#he's ducking elf assassins

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

The silvans drove Morgoth and Sauron insane.

See, the silvans physically can’t defeat them on account of them being a valar and maiar respectively. At least not easily without a shit load of collateral damage and a lot of rage.

So while the silvans (and avari) can and do have spies regularly stationed in either dark lord’s fortress, they can’t assassinate the fuckers (sadly). What they can do is play a little game.

They call it DuckStalk.

Lasgen created it in a fit of sadistic glee.

Basically, the silvans have dozens of bright yellow wooden ducks (kinda like rubber duckies) and when either dark lord isn’t looking, the spies inside the castle place them so that it looks like the ducks are staring into the valar/maiar’s soul.

And they regularly change locations too! Sometimes it’s in different rooms, sometimes it’s in a different corner, and sometimes (if the elf is really skilled) morgoth or sauron will look away for less than a second and the duck has moved closer to them by a foot.

And no matter how many they destroy, there’s always a new one within a minute.

They cannot escape. It drives them crazy.

The silvans might not be able to assassinate them but they can certainly drive them slow and steady into insanity.

Participating in DuckStalk is like an unofficial initiation for the silvan black ops members. Legolas had so much fun with it when he was part of this unit.

[newtthetranswriter]

Soulmate? Soulmates Pt. 2

Paring: Soren x Trans masc! reader

Word count: 3829

Summary: After Finding the egg of the Dragon Prince and a confrontation with Claudia, it’s time for a last minute effort to stop the elves from finishing their plan to assassinate the king.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of King Harrows death

Part 1

A/n: Okay so a couple quick things. First I’d like to wish a Happy Pride Month to all of my lovely followers and anyone else who reads this. Second, I know it’s been almost a Year since part one was posted but Adhd and shifting hyper fixations got the better of me. I do have an outline for future parts and I've started on part three so hopefully it will be out sooner than later. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and Remember to Hydrate or Diedrate.

I still couldn’t believe it, the egg of the Dragon Prince wasn’t destroyed, like everyone was led to believe. In my shock I failed to realize that I had let my thoughts leak through mine and Soren’s connection. How is the egg still here? Did Viren seriously lie about this? What could he possibly do with a dragon egg?

Um Y/n, what are you talking about, shouldn’t you be at the banther lodge with your brothers now. Shit, we were supposed to leave a while ago. Hello? Y/n you there? How the hell do I explain what happened without him freaking out. 

So, Me and Callum may have been ambushed by a moonshadow elf while looking for Ez. And before you freakout I’m fine. I explained, completely ignoring the conversation happening between my brothers and the elf. Ezran actually saved us before anything could happen, anyway he led us into a secret passage and led us to a creepy store room. In it we found the egg of the dragon prince, it turns out it wasn’t destroyed. I refrained from asking if he knew anything about it because it was likely Viren wouldn’t trust him with his dark secrets.

I could tell Soren was trying to come up with a response from the sudden quiet in my mind. The delay in response let me tune back into my surroundings, “But how? Why wasn’t it destroyed?” Callum said, still confused as to how the egg was here.

Before any of us could respond we heard the grinding of stone as the stairs opened again, signaling a visitor. “Because my father saved it.” Claudia said entering with her strom primal stone in hand. 

The elf got in a stance ready to attack as Claudia tried to convince me and my brothers to stand behind her. My brothers just stood shocked, as I chimed in. “No one’s standing behind you and your lies. Viren didn’t save it, he stole it.” I said calling out her bullshit.

“That’s a lie, and you know it.” Claudia said, turning some of her hostility towards me.

Callum sensing a fight about to start stepped forward. “Then, Claudia, Why is it here?” He asked, obviously way too trusting of the dark mage. I had to fight back a laugh at the thought of Claudia actually telling the truth.

“My father took it to protect us, Callum, so the elves and dragons couldn’t use it.” Claudia defended, voice laced with hatred towards elves.

The elf now clearly pissed snapped back. “What are you talking about? How can we use it?” 

Claudia snapped in response. “Don’t play dumb! You know it’s a powerful weapon.” Okay now she’s just being dumb.

“It’s not a weapon. It’s a fucking egg, Claudia” I joined in calling her out for her crap.

Claudia then started to try and convince Ezran to bring her the egg, preparing to use magic against the elf. Realizing the egg wanted to go home Ezran looked to me and the elf before telling us to follow him, and ducking out of the room. Without hesitation we followed him. Callum on the other hand chained Claudia to the wall, and picked up the primal stone that she dropped in the chaos before following us.

As we ventured through the halls, we heard the sound of wolves howling behind us. “There’s something after us.” Callum shouted as we followed Ezran. I watched as the elf stopped taking out her blades and instructed us to keep running. Not wanting to take any chances, I just kept following my little brothers.

   As Callum turned the corner he was met with protest from Ezran. “Wait, not that way.” Before he could respond he slammed face first into the wall. “Because it’s a dead-end.” The younger boy said with a smirk as I chuckled at his misfortune. Though the laughter only lasted a second as we were now cornered by the smokey wolves.

   Taking a chance Callum looked at the primal stone in his hand before mimicking hand motions he had apparently seen Claudia use before. “There might be something I can do, but I don’t know if I can do it.” He sounded nervous.

   “Is this a guessing game? Just do it!” The elf exclaimed. We all then watched stunned as he successfully used a breath spell to dispel our smoky attackers. “You never said you were a mage.” THe said holding her arm that seemed to have been bitten by the fog.

   “Who, me? No, I’m… I’m not really anything.” Callum responded.

   I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “You just did magic, dumbass.” He just looked at me confused as Ezran was just excited to see his brother do something cool.

   The elf also responded with an eye roll. “Yeah, that’s what a mage is. You’re a mage.” Callum then responded excitedly, forgetting we were still trying to lose Claudia. The elf shushed him with a finger to his lips, “Nobody likes a loud mage.” 

    “Sorry. Sorry. I’m a mage!” Callum whispered before following the rest of us as we made our way out of the tunnels.

    As we made our way through the tunnels, my train of thought was interrupted by Soren trying to talk to me. Are you ok? I know you said Ezran was able to save you before anything happened but where are you now, and where’s the elf? I could tell he was concerned but also still on edge from everything that’s happening.

