#he was born from the flames of an evil fireplace

[sallymew4]

@mtndw-whteout's little toi cured me of my very rational fear of toichiro. if you too want miracles made go read their fic the listless on ao3 NOW !!!!!!

prediction of how seri and toi's relationship is gonna go [joke]

[lost-soul-in-time-archives]

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙿𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚁.

April 21, 1939

As I’ve been recommended, this letter reads to no one but myself. Words I wouldn’t dare say, actions I can never bring myself to make. A piece of paper will hold my most private, inner thoughts, only to be thrown into the deepest part of my fireplace. Frankly, I hold no resentment to this form of self-preservation. It presents itself as charming, endearing even. Although, I see no use for it. Why would a person write down what they hold away from anyone else only to watch it go up in flames? It seems like a waste of emotional stability, and paper. I suppose I have nothing that I could lose if I were to give this gimmick a chance.

How would one usually start this? Am I supposed to speak about my feelings? I’ve closed myself off from being too vulnerable, and I can’t begin to describe it, not even when I have the consolation of the knowledge no one will get their hands on this. Is this paranoia? I don’t trust myself to believe I’ll be able to hide this away from the prying eyes of my closest companions. My family would most likely give me sympathetic glares if they found this out. Mostly sympathy from my mother and glares from my father. That man, he’d have the ball to say he raised me to be honest. He barely raised me at all, and he’s no father. He simply existed for 18 years of my life in the same house as my mother and maid, barely batting an eye in my direction and only now does he want to reconnect. My mother chose unwisely, her poor soul. Maybe if she had chosen a man who respected her, I wouldn’t be this bitter, this hybrid of good and evil.

Clara is the one thing I live peacefully for. Although my mother has good intentions, I will not let her take a child back into an empty, loveless, lonely house; I do not say “home” because it never was. I am, once again, put into a role that was never mine to begin with. Catherine sees her as the child she can never have, as do I. I’d hand her the world on a silver platter if she asked me to, but she would never want any of those things. All she wants is to shoot slings (at me, specifically) and spend time with her friends. I catch myself fantasizing of a life where I could’ve grown with loving role models the way that she is now, and that I had not wasted my time attempting to satisfy men and women, who I know nothing of, with my useless knowledge. I cling to fantasies, and often times I find my day passing quicker than a bullet. Time seems to be my worst enemy, it seems.

When I’m not forcing myself to stop wallowing in self-pity, I’m brought back to him. For a moment, I believed he cared, maybe even loved me saw me as more than simply an escape. But as I’ve stated before, I am a bitter individual, and I find myself blaming an innocent woman who has nothing to do with past affairs. I fell for gazes that I thought were genuine, amorous touches, words of praise, and a devil in sheep’s clothing. A snake that hid himself in the tree of life. Still, as angry and devastated as I try to be, I’m reminded of how the facade of a star seemed to melt away behind closed doors. He was kind, caring, charismatic, and I fear I may have given my heart to another too soon to someone who didn’t know how to love it or me. I feel my throat clog when they’re happy, and I die when they exchange declarations of love.

I’m angry. ANGRY. Not only at myself, but at the world. I feel I was born in the wrong lifetime with the wrong people and the wrong status. Still, I suppose that will have to be my. life. I’ll be lost in the names of millions, but I am more than alright with that. I don’t want to be remembered, nor do I want to have to carry the sins of others with me to the depths of hell. I live for the few people I have managed to keep close to me, those I cherish more than anything. Fuck society and what they want to think of me. The Ahlborns are fighters, and I will fight not for what they want me to, but for what I want. What I want is peace. Tomorrow I leave for America, where I will finally put an end to years of tension after an unfathomable amount of begging from my mother.

Peace feels close enough to give me the hope I need. Once I have it in my reach, I will never let go.

— Oliver

[pr1ncesspopstar]

Parting Gifts - FFXIV Write 2023 - Day 6 Rings

Ao3

-

Nothing short of throwing herself upon the coals of the dying fire could ease the cold in Halditar’s body. Its orange, glowing embers mocking her as their life flickered out, soon to leave the room drowned in darkness once they faded. Flames were unchained. She could imagine the satisfaction embers felt at becoming a glorious blaze. The freeness having burned bright and then turning to ash gave. It was the way things were.

It was the way things were.

It was the way things had to be.

She dug her thumb harshly against the ring in her hand, dragging her brain from the pit of despair and hurt it begged to drown into. To go back to how she once was, isolated, practically mute, a ghost that merely haunted the place others told her was home. She was utterly helpless, incapable of acting or feeling anything beyond the void. Her heart seemed detached from her body. She hadn’t even cried yet, making the roegadyn wonder if she had finally broke. If such were the case, it may be best for her to stop. Spare herself the pain, the disappointment of being useless.

But Haruchefant wouldn’t want that. They had both come too far to give up now. So she needed to stay present, and keep going.

The topaz set at the ring’s center was sharp, perfect to keep Halditar’s in her body and feeling. Feel the ring, slightly attuned to lightning as it sent static through her arm. The softness of the blanket wrapped around her legs. The smell of wood smoke and hot chocolate. Wind whipping right outside the window, and sleepless footsteps wandering the Fortemps manor as restless as her. She was still here. They all were. So many people and things she needed to fight for…

Her gaze did not budge from the fire when the door handle clicked and the hinges creaked to announce another. Heavy footsteps dragged over stone until the person came to the seat opposite of her, settling their body into the antiqued furniture so wearily it creaked.

“I was told you’re the type to struggle with sleep when a lot is on your mind,” Lord Fortmeps spoke softly. “That makes two of us.”

Halditar’s let her stare break from the flames to look at the kind Lord. In only a few hours, it seemed like the man had aged a decade before her eyes. The lines of his face were darker and defined by grief, eyes tinged red from tears. Despite the heartache he bore, he still smiled and looked at her with naught but kindness and care. Halditar’s stomach curdled in shame, unable to give him anything, to feel in some small way responsible for losing his son. She hated she found it difficult to meet his eyes.

“Seems so.” Her voice was rough, barely a whisper.

“I would like to ask you to stay longer, make sure you’re rested and ready for the trials to come… but I know that isn’t a luxury afforded to you.” There is an unspoken part between them. For her to stay long enough to see Haurchefant buried. She’d want nothing more, but evil would not wait for her to mourn. Nor would she be able to control her fury once it ripped free from the chains of grief it was born in. She feared that. Of what her fury would make of her.

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Fortemps.” She said. The Warrior of Light opened her mouth to say more, find any words to fill the space. But so many of them were merely caught in her throat. They weren’t good enough for him. So, like a fool, she remained silent. Letting the sorrowful atmosphere fill the space between them as soon as the ash in the fireplace outweighed the embers.

“What is that you’ve been playing with this whole time, Halditar?” Lord Fortemps eventually asked. She stopped passing the ring between her fingers, the movement having been something mindless she could focus on. She held the ring between her finger and her thumb, letting the bronze band catch the light in such a way it was as brilliant as a halo.

“It’s, ah, a ring,” she struggled to speak around the knot in her throat. The dichroic gems shifted from yellow to purple from all different angles, their imperfections creating cracks of blue throughout. “It was my mother’s. Gifted to me before she…”

“I’m sorry to hear.” He offered an apologetic smile, but Halditar’s shook her head.

“No, please don’t be. Her death was…” Violent. Bloody. Raging. So many words she could have said. All true, but none more true than the way her mother had said it herself, right before throwing herself onto the battlefield. “It was beautiful. She died exactly the way she wanted to.”

“A mercy we both have that knowledge to comfort those of us left behind.” He sounded so small. Voice wracked with an ache that reminded Halditar’s he was trying just as hard not to break from grief as her. Her grip on the ring tightened, so much it hurt her fingers. She could feel her composure breaking the longer she stared at this accursed ring. The true reason she held it.

All too quickly, hot tears finally welled over her lashes. The words rushing out like water through cracks in a dam.

“My mother instructed me, when she gave this to me, to only give it to someone I could trust my entire life and happiness with,” she confessed. Lord Fortemps jaw tightened, his eyes going steely. All she could offer him was her own grin, full of hurt and the shadow of all the joys his son had blessed her with. “I should have liked to give this ring to Haurchefant, when all of this was over.”

She offered the ring to him, having to use all her might as she kept her hand steady. She lowered her head as one would when making a request, but she did it to hide the tears on her face as she felt she had no right to cry in front of this many who had only shown her kindness yet she still asked for more.

“But now all I can ask of you… please, won’t you bury Haurchefant with this ring? It will forever be his to me, even gone, it deserves to be his alone…” Any more words she tried to speak came only as whimpers, throat sealed by tears. She felt his fingertips shake as he took the ring from her palm.

“It would honor me to fulfill such a request. It would have brought my boy such joy to know you thought of him so dearly.” His voice wavered heavily now. She raised her head, and the man’s eyes brimmed with tears of his own, clutching the ring to his chest in promise.

“I cannot thank you enough, Lord Fortemps-“

“Just Edmond in private, for now. You have earned that much, my girl.”

That ever-present warmth and kindness. It finally broke the Warrior of Light. A wail long sealed in her chest erupted out, a mournful cry as the tears wouldn’t stop. The smallest sliver of kindness had brought her to her knees, furiously rubbing at her cheeks and eyes to keep her face dry. Her tears only worsened as Edmond rose from his seat across from her and moved to her side. He pulled her into a hug, and she could not resist.

“I never got to tell him anything! There is so much, so many things I wanted to share! He didn’t even get to know who I really was! He never will!” She cried into his shoulder. His hand was on her back, stroking in the way a parent would for their child. A touch Halditar had long been without, and that only made the tears squeeze out harder.

“But he knew enough to know you were someone extraordinary, and that says more about you than it does what you couldn’t share. He cared for you so deeply, Halditar, that much I know,” Edmond assured her. She could feel the man’s tears grazing her own ear. “He believed you have the strength to change the world into something beautiful. More than anyone on this planet.”

‘What good is that if he isn’t there for it?’ A part of her wished to snap, but she bit her tongue. It was merely grief talking. She sobbed into Edmond’s shoulder until her tears ran dry, and her eyes ached from trying to force out more. Dawn break gave the windows some light to fill the room, heralding the coming journey.

“Thank you, Edmond.” She told the father, who nodded in understanding. At least with the grief shared, tiredness could settle into their shoulders instead. “I best get ready for the day ahead… and when we return, it will be victorious.”

“I know, but before you go, let me give you something.” Edmond reached into a pocket in his coat, right above his heart. Pulling from it a worn leather pouch, and from that, a ring. A silver and set with green emeralds and pink sapphire, dainty and much too small for her finger. Like her ring would have been too large for Haurchefant’s.

“That was a ring I gifted to Haurchefant’s mother. I had planned to return it to him once I knew he’d found someone important. I think it is only appropriate that it is now yours.” He said, setting it in her palm, closing her fingers around it, “My only regret is I did not give it to him sooner. Small though it would have been, pervasive, such a slight change would have altered fate.”

“Thank you. I’ll wear it with pride.” She promised, pulling the ring to her chest. Edmond nodded and rose.

“I will leave you for now, then. Best I check on everything while I still have some energy in these old bones…” He bid her goodbye.

Alone, she stared at the ring. So small, elegant and feminine, the opposite of what she would have picked for herself. Would it have been what Haurchefant would have picked for her? Perhaps, perhaps not. But it would be a connection, however small, to him. To the relationship they shared, the relationship they could have had.

She strung the ring upon a cord and tucked it under her armor and shirt.

Through all her years, all her jobs, that ring would remain.

-

Deffo not my best work but focusing on consistency and length. It'd help if I stopped starting to write at 11 and finish writing when i wake up at nine the next day.

[little-diable]

Exodus 22:18 - Priest!Carlisle Cullen (smut)

My first ever Carlisle imagine was focused on witch burnings, so I had to bring this back. All of my February birthday imagines will have Hozier lyrics in them and they are all priest imagines. Once again - the rule is simple: Don't like it, don't read it. I won't accept any hate nor any hateful comments about this. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Priest Cullen is asked to free the reader from the devils inside her body before she will be burned on the stake. But the Priest knows that she isn't a witch, nevertheless, she has sinned and needs to be freed.

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, mentions witch burnings, religious connotations, power play, dubcon, set in the 1700s

Pairing: Priest!Carlisle Cullen x fem!reader (2k)

She could feel the heat of the fireplace on her skin, wrapping itself around her as if it was trying to cozy her along, whispering to the trembling woman that everything would be alright. But judging from the way the men surrounding her paced around the room, impatiently looking out of the windows, she knew that her fate had been sealed.

(Y/n) had been dragged out of her house when twilight had broken the night, forced to her knees with her wide eyes staring at the mayor of their small town. An evil smirk had tugged on his lips as he had accused her of being a witch, the one that had bewitched the children that had fallen ill and have died.

The herbs she had dried in the past weeks had contributed to her case, an easy evidence they could use against her, accusing the young woman of sleeping with the devil, to gain an eternal life to wander this earth. She had feared that this day would come, that she’d end just like her mother, burned on the stake with her tears dripping to the fiery flames.

“He should be here by now.” They were waiting for someone to arrive, (y/n) had been forced onto a wooden chair, wrists and ankles bound, scared that the witch could flee from them and kill the other children.

For months the mayor had tried to lure her into his bed, wanting to lay with the young woman that had been forced away from her now dead parents. But (y/n) had ripped herself free, over and over again, pushing the elderly man off her with her teeth bared and her eyes burning into his soul. She should have known that he’d accuse her of witchery, that he’d push her to her knees with his hand resting on her shoulder, whispering words that would leave her trembling in fear.

“Don’t worry, he won’t leave us waiting for long.” The mayor was sitting on the other side of the room, drinking steins of beer, smirking at (y/n) with twinkling eyes. Soon she’d bid this life goodbye, dying at the hands of sadistic men. What a life to lead, born to a broken family with a mother dying when she was a mere child and a father running from home, forced to live on her own, forced to teach herself all the things her mother was supposed to teach her.

“There he is.” The men left the room, giving her a moment to breathe, preparing her for whoever would step into the room any moment now. The stairs cried with every step taken on them, brittle wood that would soon fall apart like her flesh burned alive.

“Good evening.” An all too familiar voice echoed through the room, her eyes met golden ones. Priest Cullen, the man she had laid her trust in, the man she’d turn to when she’d stray from her path, lost and confused, not knowing where to go. He stared at her with something laced in his gaze, something unfamiliar and dark.

The wooden cross around his neck swayed with every step he took, bouncing off his chest as if it was sending out a silent warning. Carlisle placed his hand on her shoulder, eyes not leaving hers once, not even as he asked the men to leave them alone, desperate for some privacy in order to free her from the devils living inside her body.

“I,” she paused, not knowing if she could still trust him. “I’m no witch.” (Y/n) shook her head, her eyes were glassy, tears threatened to make their way down her warm cheeks, leaving a salty trail behind.

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” A cry bubbled out of her, desperately trying to shuffle out of the rope that had been wrapped around her body. The “please” that rolled off her tongue was met with silence, leaving her to suffer as he sat down vis-a-vis her, hand clamped down on his bible.

“I don’t think you’ve killed those children. But I know that you’ve sinned, you’ve given into the dark voice calling your name. You need to be freed from your sins and a simple confession won’t help you this time.” (Y/n) didn’t understand what he was telling her, she was still crying, sobbing his name in hopes of being freed from this nightmare.

“I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife. Free me, help me prove my innocence.” Carlisle rose from his position, he cupped her cheek with his eyes burning down on her. Slowly he moved his thumb along her lips, tracing the outlines of a cross before he bowed down to her. The priest kissed her without another warning, forcing a gasp from her lips.

She had always fancied him, had always wondered how his hands would feel on her naked body - sinful thoughts she had sworn to keep from him. But now, as she was minutes away from being sentenced to death, she no longer worried about her darkest secrets, didn’t mind his wandering hands, no, if this was her last interaction with him before she’d die, she’d welcome it with open arms.

“You are guided by your pleasure, your desire for me has grown. Tonight I will free you from the devil’s stain on your soul. Tonight you will give into his calling to ban him from your flesh.” His words echoed through her mind, a prayer spoken like rain clashing to the dry ground, ripping holes into the soil her body would find its last rest in when night would fall.

The priest cut through her ropes, he pushed her to the ground, wordlessly commanding her to bend to his every will.

“Kiss my shoes and pray with me.” With her hands interlaced behind her back, (y/n) kissed his black shoes. She should feel humiliated, should feel guilty and ashamed, but she didn’t. No, she felt relieved, freed as if her sins had already been ripped from her soul. A Hail Mary rolled off her tongue, recited by heart with her eyes meeting his.

Carlisle sank to his knees, his cold hands were reaching for her dress, carefully unbuttoning the linen she had pulled on before she was supposed to leave for her walk through the forest. Bare as on the day she had been born she was sitting there, waiting for his hands to touch the part only her husband should touch.

But he was a man of God, and was allowed to do whatever the eternal Father was asking him to do. Guided by the promise of living a sin free life.

“You shall be freed from the darkness, you shall be freed from the stain the devil has left on your soul. You shall be pure again.” He pushed her back, body forced to the cold wooden ground. Carlisle settled between her thighs, his hands were working on his trousers, freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his clothes. Wordlessly her hands reached for him, touching parts of a male body she had never dared to touch before.

She wasn’t pure, had been with a man before, a drunken mistake she had confessed to the priest the same night with tears dripping onto the back of her hands. But now she no longer was crying her tears, by now she was carefully touching him. Carlisle’s eyes followed her every move, even as she spat into her palm, using her saliva to soften her touch, he didn’t dare close his eyes.

“I will do whatever I need to do to be freed. Help me, father, rescue me.” Their lips met for another kiss, shared with the shadows dancing along their features, pulling them in as if the darkness herself was settling in their bones. Carefully Carlisle moved up her body, he aligned his cock with her heat, pushed into her with a hand pressed to her mouth, stifling her sounds.

Her eyes were focused on his necklace, watching the cross move like a pendulum, betokening her cruel end. It took her a few moments to adjust to his size, walls painfully stretched around him. But the burn soon faded into something more passionate, taking over her body as if the holy spirit was piercing through her chest.

Their skin slapped together, again and again, louder than the cries of the ones that had mourned Jesus' death on the cross, louder than the waves that had clashed against Noah’s Ark. He was forcing the ground apart with his ferocious thrusts, reminding her of the promise she was supposed to follow, giving her life for the one that had created her.

“Beg for forgiveness, let him hear you.” Carlisle’s voice grew raspier, eyes struggling to stay open as her walls fluttered around his cock. Both their words were slurred, drunk on the pleasure thumping through their bodies.

“I am sorry for sinning, I am sorry.” She cried out, not sure if she was focused on her sins or the intense feeling flushing through her like waves of the red sea. With her back arched and her toes curled, she felt her body vibrating, shaking beneath him like the earthquake that had destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.

Carlisle’s hand rested around her throat, he wasn’t squeezing, though was silently warning her that he could snap her neck any moment now. It wouldn’t take much longer till she’d cum around his cock, forcing him to fill her with his release, freeing the woman from the devil’s daunting call.

