interest is highly piqued, Regina grins. "In return for your agreement to dine with me on any night of your choosing within a fortnight, I will suspend my pursuit of Snow...for the time being."

Red's eyebrows shoot up at that. It appears she is as shocked to receive such an offer as Regina is that she made it. And yet to her endless astonishment she meant every word.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am," Regina retorts with a scoff. "I wouldn't be standing here in the freezing snow trading banter with you otherwise."

For a moment, Red grows visibly suspicious, which is to be expected. Coming from the Evil Queen, the offer must sound far too good to be true, perhaps even seeming like a trap meant to lure Snow into surrendering by capturing her best friend.

"Why would you do that?" Red then queries, her large eyes slightly narrowing. "And for how long would this ceasefire last?"

Regina tuts, though somehow manages to remain calm whereas she would normally be irritated beyond measure to have her motives questioned. Red, it appears, has some kind of mollifying effect on her, and she isn't quite sure she likes it.

"Why? Because I am the Queen. I do what I want," is her abrupt answer to the first question, as if that should be enough. She is not yet ready to show her full hand, but in order to answer Red's query more fully, she adds: "As for the latter...again, that depends entirely upon you and your ability to entertain me, my dear. My hope is that should we both be satisfied with this arrangement, we can...negotiate an extension. I cannot currently fathom why, but I appear to be open to persuasion where you are concerned. If I were you, I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were."

Understanding dawns in Red's becoming eyes. "You mean to seduce me, don't you?" The blunt assessment catches Regina off guard and she reels back a step, unused to such boldness. "I've heard of your dalliances," Red then explains upon witnessing Regina's reaction, "and I know that you like to take lovers on a whim. I also know how you toss them out like yesterday's trash after you've finished with them. While I have to admit interest in the offer, I won't allow you to use me in such a degrading way. Besides the fact that I love Snow and will never betray her, I do actually have standards. I may be a peasant by birth, Your Majesty, but I'm nobody's whore. Not even yours."

Again Regina is taken aback, this time in that Red has so readily declared an interest in pursuing a sexual relationship so long as it is not a means to entrap Snow. She hadn't expected the girl to be forthcoming, but finds herself pleasantly surprised.

"I could have your tongue for speaking to me with such impudence," she retorts, sneering just a tad to put Red in her place. She is the Evil Queen, after all, and must keep up appearances. Sadly, her posturing doesn't seem to have any effect on Red, who merely arches a flawless eyebrow. "But I will give you a pass just this once because neither of those scenarios reflect my intentions. However," she amends, "to address your understandable concerns, I will concede that I have taken my fair share of lovers and disposed of them, as you so crudely put it, like so much trash.

"I am a harsh woman, and selfish to a fault. I make no apologies for who I am. I use people for my own ends on a regular basis, and I don't see that changing any time soon. But in the interest of transparency, I will confess that I have never been so taken before as I am with you. I certainly would never have risked my own life upon a treacherously narrow mountain pass in the driving snow and biting cold just to get a second glimpse of any of my past lovers. So while your apprehension is sensible, commendable even, in this case it is not warranted. My offer is genuine."

The admission frightens Regina almost as much as it stuns Red. She hadn't meant to be so forward; it just sort of came out of her mouth all of its own volition. She would feel mortified and disgusted at herself had Red not reacted in such a receptive way.

Standing there in the snow, her bright red hood decorated by a light pile of snow flakes, Red gapes in awe as if she has just heard the most wonderful and terrifying thing. "You really feel that way?" Regina nods, swallowing heavily. "Why me?"

"I don't rightly know," Regina confesses, and notes that her heart beats faster when Red nibbles again at her lower lip. "Against all reason you seem to have bewitched me." Feeling instinctively that it is a make or break moment, she decides to play her cards, to lay it all out on the line and bare herself in a way she hadn't since Daniel passed. It is the most frightened she has been in years, but strangely also the most alive. "I cannot deny the accuracy of your assessment that I wish to bed you. I am intensely attracted to you, and I am sure that is obvious to you considering...what you are." She holds Red's gaze, making sure the werewolf understands, truly understands what she is trying to say. "All the same, to minimize this as a simple desire for carnal fulfillment would be grossly misrepresenting how I feel. There is some invisible force drawing me to you, and although I would normally be inclined to fight it, I do not wish to. Not now. I am suddenly and inexplicably tired of fighting."

Tilting her head slightly, she gazes at Red, willing the girl to understand how perplexed she is about all of this while also projecting a reassurance that will pierce through any lingering doubts Red may have. "Against all better sense, I want to know you," she says, intent in inflection, "and for you in turn to know me. In order for that to happen, we must spend time with each other. Therefore I am willing to make a concession to secure that time, even if it is one that pains me beyond description."

Red makes no reply, just stares on in amazement at Regina's speech, and it makes the normally self-assured Queen unusually nervous. She is both unused to being so exposed and unaccustomed to her advances not being immediately accepted.

Flushing slightly, she squares her shoulders and gives Red a glare that lacks any real conviction. "If breaking bread with me is not an amenable solution, perhaps I have misjudged..."

"N-no!" Red then protests with wide eyes, interrupting Regina. "It's not that. I just..." She takes a giant breath and lets it out slowly. Shaking her head, she laughs ruefully. "When I was a kid, my Granny scrounged up enough spare coin to take me to the fair that was passing through the kingdom. I can remember how impressed I was with the jousting competition, and how much I wanted to taste all the wonderful food there we couldn't afford. But then, I saw a line of armored soldiers passing our way, and in the midst of them, the most glorious vision of splendor to ever grace the earth. It was you. I was just twelve years old, but I will never forget what it was like to fall in love for the first time, and I did...the moment I saw you."

Again Regina reels, remembering the particular fair Red is referring to but having no recollection of catching sight of an adolescent werewolf girl. She suddenly wishes she had, if only to know what Red looked like at so tender an age.

Wistful and glassy eyed, Red tilts her head and smiles as she continues with her reminiscing. "After we got back home, I spent my nights fantasizing about coming of age and doing something about my impossible crush. I knew the king was old, that he was likely to have passed by that time, and I was set on my path. I decided that I was going to become a famous knight so that I could enter the jousting tournament and win your hand. It was a foolish fantasy in retrospect, but those childhood dreams got me through some really bad times in the years that followed."

"Dreams often are foolish, especially those of our youth," Regina offers. She has personal experience, after all. Still somewhat out of sorts from the confession, her heart is palpitates ferociously against her breast. "But as you can see, sometimes they are harbingers of things to come. You may not be a famous knight, and might not have won my hand, but you have captured my interest all the same. The question is: is that enough incentive for you to accept my offer?"

At that, Red's entire visage turns playful, and she gives Regina teasing smile. "I guess you'll find out in two weeks." And with that, she transforms back into the form of a gorgeous black wolf, and after a playful yip, throws her head back and howls in earnest. Regina laughs, happy to hear the boisterous trumpeting and delighting in the way it lifts her spirits, makes her feel optimistic about life outside of the mission that has consumed her for so long.

As she watches Red sprint away, her anticipation for the following weeks grows exponentially. What she could not possibly have predicted, however, is that whenever she hears the sound of Red howling into the night over the subsequent years, she will remember this moment with vivid clarity. She will marvel at how on an isolated, desolate, frigid mountain pass, she felt hope stir within her breast for the first time in nearly a decade. It is a hope that – although made to endure many tribulations and forced to face many trials – will never, ever fade.