   I’m fine, Soren. You should be focused on protecting the king. It’s getting late after all. I didn’t need him to worry about me, he should be focused on staying safe even though he’s supposed to put his life on the line for the king. But if you really want to know, I’m in some hidden passages with my brothers and the elf. She actually helped protect us when your crazy sister tried to stop us from saving the egg. I knew bringing up Claudia was probably dumb but hey he asked how I was so I told him.

   I’m sure she has her reasons, if what you're saying is true about this egg, it could be dangerous. Of course he would think that. Just don’t do anything stupid.

   I didn’t respond to that, I knew he valued his family, so there was no way I was going to convince him that they were doing something wrong. I just focused back on my brothers as Ezran said he would lead the elf to the roof. She hesitated before she followed along.

   When we made it to the roof Callum, Ezran and myself hid behind some crates. The elf then scanned the area making sure no guards were close before speaking. “You’re here. I know you are.” She said, as a taller elf walked up behind her on the edge of the wall.

    “Rayla.” Okay so that’s her name, got it. “ You defied me.” It was clear this elf was less than pleased to see her here.

    Ignoring the strictness of the older elf, Rayla went on to speak. “Runaan, you need to call off the mission.” She tried to convince him.

    The elf or Runaan, jumped from the ledge to be closer to Rayla. “You’ve lost your mind.” He said.

     Rayla was clearly growing more desperate. “Please, listen to me. I’ve found something. The egg of the Dragon Prince.”  Runaan just scoffed at her, saying it was impossible. “The egg wasn’t destroyed, it was stolen. Their High Mage was going to use it for dark magic, but the human princes found it, and they’re trying to help-” She tried to explain before Runaan interrupted her.

    “No. Humans are liars. This is a trick and a trap. You’re a fool, Rayla.” Runaan said brushing her off, only seeing humans for the horrible things they have done in the past.

     Having enough of the arguing, Callum showed himself. “She’s not a fool. What she’s telling you is true.” He said coming to the defense of our new friend.

    I could hear the other elf draw his weapon as he told my brother he made a mistake, and took it as my cue to pull Ezran from behind the crate to show the egg, and hopefully not get any of us killed. I watched as Runaan lowered his bow, muttering out that the egg was beautiful.

    “How can we take vengeance for an act that never happened? You have to call it off.” Rayla said, trying once again to get the mission called off.

    Runaan just sighed. “Rayla, you know it doesn’t work that way. We bound ourselves. There’s only one way to release.” He said motioning to the bindings on his biceps.

    Rayla continued to beg for him to relent and find another way, but even I knew the truth. I had read about it once in an old book, moon shadow assassins bind themselves with a promise to take out their target, these bindings get tighter the longer it takes to kill the target and they will keep tightening until the target has been killed or the limb falls off. It’s a truly dark practice but it’s their tradition. There truly is no other way, they have to kill their targets.

    Runaan turned from Rayla to Ezran as he spoke again. “The humans struck down the King of the Dragons. Justice will not be denied. Now, give me the egg.”

    Knowing where this was going, Rayla moved between us and Runaan. “You three, go” she said, drawing her blades. As Callum was about to protest, she cut him off. “Just keep it safe.” With that we took off back towards the castle, just as the full moon reached its peak.

As we reached the courtyard I spotted a cart full of hay and motioned for my brothers to follow me. Callum looked at it for a second understanding my idea and put his backpack into the hay. I turned to Ezran and grabbed Bait from his head, setting him in the hay as Callum helped get Ez and the egg into the hay as well. “Y/n you should hide in there as well. Stay hidden and keep the egg safe.” I looked at him confused as Bait let out an equally confused croak. “I’ll go talk to the king.” Was all he said before running off towards the main castle.

Ezran popped his head out from the hay to speak to me. “Why don’t you guys just call him ‘dad’? I think he would want you to. If you wanted to.” He said, sounding concerned. 

I just gave him a gentle smile before responding. “It’s complicated, Ez. But you need to get back in the hay and try to keep Bait from glowing too much. I’m going to go after him so he doesn't do anything stupid.” I just ruffled his hair before running off.

Hey Soren, I know you’re busy at the moment but Callum is headed to the Kings room. Please make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I’ll be there in a sec to get him. I quickly called out through our connection hoping Soren had enough focus to understand and not let my brother get hurt.

As I rounded the corner to the stairs leading to the King’s room, I could hear fighting. I also saw many guards already taken out by the elves. Don’t come up here Y/n the elves are here and there’s no way I can keep you safe. Don’t worry about Callum, he just started down the stairs. Whatever you guys end up doing, just please stay safe. That was the last thing I heard before getting run into by Callum and feeling my connection to Soren being blocked from his end.

Running out of the castle to meet up with Ezran and Rayla. “Callum. Did you talk with Dad?” Ezran asked as soon as he saw us.

Rayla handed over Callum’s backpack, telling him she’ll go back in with him if he asked her too. He just shook his head looking at Ezran and the egg. “No. It’s up to us now. We have to return this egg. We have to keep it safe and carry it to Xadia.” He said matter-of-factly.

Ezran nodded. “And find its mother”

Rayla looked at the group of us before responding. “We could change things. We could make a difference.”

I nodded agreeing, that it’s for the best. “Just the four of us.” I nodded at the group. Before we could continue, Bait croaked and turned red, clearly upset to have been left out. “The five of us.” I corrected myself, picking up the glow toad as we headed off out of the castle grounds.

Keeping my focus on moving past the guards running into the castle I barely noticed the conversation my brothers were having. “Callum, do you think dad will be okay?” I could tell Ezran was worried.

“He has the finest guards in the kingdom defending him.” Callum stated, although it was clear he was skeptical as well.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Ezran said still worried but trying to sound like he believed it.

As we ran into the forest I noticed Rayla stop to look at her wrist as the boys kept going. “Is everything okay?” I asked even though I watched as one of her bindings turned red and fell off. 

Noticing I stopped, Callum stopped as well. “What’s going on? Something’s wrong.” He said as if knew what was happening.