“Give in, let the feeling wash through you.” Her vision was blurred, eyes finding his features with a silent prayer leaving her. The intense feeling rocked through her, it knocked all air out of her lungs. Her walls fluttered around him, struggling to keep on breathing as his warmth began to stream through her.

She felt their juices running down her thighs, leaving stains on the wooden floor. It took her a few seconds to find her way back to reality, pulled to her feet by the priest. Wordlessly he redressed himself, hand finding her features once again. Carlisle traced a cross on her forehead with his lips pressed against her cheek.

“Pack your bag, you’ll leave with me.” Her life would be spared, forced to leave her hometown and the memories of her parents behind. Saved by the touch of her priest.

Please like and reblog if you’ve enjoyed reading this, come talk to me about my writing, let’s spill some tea or thirst over our favorite people. xxx

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[comfortwriting]

Just A House - F.W + S.B

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompt Masterlist, 

Fred Weasley (boyfriend) x Fem Reader x Sirius Black (Father)

About: The reader is finally reunited with her father, Sirius Black, after she was lead to believe that he was killed in Azkaban. During this heartfelt moment, Sirius finds out that she was placed in Slytherin House, he isn't thrilled - but her boyfriend, Fred Weasley, stands by her side.

Warnings: Swearing, mention of food and eating, death and gaunt physique.

Alone. Lost. Missed. Devastated. Confused. Guilty.

You felt like this on a daily basis, all of these feelings were about your father, Sirius Black, who had been absent since your birth after he betrayed the Potters, and murdered twelve muggles, including his friend, Peter.

Luckily, your father had been held accountable for his crimes and was sent to Azkaban for the rest of his life until he would meet dementors kiss.

You didn't know if he was alive or dead, and you didn't want to know.

No one talked about him and the only pictures you had of him brought you to tears as he stood beside his friends, smiling, knowing that he would betray them for Voldemort.

You didn't know how to feel at times - you hated yourself for missing him, for thinking about him, for imagining another life where you would get to have the father-daughter relationship you crave - looking in the mirror and seeing his eyes in yours was bittersweet; you had part of him with you, forever - but he's a murderer, a fraud, a rat.

Everything changed when the news broke out that your father escaped Azkaban: Hogwarts no longer felt safe, people stared at you for longer, giving you more dirty looks, more conspiracy theories about you being an undercover spy brewed up, and you were branded as a 'murderer in the making', even Harry couldn't bear to look at you.

The only person you had was your boyfriend, Fred Weasley, why he didn't hate you - you didn't know but you were thankful.

"It's getting bad again" you sighed, your head resting in your hands.

Fred frowned and rubbed your back, chewing on his food, swallowing it before speaking.

"It's not your fault, you aren't responsible for what he did," Fred reassured you, glaring back at students passing by.

Tears streamed down your face, you stared at your plate, in no mood to eat.

"Everyone either blames me, hates me, or suspects me, Harry can't even look at me, Ron can't stand you being around me!"

Fred shushed you, wiping your tears with his sleeve, "Listen to me, people are wrongly afraid of you - their fear is poison - I love you and who cares what my little brother thinks, he's too big for his boots."

"I care, Fred," you replied "I want to be accepted like everyone else is here, I can't even sit with my own house, they hate the fact I'm not celebrating his escape."

Your father broke free from prison, from certain death, yet you weren't cheering or jumping for joy - part of you wanted to be embraced in a warm hug, to finally have the father you always wanted - but the other part of you wished that he had lost his life because if he is as dangerous as everyone had been making out; more people would die, those you cared for, and your life could be on the line.

Laying wide awake in bed, you went through the photographs again, your father smiling, laughing and seen to be having a good time with his friends: harry's dad, James, Lily, Professor Lupin, and Peter who was always awkwardly out of place - his face often showing sheepish expressions.

Unable to stay awake and cry without waking the other girls up, you went into the common room, sitting down on the black leather sofa next to the fireplace that was as dull as the night sky without its stars.

You didn't know whether to light the fire and toss the photos in or to keep them in case you would forget his face - or needed comforting over what could've been.

Out of the corner of your eye, little embers sparked and flew from the fireplace, then before your eyes, the dim common room burst out into bright shades of amber, glowing your face and over the table.

Staring into the flames, your fathers face appeared in front of you, your heart began to pump so hard you could hear it in your ears.

"Y/N, is that really you?" he asked, sounding amazed.

Lie. He's a killer, Y/N, don't talk to him.

But he's your dad, don't you miss him? Don't you crave his attention?

"Y-Yes," you replied frantically "Dad-"

"We don't have much time, sweetheart, come to the Gryffindor Common Room."

It's a trap. Harry's dead, Ron probably is too, and Fred-

Sweetheart.

Departing from the fireplace, you hurried from the common room, taking your photographs with you.

Running as soundlessly as you could through the corridors and up the stairs, you remembered the password Fred shared with you, and you burst into the common room, coming face to face with your father.

There he stood, so skinny, dirty, his face gaunt and hair a mess, his chest covered in symbols and his prison attire in the state of rags.

How did he get here?

How has no one noticed?

Harry- he's standing right there... and Ron... and Fred is okay...

Why is Professor Lupin here-

"Y/N, I have waited since the day you were born for this moment," he said both quietly and softly, inching towards you.

He took hold of your hand, pressing it against his cheek before pulling you in for the tight embrace you had imagined for so long, you wrapped your arms around him, tears streaming down your face, feeling his weak body cradle yours.

"Dad, what how-"

"Peter, it was Peter Pettigrew all along," Fred spoke up, Harry was too afraid to admit the way he treated you was wrong.

You stared at your boyfriend and father, baffled.

"Wormtail framed your father, Y/N, he's responsible for all of this, not your dad." Professor Lupin sighed, walking towards you "The whole Wizarding World has been fed a lie."

You and your dad sat together, talking about everything and anything you could to get one another up to speed.

Your father tried to get in contact with you every chance he got but failed miserably, you showed him the photographs you had left of him, telling him just how much you missed him.

"So, what were you doing in the Slytherin common room?" Sirius asked, "You could get into trouble!"

You looked over to Fred, confused.

He doesn't know?

"I was sorted into Slytherin, dad." You replied, pulling the prefect badge out of your pyjama pocket, handing it to him.

Sirius studied the badge, shaking his head, handing it back to you - a disappointed look on his face.

"No, this can't be, how could you get sorted in with a bunch of sly, wicked, evil!-"

"It's not like that," Fred stepped in, sighing "Slytherin doesn't produce evil witches and wizards, she gets bothered enough being your daughter."

"But Voldemort!-"

"Peter wasn't a Slytherin was he?" Fred asked, folding his arms.

"No-"

"It's just a bloody house, Sirius! You've just got her back haven't you?" Fred held your hand, circling his thumb into your skin.

Sirius nodded "Y-yes, you're right Fredrick, sorry."

You and your dad shared some laughs, smiles, tears, hugs, and many stories before it was time for him to go - your heart so full with healing cracks started to chip again, you couldn't lose him - you just got him back.

"You can't go, you can't" you frowned, gripping onto his hand.

"I have to sweetheart, no one will believe me, it isn't safe for me to be out in the open like this." He said softly, staring into your eyes - the same as his own.

"But I need you," Your voice cracked, tears forming in your eyes.

"And I'll be here for you, you'll get my letters, and next summer, you can come and live with me, if you want to."

Live with dad. Starting over. Catching up on everything we have missed.

"I can?" You asked, covering your mouth, your smile spreading from ear to ear.

"Of course you can,"

Since learning the truth and being given a chance to start over, the bullying didn't bother you anymore - you knew your truth and that's all that mattered.

You were finally able to eat your meals at your house table, often staring over to Fred, blowing kisses when the two of you weren't pulling pranks or skipping class to be together, for the first time in your life, everything felt perfect.

"I'm so happy," you sighed, cuddling up to Fred "I've got you, I've got my dad, Harry and Ron don't hate me, everything is... perfect."

"It always will be from now on, love," Fred replied, kissing your head.

But it wouldn't be perfect, because you had no idea that you were about to lose your father right in front of your eyes, and soon after the love of your life would be taken away from you when you would fight for a future worth living, something your father had done before you were born.

taglist: @horrorxweasley @inglourious-imagines @rreeaahh @themoonis-beautiful-tonight @supermassiveblackhope @pottahishotasf @potters-heart @livvysnaps @scorpireads @youralternantpersonality @onlyfreds

[a-funny-little-sunflower]

Maedhros x reader : Soulmate Au Headcanon

This fic was based on an amazing idea given to me by even more amazing GF, @inserttrendymeme. It is was made special for her!

Warning: Angst at the end

In this Au, you are born with pure white blood, but if you commit sinful acts in your life, it causes your blood to turn from the pure and saintly white to a sick and sinful red. The worse the crime, the darker your blood becomes.

You remember the first time you set eyes on your soulmate; the feeling was indescribable.

It was as though nothing mattered anymore, all that you cared about was the tall elf standing only meters away.

The expression of utter love and adoration in his grey eyes as he stared at you was enough to shake you to your core, never before had someone looked at you so intensely and if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t want him to look away.

Something about this elf seemed so familiar…but before you could approach him, there was a sudden appearance of a large guard patrol that passed by and the tall elf coward away from them, like he was afraid of them.

You noticed his skittish nature and you tried to call out to him, but the market was loud, and there wasn’t a hope of him hearing you.

By the time the guard patrol had fully passed, the elf had disappeared completely.

Part of you was afraid that you would never see him again but all that worrying was for nought because it wasn’t long until he showed up at the door of your cottage, although you haven’t the slightest idea how he had found you.

You felt your heart swell with love as you looked at him standing in your doorway and you quickly invited him inside for a cup of tea. After all, it was freezing cold outside.

As you watched him shyly shuffle into your warm living room, you couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face.

As you placed the warm beverage into his large hands, he told you he went by the name Mae, you thought the name slightly out of the ordinary, but you shook it off. After all, Elvish names were very different from human ones.

As you both sat in the living room drinking your tea, you could feel him staring at you but every time you looked up, he would quickly avert his gaze, instead opting to stare into the flames of your cosy fireplace.

You spoke well into the late-night, and countless cups of tea had been brewed and enjoyed and by the time he was ready to take his leave, you felt as though you had known him all your life.

It wasn’t long before the pair of you had begun courting and you had learned so much about your beloved. You had been hesitant to court him because you saw the obvious problem, with you being a human and him being an elf.

He took no issue with this and instead promised to cherish every moment that you had now, and you agreed to it. After all, a life with your beloved soulmate was a wonderous thing.

As your courting became more public, you had a lot of small children coming up to you while you were out on walks. The little ones were curious about your beloved, your village rarely had elves visit, and Mae’s fiery red hair made him stand out even more.

And somehow your darling got you to fall in love with him even more through his kindness and gentleness when he played with the little children that wandered up to him in curiosity.

Not only that, but he was also incredibly helpful around the village, and you had to admit, the view of him lifting heavy pieces of wood and carrying them around when he was helping out did make you feel a certain type of way…

But even though the years of courting and eventual marriage to your beloved Mae, you never could shake the feeling of familiarity you had with him. Like you knew him from some kind of old story….

You had the feeling that he might have been some kind of great hero of an old legend, which would account for his missing hand.

But no matter how much you tried to get any answers out of him, he never told you anything. He never wanted to talk about his younger life.

But even though he didn’t like telling you much about his past, it never truly posed a problem.

He never raised his voice, and he was always helping whenever he could, and that didn’t just apply to you either. He was the designated babysitter for anyone and everyone whenever they had to work, and everyone was always singing his praises.

You had a joke between you that when you would finally give birth to your baby, they would have 50 siblings waiting for them!

But there would be the odd time when your beloved did something incredibly worrying. Whenever the little ones were playing something along the lines of sword fighting, a strange look would appear in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

And then there were the night terrors that would torment him night after night, and it would take hours to console him. Something you noticed was that the nightmares seemed to become more and more frequent with the closer you came to your due date.

But regardless of these strange happenings and hidden past, you still loved him!

Or at least…you used to…But after what you saw, you weren’t so sure anymore. You had once thought him a hero, taken from the legends of those mighty and true elves that never committed one evil deed…. How wrong you had been….

You had given birth not two months earlier and now you were enjoying some well-deserved sunshine, as you watched your beloved husband do some gardening.

You were watching him make his way across the garden to collect a tool he had forgotten when he suddenly tripped and fell, scraping his knee and drawing blood.

At first, you were worried for him and leapt to your feet to see if he was alright.

But then you saw the colour of his blood, and the world came crashing down around you. His blood was as black as night and that’s when the realisation hit you like a tidal wave.

He must have seen the shock on your face because he jumped up to his feet to try and explain himself, but you didn’t give him that chance. You grabbed your daughter and sprinted back into the house, desperate to get away from the elf you once loved.

You ran up the stairs as fast you could, clutching your darling daughter to your chest as you did. You could hear your husband sprinting after you, but you somehow managed to get to your bedroom and lock it behind you.

You stumbled to your bed and collapsed in shock, still clutching your little one who was now sobbing in fear. You could hear Mae pounding on the door, begging to be let in with honeyed promises.

How could you have not realised?

No wonder he was so familiar! How could you have missed it after being married all these years? How did you miss it?!

Maedhros Feanorian!

YOU HAD MARRIED A MONSTER!

[whitewitch95]

alright, I'm usually over at twitter or discord spewing my thoughts and prompts, but I feel like the Merlin fandom is bigger over here, so maybe someone appreciates that

Thoughts and a fanfic prompt to s2ep07 The Witchfinder

Aredian accuses Merlin of magic bc of the amulet he placed in the physician's quarters, and from the look in his eye, presumably speculates that Gaius will "confess" that it's his - what Gaius of course does because he loves Merlin like his own son. During the episode, still-innocent Morgana is on Aredian's radar as well, just bc Gaius treated her nightmares, and we learn that although Gaius confesses, Aredian still wants to "expose Merlin and Morgana's evil deeds".

I feel like most people - once we realize that Aredian is an asshole who stages all the "sorcerer sightings" for money, and Arthur once more is more reasonable than Uther and helps Merlin save the day, who is actually doing all the work again - I feel like most people tend to forget that Aredian actually precisely accused 3 real sorcerers of sorcery. Yes, neither of them did what they'd been accused of, but nonetheless, Aredian points them out with eerie precision.

So WHAT IF Aredian actually has some weak magic himself? Like the "funny feelings" Merlin sometimes gets when he just instinctively knows shit's gonna go downhill or when he feels drawn towards other people's/being's magic? Like an actual witchfinder, you know, not skilled enough to play detective and catch sorcerers in the act, maybe not even interested in upholding the laws against sorcery or not, just as long as he gets payment and fame - but what if he makes those seemingly random *finger point* "THAT BOY" accusations that nobody ever questions bc of his own weak magic that makes him sensitive for it?

Okay, so now comes the prompt idea. We all probably laughed when cheeky Merlin exposes Aredian with that toad coming out of his mouth on top of everything else, but imagine he doesn't bc that would be too obvious and instead just places the "fake" evidence in his room - that would leave Aredian the opportunity to use his mouth.

So what if, while Arthur and the knights are searching the room, Aredian thunders that "THAT BOY placed this here, HE'S the sorcerer, you have EVIL IN YOUR CASTLE" and Arthur only scoffs because please, that man is just ridiculous. And then, like *Merlin* did in the actual episode, *Aredian* turns away, half-hidden from view, whispers a spell that has Merlin's magic reacting, body spasming and eyes golden.

And Merlin is just standing there, struggling to hold his magic inside and not have it lashing out, and Aredian is smirking bc there's no way to explain that away, surely he has won now-

And Arthur whirls around, punching Aredian in the face, yelling at his knights about stuffing that man's mouth with a cloth before he says any more spells, and when Aredian fights them bc he finally realizes he's about to lose and then moves towards Morgana, Arthur runs him through with his sword.

Aredian is dead.

Merlin is still breathing hard, even though his magic has settled once again, and while everyone is shocked and panting and Arthur assures himself of Morgana's wellbeing, Merlin is On Edge. Because that was his actual magic reacting, and his own eyes turning golden in response to the spell, and a room full of knights, and Morgana, and Arthur were watching.

But when they all return to Uther, Arthur relays the story and it sounds as if Aredian, traitor of Camelot and apparently an evil sorcerer that has sent innocent people into their death, has enchanted Merlin to look as if he had magic, JUST like he did with hiding that amulet in Gaius chambers, to put the blame onto someone else.

Nobody questions it, not even Uther.

Merlin feels the tightness in his chest lessen, finally able to breathe normally again. He wants to laugh, really. Arthur is SO CONVINCED that his manservant is nothing more than a bumbling, but highly loyal idiot - and he has tried to protect Merlin, he remembers, right in front of Aredian and Uther and the whole court - that Arthur doesn't even consider Merlin could actually have magic.

When the day winds down, Merlin helps Arthur getting ready for bed, serving him dinner, tidying his chambers, still tired and wary, but incredibly relieved.

Until Arthur says, "So, Merlin," and Merlin freezes because that tone sounds chilling. Carefully, he straightens up and looks at Arthur, who's watching him with frighteningly intense eyes, gaze piercing. "Anything you have to say?"

"Uhm," Merlin hesitates, unsure what exactly Arthur means, heart beating wildly. "I don't know what you mean, Sire," he settles on, but that seems to be the wrong thing to say.

Arthur narrows his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'thank you', but I know manners aren't your strong suit, so how about the truth?"

"The truth?" Merlin laughs nervously, dear god, he shouldn't have let his guard down-

"YES, Merlin, the truth," Arthur growls, and then he's out of his chair, stomping towards Merlin. "Because I can assure you, this was the last time I've lied to my knights and my father and the entire court for you if you don't even have it in you to tell me the TRUTH!"

Arthus has him cornered against the bedpost now, and Merlin is trembling ever so slightly. Arthur's eyes are blazing, like a blue, furious thunderstorm, and Merlin knows there's no escaping this; especially because Arthur is right.

So he talks. He's hesitant at first, reinforcing that everything they found out about Aredian is the truth, that Merlin did not lie, that he did not *once* betray Arthur, or Camelot. Arthur looks as if he isn't sure if he fully believes Merlin, but he listens, and that is more than Merlin could've hoped for.

In the end, Merlin's voice is rough from talking, his face pale and tight with worry. Arthur has stepped back from him a while ago, first crossing his arms and snapping out questions, and then he started pacing.

"I swear," Merlin says lowly, "I never intended to bring anyone harm. I was born like this... and I have finally found a purpose."

"And what would that be, Merlin?" Arthur asks, but he doesn't sound harsh; he sounds tired, staring into the flames of the fireplace.

Merlin gulps. Now or never. "Protecting you. I- I wanted to tell you, but I didn't want you to have to choose. Because no matter the outcome... it would've burdened you."

Still staring into the flames, Arthur laughs humorlessly. "And yet it seems I did it anyway."