Rayla made eye contact with me, somehow understanding that I knew what just happened. I shook my head at her discreetly hoping she understood, luckily she did. “No, it’s… we should stop and rest soon. It’s a long journey to Xadia.” It seems that Callum accepted that answer and we kept walking.

 We kept walking for about twenty more minutes until we found a small clearing where we could take a break and rest for the night. Callum and Ezran laid down on the ground, Callum using his bag as a pillow and Ez just curling up to Bait. Rayla had walked off saying something about finding something to eat. Myself on the other hand decided it was probably a good time to check on Soren.

Hey Soren, how’s everything going? I asked even though I knew the answer. One of Rayla’s bindings fell off, which can only mean King Harrow is gone. 

It was quiet for a few seconds, crickets and the soft breathing of my brothers being the only sounds I could hear. I’m sorry Y/n, I tried to keep him safe. I really did. They were just too strong. Soren finally responded, I could tell he was feeling guilty, but he was also avoiding saying the truth. My dad’s saying we’re having the funeral in the morning once the kingdom wakes up. There it is, conformation that he was really gone. Though I couldn’t stay thinking about my loss for too long as the rest of his sentence registered in my mind.

Why the hell is the funeral happening so soon? It’s tradition to mourn for seven sunsets when a king dies. Why is Viren being so disrespectful? I couldn't hold back my anger, after countless times claiming to be his best friend, and King Harrow going along with his dark magic for years, he doesn’t have the decency to let his people mourn his death properly. I’m not trying to take it out on you Soren, I’m just upset.

It’s understandable for you to be upset, you’ve lost so much in your life, and you just lost someone else who you cared for. You have the right to be upset. This is a side of Soren most people don’t get to see, when push comes to shove he really is understanding and extremely caring. But my dad is saying it’s because the elves killing the king was an act of war, and we need to prepare for it.

Of course Viren would use this as a reason to fight the elves, not like he wouldn’t have come up with a reason soon enough on his own. I’m just so done with Viren. I just don’t like him, I feel like he’s planning something. Please don’t let him damage Harrow’s image in any way. I know you don’t have much control over your own dad, but I don’t want him spreading lies about the King. I told him hoping he would understand.

He stayed silent for a few seconds before changing the topic. Let’s not talk about this now, how about you tell me where you and your brothers ran off to. Can’t seem to find you in the castle anywhere. Did you guys head for the Banther Lodge like you were supposed to do? Of course he would want to know where I’m at. He knew we found the egg, but it seems that in the chaos of the night he may have forgotten about it. So I did what I thought best.

Yeah, we headed there after Callum came down from the tower. Just got here actually. We’ll head back when we get the all clear. Promise. I know it’s wrong to lie, but I can’t tell him we’re running for the border of Xadia to take the egg of the dragon prince home, when his dad is a crazy dark mage who would probably kill us for it. I’ll see you soon. Anyway, I gotta go try and find food for the boys when they wake up. With that I closed the connection not wanting him to figure out the lie.

I leaned back on the rock I sat on staring up at the sky as it slowly started to turn orange in the rising sun. I just hope we can get this egg to Xadia safely. As I was lost in thought I didn’t notice the approaching footsteps. “So, Y/n, do you zone out like that all the time?” I was startled by the thick accent of Rayla, looking to see her sitting on a rock close to mine.

“Oh I was just thinking. Nothing to worry about.” I said, trying to brush off the fact that she probably saw me spacing out while talking to Soren.

She rolled her eyes at that. “Well you must get lost deep in thought a lot, I noticed you were doing it quite often back at the castle.” She said, turning her attention to her wrist, where the assassin's binding still rests. “I’m guessing that it has to do with your soulmate connection. You’re what 18, so you probably already got it a while ago from what Runaan told me about soulmates.” She said matter-of-factly. 

Damn she’s perceptive. “Yeah, we can talk to each other through our thoughts.” I said, trying to keep it brief. “My soulmate just likes to check on me a lot. What about you? Have you gotten your connection yet?” I asked hoping to not overstep any boundaries.

She just nodded her head. “I did a few years ago, but it’s not a very helpful bond like hearing thoughts or even a name on the wrist. I guess we can feel each other's emotions. I’ll randomly feel happy when I’m sad or feel angry for no reason, but I can tell these emotions are coming from somewhere else.” Rayla explained. It was nice to have this little chat, it’s good to get to know someone if you’re gonna be traveling together for a long period of time. “So, have you figured out who your soulmate is yet? What’s it like?” She asked, shifting her attention to me again.

“I did find them yesterday, actually. He’s part of the Crownguard of Katolis, we figured it out because of everything that was happening.” I said with a sad smile, leaving out the fact that my soulmate is in fact the head of the crownguard. “I was just checking in on him. Thankfully it sounds like he made it through the night okay.”

She nodded at me with a timid smile, probably feeling some level of guilt for my first day knowing my soulmate turned out so poorly. “I’m sorry you figured it out during such chaos.” She said, I just waved her off. It wasn’t her fault that the elves wanted revenge for what we did to the King of the Dragons. Changing the subject again, she started to fiddle with her binding again. “How did you know what it meant when the other one fell off?” Rayla asked, intrigued by my knowledge of moon shadow traditions.

I scratched the back of my head deciding what parts of the truth to tell her. I wasn’t ready for her or my brothers to know my lineage, especially my brothers, but she did have the right to know how I knew about it. So I bent the truth a bit. “Before King Harrow and his wife took me in, my birth parents would read me stories from Xadia. I was always curious about it so when I moved into the castle I read any and every book I could find on elven cultures and traditions. In one book I read about MoonShadow assassins and how they bind themselves as a promise to complete their missions.” I told her, it was true my birth parents did tell me about Xadia, and I did read about it in the castle library, but my parents told me from experiences not story books.

Rayla nodded in understanding. “Well then I guess you probably already know why I have this second one.” She said, still pulling at the ribbon.

“Yeah, but I don’t blame you. I know you were doing what you thought was right at the time. We will find a way to get rid of it before it takes your hand.” I said knowing that it was unlikely but hoping to bring some calm to her mind. Our conversation was interrupted by loud bells ringing through the kingdom. I knew what that meant, they’re taking the king's body to the Valley of Graves. Not wanting to dwell on the fact that this meant Viren was likely to lie about where we are and try to take the throne for himself, I stood from my place on the rock. “We should probably wake Callum and Ezran soon, so we can keep walking.” I made my way over to my younger brothers, shaking the oldest’s shoulder to wake him up. “Callum time to get up, we have a long way to go.” I said before moving to wake Ez.

“Let him sleep a bit longer, it’s gonna be a lot to take in.” Callum said, protesting waking the youngest of the group, as he moved to lean against a tree. I just nodded at him before deciding I was going to look for some berries or something for breakfast.

[zuppizup]

Purgatory: Chapter 43 - Secrets

Summary: Almost three years ago, assassins came for Harrow. Callum was cornered, at her mercy and then… she let him go.The elf. He never even knew her name. She might be long dead, but Callum was determined to do as Harrow suggested. To reject the narrative of strength and instead embrace the narrative of love. To make a better future for all, humans and elves alike. But when he and Ezran stumble upon something hidden in Viren’s secret chambers, Callum realises he might actually be able to make up for the mistakes of the past. To make a real change, right here, right now. To free them both from their haunted past.

Pairing: Rayla/Callum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 Link: Purgatory

They hurried back to the gathering, though less people seemed to be around now.

“Where is everyone?” Callum asked, eyes searching every dark shadow for another one of those creatures.

“Finishing up for the night?” Ezran queried, still looking incredibly shaken. “That’s good. If there’s more of those things out there, then people are safer inside.”

Callum frowned, still watching. If there were more people around, they stood a better chance of defending themselves. He felt like a sitting duck out in the open like this. Unsurprisingly, it seemed like the people still up were Moonshadow elves, and he found himself actually happy to see Runaan for the first time ever.

Runaan clearly saw them coming, starting visibly and calling out over his shoulder. He rushed down the steps, meeting them at the bottom.

Read More On AO3 – Purgatory: Secrets

[servantofclio]

Ficlet: Out of Place (Zevran/Surana)

Another small fic I found recently (just posted to AO3 as well).

Somewhere amidst the revelry and festivities, between the banquet table and the ballroom, the Warden had vanished. Zevran noticed this with surprise, between glasses of what passed for wine in Ferelden. She had showed no signs of avoiding parties before.

Perhaps, however, something had disturbed her. Amid all the merriment of a coronation, a wedding, and the sheer joy of survival, that seemed difficult to believe, and yet… Zevran detached himself from the crowd and went in search of her.

He found her on one of the upper floors, just round the corner from the gallery that overlooked the ballroom. She sat in an oversized armchair with her feet tucked under her, close enough to hear the music and laughter, but not participate, which struck Zevran as an odd choice. “Amora?” he said softly.

She stirred after a moment, shaking herself. “Zev. I hope I’m not keeping you from the celebration.”

“There is much to celebrate wherever you are, my lovely Warden, but if you wish to be alone, I shall depart.”

“It’s not that I wish to be alone,” she said. “It only felt like… too much, after a time. I don’t truly belong down there.”

“You are the heroine of the hour,” he pointed out, surprised again.

“Mm. Let Alistair be their hero as well as their king,” she said, and sighed. “No, I suppose that’s not fair, but I have no idea how to go on with all those arls and banns and sers and so forth. We did not learn such social graces in the tower.”

“Ah,” Zevran said, understanding at last beginning to dawn. Still he said: “Yet you have not seemed to lack confidence before, when we spoke with lords and ladies.”

“That was war,” she said, shaking her head. “Or problems to be solved, at least. I could do that. I could set the entire room down there on fire if I chose. I can think of five other ways to destroy everyone in the palace, in fact. What does that say about me?” She rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

Zevran perched on the arm of the hair. “As can I, my love. What does that make me?”

Her mouth twitched as she lowered her hands. “An assassin, naturally.”

“And yet neither of us plans a murder this evening, yes? So we are not so bad after all, perhaps.”

She sighed again, and let him take her hand. “I planned to be First Enchanter once, you know. I learned all about the politics of the Circle, as best I could. But this… I may be their hero now, but I am only an elf. An elf mage, at that. I don’t really have a place there.”

Zevran had learned to glide round the edges of society, to blend in, seeming to enjoy the social whirl until it was time to sink the knife into somebody’s back. She never had, locked in her tower prison. She had taken charge of their mission with admirable confidence, but there a clear role and purpose had driven her.

She had ducked her head, seeming small and shy in the shadows. He hated seeing her so, she who was the brightest star he knew. He touched her cheek, encouraging her to raise her face, and bent to kiss her. She hesitated, almost drawing back, before returning the kiss, lightly and shyly.

“I think you will find,” he said, “that your friends are more than happy to make you a place below.”

She pursed her lips.

He rose and held out a hand. “Come. The dance will change soon, and I will show you the steps.”

She considered a moment longer before she accepted his hand, and together they went down into the light and music.

[exalted-dawn-drabbles]

Ed!! For DADWC: "aloe being slathered on a sunburn" for Shaesa/Alistair?

Thank youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu for sending this prompt Gin! (For context, one of you lovely people sent me this ask a hot minute ago and I had it marked as one I wanted to do only for me to realize I must have somehow deleted it :((( so im sorry for losing your prompt but thank you for sending it regardless!!!! Hope you enjoy!!!)

for @dadrunkwriting

Rated T: for very very slight innuendos, slice of life, romance, comedy, ~2.2k words (yeah idk how that happened in one night either)

Maybe Days | By Exalted_Dawn

“Uh… so not to ask what we have all been wondering, but may I ask why are you walking like that?” Zevran’s voice cut their travel pace just as efficiently as any one of his daggers. Sharp and pinpointed as always. And a little too mirthful to mean anything good, in Alistair's opinion.

Shaesa turned stiffly to face him, scowling and square as a sign. “Like what?” 

“That,” he said, tipping his head to look at her from head to toe. “You have been shuffling for the past half-hour. You look like you are walking with a reasonably-sized stick shoved up your behind,” he said. “Are you in need of a rest? I could massage you, if you like. Your shoulders in particular look rather-” He reached a hand out to rest on Shae’s shoulder, and Alistair nearly tripped in his stumbling flail backwards as Shae jolted and scrambled out from beneath Zevran’s touch.