At Merlin's silence, Arthur finally turns, and he almost looks sick. "Does Gaius know?"

"Yes," Merlin whispers, but he's not afraid that Arthur will punish Gaius for it. Arthus isn't Uther.

"Of course," Arthur mumbles, and his eyes show that he's working through what he's heard so far. "How could he not know? After all, a quite powerful warlock is living with him."

Shifting uncomfortably, Merlin wonders if there's anything he can say to make it easier for anyone, but there are no words he can think of.

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head. "That... that can't be..." he trails off, and he's reeling more than Merlin has ever seen him before. "That would mean-"

Abruptly, Arthur turns away, aiming for his chair, before he whirls around again and once more stomps towards Merlin.

"If you're telling the truth," Arthur snaps, and there's a threatening expression on his face, before it softens at Merlin's flinch. "Then why aren't you affected by the magic? Why do you still want to protect me, so much so that you're putting yourself at risk everyday?"

"I," Merlin starts, unsure. "I told you, I think... that you'll be a great king, and I-"

Arthur shakes his head. "No," he interrupts. "Why is the magic not tainting you? Why... why are you still you?" he finishes, quieter.

Merlins heart feels incredibly tender. "Because magic is just a tool, Arthur. Like sword fighting. A tool that some people can use, and some can't. A tool that sometimes is used for good, and sometimes for evil. Having magic says nothing about a person - but the way they use it does."

Silence, only the crackling of the fire can be heard as Merlin watches Arthur's face, seeing the emotions flit over it, the horrible realization. "Then..."

Merlin doesn't say anything. This is a conclusion Arthur should draw, alone, without Merlin's influence.

Arthur looks up, and the light of a candle reflects in his eyes. He looks vulnerable. Pleading. Incredibly young.

Merlin waits as Arthur turns away once more, running a hand through his golden hair, shoulders tense.

"If it's alright with you," Merlin carefully starts, "I'd look after Gaius now. He's gone through hell these past few days."

"Yes, yes," Arthur agrees, sounding crumpled under the weight of tonight's revelations. "Please pass on my well wishes to him again. What happened to him was... unjust." He gets hung up on that word apparently, because he repeats it under his breath, like a death sentence. "Unjust."

Tentatively, Merlin steps towards Arthur, but he doesn't know if it will be welcome right now.

"Goodnight, Sire."

The door has almost closed behind Merlin when he hears the faint "Goodnight" in return. He smiles. Maybe, just maybe, the horrors since the witchfinder arrived are leading the way to their destiny.

Addition: Maybe, because Arthur's actually kind of smart, he realized that Merlin has magic earlier, but tried to convince himself that he hasn't. And maybe Arthur puts two and two together about the witchfinder having actual magic, and he asks Merlin about Morgana. And maybe that would save her, and the kingdom, and ultimately himself. Just saying.

[eclecticmiasma]

Loveless (Yandere!Giorno x Reader)

🌠Commissioned Fic!🌠

SFW

“We finally have the life we always dreamed of...yet you scorn me at every turn.”  

[Warnings: general yandere scariness, captivity]

Art credit:  荒巻ミカ on Pixiv

Another gilded trinket lays scattered across the floor. Thick silence hangs in the air like an asphyxiant, snuffing out all words before they even leave your throat. Your eyes pierce his own, defiant, enraged to be in this position once again. By now, he should have accepted that this will always be the outcome of his attempts to purchase your love and affection. But the nearly imperceptible signs of hurt that tug at his features tell you that he hasn’t.

All you had wanted was to speak with him. After months of swimming in deep depression, isolated and terrified, you finally worked up the courage to appeal to the kind young boy you know is walled deep inside of your captor. Everything about his appearance has changed, but the love and passion in his liquid blue eyes is the same. You were there when he first set foot in Italy, after all.

Not as Don Giorno Giovanna, but as Haruno.

When he saw you in the doorway of his study, he lit up like you hadn’t seen in years. He had dreamed of the day you would come to him of your own accord. He promptly ushered his guards from the fire-lit room and took your trembling hand in his own. It really was Haruno, you thought, as he smiled that familiar sheepish grin. The realization put you at ease.

“I…wanted to see you,” You lied, swallowing your fear. The warmth that radiated from Giorno was nearly palpable. His lithe arms pulled you into a gentle embrace, and for the first time you felt him relax. He buried his nose in your hair and squeezed you tight- almost like he was afraid to let go. You couldn’t bring yourself to hold him back, “…t-to talk to you.”

When he pulled away, he looked you up and down. He was positively beaming with pride.

“Anything you want, tesora, it’s yours.”

You bit your lip as he led you to a plush sofa next to the fireplace. Its warmth grounded you to reality. Giorno asked if you wanted something to drink, but you knew you couldn’t stomach even an ounce of liquid. Even water made you nauseous as of late.

Minutes passed before you found your voice. Giorno simply watched the shadows of your features dance in the light of the flames. He looked so sweet in that moment, so genuinely happy. Part of you wondered if you’d misunderstood him, that maybe he truly hadn’t meant to hurt you. Without thinking, you squeezed his hand with real affection.

“You…sent me another gift,” You started, pulling a rose gold locket from your dress. It was inlaid with tiny diamonds that spelled your name, and undeniably beautiful- but the sight of it made bile rise in your throat. It was the final straw. Before Giorno could respond, you turned his hand and pressed it against his palm, “I came here to give it back.”

His expression faded like ashes scattered by the wind. His brows knitted together as he slowly put the pieces together. You weren’t there to finally return his affection, you weren’t there to proclaim yourself as his own- you came to change his heart. A feat no one had ever achieved. His head nodded and a small, resigned smile appeared. It was like he hadn’t even heard you.

“I know it isn’t much, but think of it as a token of my love,” He replied, looking past your exasperated stare and holding the locket up to your neck. Something inside of you snapped and you yanked the glittering necklace from his fingertips.

“This is not love!” You shrieked, throwing the jewelry with all of your might. It broke and speckled the marbled floor.

And now you’re here. Sitting in the wake of your combined decisions. Drowning in the air around you. The fire, once comforting, feels like it’s burning you alive. Tears streak your face as despair sets in. When the silence is finally broken, you hear the crack in Giorno’s voice.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” He suddenly stands, stepping over the shards of jewelry to stand before the fireplace. His shadow looms over the entire study, “For years, I’ve done nothing but vie for your affection, but use everything within my power to protect you. We finally have the life we always dreamed of…Yet you scorn me at every turn.”

“The life we dreamed of?” Despite your trepidation, you find yourself moving to your feet, temper rising, “We used to dream of packing our little bags and building a giant tree house to live in, not this! You grew that tree in the alley behind my place that we would always sit in and pretend we were finally adults…that we were finally free-”

“We were children,” He interrupted, still refusing to face you, “We knew nothing.”

“Haruno knew that it’s wrong to take people as your prisoner. Haruno knew he didn’t want to follow in his parents’ footsteps,” Giorno finally whips around to face you, incredulous, but you continue your rant unabated, “Haruno hated people like you, Haruno would have understood that you abuse me and then buy my affection just like your father did to your mother. I refuse to be bought, Haruno-”

Blinding pain radiates up the left side of your face. It takes a second to register that you’ve been struck. Even Giorno stares at his open palm, shocked. You clutch your cheek and clench your teeth through fresh tears. He swallows hard, and his expression turns to stone.

“Haruno was a scared little boy that had no agency, beaten and broken into silence,” He takes a step forward, and you take a step back.

“Haruno didn’t understand that some people in this world are born evil, that nothing can ever fix them,” Your right leg catches the wooden coffee table and you tumble to the floor.

“Haruno had to grow up and learn that the only way you can protect that which you love is to hold on to it for dear life,” His voice raises to a fever pitch. Your arms rush to cover your face in anticipation of being struck once again.

But it never comes.

When the moment passes, you dare to peek through blurry eyes. The room around you is lush with greenery, an explosion of flowers and vines. A thick oak tree had grown where the sofa was, branches nearly reaching the ceiling. You lower your arms and gaze around the study in a mixture of wonder and fear. Giorno stands above your cowering form, back hunched, sobbing.

“Haruno is dead!” He shouts, collapsing at your feet. The tree breathes and stretches with life, puncturing holes in the roof above. Bits of dust and debris tumble down around you, but Giorno seems to not notice. You watch, entranced, as he cries.

“G-Giorno…” You mutter, afraid to reach out to him but resigned that you must. As much as he has hurt you, you just can’t bring yourself to run away.

Giorno remembers the last time he cried. Flashes of his own body impaled on the Colosseum gates, of blood dripping, of Narancia’s limp body as he lay it to rest on a bed of flowers- he remembers it well. It wrenches his heart, twists it so he can’t breathe. Nearly everyone who has ever been important to him has been ripped away by the cruelest of fates.

Except for you.

“I’m sorry,” He chokes, clutching himself tight. For some reason, fate has left you alone. Despite his immense love for you, your body continues to live and breathe just as he does. But you’ve made it abundantly clear that fate doesn’t have to intervene to remove you from his life. If something doesn’t change, he could lose you all the same, “I’m so sorry…”

You tentatively reach out and touch his shoulder. He shakes his head, but makes no move to stop you. Even as your other hand gently strokes his hair, fingertips gliding along his disheveled golden locks, you remain silent. As much as you want to comfort him, you won’t lie to him any longer. His apology remains unaccepted.

“If you’re sorry, if you truly love me like you say you do, you have to let me go…” Giorno’s tear-filled eyes meet yours. He looks terrified. A vision of Haruno weeping as you checked his face for bruises briefly replaces him. Your hands unconsciously slide to cup his reddened cheeks, just like back then, “I love you Giorno, I always have. But this has to be on my own terms. Don’t you see?”

The fear in his eyes dims slightly. His own hands cover yours. They’re larger than they used to be, and more calloused, but comforting all the same. He swallows hard and forces himself to smile softly.

“I understand,” He croaks, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. Relief flows through you as you release your breath. Perhaps Haruno truly is gone, and you’ll never reclaim the memories you have with him. But that doesn’t mean Giorno can’t change, that you can’t rebuild your relationship into something just as beautiful as you once had. For the first time in months, you feel a sliver of optimism.

As elation overtakes you, you throw your arms around Giorno, “I knew that I could reach you,” You smile into his neck, tears staining his shoulders. Hesitantly, he holds you back. The last time you touched him voluntarily was a distant memory. As his hand rubs circles into the small of your back, he can’t help but smile himself.

“I understand…” He assures you again, sighing against you. Some of the fauna that covers the room morphs back into furniture as his emotions settle. The burgeoning tree works its way back into a sofa. Giorno holds you tight against him, and for once you don’t mind. You hardly even notice the changes around you, content in your hope that one day Giorno will be himself again. You don’t even notice the thin vine that coils itself up your leg and around your waist.

Up your abdomen.

Over your ribs.

By the time you’re aware of it, it’s reducing your airflow by squeezing tight like a boa constrictor. Puzzled, you open your mouth to speak. Pink flower petals fall out from where your tongue once was. Giorno strokes your hair behind your ears, shushing the panicked noises that escape your throat.

“I understand.”

*all original work is my intellectual property. do not edit or re-upload.

[homunculus-argument]

Have an utterly random, out of context scene of the book I’m writing:

Hiram woke with a start when the door slammed open, but he recognised the uncertain figure before Forxtrap-Todd stumbled into the dark room with him. The stench of sweat, wine, liquor and perfume followed him like an invisible cloud of smoke. Hiram sighed, took a stick by the fireplace and lit an oil lamp, knowing he couldn't sleep for some time after being startled like that. The lightly oiled wick of the lamp fizzled a moment in protest before taking flame. Strange, how months ago he had marvelled at a simple clay lamp filled with reeking animal oil, and now frowned in in annoyance at a gilded one, which spread a fragrance as the light burned.

”Have I ever told you about the land where I was born?” Todd slurred, on his back. Much to Hiram's annoyance, he had decided to land on his bed, instead of his own.

”The White Lands, where people walk on water?” Hiram asked, cautiously.

”Have I told you about them, or has Beun told of me telling about them?” He looked up, trying to focus his mismatched eyes on Hiram. The blue eye shone in the lamplight, but did not reflect light in the dark like cat eyes and wolf eyes do. The more Hiram saw it, the more he understood there was nothing magical about it – all this talk of an evil eye, a curse or a pact with a witch were only talk, it was only an ordinary eye, just an odd colour. When Hiram did not answer, he chuckled.

”See, this is how I know I'm properly drunk. I never remember telling this story, but everyone remembers me telling it.” He had probably been properly drunk a whole jug of wine ago, but he continued. ”And it wasn't always white there. Half the year the land was green, full of living things. There were flowers – tiny flowers, not like the ones here, but small, in a rush to grow and bloom before they'd wither, as briefly as a human youth. For they would die each year, the sun would disappear and days grew short. The sky would turn black and the land would turn white. The air became so cold it would sting your skin, and make your breath steam like boiling tea water. And water became so cold that you could walk upon it.”

”That sounds like nightmares”, Hiram said cautiously. While this was certainly the most insane tale that Todd had ever told, he wasn't telling it like all the others. Todd told his tales to a crowd, smiling, nodding, lively eyes darting from one person to the next, but this time he had turned as grave and sullen as death. He did not look at Hiram, not even glancing at him, but his eyes were locked to the decorative carvings in the corner of the ceiling. Looking away, as if at a confession.

”No”, Todd said. ”It was dire, and it was dark, but it was beautiful. The white – it fell down from the sky like white feathers, and if they landed on your skin, they'd melt into the sweetest water you have ever tasted. It coated the land like a blanket, purest white you could imagine, shimmering, shining, and sparkling in the sunlight like nothing you have ever seen. Some of the animals turn white, to hide themselves from predators or prey. My father was a trapper, and he showed me how to catch and skin them. I was ten when he died, eleven when I was shipped across the sea.”

Hiram, whose eyes had also been lost studying the decorations, looked back to him. This was the first time Todd had ever mentioned having any kind of a family, anything close to a real explanation of where he had come. Hiram said nothing. While most of the time, no power on earth could stop Todd from talking, he didn't want to interrupt out of fear that this one he might.

”All the white furs that you see around here, in this rotten city”, Todd raised his right hand to gesture around the room in a way that was most likely far less controlled than he had originally intended, ”they're from the Northlands. There's no cat skins here, all the pelts are real. The fur that was lining lady Mirarin's coat today, that is the winter pelt of a lynx. A northland lynx is a spotted cat, in the summer their fur is golden brown, in the winter it's silver and white.”

”I didn't know you knew that much about the fur trade”, Hiram said, feeling like a block of wood and knowing he must have sounded like one, too. He glanced back to Todd, and to his horror saw tears welling in his eyes. Hiram resisted the urge to support his shoulder with his hand as Todd sat up, he would not fall over from a sitting position.

”I knew about the trapping and trade in the North”, Todd said, swallowing, a strain and struggle in his voice. ”Here I don't know anything, all these years and I still don't know anything. All I know is how to get drunk and tell stories, how to make people laugh, and make myself cry.” The last word shattered like crystal glass, and the drunkard broke, weeping like a child. His head slid slowly down to Hiram's lap, and as he gasped through tears and snot, Todd bit into his own hand, as if trying to gag himself silent as his body convulsed with sobs.

Once the worst of the wave was over, Todd took the hand from his mouth, and muttered – incoherently, laboriously, while struggling to draw an uneven, laboured breath, and yet, over and over again: ”I just want- If I could- All I just want- I just want to see snow again.”

[ask-anti-cosmo]

Anti-Cosmo X reader: my dear little pet

I inhaled deeply in joy as I sat in my comfortable chair in the castle I called home. It flouted firmly in the clouds above the magical world of the anti-fairies, as I was their king. If anyone even thought to defy me, I would be at their throats in an instant and let them know the misery that would bring them with a swing of my black starred wand.

I crossed my legs and sighed contently as I watched the fireplace in front of me spout dancing blue flames. I suddenly flinched when hearing my stomach growl, making me grin. “Oh…I guess I’m hungry…” I mused. “_______! Come here!” I called strongly.

I heard a slight whimper and footsteps run towards me before a young girl, about 17 years of age, came into the room, panting. Her clothing was plain and her hair a little messy.

“Y-yes…?” She asked catching her breath.

“Come sit on my lap.” I commanded. She lowered her head and obeyed slowly, making me grin. She sat down and I began to stroke and play with her hair happily.

She tried to get off and rush away but I held her still. “Ah ah ah~ Don’t forget you owe me. You’re MINE.” I hissed.

You lowered your head and began to remember it. Why you were here in this evil creature’s clutches. Every time you thought about it, it made you cry, partially since you wished it never happened, but also because it seemed so stupid…

~~~~~~

It was in the winter, when the sun was down before 6:00 PM. You were at your high school, rehearsing a play with the rest of the drama students. You weren’t a drama major, but you thought it’d be fun to be in at least one play.

And you were enjoying it, the drama kids were actually some of the coolest kids of the school, some even more loved than the jocks! The teachers certainly favored them more than the snooty cheerleaders and bullies on football teams.

Anyways, rehearsal was over and everyone was leaving out to the dark parking lot where their cars were. The teachers were mostly gone, same with the students as you packed up your stuff. Before heading off to your car however, you decided to use the bathroom since it was a half hour trip home.

When you were done, you walked out of the stall and was washing your hands when you heard the door open. Curious to who else would be there at that time of night, you looked over and felt your heart flutter slightly. It was Bryan, the star of the play you were in. Good looking, excellent actor, and…he was in the girl’s bathroom with you?

“Bryan…?” You blinked confusedly. “Um, this is the girls bathroom…”

“Is it?” He blinked and looked around. “Oh whoops, it’s so dark out there I got lost, they turned off most of the hallway lights.”

“Oh…well uh, I’d better get home.” You blushed lightly.

“Let me give you a ride home, it’s dangerous out there.” He offered.

“No, I have my own car, thank you though.” You nodded and tried to pass him, but he grabbed your arm and pulled you back.

“What’s the rush?” He cocked his head to the side.

“It’s late and I have homework!” You frowned. “Let go!”

“I wanna hang out with you right now though! Come on, everyone will think you’re cool if you’re with me.” He grinned and he grabbed your other arm and pulled you closer to him.

“I don’t care about that sort of thing! Help!” You screamed as you struggled. Your foot stepped back and knocked something over that made a ‘Clink!’ sound, making both of you stop and look in confusion. To both of your great surprise, it was a glass salt shaker, filled to the brim and was now spilling it’s white contents onto the linoleum floor.

While Bryan was distracted, you kicked him where it hurts and escaped his grasp, running from the bathroom. The heavy door had slowed you down however, so he had quickly caught up with you in the dark halls, next to the glass door. Just outside the door was a light, making it a little easier to see the teenage boy’s angry face as he slapped you hard before reaching for your skirt.

You screamed for help again, praying someone, anyone would hear. That’s when you saw a pair of glowing green eyes appear in the dark, two glistening evil fangs accompanying them. Before Bryan could go any farther, blue hands shot from the dark, grabbing him tightly and yanking him into the shadows with them.

You could only stare in the dark in horror as you caught your breath and soon heard Bryan’s screams. Blood splattered at your feet, making you jump back as you sat on the cold floor.

Then it was silent.

You sat there, panting and pulling your skirt back up when you heard a sigh in the darkness.

“My my my…what a bind you were in just now, hmm?” an unrecognizable voice said in an elegant British accent. The glowing green eyes once again appeared. You heard the clicking of shoes against the school floor, and the thing that spoke walked into the light of the lamp outside.

He was about your height with blue skin and dark blue hair. The eyes were his, as were the white fangs, the former sporting a monocle on his right side. The monocle had a chain that lead to a piercing in one pointy blue elf ear, and the other ear sported a small dangly chain that had a black star at the end. He wore a somewhat old fashion blue garb, like a fancy coat and Victorian tie with silver chains reaching here and there. At the end of the coat was other little dangling jewelry, including black star cufflinks, but nothing as long as either earing. Black pants, and a blue bowler hat that sat atop his head like an ornament that was too small for any human head.

He grinned at you wickedly. “I seemed to have just saved you from that bind you were in, didn’t I? Doesn’t that at least merit a “thank you”?” He asked.

You tried to thank him but your voice hurt from screaming so you could only let out a whimper. At this, he frowned.

“My…not very grateful are we…?” He stepped close. You noticed a small twinkle in the darkness behind him, but you couldn’t make out what it was. “Well, nevertheless, I now own you, and I SERIOUSLY doubt you could ever repay me, so…I think I’ll just take you home with me~ Pay me back with company and… other services~” He grinned and licked his lips.

You shuddered and tried to scoot away from him. “H-how are you any better than Bryan then?!” You squeaked.

“Hmm? Oh no, I don’t mean that! Absolutely not, I am a gentleman!” He declared. “No no dear, I was something much more dignified than anything sexual.”

“Wh…what DO you want then…?” You asked softly.

He chuckled softly as black bat wings unfurled from behind him, the left one had a shiny silver ring close to the tip. “I thought it’d be obvious…”

~~~~~~~

I grinned as I licked your ear before biting into your neck, drinking your blood passionately, making you shiver. I had overheard her cries that night and decided to test her fate by placing the salt shaker nearby. If she tipped it, then she was fated to be with me, if not….well then, I wouldn’t have stepped in and we would be here! It would have been such a shame if it hadn’t happened, but oh what joy fate had such promise in store for me that glorious night!