“What the fuck, Zev?!” she barked, looking almost white as a sheet as she wheeled around to glare at the man. “Don’t startle me like that. I almost pulled a sword on you.” 

Zevran and Alistair both stared at her in bewilderment, Zevran in particular. Even Alistair knew that that wasn’t much of an excuse– Zevran had been about as subtle as a drunken druffalo in his approach to that one. 

Still though, she insisted on glowering at them with undisguised, near-righteous offense.

Raising a brow, Zevran strode forward again, his hand one again raised to try and touch Shaesa’s arm, but this time she waddled backwards before he even got within a foot of her. Then he tried again, only for her to duck and spin away entirely. It was obvious now, as Alistair watched, that her movements were distinctly stiff and uncomfortable.

He frowned. “Shae?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “Not that I don’t think we need it, but surely there are better times to be practicing your dance moves for the Landsmeet? What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing! I’m fine!” she snapped, scurrying away to the left this time. A bemused, but ultimately unmotivated Zevran easily trotted after her. 

Alistair wasn’t convinced. “Shae, if you’re injured-” 

“I’m not,” she growled, turning her ire onto him. “I’m just a bit-”

Zevran’s hand clamped down again on Shae’s shoulder, and she practically yelped, smacking Zev’s hand away and cowering back like a wounded cat. Suddenly, the assassin’s face blossomed into a wide, bob cat’s grin. “Aha! You did get sunburned during yesterday’s sparring match, didn’t you?!” he exclaimed, finally releasing Shae with a laugh. She glared up at him, and Alistair could see actual tears in her eyes as she tenderly prodded at the spot that had grabbed her with her fingers. Zevran tutted a little, nudging her in her arm with his elbow. “Did not Wynne warn you about the dangers of sparring sleeveless? You didn’t listen to her?”

Shaesa pouted at him weakly. “It was hot out and I was sweating too much. I didn’t want to soak my sleeves through.”

“Nothing but pitiful excuses,” Zevran hummed blithely. Alistair nearly pointed out that Zevran was hardly one to talk, considering how… exposed he regularly insisted on being. But then, he’d never seen the elf with a burn either, so he wasn’t sure if that was an argument that would win once made. Zevran continued. “Regardless, you should see to it that the burn is treated. We will still be on the road for some time, and you wouldn’t want it to get infected further. I have some soothing gel– if you would like, we can find you some privacy and I could-”

“No.” 

It was his own voice that barked out louder and more suddenly than even Shaesa’s, who he had practically yelled over in his rush to shoot down Zevran’s suggestion. Suddenly, the area they had been traversing seemed suddenly far too quiet.

Shaesa and Zevran both stared at him in surprise. Maker, even he was thrown off by his own interruption.

Alistair shuffled, his face heating uncomfortably. “W-What I meant to say is that I won’t leave you alone with her. You may have agreed to join our cause, but don’t think I have forgotten the contract that sent you to us. It would be reckless to let Shaesa go off alone into the wilds with someone hired to kill her.” 

Especially if she was meant to… expose herself to him. Alistair swallowed, and viciously shoved away the images that thought conjured to mind. 

But if Zevran was offended by his excuse made in haste, then he didn’t show it. The Crow smiled wide, raising his hands in mock surrender and taking a very clearly advertised step sideways, away from Shae. “Ah- my apologies. I did not mean to cause any alarm. Your fears are well founded.”

Shaesa made a face. “Zev-”

He held up his hand again, shushing Shae before she could even begin. He continued. “Of course, if you would like to volunteer to help our fantastically fried friend here, I would be more than happy to lend you the salve.” As if to prove a point, he deftly produced a small, metal tin from his hip pouch and waved it between two fingers.

He wasn’t sure which of them looked more horrified– him or Shae.

“What?!” he quacked, his face now almost the same shade as Shae’s. “No. I-”

“Then you would let our beloved leader suffer for the entire trip back to camp?” Zevran pressed, faking innocence.

Shaesa hissed. ““Zevran.”

“Of course not!” Alistair said at the same time, the both of them sounding several shades of scandalized.

“Then I see no issue here!” Zevran finished happily, tossing the lotion to Alistair. The latter only barely caught it, but by the time it was firmly in grasp, Zevran was already walking away. “I swear, you Fereldans and your modesty,” he tutted, batting his hand at an imaginary annoyance. “Whenever you two are finished, I will be over here by this tree, resting and enjoying the shade while I can.”

As though to prove his point, he collapsed onto a bed of shadowed grass and shut his eyes with a contented sigh, the sound a strikingly effective bookend to the conversation. Shae and Alistair were left speechless. 

Left to their own devices, they eyed each other nervously, neither wanting to make the first move. But with Zevran firmly planted in his spot, it was clear there would be no easy way of backing out of this. 

Shae shrugged a shoulder, gesturing to a nearby copse of trees, and without much else to do, Alistair nodded and followed after her. The trunks of the trees didn’t provide nearly enough cover for Alistair’s liking, but then, he doubted that even a private, locked room would calm the pounding of his heart. This was ridiculous. Of course, he didn’t want Shaesa to be in pain– they still had almost an hour more of walking until they neared camp– but still, surely there was a better solution than-

Shaesa cleared her throat, her eyes forward as she methodically shrugged out of her coat-sleeves, revealing a thin-strapped, cream chemise underneath. “Sorry about that,” she began, a touch of tired frustration to her voice, even as she flashed him a grin. “Seems being a busy-body is an elven thing everywhere, even in Antiva. I’ll yell at him about it later.” She finished ridding herself of the overgarment, her muscles flexing and rolling as she set the quilted blue jacket aside. 

Alistair frowned.

The whole of her back was a blistered, bright red. Skin peeled where her bones jutted and he could see spots where the burns had been rubbed raw. It looked bad. Worse than bad. 

Shaesa shifted a bit, flashing him an uneasy look. He had been staring. 

Alistair flushed, though for a different reason now, and his attention quickly dropped back to the tin in his hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I doubt any amount of thrashing will force manners through his head,” Alistair murmured, his throat still a bit tight. The lid of the jar popped open after a moment of fiddling, and almost delicately, Alistair dragged his fingers through the clear, white goo. “You’re sure you’re okay with me doing this?” he asked, trying not to sound unwilling. “I can… try to look away, if you’d prefer?”

She merely laughed a little. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you not go blindly poking at my very sore back. I don’t mind it, Alistair. I trust you.” 

The way those words made his stomach tumble probably should have been more alarming to him, but unable and now a bit unwilling to back away from that edge. Not with Shaesa’s encouragement at least. 

Laden with salve, he reached out, and carefully touched his fingers to her skin.

Immediately, Shaesa bit out a sharp hiss and flinched. “Ah fuck, that’s freezing,” she laughed, and immediately dispersing any worries Alistair had of hurting her. He continued, allowing his hand to drag downward, leaving a stripe of ointment that stretched from her nape to the hem of her low-cut top. 

Her skin was scalding. Even through the film of salve, he could feel the way it burned at his fingertips as he steadily applied attention to the spots he deemed needed it most. It felt almost fevered, but somehow hotter than even that, and he had to keep himself from wincing when he thought about how much it must have been hurting her for this entire time. If he had known, Alistair never would have let her come out with them to collect water.

“Sweet Andraste, Shae, why didn’t you say anything?” The ointment applied, he began carefully working it into her skin, and tried desperately not to think about how often he had imagined doing something like this. Her beauty marks seemed to jeer at him, coming in and out of view as his palms passed along the planes of her back. Strong and sturdy, but somehow stately. Like the stocky war horses Eamon kept at the stables. 

Though, even with his abysmal experience, Alistair knew better than to share that thought aloud. Not unless he wanted a sunburnt fist to the face, at least. 

Shaesa shrugged. “Because I’m stubborn and ox-headed?” she suggested. 

A grin pulled at his lips. “I was thinking ‘prouder than one of those prissy, Orlesian lap cats.’” An elbow was driven into his stomach, rightfully so. He barked a laugh. “And catty too. Clearly.”

The woman in front of him snorted, but even from where he stood behind her, he could see the way her ears flexed as she smiled. “Careful. I might be sunburned, but it doesn’t mean I won’t still throw you on your ass, Alistair.”

“I would be a fool to forget it,” he agreed, taking no pains to hide the warmth of affection in his voice when he said it. 

His hands rounded her shoulders, gliding up the curve of her neck before dropping back down to pass over the length of her arms. And it would be a lie to say that he didn’t revel a bit in the way she shivered as he did it. Maybe…

“Alright,” he said, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “You have been properly attended to, my Lady. At least well enough to withstand Wynne’s lectures once she finds out about this when we return.” 

Shaesa stiffly bent to pick up her jacket and, seeing her struggle to maneuver her arms into the sleeves, Alistair helped her into it. She picked at it irritably, pulling at the spots that stuck to her from the salve. “Thank you,” she said at last. “That admittedly feels much better.” 

He grinned. “Just doing my duty to solidify my place as ‘Most Useful Companion’.” 

“Well seeing as how you saved my life from Zevran’s dubious intentions and sun poisoning, I would say you’re off to a pretty good start,” she hummed. “A few more months, and maybe you’ll begin to catch up with Fen.”

“Ouch,” he hissed, clutching at his chest in mock-pain. But he could not fight the smile on his face. She began to turn towards the road, and gladly he followed. “I’m losing to the one who licks his own arse in his downtime?”

“Hey– I don’t see you guarding my tent at night.”

“I could,” he offered, too quickly. He only realized what it sounded like after he said it. “...If that was what you wanted.”

But to either his relief or disappointment, she simply snorted. “Now you’re sounding like Zevran.” 

“Oh, so we’re using real insults now?” he shot back. 

She laughed, shaking her head. It really was such a pretty sound.

“But maybe,” she said, letting her eyes flick up to his playfully. He almost didn’t catch it. 

Ahead of them, the brush began to thin, and Alistair could see the road, and the tree beyond where Zevran was undoubtedly still waiting, his arms folded beneath his head where he lay stretched out like an alley cat.

“Maybe…?” he echoed distractedly. His gaze touched hers in confusion.

She grinned brightly, and the smile stretched all the way to the corners of her eyes. And, to Alistair’s utter shock, she actually winked at him. 

“Maybe.”

[karniss-bg3]

Going to use November as my month for writing, not novels, but anything at all (getting out of a creative funk via bg3). Kar'niss/Halsin got me eyezoom cause I do love that sweet hunk of an elf and the bug. Maybe you don't feel confident writin' origins, but perhaps, you could indulge us, in some bullet-point prompts of your own! Ideas! How might they meet, how might they seek each others company (tav not available hes the next calmest thing to karniss? KARNISS DUCK TAXI? Neither of them want to go into the city and stuck together at camp). I'LL WRITE IT. I am overconfident in my ability to slip into characters like a poltergeist. But situations maker, I am not.

Go go gadget prompt generator!

-Halsin is in need of rare bark/seeds/nuts/leaves from rather tall trees. He can’t reach and while he could wildshape to get to what he is after, he instead asks for Kar’niss’ aid to retrieve what he needs.

-Kar’niss runs into trouble while spinning a web in the forest. A gang of squirrels chitter in anger at him and while he tries to run them off they won’t leave him alone. Halsin offers to mediate the dispute using the speak with animals spell.

-Kar’niss is unable to find rest one night. The voices in his mind refuse to go silent and he’s close to having a panic attack. Halsin intervenes and offers something to aid his tormented mental state. This could be meditation, burning a certain collection of herbs and breathing in the smoke, an elixir made from special plants, or even offering him physical contact to help soothe his fear.

-They wander into town and the villagers give Kar’niss a hard time. They either heckle him, throw things, or give him the stink eye. Halsin wildshapes into a giant spider in solidarity, or he steps in to talk sense into the townsfolk in an effort to protect Kar’niss.

-Assassins from the Underdark come to collect Kar’niss’ head in the name of Lolth. It is up to Halsin, Tav, and others at camp to fend them off and keep the drider safe. Add or remove characters at your leisure.

-Kar’niss injures himself in some way. Perhaps one of his legs is broken in a fight. Halsin stays by his side and tends to his wounds dutifully, offering him comfort and kind words through the healing process. He may even have to hunt animals for Kar’niss to eat during this time.