I licked up the rest of her blood and sealed the wound with scar tissue, adding to the rest of the damaged skin on her neck. I grinned and felt all the scars I caused her.

“You’ve been locking yourself up in that room since you got here…how about I treat you to a tour?” I asked.

“Tour of what? Your messed up little world? What even are you anyways?” You scoffed at him.

“I’ve told you love, an Anti-Fairy!” I chimed.

“That doesn’t make any sense! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“How could it NOT make sense though? Everything has an opposite, else it wouldn’t be in existence, especially something as powerful as a fairy! We’re simply their opposites, the yang to their yin. Especially with them being immortal it would be hard to find an opposing power, now wouldn’t it? So for every fairy born, an Anti-fairy is born as well! To keep the balance of nature intact.”

You looked away with a sigh.

“So how about it? Want to go for a walk?”

“Not really…”

“Shame.” I chuckled and waved my wand at you. My wand became a leash attached to the newly appeared collar around her neck. “There you go~ Now come along!”

“But I don’t-ugh!” You huffed as I gave the leash a tug. You followed after me with a pout.

“Come now dear, this is for your own good.” I smiled. “Exercise releases endorphins that make you happier.”

“You WANT me to be happy?” You said in disbelief.

“I don’t want you to get fat from moping about the house like a sad puppy.” I snickered.

We walked around the dark anti-fairy world. Being out of the castle did make you feel a little better, even if you did have a collar around your neck. You passed a shop and looked through the window at a beautiful black gown.

“Do you like it?” I asked you.

You blushed lightly and looked away shyly. I stepped closer to you and brought your face closer to mine. “Well?” I grinned.

“Anti-Cosmo!”

I frowned and turned around to see one of the most annoying Anti-Fairies out there. Oddly enough, it’s just like his Fairy counterpart. Anti-Binky. Also known as one of the most fortunate of Anti-fairies, but also the most snippy and mean. He’s always competing against me, and it irritates me to no end since he really is my number two.

“What is it you want you festering boil?” I snarled.

“You have a human.” He sneered. “The *BEEP*’s the deal?!”

“It’s none of your business how I live my life!”

“You brought a wretched girl to our glorious gloomy world! Why would you do that?!”

You looked at us expectantly. I looked back at you and tapped you with my wand, sending you back to the castle. “It’s none of your business now is it?” I turned back to Anti-Binky.

“I’ve been watching you Anti-cosmo…Year after year you bring in these young girls…you keep them a bit then drink them dry. But this one…you’ve kept her two and a half years now! It’s ridiculous and meaningless!!”

“Shut up Anti-Binky! I can do whatever pleases me, and if I choose to keep this child then I will!”

“Listen here, I’ve been watching you long enough to know that whenever a human girl enters your castle, the only time they leave is when they’re a corpse. But look! You let that girl out for a walk! A WALK!!”

“She was on a leash.” I scoffed uncaringly, looking at my nails in uninterested.

“And just then you offered to buy her a dress!” He snarled

“Did not! I simply asked if she liked it…”

“But I bet you’ll get her it! Or have one made for her privately!”

I narrowed my eyes at him with a hint of anger. “What are you saying you pathetic sprite?”

“I think you’ve gone soft for this girl!” He accused. By this point Anti-Fairies had gather to watch our dispute, and when Anti-Binky said this, the crowd began to murmur, making me frown.

“Not true.” I stated boldly.

“Really?” He folded his arms.

“Her blood lost it’s flavor too fast, and I’m bringing her a little fortune so that I can make her even more miserable than she was before I collected her.” I lied. The crowd began to whisper again, but this time I hear praises of my genius, making me grin triumphantly at Anti-Binky.

Said Anti-Fairy scowled at me. “No, I still think you’ve gone soft. And I say your turn with the Anti-Fairy throne is over, and that I should now rule over!!”

My face drooped from the smile to a look of great disgust and disapproval. “You think you can beat me…?”

“I do and I can!”

I sighed with a slight chuckled. “Oh Anti-Binky, I do believe you’re the only one to dare share a personality attribute with your Fairy self~”

At my words, he looked more offended than I’ve ever seen him, and even the crowd gasped at me.

“You’re rebellious and annoying, and if you think you can defeat me, then you’re just as stupid as your fairy self as well!”

The Little Anti-Fairy flew into a rage and shot magic at me that I easily ricochet back at him, turning him to a block of ice. I swung my wand around with a grin. “You know dear Anti-Binky, if it wasn’t for your constant overflowing rage, I don’t think I’d notice if your fairy self and you switched for a day.” I snickered and looked to the crowd. “Let this be a lesson to all for you! Any who defines me or speaks ill towards me will receive the same fate, but worst with each offense. Now go about your business and remember who your king is!”

They all rushed away making me snicker. I then glanced back at the dress you were looking at and thought for a minute.

[smallfrost]

MFSRI: The Burning of Scylla Ramshorn Comprehensive Analysis; Scylla as Ovid’s Phoenix

A while back I proposed the Burning of Scylla Ramshorn  as a theme for our Sexy Weird Necro (now re-branded, Sassy Sexy Weird Murder Nugget Necro). This was primarily about how she may have been burned in the past, either literally (her family was burned) or figuratively (Porter turned in her dodger parents). This evolved to include the fact that Scylla is literally wreathed in fire throughout the season, with actual flames and with more vague references to burning dancing around her. After having separate posts about this (here and here) in addition to my original theory, I figured I would first make a comprehensive list of all the times Scylla has referenced burning or is surrounded by actual flames throughout the season and then propose several options for what this might mean. Including, how the use of fire imagery combined with “nothing ever really dies” parallels to Ovid’s Metamorphosis and the Phoenix.

This one is a long one but come with me on this ride...

To start, we have all of the times she has used fire for Spree Glamour. (Note: Faux Raelle burning is still Scylla’s motif because she represents someone she cares about and loves, and the flames are reflected in Scylla’s eyes). 

Then we have Scylla and Raelle in Memorial Hall discussing if the Burning Times are really over, followed directly by a shot with a fireplace in the background and Scylla in the foreground. The same fireplace Porter is standing next to a few seconds later (re: Porter burned Scylla).

And we have Scylla saying she has been burned before and tends to burn. 

She also mentions the recent burnings of witches, even as recent as last year while she’s in the dungeon. 

--

So, what does this all mean? The strength of this theme for Scylla is ominous. Is it possible foreshadowing of a literal burning? Could be. Perhaps Scylla is terrified that she herself will be burned at the stake since a witch had been burned as recently as last year. She is terrified she will be executed. 

Perhaps this theme is referencing something that happened in the past, such as witnessing her parents being burned or being betrayed by someone she cared about as previously proposed. The parallels to Greek mythology in MFS have been a favorite topic of discussion amongst the theorist community and at the Research Institute, leading to many posts including analyses done by @captainjeclid​ and @trash-deluxe​. We know that Scylla is a Greek monster. We know that Odysseus, whom Raelle parallels, encounters Scylla on his journey home (after having visited the underworld). Could the Burning of Scylla be referring to her own personal Odyssey through the underworld; her own inferno? Would be quite fitting, seeing that she is a Necro. But I think there is yet another possibility… and that is fire as a form of rebirth; that which has died, transforms into the living - shedding a previous nature for a new one.

After seeing how Scylla and Raelle parallel the Odyssey, I hope to convince you of yet another series of mythological parallels, this time as it relates to balance, resurrection, and life becoming death, over and over again, all while linking Scylla to the phoenix as a symbol of rebirth [through fire].

Ovid’s Metamorphosis is an epic poem thematically contemplating transformation. Here we get stories like that of Narcissus, the man doomed to love himself, and Arachne being transformed into a spider. Over 15 ‘books’, the Roman poet, Ovid weaves his tales and ends on one containing the teachings of Pythagoras. And what do we learn? To quote directly, “All things are always changing, but nothing dies. The spirit comes and goes, is housed wherever it wills, it shifts residence from beasts to men, from men to beasts, but always it keeps on living”. Sound familiar?

Scylla teaches us the same lesson in the graveyard when she shows Raelle the Death Cap. Death is not so cut and dry. Nothing ever really dies. Life becomes death which becomes life again. Over and over. Scylla is almost quoting Ovid verbatim here, “Nothing remains the same: the great renewer, Nature, makes form from form, and, oh, believe me that nothing ever dies.”

Pythagoras really says nearly these exact words several times. He explains that death is not what it seems and not to fear it, but to understand that our souls are deathless, and that when they leave our bodies, they will find new dwelling places. Things are not static. They are always changing. The soul, the life force, is recycled in a never ending and eternal circle… That which once was, is no longer the same but still present. It is a process of renewal… In other terms, while Necros cannot bring the dead back to life, the cycle of souls shifting residence is itself, a form of resurrection. So, even if Willa Collar is death, her soul is not gone. Just… repurposed. It’s going to be up to our little Necro to find it.  

Aside: I just want to point out that this portion of Metamorphosis is riddled with examples of duality (day and night, fire and water, life and death), one of our favorite themes throughout MFS. And the never ending, harmonious cycle of renewal fits perfectly into a magic system built on the foundation of maintaining balance. 

So besides quoting Ovid almost verbatim, giving us our MFS Necro “religion”, why else is this portion of Metamorphoses relevant? Because immediately following discussions on how the life of one creature can come from the death of another, we learn that while “all of these things have their beginning in some other creature, there is one bird which renews itself, out of itself. [They] call it the phoenix.”

Now, Pythagoras does not necessarily say that the phoenix is born out of its own ashes. In fact, the historical association of the phoenix with fire is hard to trace and I had difficulty finding anything related to the exact origin of flames. But the symbolism of the phoenix throughout its mythology associates with the sun and fire. In Egyptian mythology, the phoenix flies to Heliopolis, the “City of the Sun” and builds its nest atop the Temple of the Sun, or brings its remains there after rebirth. In various versions of this myth, the nest catches fire from the rays of the sun. I’m not about to make this a thesis on the origins of fire being associated with the phoenix, but for now, let’s fall back on our western mythology of being reborn in flames and connect them to the theme of “nothing ever dies” in Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Indeed, Pythagoras discusses fire several times throughout Book 15 and how fire itself is part of these changing cycles. Including one instance where he literally states that “[They] set wood on fire by pouring water on it in the dark of the moon.” Considering @theycallmestephlee​ established that Scylla is Fire and Raelle is Water … the parallels are hard to ignore. 

The Phoenix from the Aberdeen Bestiary could lead us down another rabbit hole of parallels with Christianity and Lesbian Jesus Christ, Raelle Collar as @likethefoximalwayschanging​ has established. 

Ovid’s use of fire imagery throughout this portion of the poem, and the eventual association of the Phoenix with fire as a form of rebirth that is rooted in western legend, strongly suggests that Scylla is going through her own transformation by being wreathed in flames. She has lived her life by one set of values up until now, but her current nature is dying. Through that death, she will be renewed with a new moral compass. Scylla is questioning the foundations of her morality. She still believes that the Army is evil but knows that what the Spree asked her to do was equally horrendous (she has regret, she did not hand over Raelle). She has been through fire and brimstone, her own inferno. Her motivations were driven by that. She committed horrible acts. But now we’ve seen her begin strip away her old nature. Because Raelle, like water, found the cracks and flowed her way into Scylla’s fiery heart.

So even if there is a literal Burning of Scylla Ramshorn, she won’t die. She will be saved and “reborn” in a new light with a new nature. She has been scorched by fire in her past; what she has been through has led her to commit things which she regrets. There used to be no room for attachments, for love. But through her journey and through meeting and loving Raelle, her perspectives have changed. “That which has been, is not; that which was not, begins to be…”

Quotes from Rolfe Humphries’ translation of Metamorphoses.

[kathyprior4200]

The Shadows of Hazbin

Alastor’s shadow isn’t the only being of darkness around.

 In fact, Hell is full of shadows and various monsters, just itching for flesh and chaos. We have seen Alastor controlling voodoo imps and shadowy deer, for example. The imps would burn buildings, feast on deer and loot stores. Every demon has a shadow that acts as its own entity, despite being connected to their owners. The shadows represent the dark subconscious desires of the host, desires both in Hell and the thoughts of the sinner when they were alive. In addition, the shadow reflects the full demon form of the sinner or Hell-Born and in fact, enables them to transform. When in their full demon forms, the demon hosts often give into their primal urges and evil natures, unless they can fully control…who they are inside.

 Alastor can control his shadow and minions…to a certain extent. If he is not careful, even the Radio Demon could be possessed as well.

 Like the Exterminators and angels in Heaven, there exists an evil conspiracy in Hell as well. The shadows want total freedom in Hell…and all the souls that come with it. They may even try to free Satan from the icy Ring of Treachery. Satan is the red goat, black suit-wearing evil counterpart of Lucifer. Like Lucifer, he is a powerful ruler of Hell, along with Beezlebub the fly lord, Leviathan the sea monster, Beal, etc. Satan was once a part of Lucifer before he was expelled from him and banished to the darkest district. Lucifer and Satan merged could stand up against God and Adina, the evil angel from Zoophobia. But with that much power comes the risk of Lucifer going deranged and initiating a Hell-wide massacre. Charlie, too, has her shadow and her dark side, and if left unchecked, she could engulf Hell and her friends in “cleansing” flames.

 There are a select group of shadows…the shadows of the characters! Charlie, Vaggie, Angel etc. all have shadows that look different and occasionally manifest, often when they are by themselves or sleeping.

 Eilrahc (eel-ra-uh-c): Charlie’s shadow.

Her shadow appears as a look-alike figure with two horns, sharp grinning teeth and long hair. The eyes are often orange-red. Her shadow is Charlie’s evil side/subconscious. Unlike Charlie who sees the good in everyone, her shadow wants Charlie to unlock her powerful potential and to instill fear in her subjects. Her shadow doesn’t believe in redemption, only in having people respect her completely. (Charlie wants to be loved and believed in, but it is hard). Charlie’s evil form is encouraged and brought forth by both Lucifer being stern and by Alastor’s trickery.

There are times when Charlie can get violent, such as when she fought Katie Killjoy on the table at the news station. Charlie going into her demon from was just for show, but the power was still there. Charlie’s shadow doesn’t believe in redemption, but will help Charlie reach her goal, even if it means forcing people to “redeem” themselves.

 Eiggav (e-gav): Vaggie’s shadow.

Eiggav appears as a look-alike to Vaggie, except with a gaunt face, two horns, glowing purple eyes and moth-like features. Her shadow has dark wings with glowing purple eyes, representing her full demon form.

Vagatha has hated men ever since she could remember. Her father, Valentino was abusive to her and her mother. Vaggie died of a brutal gang rape, the men taunting her for being a prostitute, a lesbian and for being Latina. Vaggie’s shadow is an expert in using weapons and represents Vaggie’s anger and desire to kill jerk men. Eiggav pours out anger and helps make Vaggie into a deadly fighter. But she also deters Vaggie from opening her mind and being more trustworthy.

    Tsud Legna (t-sud- leg-na): Angel Dust’s shadow.

This shadow briefly appeared during Angel Dust’s battle against the Egg Bois, standing behind Angel, very tall after sending an egg flying. His shadow is tall with six arms, venomous fangs and narrowed pink eyes.

Angel’s shadow represents Angel’s dirty thoughts and bad habits, also as Anthony when he lived in New York. Like Valentino, he encourages Angel to keep doing drugs, be a porn star and pursue a life of freedom. The shadow wants Angel to love who he loves, be violent and seek out money and stimulation. Yet the shadow is also his voice of doubt, saying that Valentino and Henroin will never treat him as an equal. That his father hates him for being gay and leaving the mafia. (His shadow likes to mess with him like the shadows of other demon hosts).

 Rotsala (rot-sala): Alastor’s shadow.

This shadow made an appearance during Alastor’s reprise dance number at the hotel. The shadow appears to walk in through the fireplace, grinning at Alastor before vanishing (like Dr. Facilier’s shadow). The shadow looks like Alastor, with deer-like tufts, sharp teeth, and antlers. At times, the shadow looks like a wendigo. He often has glowing teal eyes and a wide grin.

Like the wendigo, Rotsala is always hungry for the next kill. He was created by dark magic and serves as Alastor’s guide/spy. Rotsala appears to be a leader among the other shadows. Alastor can send his shadow to hunt or spy on people. His shadow represents Alastor’s murderous intentions, but also his deep seated fears such as fear of dogs and his abusive father. Alastor had many dark thoughts when he was surrounded by racism and violence in New Orleans. His shadow would love to see everyone possessed or tortured for entertainment. Like Alastor, Rotsala loves music.

 Rotsala is attracted to Charlie and her shadow, and reveals feelings and intentions that Alastor often hides.

 Ytffin (yeet-fin): Niffty’s shadow.