-Halsin falls ill while the pair are traveling. Kar’niss pulls Halsin over his back and carries him to the nearest town to seek aid. He runs into push back from the townspeople but insists on someone helping Halsin, finding his voice in so doing.

These are a few good ones to start with. Enjoy and have fun writing!

[thedizzydinosaur]

@tdpprism2024

March 17: chains (imprisonment/connections)

Runaan would never forget the way he first met the elf that he would one day marry.

It had all started the day that the master assassin he was training under had strode into an earthblood mining camp, with his apprentice trotting obediently behind him.

"Stay close." Mtius hissed to the Runaan, who immediately fell into step beside him, "I don't trust anyone here."

The camp was clustered at the base of a smoking mountain, and from his vantage, Runaan could see that there were earthblood elves everywhere, looking like ants up on the slopes as they moved between the mine tunnels and open quarries.

Mtius lead the way into the heart of the camp, passed dusty buildings, and right up to a smoking forge.

The earthblood elf running the forge glaced up as they approached, scowling.

"What do you want." She grumbled, squinting at the assassin, completely ignoring the lanky preteen at his side.

"I think you already know." Mtius replied in a cool, neutral tone. "My order is over a month late."

Runaan glanced past the grouchy earthblood as she started to argue and argue loudly that the delay was justified, scanning the racks of blades and mining tools for any sign of the missing order.

A bunch of cast metal training weapons should be easy to spot between the more rugged gear on display, but...

"Ach, damnit, you great shrike you." Without warning, she spun on her heels and bellowed into the back of the forge."OI, KID! GET OUT HERE!."

There was a clattering, and a short, white haired boy shot out from behind a curtain.

"Yes ma'am?" He squeaked.

"Order 125, go get it out the back"

"Yes ma'am."

The boy disappeared as quickly as he appeared, ducking back undec the curtain that separated what was probably the storage room from the rest of the forge.

But the short look the boy got at the other moonelf, no older then himself, was enough to make his stomach churn.

Around his neck was clamped a heavy iron collar.

Runaan knew that slavery existed outside of the small village he'd grown up in, but.... to see a child, one he could have easily gone to school with..

He felt sick.

- -

They did not get too far before the owner of this dusty mountain side caught up to them, insisting that he had a job for the Mtius. No killing, no no, but you see, there were these rabble rousers that were starting to kick off over at the inn.....

So Runaan was left alone, tucked away in one of head honcho's guest rooms.

Not that he stayed there long.

The smell of whatever was being used to keep the bugs out was making his skin itch, and not even opening the window was making the sensation go away and... well..

The air outside wasn't exactly fresh, with all the dust and Ash, but it was better then being inside.

His feet took him back towards the forge, completely by accident.

The other boy was outside, trying to sweep the endless dust away from the window and door. He looked a lot like he had been crying.

"Oh... hello." The boy whispered softly when he realised that he was not alone out in the street. "Can I help you? The forge master has gone to bed already."

He sounded so.. fragile.

And Runaan’s mouth moved before his mind could

"That looks heavy." Runaan blurted out, almost immediately cringing.

"The broom?"

"No the... uh.." Runaan motioned to the dented ring of metal locked around the boys neck. Up close, it looked way too big for him, like it was for an adult.

"Oh... yeh.. it is." Was the meek reply.

The duo stood in the twilight, awkwardly trying to figure out what to say next.

"Uh... I'm Ethari. Or.. that's what my mum named me." The boy broke the silence. "My... boss... calls me something else, but.."

"Ethari’s a nice name."

"Thank you." Ethari blushed a little "what's yours?"

Runaan opened his house to reply, but before he could, a sudden shout from behind him made him (and Ethari) jump out of their skins.

"RUNAAN! What did I tell-" Mtius appeared from the shadows, a look of thunder on his face, before all anger vanished from his voice once he clocked that Runaanwas not alone. "Oh. Hello, young one. I hope my apprentice is not bothering you."

Ethari muttered out a soft 'its ok', and stepped backwards into the doorway, head bowed.

"Come on, we need to get a move on" Mtius started to hurry Runaan along, eyes flicking behind them. "I believe we have overstayed our welcome l."

There was shouting coming from somewhere back towards where the inn was, getting closer.

"I'd go inside if I was you young man." He told Ethari other his shoulder, and then they were gone.

--

Ethari stayed in Runaan’s mind over the next week.

He sat quietly amongst the other trainees in the middle of camp, thinking about those sad amber eyes and chafed skin, as they collectively watched the march of the full moon across the midnight sky.

Every now and then, there would be the faint sound of violence coming from somewhere beyond the trees, from where dark smoke stained the night sky.

Sunfire led raids on illegal mining settlements were usually violent things and not places for apprentices to be.

Just before dawn, they were summoned to the edge of the forest.

There were a lot of cuffed and shackled elves being loaded into the back of prison wagons- notably including the forge master.

She shot Mtius a truly evil look before she was loaded up.

"what's going to happen to him?" Runaan asked, watching as Ethari, looking so small and delicate amongst the other enslaved elves sitting off to the side.

"I'm not sure." Mtius admitted sadly. "Likely he'll be kept by the sunfire elves until the court case is over, after that, well..."

He shrugged.

" That's up to the courts to decide,"

--

Ethari would tell him, years later, that the foster home he landed in was not that bad, to be honest. Or at least, his foster parents were better than his former owner.

Not tones better, due to the number of children in the home, but..

"They fed me at least." He'd muse one night as they watched the stars shimmering above them. "But let me tell you, I was very happy the day I moved out."

Runaan pressed his face into Ethari’s neck, eyes glancing over the healed over, hardly visible scaring hidden from the world under Ethari’s scarf.

"How far we've come, huh?" Ethari hummed into Runaan’s hair. "How far we've come."