This small little shadow has a large yellow eye, curly hair and sharp teeth. She is as fast as Niffty, often enjoying “cleansing” parts of Hell and disposing of bodies. The shadow represents Niffty’s sexual obsession with men, along with a hidden fear of them. Niffty’s shadow urges Niffty to always be busy with cleaning, cooking, sewing, writing and pursuing men. As a Japanese woman named Nefuti in the 1950s in California, Niffty learned about housekeeping and cleanliness very early on (but also killed a man, which led to her death in a fireplace).

   Ksuh (k-suh): Husk’s shadow.

This grumpy shadow has Husk’s cat-like features and angry yellow glowing eyes.  The dark thoughts also apply to Husk as a human: Hilario in Las Vegas, Nevada. His shadow looks like Husk’s demon form: a fierce large cat that has the build of a mountain lion. Husk often takes this form when protecting Alastor from enemy attackers. Husk’s shadow represents Husk’s additions and his traumatic past. Husk developed a gambling and drinking addiction early on in life and also fought during several wars. The trauma got to him, and he died of over-drinking and depression at age 75. But his shadow encourages him to seek more money, drink more booze and shut people out. Husk enjoys magic shows and lived a while (nine lives) but his curiosity killed him in time (curiosity killed the cat). However, Husk has the potential to be softer and more open to others, even finding love, which he had lost years ago.

 Xov: Vox’s shadow.

Born in Russia as Vincent, he took control of the television industry in the U.S., hosting game shows and scamming people in pursuit of money. He was also racist to people like Alastor and treated women as trophies. He later died after a TV fell on his head. Vox quickly rose to power as a TV Overlord, gaining control of electricity and media brainwashing. He may even be more powerful than Alastor.

  Onitnelav: Valentino’s shadow.

Valentino was a wealthy Brooklyn pimp and human trafficker in his human life, before he was arrested and sentenced to death. He was also father to Vagatha. When he arrived in Hell, he took over the porn industry, taking many clients such as Angel Dust. Like Vox and Velvet, he enjoys his powerful status and manipulating others to his benefit.

 Tevlev: Velvet’s shadow.

Venessa was Velvet’s human name. In life, she was African American and became popular on social media. She enjoyed spreading gossip about others along with eating sweets and playing with dolls. But Vanessa was soon bullied and this led to her killing people with a knife while pretending to be innocent. She later stabbed herself to avoid being arrested. In Hell, she became the Harley Quinn-like demon of social media.

    Bmob Irrehc: Cherri Bomb’s shadow.

Cherri Bomb’s shadow has hot pink eyes and hair that appears as flames. Cherri was a rebel and feminist in Australia, who fought to the extremes in protests. She died at a young age in the 80s after an explosion she had caused. She is Angel Dust’s partner in crime. Her shadow represents her explosive tendencies and her fear of her abusive ex-boyfriend.

 Suoitnep Ris: Sir Pentious’ shadow.

Sir Pentious was an aristocrat and a black-haired evil inventor during the Industrial Revolution before he died from a mechanical failure in a blizzard. He commands his Egg Bois and wants to take over Hell. He also has a desire to be part of the “cool club” of Overlords Vox, Valentino and Velvet.

 Yojllik Eitak: Katie Killjoy’s shadow.

Katie basked in wealth and status. Katie Killjoy died in 1992 from being crushed by news equipment from above. Her shadow represents her love of gossip, sexual lust toward men and her love of bringing others down and high ratings.

   Hcnert Mot: Tom Trench’s shadow.

Tom Trench’s shadow also has a gas mask on, and is surrounded by noxious gas and green fumes. Tom is a blonde man who fought with the Nazis/Germany. He had killed many people but he didn’t have a choice. He eventually died from gas in the trenches, before becoming a news anchor in Hell. His shadow represents his violent tendencies and sexual remarks.

 Yllom: Molly’s shadow.

Molly’s shadow appears as a fierce spider with pink eyes and hearts.

 Ssinkcara: Arackniss’ shadow.

Appears similar to Angel’s shadow but even darker.

 Niorneh: Henroin’s shadow.

 Htilil: Lilith’s shadow.

Reficul: Lucifer’s shadow.

Elzzar and Elzzad: Razzle and Dazzle’s shadows.

Asleh: Helsa’s shadow.

Nahtaives: Seviathan’s shadow.

 Yzmim: Mimzy’s shadow.

Mimzy’s shadow has large lavender glowing eyes, thick hips and hair, and features of a mockingbird. Mimzy as Majorie in life, wanted fame, attention, wealth and love for many years, both on Earth and in Hell. She performs at her club and basks in the spotlight. In life, she was a star who killed her husband to get his insurance money. She was also in love with Alastor and gets jealous and emotional when she doesn’t get her way. Mimzy’s shadow represents her selfish and materialistic tendencies.

 Inimyrc: Crymini’s shadow.

Crymini’s shadow takes on the form of a hellhound with sharp teeth, skull markings and light red eyes. Her shadow represents her crimes in life and the afterlife: vandalizing, smoking, killing, drugs, porn, and being a delinquent. She was a typical My Chemical Romance emo teenager in the 90s until her death. Crymini has more porn than Angel Dust and might have more addictions than he does. Crymini’s good traits include her love of rock/metal music, her eventual growth as a Hazbin Hotel client, and her later acquaintance with fellow hellhound Loona.

  Retxab: Baxter’s shadow.

Baxter’s shadow takes on Baxter’s demon form, a large anglerfish monster with teal eyes and markings. Baxter’s shadow represents Baxter’s unethical experiments and his need to be alone all the time. Baxter had died on a boat and drowned in his life, while in pursuit to be the smartest most powerful inventor in Germany. Baxter often grows creatures in tanks, builds robots, makes deadly chemicals, weapons and drugs for Velvet, Sir Pentious and secret dealers.

 Eisor: Rosie’s shadow.

Rosie was born in Hell, is an Overlord and owns an emporium. She is like an evil Mary Poppins during the Day of the Dead. She likes to sing with Alastor and be a cruel CEO to her workers. She is an elegant woman of class and style, also a model.

Rosie seeks to gain more power and influence, wanting people to eventually become her sewing slaves. She believes that the Hell-Born are superior to sinners. Like Lucifer, she attempts to stop Charlie’s plan from working.

  Steggun Taf: Fat Nugget’s shadow.

 Oor: Roo’s shadow.

Roo’s shadow represents her demon form, taking the shape of a monstrous kangaroo with glowing orange eyes and teeth. Roo as Roxanne was born in Australia and worked as a trash picker. Kanga was her older sister and rival who went to heaven. Roo killed people and disposed of them in dumpsters and incinerators. She later died in an incinerator after trying to escape from police. In Hell, she is the Trash Queen, disposing bodies and consuming demons with her orange parasite from her mouth. She also lives in the junkyard, surrounded by trash every day. Roo likes metal music, herbs, feasting on demons and making trash into clothing.

 Alliv: Villa’s shadow.

Oztilb: Blitzo’s shadow. (the o is still silent)

Eixxom: Moxxie’s shadow

Eillim: Millie’s shadow.

Anool: Loona’s shadow.

Salots: Stolas’ shadow.

Aivatco: Octavia’s shadow.

Zzif Obor: Robo Fizz’s shadow.

[dragonanddirewolf]

The Ice King and Dragon Queen

Once upon a time in the far North, where the snow never stops falling and all buildings are clad in ice, sat a man in a great hall feasting with his men. The man had raven hair and grave eyes, and he sat at the main table although he was no lord, for he was named King by the men before him. The man’s name was Jon, and he was troubled.

Winter had arrived at Winterfell, but the North knew winter well, hence it was not the season darkening his mind. The King had heard tales about dead men rising from the ice, and though no man could yet prove to have seen these creatures, the history books spoke of such occurrences.

Jon was a fighter with a gleaming sword named Longclaw, and his men too came from brave houses, but according to his maester none of this would matter.

Maester Aemon told him: “My King, these are dark times, and they grow darker by the day. If we are to see the sun shine once again, we must defeat the evil from beyond the Wall.”

“What can defeat what not even death could claim?” Jon asked.

Aemon replied: “Only rain quenches a drought. Only love overcomes hate. Only fire will melt the ice.”

“Though wood is scarce, we have fire,” Jon spoke. This was true; alongside every hall in Winterfell, and there were more of these than can be counted by a common man, flickered a torch. In every chamber a fireplace was ablaze. Even in the courtyard a great fire roared, warming those unable to attend the meal inside.

“Common fire will not kill the dead,” spoke the maester. “Only flames breathed by a dragon can give these men peace.”

“There are only three dragons in the Seven Kingdoms,” spoke Jon, “and they are guarded by their Queen. But it shall be so; I will set out first thing tomorrow.”

“I will gift you this for your journey,” Aemon said as he presented the King with a bag. It was a knapsack of worn leather with a rusty clasp keeping it shut. “This will grant you four things you need for your travels. What these things are, I do not know. Whenever you are in need, reach into the bag, and you shall find your way forward. But use it with care - for only four gifts shall emerge, then no more.”

The King thanked the maester for his kindness and then set off to bed. He was still troubled as the night carried on, but with the knapsack at his side, he felt a little more at peace.

At the break of dawn, the King set out on his journey. To avoid attracting attention, he kept his company small; to his right rode his Hand Ser Davos, a man whose guidance he knew to be fair, and on his left trudged his trusted direwolf Ghost, a large white beast with eyes as red as blood.

For the first seven days they travelled at sunrise and settled at sunset, finding shelter at inns along the way. In these lands, the King was well known and liked by the people, so food was served aplenty and the bed always free of charge. In the evenings, as the townspeople gathered around their table, the King spoke to the worried folk, promising them peace and prosperity. He assured them he was seeking to fight their cause down South, and no man questioned his words. Wherever they went, they were met with smiles, and the bards sung songs of praise:

The King, His Grace Born from Ice In him we Trust The North shall Rise

The King, His Grace Fighting the Fight Akin the Gods He leads us Right

For the following seven days, the daylight hours seemed to stretch further into the evenings, and ice started melting off the roads. Hardened weirwood trees were replaced by hundreds of rivers, fresh grasslands and fields of corn and barley. Instead of feasting on blood sausages and potatoes, the King and Ser Davos were served fish and fresh vegetables. However much they likened the change to their meals, they also sensed a change to the folk surrounding them. The King’s face was known, but his powers did not reach into the riverlands, and here the people were wary. In the evenings, no one gathered by their table, and the bards sung songs of caution:

Kings and Queens Who can Recall Which one will Rise Which one will Fall

Kings and Queens Are sure to Battle And smallfolk will Fall Akin to Cattle

Seven more days followed of rivers and roads leading through thick woodlands. At Ser Davos’ advice, they spent that night sleeping under the stars. He said:

“In the North, you are a hero. But the further South we travel, the less power your title of King carries. You have no royal blood to speak of, and no family name attached to your claim. Many here do not know of your face.”

“This is true,” agreed Jon.

“I suggest we hold our coin. Men of the North are not known for their riches. To pay our way as we have before would arise suspicion.”

“Yet we must find a way to get presented to the Queen,” Jon spoke. “I have heard she is kind, but this does not mean she is not cautious. Why should she welcome a stranger?”

“To present yourself as King could cause undue trouble,” Ser Davos warned.

For days, the King’s mind had found peace in the surroundings, but at his Hands’ words it was as if his troubles returned at once. As their bonfire died out, he buried himself in Ghost’s warm fur and answered the silent night: “Yet to deny my claim could mean the end of the North.”

As the sun rose, they were awakened by the sound of galloping horses. Light was still sparse in the thick of the wood, so the King and Ser Davos stepped into the bushes with their hands on the sword hilts in preparation for a fight.

At first, they could see nothing in between the trees, but then an entourage of men appeared. Each was clad in shiny armour decorated with fine stones, and each was atop a strong white stallion neighing with fury. As the men noticed the King and Ser Davos, they turned their horses and rode through the shrubs to surround them. Jon counted at least thirty men, but it was the man atop a black stallion who demanded their attention.

“If you planned an ambush, you should’ve brought more men,” he spoke, riding into the midst of the circle to stop before the King. “Who are you?”

Jon looked upon the man. He was dressed in hardened leather, his brown hair was roughly chopped at his nape, and his dark eyes were filled with suspicion. His hand rested at his belt where he held not a sword but an arakh. Jon wondered if he was from outside the Seven Kingdoms.

It was Ser Davos who spoke: “We wish no fight. We are mere travellers on our way to King’s Landing.”

“I have never met a traveller carrying fine steel,” spoke the man and pointed to Jon’s sword. “However I have met thieves who claimed such possessions to be their own. I shall only ask once more - who are you?”

Jon knew he could not fight off thirty men, yet he could not admit his kinghood either. As Ser Davos had warned, speaking of the North in these parts could cause trouble, and now they were looking at said problem.

As the man’s face grew impatient, Jon remembered maester Aemon’s words and he reached into the knapsack at his side. His fingertips closed around a small, cold form, and as he held out his hand, he presented the man with a ring.

The sunlight from above fell through the leaves, and it made the golden jewelry shine. It was a man’s ring, thick and smooth, and atop it carried the Targaryen sigil; a three headed dragon, the eyes decorated with rubies.

The man’s face turned pale. “Forgive me,” he spoke, “I did not know you represent the Queen. My name is Daario Naharis. How can I be of assistance?”

“We wish only to travel in peace,” Jon spoke.

“It shall be so. Please allow me to lead you through the woods, for there are many more men heading this way who will make the same mistake. Should hardship befall you, I would blame myself for not helping.”

“Forgive me, but I thought these woods were no longer well travelled,” spoke Ser Davos.

The man looked surprised. “Surely you jest, Ser? After the Queen’s announcement, men from all of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond now travel these roads daily. Albeit rough, it is the most direct route.”

“You too travel for this reason?” spoke Jon, choosing his words with care not to reveal that they did not know of any announcement.

“Why of course. A marriage to the Queen? What foolish man would not present himself at this opportunity!”

They bid their farewells at the edge of the woods, and the King and Ser Davos watched the men ride off into the distance.

“The Queen is to be married?” Ser Davos spoke once he was certain they were alone. “Why, this is the perfect guise to meet her.”

“I do not wish to play her for a fool,” Jon spoke.

“You would only do so if she wishes to take your hand,” Ser Davos said. “Besides, I am sure many men will approach King’s Landing at this proclamation. We shall hide ourselves amongst them.”

The King seemed less certain. “Truly? How many eligible lords reside in the Seven Kingdoms?” he asked.

Ser Davos smiled: “My King, who said anything about lords?”

The King had brought Ser Davos along for his guidance, and as always it turned out to be correct. As they rode toward King’s Landing, they passed many lords dressed in their finest garb preparing for an audience with the Queen. These lords were either atop the finest stallions known to man, or they rode inside carriages decorated with gold, and all of them were followed by their soldiers and liegemen. They made for an impressive sight.

However they met many more common men; burly smiths dressed in homemade armour, and farmers riding carriages filled with whatever little they owned, and peasants, hundreds of them, walking on their own two feet only, their belongings fitting into a single sack in their hand.

Though most had never seen the Queen, bards danced along the way, begging for coin as they sung songs of promise:

The Queen, the Queen With silver Hair Her rule is Strong Her skin is Fair

The Queen, the Queen A sight to See All dressed in White A bride to Be

“I worry she shall have no time to speak to me,” Jon said as they stopped for the night. Although they had decided to spend some coin on an inn, they had been unable to find anywhere with a bed still available. Even the stables were filled to the brim with men seeking shuteye on the hay, the horses left to fend for themselves in the summer night.

Instead, they camped by the roadside, watching as some men continued to walk through the falling darkness.

“You will have to compete for her attention,” Ser Davos agreed. “But I cannot imagine that she will see each and every one of these men.”

“I just don’t understand,” Jon spoke as he rested his head between his hands and glanced into the flames of the bonfire. “From the tales I’ve heard about the Queen, she was never described for her looks, only her power, her kindness, and her justice. Now, every bard in the kingdom sings of her silver hair and violet eyes.”

“Most men marry for beauty or wealth,” Ser Davos said. “It would make no sense for them to sing of her rule.”

“That is what I don’t get,” Jon spoke.

“Forgive me, my King, but I do not follow?”

The King furrowed his brows as he scowled at the fire in thought. “Why would a powerful Queen invite every man in the Seven Kingdoms to beg for her hand? It seems not a wise thing to do.”

“My King, you are without a bride yourself. Perhaps akin to you, she has not met someone for whom her heartbeat quickens. Perhaps she only wishes for someone to make her with child. It is not for us to worry about. Keep your eyes on our goal - we need her dragons.”

“Perhaps,” Jon nodded, but as Ser Davos drifted off to sleep, he remained awake. Once the flames died out, he glanced toward the starry sky instead, and wondered: “Why can I not rid myself of this feeling of unrest?”

-

Before they reached King’s Landing, chaos unfolded before them.

It was as if overnight a town had grown around the capital itself; a town of tents, and tables filled with merchants’ wares, joustings knights on the fields proving their valour, lords and ladies seeking to secure their offsprings’ claim through agreements with other houses, children playing on the road, peasants drinking in the ditch.

The King and Ser Davos rode slowly through the makeshift place, Ghost leading the way as his size forced the crowds to part before them. Wherever they looked, there was something anew to look upon, and this change from the cold, silent North almost overwhelmed Jon.

“My people are preparing to fight for their lives,” he spoke, “whilst here no one feels hardship.”

“I hear the Queen is supported by the Golden Company,” Ser Davos spoke. “No doubt it has impacted the coin coming through the city.”

“I suppose not every man could fit beyond the city walls,” Jon said, “so instead here they camp. I wish not to be one of them, I must hurry home as soon as I can.”

“Then think quickly,” Ser Davos said and gestured ahead.

The King brought his horse to a halt as they stood before the city walls. Here, the main entrance had been shut, and sellswords from the Golden Company stood aplenty blocking the little side entrance. Every man who approached them was questioned and, Jon noted after a few minutes of observation, more often than not turned away.

“There are seven gates,” Ser Davos reminded him. “My King, perhaps another will be less protected?”

The King looked around them. As far as his eyes could see, tents and market stalls stretched around the walls, and so did a thick line of sellswords. “I am afraid you might be in the wrong,” Jon spoke. “One gate is as good as the other. I must find my way in.”

“State your purpose!” a man roared.

Only then did Jon realise that he had been approached. Two sellswords clad in gold stood before him, their eyes barely visible through the narrow holes in their helmets.

“We wish to trade,” Ser Davos said.

“You can join the market behind you,” the men advised.

“Our wares are fine,” Ser Davos pressed on, “we only wish to speak to shopkeepers.”

“Force me not to repeat myself twice,” the men warned, their hands on the hilt of their swords.

Jon knew he had to interrupt. “Sers,” he spoke and got off his horse. Before the broad men, he appeared small; he was at least a head shorter than both, and his simple black clothing and cloak no match for their thick armour. Somehow, it seemed they realised this too as the men relaxed. For the moment, their hands left their swords. “Forgive us, we have travelled a long way. We need to go beyond the city walls. We have good coin.”

“Many have good coin. Did you not see the lords when you rode here?” one of the men asked. “The Queen has commanded that no more men are allowed into the city.”

“Surely this must be a mistake,” Ser Davos spoke. “Is she not seeking marriage?”

The men scowled, and they both knew at once that he had spoken in error. “Our orders are not to be questioned,” the sellswords spoke, drawing their swords. “If it is trouble you seek, we shall comply!”

In that moment, Jon’s fingertips brushed across the knapsack at his side, and he once more recalled maester Aemon’s words. He swiftly pushed his hand into the bag and retrieved a scroll.

As he offered it to the men, he could tell their hesitation, for it carried the Targaryen seal.

“Please, Sers,” he spoke, “I did not wish to show you this, but we have been officially invited. Read and you shall see.”

Urged on by the King’s earnestness, one of the men accepted the scroll, broke the seal and read the content within. What it said, neither Jon nor Ser Davos knew, and they were not offered a peek themselves. Instead, they were quickly ushered inside the side gate, much to the uproar from the people behind them.

“We too wish to be let inside!” men shouted. “We too wish to see the Queen!” But the door was shut behind them, and Jon, Ser Davos and Ghost found themselves alone on the streets of King’s Landing.

“I only have two gifts left,” Jon spoke that night.

They were seated in an inn within the walls, dining on the local stew and ale. They had not dared to spend their coin on better food, so they filled their mouths with thick grub whilst looking longingly at the table next to them where a lord was stuffing himself with veal.

“Well, we have made the journey,” Ser Davos spoke. “Perhaps you will not even need it.”

“Aye, we’ve made the journey, yet my travels are not over,” Jon spoke. “Do you not find the situation strange?”

“I find it wiser not to speak,” Ser Davos said and stuffed his mouth with bread.

Jon glanced around them, just to ensure no one was listening, before he too dipped back into his food.

They had wandered the streets of King’s Landing for hours and found the place to be strangely empty. In comparison to the many men they had seen approach, few had made it inside the walls.

Jon pondered upon the situation; the Queen had announced her intention to marry, yet she wished not to see any men. They had attempted to approach the Red Keep only to be turned away by the Kingsguard situated there. In comparison to the sellswords outside the gates, they had been more gentle as they spoke:

“My apologies, the Queen will not see anyone.”

“We have been invited,” Ser Davos had told them, “Did your men at the gate not tell?”

“My apologies, the Queen will not see anyone,” they had repeated, and they continued to do so until the King and Ser Davos turned and left for the inn.

Jon poked around his stew with a piece of bread. “We must find a way,” he spoke.

“Yes,” Ser Davos yawned, “tomorrow we shall find a way, but tonight we shall sleep - and in a bed for once. I bid you goodnight.” He nodded his head at the King who returned the gesture.

Jon watched Ser Davos make his way upstairs before getting up himself. “I shall bid Ghost goodnight,” he told himself, “and then I too shall seek the bed.”

Outside, Ghost was waiting by the door. Jon stepped into the warm summer night and offered the direwolf a slice of meat. “I am sorry, Ghost, it was all I could buy without causing suspicion,” he spoke as he watched the wolf swallow the meat at once. He was about to turn back inside as a shadow caught his eye.

There, on the otherwise empty streets, walked a woman. She was clad in black, causing her to be almost invisible in the shadow, and her brown hair bobbed around her head as she hurried along. It was only when she shortly stepped into the moonlight that Jon noticed the pin upon her chest; three dragons spun together in a silver circle.

As quietly as he could muster, Jon took off behind her, trailing her footsteps up the street, around corners, down narrow alleys. He wondered if she knew she was being followed, for she sped up at once, her feet taking her around a corner in such a hurry he was sure he would lose sight of her. But then, as he too turned the corner, he was met with a silver blade to his throat.

“Why do you follow me?” the woman asked in a whisper.

Jon held his hands up to show he had no weapon drawn. “I noticed your pin,” he admitted.

“You speak as if you do not know me,” she said.

“I do not,” Jon admitted. He felt he had no choice but to choose the truth. The knife pressed harder to his skin.

“Do you jest?”

“I am no jester.”

“You wish to see the Queen.” Jon must have looked surprised at this, for the woman smiled. “Of course. That is the wish of every man, but especially a fraud.”

“Why do you call me so?” Jon asked.

“The sellswords told me of a man entering the city with an official letter from the Queen. Now, they are but foolish men, but I am Hand to the Queen. I know of no such letter, so therefore no such letter exists.” The knife was now pressed so tight to Jon’s throat that he was sure blood was flowing. Yet, when he glanced down, he saw none. “I will give you one chance only to explain yourself.”

For a third time, Jon’s fingertips stroke across the knapsack. He knew of no other way to save himself, so he reached in and said, “Will this convince you?” and held out his hand.

In his palm, he held a single winter rose. It appeared so bright and frail that he almost couldn’t believe its existence. Of all the gifts he had produced, this seemed the least favourable, and yet the woman before him appeared shocked.

She put away her blade and instead reached out to touch the blue petals, as if to ensure they were real. “You wish to see the Queen?” she whispered. “It shall be so. Follow me.”

Alone in the night, his bag now almost devoid of gifts, and holding a blue rose only, Jon walked with the woman to the Red Keep, and the King thought to himself: I shall now either fail my kingdom or grant it its freedom. He knew not yet which.

As the King entered the great hall, he was struck by the sheer size of the Iron Throne.

Made from melted swords, it rose from the marble floor toward the ceiling, each step of the way hardened by the twisted blades sticking out before it. It was more beast than beauty, and Jon found himself thinking that this truly was a seat of power.

The hall was greatly lit with hundreds of torches along the walls. The flames reflected in the stained-glass windows, causing colourful lights to dance all around him. Yet, the further up the throne his gaze went, the darker it got. The shape of the backrest was so twisted and grand that it caught itself in its own shadow, and it was only as his eyes got used to the darkness that he noticed someone was seated atop. It could only be the Dragon Queen.

The King lowered his head in respect. “Your Grace,” he spoke, “I thank you for seeing me at this hour.”

The Queen did not speak. Instead, she slowly got up from the seat and started making her way down the stairs. Each step was slow and calculated, and she stopped halfway, her body revealed to the light whilst her face was still in the shadows. Jon could see she was clad in a long, blue dress, delicately embroidered with fiery dragons. Whenever the folds in her skirt moved, they seemed to come alive, dancing alongside her hemline.

They reminded the King of his purpose, and so he spoke: “Your Grace, I mean no harm. I have travelled a long way to see you.” He lifted his gaze to seek hers, but he could not determine her expression in the darkness. “I come only to ask one thing of you.”

Finally, the Queen spoke: “Many men have travelled far to see me. In this you are not alone.”

“I have heard so, your Grace,” Jon agreed, “however what I ask of you will differ from them.”

“That I have heard many men say too,” the Queen said. “Every man believes himself to be different. No one aliken themself to their peers.” She folded her hands in front of her as she paused, then continued: “But it is true. You do differ.”

Feeling a sense of hope, Jon allowed himself to straighten up. “Your Grace,” he started in earnest, but the Queen’s sharp voice cut through:

“You are different in that you deceived my men, and you tried to deceive my Hand, and now you believe you can deceive me.”

“I have done no such thing,” the King protested, “nor do I wish to.”

The Queen flickered her hand, and a light shimmered in the air. Something hit the ground with a sharp noise, then rolled across the floor to his feet.

As Jon looked down, he saw the ring he brandished when Daario questioned him.

“My Hand sneaked this from your pocket when you met,” the Queen spoke. “Do you deny it is yours?”

“I do not,” the King spoke.

“Then at least you have some honour left. Now tell me,” she said, taking one more step down so that her whole frame was bathed in light, “why I shouldn’t let my dragons feast on you?”

It was then the King realised that the bards’ had sung in earnest about their Queen’s appearance; she had long hair which shimmered like silver, black lashes framed her violet eyes hard akin jewels, and her skin was as fair as snow.

He averted her eyes with another headbow. “Your Grace,” he spoke, “I understand every man in the Seven Kingdoms seeks your hand in marriage.”

“They do, and even common folk have dressed in their finest garbs before approaching the Keep, yet you stand before me like a traveller.”

This the King could not deny. His clothes had remained the same for most of his journey, and tonight was no different. His black tunic and breeches were simple, and his cloak made of roughspun wool to blend in with the townspeople. But here, where every man wished to offer a themself to the Dragon Queen, he stood out for the wrong reasons. He was like a fool who did not know his left from his right, and he reddened under the Queen’s scrutiny.

“Your Grace, I mean no disrespect,” he assured.

“Yet you keep calling me Grace and not Queen,” the Queen noted as she stepped further down the throne. The closer she came, the more of him she seemed to take in, her eyes seeking his body.

“I apologise, but I will not allow myself to deceive you,” Jon spoke.

“How so?” the Queen asked, now on her final step.

“My name is Jon,” he spoke, “but I am commonly known as the King in the North.”

On this final step, the Dragon Queen paused as her eyes grew wide. She was watching the King before her for a few seconds before she spoke: “You are the one they call the Ice King.”

“That is a nickname of mine,” Jon agreed.

“Peculiar. I imagined an Ice King to be blond,” the Queen pondered.

At this, the King smiled. “I apologise for the disappointment.”

“How do I know you are truly who you say you are?” the Queen asked, her eyes narrowed in thought. Her hands slipped to the small of her back as she leaned forward, gazing into Jon’s eyes.

At this, Jon reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a ring of his own. The band was silver, and atop it was decorated with the Stark siegel, the head of a direwolf. “I offer you this,” he spoke, “but also what convinced your Hand to trust me,” and in his other hand, he presented the single blue rose.

It seemed to the Queen the ring mattered less than the rose, for she took the flower and held it before her eyes, watching it with awe. “These are hard to come by,” she spoke. “They grow only in the cold.”

“I did say I travelled far,” Jon spoke.

The Queen lowered the rose. “I get the feeling you did not approach me to propose a marriage.”

The King shook his head. “No, your Grace, I am afraid my proposal is less joyous.”

The Queen seemed to ponder for a moment, then she gestured for him to follow. “Let us speak in a more private chamber,” she said.

It was only then, as she led him behind the throne and further into the Keep, that Jon realised they had been watched the whole time. Alongside the balconies above them stood men brandishing crossbows, each of them with an arrow pointed straight at him, their eyes following him coldly.

The Dragon Queen stood in front of a window, her eyes grave as she watched King’s Landing stretch out before her. “What you ask of me is a lot,” she spoke, “more than the men who seek my hand.”

“I would not ask if I did not believe the North to be in dire danger,” the King spoke. He was seated at a table in her chamber, a map laid out before him. On it, she had circled Winterell, alongside with the Wall of the North. Somewhere between the two, the dead now roamed, that he knew. However the Queen seemed less certain.

“You have seen these dead men?” she asked.

“I have not,” Jon admitted. “But my maester has studied the history books. The tales do not lie.”

“Forgive me, but I disagree,” she spoke and turned to look at Jon. “The history books always lie. Are they not written by those who won the wars?”

“The maesters write the books,” Jon said, “they work from a perspective of truth.”

“The truth is not a perspective,” the Queen smiled. “I am afraid your heart is not as cold as the North from which you come. You think people too kind.”

“I want to believe that your heart is not cold either,” Jon spoke. “I want to believe that you will lend us your dragons for this fight, lest we shall fall.”

“My dragons are my strength,” the Queen spoke. “I am called the Dragon Queen. My dragons are not simple cattle to be ordered around. They are great beasts with a mind of their own. They are my children.”

“I apologise if I offended you,” Jon spoke, “but my people rely on me for their safety. I must do all in my power to grant them a peaceful life.”

“That I can admire,” the Queen spoke. She once again turned to look out of the window, this time waving for Jon to join her. As he stood by her side, she gestured at the scene before them. “Look, this is the heart of the Kingdom. Whoever sits on the Iron Throne also sits on the responsibility of protecting this realm. If I take off with my dragons, who shall see to my people?”

“Last I checked, the North was part of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon spoke.

“Yet you do not consider me your rightful Queen, or else you should not be named King,” she retorted.

The King knew she was right, so he spoke no more, but just watched the city with her. They had been talking for so long that the sun was now rising. In the horizon, the pale light started stretching its way across the land.

It was the Queen who broke the silence: “I am no coward. I believe in righteousness. I will fight evil where I see it. I shall not be broken.” She glanced at Jon, and he saw in her eyes a sadness. “But alas, I find myself in a war in which I am a stranger.”

“You are at war?” the King spoke in surprise.

“The men at the gates seek my hand. This is known. They have all heard the announcement, and they have all come to claim me as their own. Some of them come with ill wills, but many only seek to better their future. This I cannot fault them.” The Queen folded her hands at her front as she sighed. “Understand this; I did not make the announcement.”

The King furrowed his brows in confusion. “You do not seek to marry?”

“Once I did. But the man betrayed me.” The Queen walked back into the chamber, looking ahead of her as she spoke: “What do most men seek from this world?”

“I do not know,” Jon admitted. He turned to watch her walk. “Power? Wealth?”

“Most men seek to leave a mark on this world. A mark that will last for centuries. That kind of mark requires an heir.” She turned to look at him, the sadness once again twinkling in her eyes. “The man whom I was to marry betrayed me for I could not offer him what he wanted.”

“You cannot bear children,” Jon concluded quietly.

“It is by his words that I am now seeking marriage. He thought there would be no greater humiliation to me than for men to ask my hand, only to turn away once they find me barren.” The Queen shook her head. “Now, the bards sing of my looks, this I know. But trust me - if word was to come out, they would sing of nothing but my lack of womanhood.”

“I ask you not to speak of this, I ask you to join me in fight,” Jon promised, but the Queen shook her head once more.

“If I am to leave the Keep with my dragons, it would read as a sign of defeat. The Queen has fled her people, the Queen is chasing the northern King. The Queen submits to a man. I have partaken in those tales before. I do not wish to partake in another.”

The King did not know what words to speak. For a moment, his fingertips brushed across his knapsack as he remembered maester Aemon’s words once more. If only he was to reach inside the bag, he would surely find a magical gift that could convince the Queen to assist him.

However, as he looked into her sad eyes, he found himself unable to undo the clasp. For what man uses magic to steer the will of a woman? Only a devil in disguise.

As he remained silent, the Queen took it as a sign to conclude: “You understand now, Ice King, why I cannot lend you my dragons. I am in a position of strength and weakness all at once. The strength must win, or I shall fail as Queen.”

It was the Queen’s Hand who let him out of the Keep. They walked in silence, but as he stood by the gates to the city, he turned to look upon her.

“I am sorry,” she spoke.

“I am too,” he said. “Please, may I ask one question before I leave?” The Hand nodded, and the King continued: “Why did the winter rose convince you to bring me here?”

At this, she appeared surprised. “Did the Queen not tell?” she asked.

“She took the rose, but she did not say why this made her trust me.”

“It is not for me to say,” the Hand spoke. Her brown eyes sought the floor and for a moment the King believed she would say no more. But then she spoke: “It is the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” he asked in earnest.

“It is not for me to say,” the Hand repeated her earlier statement. “My apologies, you must leave now.” At this, the doors opened, and the King found himself walking the long way from the Keep to the inn, all alone in the empty streets once more.

However, he did not make it far before both Ser Davos and Ghost were upon him.

“My King!” Ser Davos called. “You had me worried. Where have you been all night?”

“I spoke to the Queen,” the King explained.

Ser Davos looked surprised, but he urged him on: “Did she agree?”

Jon shook his head. “She will not lend us her dragons.”

“I feared this would happen,” Ser Davos said. “Can we convince her?”

“I am afraid she has her reasons,” Jon spoke and, before his Hand could say another word, he decided: “We should spend our coin wisely and gather all the weapons we can - we must make sure our men can fight.”

“Steel will not kill the dead,” Ser Davos spoke sadly.

“No,” the King agreed, “but it will delay our own demise.”

-

As they made their way back up North, their horses were heavy with swords, and the weight slowed them down. However, they had barely made it to the riverlands before they could tell things had changed. At the edge of the woods, where they had before slept, they now saw signs of ice creeping across the forest floor.

“Winter is upon us,” the King spoke as the first snowflakes swirled through the air above them. “I hope we are not too late.”

“We must press on,” Ser Davos spoke, “and ride all the way through the night.” So they did - as the sun set, they continued, fighting their way through the darkness guided by Ghost’s sight only, and they rested just for an hour or two before sunrise, leaving their eyes caked in sleep. So they carried on for weeks, as the snow grew thick around them, and the riverlands turned akin to the North itself.

At their first break at an inn, they found no fish and vegetables to be served. Instead, the innkeeper could only offer them watered down ale and stale bread. “My apologies,” he spoke, “this is all we have left. Winter came so sudden. I fear we shall starve our way through.”

The King and Ser Davos ate the bread in solemn silence, both of them aware that if winter was to last, no one would starve their way through. The season would be too long for mankind to survive.

On their way, the King noted that the mood had changed. Where before people had watched them with caution in the midlands, they were now scarcely noticed. Everyone was too busy gathering what little they could in preparation for the season, and the bards no longer sung of caution but rather fear:

Kings and Queens It matters Not All lives Winter Takes It cannot be Stopped

Kings and Queens Men of strong Will It matters Not All it shall Kill

“These are gloomy songs,” Ser Davos spoke once to a young bard who had entertained at the inn. “Could you not sing something else? The Bear and the Maiden Fair, perhaps?”

The bard only shook his head and replied: “We bards are the history keepers. We sing of what we see and what we know. Alas, this is all we know these days. Ice and snow and death. They say the dead are rising. Would you like to hear a song about that?”

Ser Davos handed him a silver coin for his silence.

By the time the King and Ser Davos reached Winterfell, they could barely make their way through the dense snow to the castle. Once inside the warm hall, as he was shedding his cloak stiff from ice, Jon’s sister Sansa approached him with concern.

“Did it work?” she asked. “Did you convince the Dragon Queen to come?”

The King shook his head sadly. “She cannot come.”

“So it shall be,” Sansa spoke quietly. She turned to face the fire in the great hall, a solemn look on her face. “This place shall become our crypt.”

“I will not sit still as the dead approach,” Jon said, and as he spoke he turned to face his men in the hall. They were seated at the tables, looking hopeless at their hands, but their heads rose at once as their King spoke. “No one should sit still and await death. That is no way to face uncertainty. We shall stand brave, and we shall fight, and the Gods be good, it shall be a good fight.” He drew Longclaw and held it up, the blade shimmering in the light from the fire as he shouted: “Men, will you fight for the living!”

And at once, they all rose, each brandishing their own sword, and they joined in the shouting, promising: “We will fight ‘till the end!”

As the men journeyed outside, setting up their defences, Sansa pulled the King aside for a quiet word. “You should seek maester Aemon,” she said. “I am afraid the cold has taken its toll on him.”

“Is he dying?” Jon spoke with concern, but Sansa could not bear to even nod. Instead of waiting for a reply, Jon hurried through the hall and up the stairs to the maester’s chambers.

He found the door ajar, and the maester in bed, his pale, blind eyes searching the ceiling. As he entered, the maester spoke: “So you return, my King.”

“Maester Aemon,” Jon greeted. He approached the bed with hesitation, but finally sat down on the edge as the maester reached out for him. His hand felt so small and frail in his own.

“I am afraid darkness is descending upon me,” the maester spoke. “A strange thing for a blind man to say, perhaps, but true nonetheless. I feel it in my bones. My end is near.”

“Is there anything I can do?” the King asked.

“You spoke to the Queen,” the maester said. “This I know.”

“I’m sorry.” He could not face the maester as he spoke, but instead eyed the floor: “I could not convince her to come.”

“Trust in the prophecy,” spoke the maester.

At this, Jon looked at the old man with surprise. “You know of the prophecy?”

The maester smiled as he spoke:

“When darkness swallows the moon, and mankind turns on itself

When seasons fight for truth, when North and South collides

Then shall the blue winter bloom, then shall beasts rise from afar

Then shall gold and silver rejoice, and Summer and Winter be one.”

Jon’s hand closed tightly around the maester’s. “Please do not speak in riddles, you know I am no good with words,” the King begged, “please, tell me - is there hope?”

But the maester’s eyes were no longer seeking the ceiling. They had stopped moving altogether, and so had his heart.

It was the first death that winter would come to claim at Winterfell.

At first, the dead were a few. The men of Winterfell easily outnumbered the creatures as they approached the castle, and their bodies were slain and returned to peace once more.

However it was as maester Aemon had warned; common blade did nothing to stop them, and only hours after they had been killed, their bodies rose once more to approach the castle walls. They attempted arrows, but the men rose once more. They attempted fire, but from the smouldering heat the dead men rose again. Nothing could stop them, and as the days passed by, a few became tens, and tens became hundreds, and soon the men called to their King:

“They are too many. They will break down the gate!”

The King stood on the walls and he saw that it was so. The dead outnumbered the living, and with every man he lost, they gained another soldier for their army.

“It is a losing battle,” Ser Davos spoke. “It matters not how many swords we brought from King’s Landing. These men cannot be killed.”

“What choice do we have but to fight?” asked the King.

“We need dragon fire,” spoke Ser Davos.

The King’s face grew dark at this statement. “Aye, that I know, but we have none. It is as maester Aemon said; the prophecy has come true.”

“What prophecy?”

“He said that darkness shall swallow the moon,” the King spoke and gestured toward the sky. It was so black that not even the light from the stars could manage to twinkle through. “And that mankind will turn on itself. Is this not what we are seeing? Men fighting their own?” He leaned over the edge of the wall as he looked down upon the scene before him.

There, far below them, the creatures were crawling atop one another, with no regard for themselves or their own. They were reaching and pulling and dragging at whatever their hands could get a hold of. They were trying to pull the wall apart, brick by brick.

“What more did the prophecy foretell?” Ser Davos asked.

The King continued gloomly: “That beasts shall rise from afar which these men have. Did they not journey all the way from the Wall? So it shall all end when Summer and Winter becomes one.”

“Summer and Winter, and Spring and Fall,” Ser Davos spoke, “it is all one to us now. There will be no more day and night, and no more light and dark, and no more warm and cold. This shall be all that is left for mankind.”

“But mankind itself shall not even be left,” the King spoke and turned. His cloak fluttered behind him as he walked the steps down to the courtyard, drawing his sword Longclaw as he strode ahead. There, around a bonfire, the last of his men stood. In an attempt to slow the army beyond the gate, they were burning the bodies of their fallen friends, and to the ashes that rose from the flames, they said their last goodbyes.

Behind them, Jon noted, the gate was bulging. The dead were piled atop one another, trying to use sheer weight to bring it down. He stepped in front of his men, his back turned to them and his sword at his front, as he spoke:

“Men, you named me King. It is an honour you bestowed on me. I have no royal blood, and no claim to any house, but in me you saw a leader, and I have strived to lead with justice. Now, I shall repay your honour with the only thing I have left - my life. May the Gods, both old and new, have mercy on us tonight. We shall not fall without a fight.”

With that, the gate broke, and the dead entered Winterfell.

They came like a wave upon them, and as they threw themselves at Jon, he realised he did have one thing left; one last gift from the knapsack. So as the bodies piled on top of him, he used his last strength to reach into the bag. His fingers searched inside the leather, and it was only as he opened his hand in front of his eyes that he realised it was empty.

Four gifts he had been promised. Three he had used. Yet it seemed he had none left to claim.

It was in that instance that a wind broke out across the courtyard. As soon as the King thought he had no hope left, the dead were blown off him, and he found himself able to breathe once more.

Jon gasped in the cool air which had never felt sweeter, and he opened his eyes to what he thought was the sun rising above him. But the warm light was dragonfire; it ran in streams across the dark sky, and the wind was no wind at all, but the wave from a dragon’s wings.

The King hurried to his feet, and he watched in awe as the giant beast landed beside him, its black scales shimmering in the light from the bonfire. He glanced up across its thick body to the rider at its top.

There sat the Dragon Queen, clad in gold which shone like the sun itself. She looked down upon him, her violet eyes no longer like hard jewels, but soft like water.

“Your Grace, you came,” the King spoke in surprise.

“I did tell you that I believe in righteousness,” spoke the Queen. “I will fight evil where I see it.”

“Whatever did change your mind?” the King asked.

The Queen reached her hand out for him, and Jon grabbed it, climbing atop the giant beast until he was settled behind her. She placed her hand on his cheek, and he could feel the heat from her skin melting the sheen of ice on his face. “You did,” she spoke.

It was then two dragons passed them from above. One glimmered green, the other was as bright as ice. They circled the castle, their mouths breathing fire, and wherever their streams hit, the dead fell to never rise again.

The Queen smiled at the sight, and she grabbed a hold of the scales in front as she urged: “Hold on tight, Ice King, for you are about to witness the power of my children.” With that, the dragon took off from the ground, bashing its wings only twice to reach heights greater than Jon had ever been.

The King grabbed a hold of the Queen’s waist with one hand, careful not to lose hold of his sword in the other, and he watched the scene beneath them in awe;

All around Winterfell, the ice was aflame. Dead men were burning, and they turned to smouldering ash before his very eyes. The few who tried to flee were swiftly chased down by one of the Queen’s dragons, their fire inescapable.

“I cannot believe you came all this way,” the King spoke as the dragon circled the castle guided by the Queen.

“Did you not travel far to see me too?” she asked.

“I came to ask for your help,” he spoke, “but I had nothing to offer but a rose.”

“The blue winter bloom,” the Queen spoke. She looked over her shoulder at the King as she spoke: “You know not of the prophecy, do you?”

“I know the beasts from afar, for I have fought them myself.”

“You truly are misguided,” spoke the Queen with a smile. “The beast from afar are my dragons, for they have come to bring North and South together.”

It was only then that the King seemed to understand the words that the maester had spoken. He looked at the Queen’s golden garments, and then he raised his silver sword. Together, the two gleamed in the night. “Then shall gold and silver rejoice,” he spoke.

The Queen nodded: “And Summer and Winter be one.”

To celebrate the defeat of the dead, Winterfell held a feast. As the dragon fire died out, the first rays of sunlight pressed through the darkness, and soon the ice around them started to melt. Men and women from villages near and far came to Winterfell to thank their King for bringing an end to Winter, but before his people the King spoke:

“You honour me, but the honour is not mine to have. When all hope was lost and our future looked bleak, the Dragon Queen arrived to save us all. I ask of you - hold up your horns, and cheer for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!” Hence the people held up their horns of mead, and they cheered the Queen on, for if their King said it was so, they knew it to be the truth.

As they sat side by side at the main table, the King turned to the Queen. “When I travelled to King’s Landing, the bards sung songs of you and your beauty. I will tell you this - they did not do you justice.”

The Queen raised her brows: “If you think you are the first to praise my looks, you shall be sorely disappointed.”

“Although you are a sight, it is not your beauty they did not do justice. It is you - your kindness, your strength, and your righteousness.”

At this, the Queen reddened, and she held the King’s hand gently. “Many men sought me for my looks, but left for my lack of womanhood. You sought me for my strengths, and left at my command. When you said you differed, you were right. I am sorry I did not believe you then.”

“Your womanhood is not tied to your womb,” the King spoke, “it is as you say; men want to leave a mark on this world. I too wish to leave my mark.” At this, the Queen wanted to withdraw her hand, but the King held it tight as he leaned in to whisper to her lips: “The mark I wish to leave it this: North and South as one, Summer and Winter as one, Warm and Cold as one, the King and the Queen as one. Peace and prosperity.”

“I gift you my swords,” he spoke, “for I wish no longer to fight. I gift you myself, for I wish no longer to rule alone. I wish to call you my Queen, if you will have me as your King.”

Hence the prophecy was fulfilled in a kiss between the Ice King and the Dragon Queen, and as spring claimed the lands around Winterfell, the two married under a weirwood tree.

At the wedding, the bards did not sing of beauty nor children but a song of love, and it went like this:

The King, the Queen Two souls in One The King, the Queen A love akin None

The King, the Queen Hearts beat Anew The King, the Queen Their love is True

The King, the Queen Now wait and See The King, the Queen Peace and Prosperity

---

Thank you to @dracoignisworld for this amazing fairytale. Hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did

[eskalations]

Never did he think he would see the day when he would scrap the image of his wife in a tiny miniskirt from his mind for another more appealing picture – but, perspectives change.

FFN Link

(Day 4 "Crackle" - Royai Week 2020)

A/N: So I struggled with the Day 4 Prompt "Crackle". Instead of writing a long fic about Roy burning Riza's back, I decided to do a shorter one where Roy simply stares at Riza and his child and realizes how lucky he is. I needed some fluff in my life after reading and writing so much angst this week, so I hope you enjoy it! The Royai Child referenced in this fic is the same one from my Day 3 fic, so go read it if you want some more Royai family time!

Thanks for reading!

~

Roy Mustang never thought the sharp crackle of fire would ever become soothing to him. After how much destruction he had caused with the use of the element, he felt as though it was doomed to always be evil in his eyes.

But perspectives are always changing and his most certainly had.

As he sat, lounging on the couch in his living room, eyes staring at the flames in the hearth – he couldn't deny the gentle warmth the fire provided. He could not remember a time in his life where he had been more content. It was as though the horrific years of the past had never happened and that his current reality was the only one he had ever known.

He had exactly two people to thank for that.

Riza sat in a chair near the fireplace, cradling a mass of soft pink blankets close to her chest. From his spot on the couch, Roy could see a pair of delicate, pale hands fisting against the skin of her mother. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear the soft sighs of a newborn as she suckled gently at her mother's breast.

Roy was certain Riza had never looked more beautiful than she did in motherhood. Ever since their daughter had been born a month ago, the retired sniper's skin had taken on a dewy glow that made her look absolutely angelic to her husband. Even with the dark circles residing in the space under her eyes, she had never looked healthier or happier.

And don't even get him started on the clothes – oh, the clothes!

Never did he think he would see the day when he would scrap the image of his wife in a tiny miniskirt from his mind for another more appealing picture – but, once again, his perspective had changed.

Now as a nursing mother, the First Lady of Amestris had taken to wearing either long, flowing cotton dresses or button down blouses with pleated skirts on the bottom. The sight was so sinfully feminine – not that Riza hadn't been feminine before – but with a child in her arms and her hair swept up to keep out of reach, she looked the absolute picture of a maternal goddess.

Roy had found, ever since the start of her pregnancy, he couldn't keep his hands or his eyes off her. Everyone always talked about how strong a mother's hormones were when they were carrying a baby, but no one said anything about the effect it had on the father. Just the knowledge that this woman had brought his child into the world had endeared her to him even more than he thought was possible.

He never imagined that his favorite part of the day would be this time spent in the family room of his small family home, doing absolutely nothing but enjoying the company of his girls. Roy Mustang was a 'do-er', he needed to be doing something – but he had found that since the birth of his daughter, he was more than content to just sit staring at her and enjoying the warmth of the fire.

Though he knew Riza could sense his eyes on her, she never looked up from their child's face, amber eyes roving over the planes of her cheeks as though she were trying to take a mental picture of their daughter.

"It's not polite to stare."

Ah, so she did know he was watching her.

Despite the dryness of her tone, Roy couldn't hold back the goofy grin that found its way to his features. "I am simply admiring my wife and child – what's so rude about that?"

At his answer, Riza's lips turned up into a soft smile, her eyes still never leaving the baby as she continued to nurse. Roy was glad that his two bodyguards always insisted on remaining in the halls when they were watching him in his home. He couldn't imagine a life where he was not allowed to be privy to such an intimate scene.

The small sounds coming from Elizabeth slowed down and he could see her fisted hands fall as she finished her meal. When her tiny mouth released her mother's breast, Riza pushed the neckline of her dress back up and reached over the side of the chair for a burping towel.

Roy couldn't believe how much of a natural she looked like at this. When she had been pregnant, she had been so scared that she wouldn't be an adequate mother. Even while they were in the hospital after Elizabeth's birth, Riza had voiced concerns on whether or not she was doing things right as the nurses bustled about and reassured her that she was doing just fine.

Just a month ago, she had held Elizabeth with shaking hands up to her chest in fear that she wasn't going to feed her correctly. However, once the newborn had latched on that first time, Riza's world had been turned upside down. She came to cherish the moments in which she would get to nurse her daughter, recognizing them as a chance at closeness that only mothers were blessed to get.

Riza was placing the burping towel over her shoulder when she was stopped by Roy.

"Can I do it?"

She couldn't say no to such an earnest request. Nursing was her special time with Elizabeth and burping was usually Roy's. Though most men would see the rearing of children as primarily a woman's job, Roy was adamant that he be as involved as possible in Elizabeth's care. His steadfast determination to become the best father possible reminded her fondly of Maes Hughes. They were both absolutely whipped for their daughters.

Without a word, Riza passed the burping cloth over to her husband before standing from her chair and crossing the room. Once she was sat next to Roy, she handed over the precious bundle that was resting in the crook of her arm.

Roy handled his daughter with the type of reverence that you would expect from a man worshipping a deity. His scarred hands were placed – in a very textbook fashion – exactly where they needed to be as he rested the baby's stomach against his shoulder and placed her head close to his neck.

He made quite an amusing sight in his expensive button down and pressed black pants, sporting a very pink burping cloth across his shoulder. However, much like Roy's growing admiration for her, Riza could not deny that she had never considered her husband more attractive than right now.

Watching him as he gently patted the back of their daughter – not nearly forceful enough for her, but so typical of him – the new mother smiled warmly and thanked all her lucky stars that she had been given this moment in time, even if she didn't truly deserve it.

Roy whispered soft words to the baby as he worked, though they were too quiet for his wife to hear. She imagined it had something to do with an apology for having to beat her back and that he just needed her to burp so that he could stop, but her guess was as good as anyone else's. The Fuhrer was seen as a very intimidating figure amongst his generals – however, here in their home, he was really just the silly man that had showed up on Riza's doorstep all those years ago.

The fire crackled on as she regarded father and daughter, one word coming to mind as she took in the scene – contentment.

It was absolute contentment.

[marypsue]

they never really go away

[AO3]

1.

Some houses are born bad. Some wicked intent forms each stone of the foundation and each shingle of the roof, some malice imbues every cornice and warps every floorboard, tuning a fine creaking instrument from innocent wood. Some houses are silos for darkness, gathered in some unspeakable harvest and stored away against the lean bright summer months, a refuge and shelter for things that blossom like mushrooms away from the light. Some houses are infested with wickedness the way other houses, kinder houses, more normal houses, are infested with ants or termites; and the wickedness proves far more difficult to exterminate.

Some houses are born bad; some houses achieve badness; and some houses have badness thrust upon them.

Some houses die bad.

Crimson Peak sinks. Hill House burns.

It doesn't matter how, or when. Perhaps Allerdale Hall, called Crimson Peak, suffers a slow suffocation, through long years sucked gradually into the bleeding clay ground, its reluctant inheritor never returning to see its beautifully-carven staircase rising from red nothing towards a rotten roof, to walk triumphant atop its shingles as it commits itself and its dead to living burial. Perhaps it happens all at once, the soft soil parting beneath it and flowing back in following the collapse to smother over turrets and widow's walk and chimneys all, leaving nothing but a small pucker in the peak of the hill to show it and all its secrets had ever stood at all. Perhaps the townsfolk of Hillsdale finally grow tired of Hill House's watchful eyes above them, its evil presence overshadowing their town. Perhaps a careless renter, in their haste to get away, leaves a fire in one of the grates, a fire that even the diligent Mrs. Dudley does not arrive in time to smother.

It doesn't matter how. Crimson Peak sinks, Hill House burns, and for whatever walked there, the story should by rights be over.

But some houses are born bad. Some houses are no sooner built than shadows, flying in from elsewhere, take root in their walls.

2.

You called me here.

3.

It was a charming patch of land, bordered on all sides by a wall of tall, cool oleanders, shaking their pink and white blossoms over the road and the little stream. It had been developed, or slated for development, but some tragedy or bureaucracy had claimed all but the very foundations of a little house which, Jill was certain, would have been equally charming. The land had stood empty and overgrown for years before she and Henry had driven by and fallen immediately in love. A few hours in the village office and the office of a realtor later, and it was theirs.

The builders had had problems from the start. The old foundation was too weathered, too overgrown - it had to be pulled up and recast, or risk the house being unstable. Once built on its strong new foundation, though, the house was quite unstable nonetheless. Angles sloped, just slightly, just enough to unnerve. Doors sagged unexpectedly open, and stood waving back and forth in not the slightest breath of draft. The stairs sang out in the middle of the night just exactly as though someone were climbing, up and up, on and on, into infinity. What should have been a bright and airy cottage developed, somehow, an indefinable closeness, a sort of darkness clinging to the corners like cobwebs, in defiance of every window and lamp. There was a lingering smell of earth.

Jill disliked it from the moment she first laid eyes on it, and Henry did too. But, having put so much of themselves into it, and having so little of themselves to put in the first place, they each independently resolve not to speak of it. They had had such dreams, when first they’d seen the patch of land, for the home they would build and the life they would live together there. Now, even with so many of their hopes dashed, they cannot let go of the only solid piece of those dreams that remains. 

So they endure the miserable miasma of the house, hoping with a fervour that borders on religious that it will get better if they just change the draperies, air out the rooms, add more lights. If they only keep trying, keep trying, keep trying. 

If they can only stay one more night.

4.

She is all hard and armoured, like a glittering beetle, and she dislikes to be seen, yet still there is something about her - it - them. Something reminiscent of a time before, something dear and fleeting and lost, lost, lost. Something bright, and yellow, like a stray sunbeam. A little cat. A cousin, perhaps.

Something all sharp under its manipulative sweetness. Something dearly, dreadfully hated.

(She is wicked, Eleanor, wicked as bright red toenails on dirty feet. Wicked, Daughter, as Foxe's illustrated Hell. Wicked as a name written in blood.

And she knows your thoughts without your voicing them, does she not, you foolish girl? Her little gift of perception. She knows which buttons to press.)

5.

Eleanor Vance had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life. 

It had been a thankless, grueling reality, and one from which Eleanor had never dreamed of escaping until, quite suddenly, she was out. Cut loose in a world in which she could not fully participate, not anymore; a world constructed at slightly wrong angles from the only world she knew. Little wonder, then, that the twisting halls of Hill House, so disorienting, repulsive, and frightening at first, quickly welcomed her as one of their own.

What fled from the smoking ruins of Hill House was not exactly Eleanor Vance, or even a shade of her. But it was followed, as it sped invisibly on an icy wind through the dingy, miserable streets of Hillsdale and down, out from the shadows of those encroaching hills into the world beyond, by a tremendous rattling and tapping, as though someone were banging on the walls of all of Hillsdale's houses and all the trees lining the narrow, winding Route 5, with a heavy, old-fashioned cane.

Lady Lucille Sharpe stove her mother's head in with a cleaver.

She would have liked to have been a caretaker, a nurturer, someone who encouraged lovely and cherished things to grow, and to that end she was quite willing to dirty her fine white hands. To be the gardener, the keeper, the shepherd or perhaps the sheepdog; the one who fought off the wolf, the one who killed live food for the young and toothless, the one who ground blood and bone meal for the roses. She never could have what she truly wanted, but she had her brother, his love. She had her house.

And that which she tended grew strangely, in the dark.

What sank with the ruins of Allerdale Hall was not Lucille Sharpe, nor had it been for a long, long time. It lay there, buried with the house it wore like a scarab's shimmering carapace, until the very beams and bones of Allerdale Hall decayed around it into something unrecognisable.

And then it stirred, as though waking from a long, sad dream.

6.

A quiet resentment brews between Jill and Henry.

Each blames the other. For forcing their hand, for pushing them into a commitment to a house that should itself have been committed. What should have been a dream - their charming patch of land, their little cottage all their own - has turned nightmare; and now, rather than wake themselves, they prefer to turn upon one another. If she had not so desired the little dormer windows on the roof, the ones that glower down from the roof like calculating eyes, the ones that let in nearly no light. If he had not insisted on building so close to the line of trees, the better to protect from the wilder winter winds. If she had not exclaimed in delight as they first drove past.

Neither wants the house any longer, and yet, some perverse pride or whimsy will let neither relinquish it.

It’s Henry who notices the smell of smoke. Who sees, from the drive, the thin, pale wisp rising from the chimney of the wood fireplace when he knows no one else to be home.

But it’s Jill who hears the crying in the small hours of the night.

7.

It should have been new, and free, and fine, away down the hills, all strange and charming and peaceful. It feels as though the search for peace has been endless. Is endless.

As the flames had devoured binding veranda and great front doors and sugar eggs and cherub faces and delicate-patterned wallpaper, as heavy draperies and musty books and overstuffed chairs and tilted floors had fallen to ash and the very stones of the tower had warmed, as silverware had melted in its drawers and china cracked on its shelves, she had fluttered, broken-winged, to a refuge half-remembered. A magic square of poison trees, an enchantment that another her had promised once to return and break.

And, in slow stages, break it did.

Once...once, when such things could be dreamed, needed to be dreamed, imagination had populated this place with a palace invisible, with a warm and welcoming royal mother, with a knight-errant or prince upon a white charger riding down, bejeweled and smiling, from the hills. These visions do not quite come to pass, and yet.

The palace is a cottage, and rises slow, progress hampered by workmen’s irrational superstitious fears. The man and the woman who come to live there are quite young, no child with them, though one of the rooms is bordered with soft pastel animals. The woman sits there, in the rocking chair, most days, and looks out the little dormer window over the lawn and the road and the stream away at the back of the property, rocking and rocking. She is no queen, and no mother, but something in her presence is welcoming all the same.

And what comes down from the hills is no prince.

At first, in the failing light, it appears all white. White, with trailing pennants and ribbons of velvet red.  Like an oleander. Like something from a storybook, like a fairy tale. (Always Prince Valiant for you, Eleanor - but then, would you ever do with anything less? Always the charming men with haunted birthrights, all empty behind the blue eyes. Always the ones lacking a mother. Always the ones who see you for how foolish you are, how easy to take in.)

But as the sun sinks, as that which comes from the hills draws nearer, it can be seen to be red. Red as clay, red as blood. It draws a train behind it, long and glittering, of satin sewn with fine glass beads. Or perhaps it leaves behind it a glistening trail of something wet and red and sticky, like an enormous crimson slug, a great vile clot of blood.

By the time it steps, or perhaps flows, into the shade of the oleanders, out of the sun, it appears quite black. It lies like a spill of ink, or perhaps oil, across the fine soft grass and little wild flowers, faint Stygian blues and greens gleaming in its depths, with its long train still glistening redly behind it; and it stares, eyeless as a skull, up at the house.

(Journeys end in lovers meeting, Eleanor; journeys end in lovers meeting.)

And, from the watchful eyes of the dormer windows, that which gazes eyelessly back recognises kin.

8.

Henry is already sitting up in bed when Jill stirs awake.

“I was dreaming,” he says, and then stops, staring at the narrow silver bar of moonlight cast against the wall. “My mother. It’s been years -”

He falls silent, again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last. “I don’t blame you. I mean - I don’t mean to blame you. I know it’s not your fault, I only...” He stops, and gestures helplessly, as though he has run out of words. As though there are no more words left to say what must be said. 

Jill wriggles her way up in the bed and leans her head against his shoulder. Henry puts his arm around her, and Jill pulls the blankets up around them. The weather must be turning, she thinks, pressing up against his side, seeking warmth as much as comfort. There’s a chill in the air, like the wind off a high glacier, biting at her bare face.

She isn’t sure, at first, if Henry has heard it as well. But then he goes stiff beside her, his staring eyes fixing on the door. 

Beyond it, from down the hall, from the direction of the nursery, quite clearly, comes a pitiful, reedy cry, high and thin, like an infant far too young.

9.

You and I, Eleanor. We are caretakers. We have always put the needs of others above our own desires. And has that not brought us our desires, in the end? Your small, earned measure of happiness?

Do you dare to seize that happiness, Eleanor? Do you even know it when it stands before you? Have you always been so ashamed even to know, to name, what it is you desire?

We, who have dwelt so long in darkness, have no use for such human things as shame.

You called me here, Eleanor. You.

10.

The house, never friendly, grows colder and colder around them. Jill takes to wearing large sweaters and thick socks. Henry turns the heat up and up. His lips thin into a firm line when Jill suggests a fire in the fireplace. She does not suggest it again.

Something thumps against the walls, always in the night, always waking them both from sound sleep. Henry says, firmly, that it must be the oleander branches, muses that perhaps they should not have built so close to the windbreak, after all. 

There is a sound, like a woman softly sobbing, or perhaps singing, or perhaps screaming, that seems to leak down the stairs when both Jill and Henry are below. A fox, Jill was certain, at first. But she could not explain why it seemed to come from inside the house.

(The few times they’ve gone looking for it, it’s come from behind different closed doors. Jill’s never gathered the courage to open one. The time Henry did, there was nothing behind it but the pastel wallpaper they’d picked out for the nursery, and the rocking chair by the window slowly rocking to a halt.)

And then there are the things that only one of them see. Henry comes flying up out of the basement one evening, swearing that blood is coming up through the floor in the shape of human footprints, but when Jill goes down the concrete floor is clean and bare and dry. Jill runs herself a bath on another evening and screams when blood, not water, flows from the tap, but when Henry comes running the water is clear, if a little yellowed from the iron in the ground.

Henry slips into bed with icy feet one night, long after Jill had thought he’d been in bed already, swearing about a dog, it must have been a dog, he’d had to chase out of the yard. Jill wakes from a doze in the rocker in the nursery and sees, out the dormer window, away down by the stream, a small family in old-fashioned clothes, with a red picnic blanket spread out underneath them and a puppy or small dog racing excitedly around them, a bright red ball in its mouth. She thinks nothing of it, until she blinks, and they’re no longer there.

Moths keep getting into the house, somehow. They’re multiplying; there are three new ones for every one Henry kills, for every one Jill traps and throws outside. Their powdery wings rustle in the darkness of the bedroom almost exactly like someone in a heavy, old-fashioned dress circling around and around the room.

The cries come every night. 

11.

Eleanor Vance had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life.

You killed her, Eleanor. You know you did. As surely as though you had laid your hands upon a knife. You heard her stick tapping, thumping, against the wall. You heard her cries for help. And you. Eleanor. The good daughter, the dutiful daughter, the pious daughter. 

You turned right over, and you went back to sleep.

Lady Lucille Sharpe stove her mother's head in with a cleaver.

Ah. Never the good daughter. Dutiful, perhaps. But never pious. 

Do you know, Eleanor, what drives a woman to kill her own mother? 

Oh. Yes. Of course you do.

12.

The moon is pouring silver through the window when Jill wakes, her fingers numb, her bones solid with ice. With nerveless hands, she pushes the covers aside.

The floorboards are like ice beneath her feet, and with each step, she can feel them sink slightly. Can hear the faintest sound, like something sucking at the boards from beneath. Like something oozing up between them.

She hesitates in front of the door, aware somewhere in the frozen cage of her brain that she is afraid to open it, afraid to reach out and turn the antique crystal knob she remembers picking out with such joy, such hope. It doesn’t feel like the kind of fear she always thought she’d feel. It just feels as though her mind is there, whole and intact, perfectly rational and calm, while terror goes on all around her.

Jill reaches out and turns the knob, opens the door, steps out into the hall towards the sound of an infant’s laboured cries.

The hall is all black, except where the moonlight lays a silver path down the middle, leading to the gaping black hole of a door that leads into the nursery where no living child has ever slept. Jill watches her own bare feet as she walks, all strange and white and almost glowing, hardly feeling her own legs move. Her arms are wrapped around her, her fingers digging into the flesh of her arms, but she barely feels that either. She becomes dimly aware, as she proceeds down the hall towards the void-black square of the nursery door, that she is shivering. She becomes dimly aware, as she proceeds down the hall towards the void-black square of the nursery door, that the single window that looks onto the hall should not admit enough moonlight to illuminate the entire path from her door to the nursery. 

The dark door rises up before her, and swallows her whole.

13.

She is all hard and armoured, like a glittering beetle, and she dislikes to be seen.

In the sweeping train of her old-fashioned dress, though; in the thickly-oozing red stain that leaches slowly up through the floor where she stands; in the hollow gaze of her empty sockets, like high, darkened windows; she carries with her the sorrows and memories and longings of multitudes. Every one who ever died at her hand bleeds out around her; sometimes she is enrobed in crimson, sometimes powdered in white. She carries with her every lost one she has ever loved - or hated - or both. She herself is a haunted house.

She dislikes to be seen. Because it is impossible, on seeing her, not to know at once what deepest desires drip from her raw and bloody heart.

It is impossible, on seeing her, not to notice the helpless, twisted red bundle she cradles so gently in her arms.

(Those hands that pressed poison on helpless, trapped girls, those arms that bore lifeless bodies down into bleeding clay earth. Why not leave? Why not escape, once freedom was won? Why remain in a trap, why prolong the horror?)

Why go on to Hill House at all? Why not simply stop, and live some enchanted life in a little cottage with a blue door and a white cat on the step? 

Lady Lucille Sharpe had been her mother's caretaker, towards the end of the old woman's life. Eleanor Vance stove her mother's head in with a cleaver. 

They neither of them are here, in the little cottage with its hinges creaking in doorless chambers and its singing stairs and its bad angles to confound the eye and inner ear. And both of them are here, and their mothers besides, and the man they'd thought they'd loved and burned to see with another woman (do you know how the scent of burning follows you, Eleanor, do you see how you shed ash), and the woman they'd never admitted to themselves that they'd wanted and the daughter, the daughter, the poor lost traitorous wicked daughter they'd loved...

The horror...the horror was for love. Because freedom without love is no freedom at all. 

14.

Henry wakes to Jill’s softly cuddling up beside him, curling close against him in a way she hadn’t done in a long time, since before the house was finished, since before she began clinging to him again in fear. He turns, to see her smiling, a smile, as well, that he had almost forgotten she could wear.

“Jill?” he asks, and that smile grows wider.

“Henry,” she says, with a little sigh, and puts her arms around him, her head on his bare chest. “I’m ready.”

“You - but -” The moonlight spills over her hair, turning it to a shining halo, softening the sharp angles of her face and blurring the fine worry lines that had started to gather around her mouth and her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Sure,” Jill repeats, her voice almost dreamlike. “I want to try again.”

15.

There are things that tie them to a place...an emotion, a drive. Loss, revenge...or love.

Some houses are born bad. Some houses are no sooner built than shadows, flying in from elsewhere, take root in their walls.

The nameless house in its cage of oleanders was not perhaps born bad, but had badness thrust upon it. A box stuffed to bursting with pasts and sorrows not its own, with a restless longing that none who dwelt there had ever been able to fulfill. 

But whatever walks there, no longer walks alone. 

[kingfindekano]

A fireside conversation; 1.2k

“Do you believe in grace?” asked Fingon, watching what had earlier been a merry fire. In the evening light, it did not look so merry. He tried to banish the memory it dredged up.

“Grace?” said Maedhros from somewhere behind him. Fingon could hear the twist of his lips.

“Yes, grace.” Purposefully Fingon kept his gaze on the flames. “The thing behind good fortune, and forgiveness, and kindness. Grace. No one could blame you if you didn’t. I certainly don’t expect you to. But I thought I would ask nevertheless.”

Maedhros was silent awhile before he joined Fingon on the cushions strewn about the floor before the fireplace. Their shoulders brushed. “I don’t know,” he said at length. “If it is real, then I have only been allowed as much as would bring you into my life — which is no insignificant amount, and more than I deserve. But if it is real, where was it at Alqualondë? Why did it not stay my father’s hand, or mine? Where is it when the evils of Morgoth run unchecked?”

“Would you say there is no grace in that you are alive now, or grace in that we may spend the evening in each other’s company?” Fingon tried to catch Maedhros’s eye, but Maedhros was looking away.

“My company,” he said wryly. “I know not what illusion is on you, that you think of my company as desirable, but in my selfishness, I must admit I hope it does not fade.”

“Illusion!” said Fingon. “My love is no illusion. It is not made of the sort of stuff that fades.” A strange mixture of indignation and sorrow pulled at his chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Maedhros’s lips curved into a rueful smile, and he looked to the floor as he spoke. “I suppose I didn’t really have a good answer. Or at least one that might please you.”

“I would hear whatever answer you have, my love. You need not censor yourself for my sake.”

“I find it… difficult believe in such things. I used to,” Maedhros said, brow creasing, “but I was younger then, and had not seen as much of the world. If I was once blessed by grace, then surely I, kinslayer, oath-swearer, fallen king, have wasted it all: and I should not deserve your presence here by my side. I should not deserve your heart, and yet it seems that I have it. Where is the fairness in that?”

“I’m not sure grace is supposed to be fair,” said Fingon. “It simply is. I think you are as deserving of it as anyone else. More, perhaps, for the horrors you have endured.” Fingon sometimes dreamt of a desperate cry splintering through mountain air, of carving blade through bone, of gaunt skin and haunted eyes. If he could, he would slay the demons that clung to Maedhros; he would cast them from Maedhros’s mind, and turn them solid and real, and hunt them to the ends of the world. He so loathed that they existed somewhere he could not reach.

A distant look came into Maedhros’s eyes, then left. “Your idealism is admirable,” he said quietly. “Would that I could share it, but I am afraid that grace is not something for me. I have made my peace with it.” Maedhros must have perceived the grief that rose up in Fingon, for he continued: “It is quite all right! If any of us needs grace, it is Curufin, for having to put up with Celegorm. Or Celegorm, for the inverse.” Behind the cheerful twist of Maedhros’s lips, Fingon saw a hollowness there, and hated it. But he sensed that the matter had pointedly been closed, and that it would do no good to drag Maedhros’s mood back down by rehashing it. Whatever moment of good humor was upon Maedhros, Fingon would embrace it.

“A very fair point,” he said. He brought an arm up around Maedhros’s shoulders and drew him close. I wish that you could see what I do in yourself, he wanted to say. But he held his tongue and watched the fire quietly. I wish that circumstances were different, or that we had been born in another time. I wish that you had seen less of the evils of the world, or that I could take my sword to the ghosts that haunt your waking hours fiercely as I know they haunt your dreams. Can I call them dreams, even, these terrors? I hear the names you cry out and see the horror on your face next to me in the darkness, and my heart breaks for the youth I once knew in Valinor. I find him still in my dreams, sometimes. Do you? Can you?

“You’re frowning,” said Maedhros, nudging Fingon with his shoulder.

“Just deep in thought,” Fingon said, shaking his head, then paused. “Have you got a new freckle? Right there, by your eye.”

“You know well and good that I don’t,” said Maedhros, as one might chide a child.

“Are you sure?” said Fingon. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one –”

“You’ve seen it a thousand times, and you are not half so sly as you think you are.” Maedhros stared at him pointedly.

Fingon gave an abashed smile. “I should have chosen a more convincing change of subject – one I had not counted a hundred times and kissed a hundred more.” A pause. “I suppose my thoughts are just occupied with grace and its lack tonight,” he said apologetically. “It’s all rather morbid.” Fingon tried to maintain a neutral expression, but Maedhros had seen and known too much of despair not to recognize it creeping into his eyes.

“Tell me what is on your mind,” he said gently.

After many moments of congealed silence, the words poured over Fingon’s lips, scarcely a whisper: “I wish that this life had been kinder to you.”

“You are kind to me. And that is more than I could ever ask for: of life, or of anyone.”

Fingon could not think of what to say. He brought his other arm around Maedhros in an ungainly sideways embrace, and buried his head awhile in Maedhros’s shoulder. “I have hope,” he said at length, when he had composed himself enough to draw back and look Maedhros in the eye once more. “And you need not match it, for I will hope enough for the both of us. But I have hope that grace will find its way to you, one day, in a way that is unmistakeable to you. That mine will not be the only kindness you receive. That the sorrows in your heart will be soothed in time, and no longer burn so dreadfully in you. That the evils of this land can and will be driven away, so long as we hold to each other and to our courage.” Maedhros opened his mouth, but Fingon pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t dream of arguing with me, Maedhros Fëanorion! I will carry this hope with me until my last breath. Do you hear me? Until my last breath!”

Maedhros pressed a kiss to Fingon’s finger. “Until your last breath,” he said. “I will hold you to it.” Firelight flickered across his features, lending his eyes an unearthly gleam that for a moment sent a chill through Fingon. Fiercely the urge to look away struck him, but he pushed it from his mind. Maedhros had left deep scars on the world, and the world had left terrible scars in him: neither diminished Fingon’s love, for his love was not made of the sort of stuff that fades.

And in that, Fingon thought, surely there existed something close to grace.