[tired-truffle]

Yet Broken Still You Breathe

An AlistairxOC Fic

Chapter Word Count: 5.9k

Part 5/50

“But when she was scared, she was a child again, and she was more afraid of being a child than anything else in her life.” - Tamsyn Muir

Trigger Warning: Mentions of child ab*se

Masterlist

“I still don’t understand why the assassin had to come with us,” Alistair grumbled as he stirred the beginnings of stew over the smouldering fire, flames licking up the grease-stained sides of the blackened pot. Gwen, who had been assigned chopping duty - much to her chagrin - was sitting across from Alistair. She let out a deep sigh, she couldn't help but think that it was glaringly obvious, despite not being an expert on human or elf relations.

Instead of bothering to find the words to explain to the silently fuming Grey Warden why his question had a simple answer, she reached over to where he sat, her long, bony fingers grasping his goateed chin, the sharp tips of her nails resting against his surprisingly soft cheeks, having recently been shaven of stubble. Alistair’s eyes widened at her touch - causal like it came naturally to her - and he froze in the middle of his stirring, the wooden spoon frozen in his grasp. Gwen hadn’t really thought about it when she’d first gone to touch him. Before Alistair could open his mouth to offer what would most likely be some sort of joking question that Gwen wouldn’t know how to answer, she turned his face away from her and towards where they stood, Darcy and Zevran - the latest addition to their team; an elf, and up until recently a crow assassin. They had crossed paths when he tried to ambush and eliminate them on behalf of Loghain's contract with the crows. Her touch was like lightning, electric and fleeting, and she released him as if he were made of flames that threatened to consume her. She pointed to the two elvhen men, Zevran’s back was to them, but from the taller elf’s flirtatious smile and half-lidded eyes, it wasn’t difficult to guess what they were talking about, and what they may be getting up to later that night.

Gwen pulled back and refocused on chopping the potatoes. She wasn’t the type of person who gave others casual and friendly physical contact, what on Thedas had she been thinking? She would concede that she hadn't actually been thinking at all, she’d let herself get too comfortable with his disarming presence once again and let go of all her boundaries in favour of being close to him. Just yesterday she had adamantly told herself she couldn’t let this happen, she’d pulled away and hastily rebuilt the walls around herself. Yet there she was, having thrown away all her values, the boundaries she’d erected to keep herself safe for years, all because one kind man had smiled at her and attempted to talk to her like she was a regular person. She frowned to herself, she had to do better, this was not the purpose of her mission. She needed to focus. 

“So we picked up a former Crow assassin - who tried to kill us, in case you’d forgotten - for his good looks and charm?” Alistair looked back towards her, exasperation written across his features. 

Gwen, who had busied herself with chopping the potatoes into perfectly sized cubes said plainly and without thinking, “You didn’t pick me up for my good looks and charm?” 

Alistair blinked owlishly at her and Gwen pursed her lips under her bandana as she continued chopping like nothing was amiss. She’d meant for that to come out as a joke, but given that she’d spoken with the same tone as a Chantry mother lecturing about the importance of memorizing the Chant, it hadn’t come across as intended. She ducked her head, her hair falling in her face and obscuring her from view. She hoped he’d just leave it and chalk it up with the other strange things she had a habit of saying. Let him think she was delusional, maybe then he’d start to leave her alone more often. After all, that is what she kept telling herself that she wanted. 

To his credit, Alistair recovered quickly and a wide grin spread across his face, “Did our resident grouchy rogue just make a joke, Maker tell me it isn’t so?” His overdramatization and the hand he’d clutched to his chest as though his heart would stop from shock were enough to pull a snorted laugh from her. 

She froze, she hadn’t meant to let that sound slip. She peered at him through her thick, unruly hair, and felt her heart flutter as she saw how his eyes shined with excitement and his chest inflated as his ego swelled to fill it. 

“A joke and a laugh?” Alistair leaned towards her, his grin becoming lopsided and making her want to reach back out to hold his face. She was thankful for the small margin of self-restraint that had allowed her to ignore that particular impulse. “Gwen, you are treating me today, whatever has put you in such a good mood?”

Gwen flicked her hair out of the way so he could see the full effect of her scowl, well, the way it crinkled her forehead and furrowed her brow at least, “Keep going if you’d like that mood to take a turn for the worse,” she threatened, her tone lacking any sort of bite. 

Alistair raised his hands in mock surrender, “As the lady requests. I’m nothing if not the truest depiction of a Fereldan gentleman.”

Gwen rolled her eyes and continued chopping, moving on to the carrots, “I was not aware that such a thing existed.”

Alistair’s laugh sent butterflies soaring through her stomach. No! She was not some blushing teen talking to the boy she fancied, she was a grown, hardened adult woman who had eaten butterflies at the ripe old age of twelve when she’d been desperate and half feral with hunger. It seemed those butterflies had been bidding their time to take their revenge on her. 

“We are unfortunately a rare breed, but rest assured that there are some out there.” Alistair reached over before she realized what he was doing, and took her free hand in his, his calluses brushing lightly against her dry skin, and her heart started to race. It made her feel like the blushing teenager she never had the luxury to be. Adulthood and all its responsibilities had been safer. He brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a light kiss against her fingers. It burned against her cool skin and she felt like her lungs were about to burst from holding her breath. She should have ripped her hand away, should have put some distance between them, but that selfish side of her had reared its ugly head and given in to the mesmerizing temptation of his smile. His lips lingered on her skin for a moment longer than was likely proper, but Gwen had never been familiar with the terms of propriety and found herself more preoccupied with keeping her heart tucked firmly in her chest. Finally, after what felt like an eternity under his amber gaze, he released her.

Gwen looked away bashfully, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement and she hated every minute of it. She couldn’t let him see her weakness. She didn’t dignify it with a response and presumed that the conversation was over - hoping that he hadn’t seen the red that had crept up her pale cheeks - but after spending the better part of five days with the man, she should have known better. 

“You could eat supper with us tonight, you know? You don’t have to squirrel it away into your tent. I’ll give you my word I will protect your plate from any would-be thieves if that’s what you're worried about.” Alistair said with a goofy grin. He’d posed it like an innocent ask, but to Gwen, it sounded more like an invitation and a nosey question all wrapped into one. 

“I’d rather not.” 

Alistair shifted awkwardly, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh as he searched for the perfect words to say. Knowing him, there were likely a whole host of comebacks on the tip of his tongue that he was eager to let spill, but not so eager to earn her ire now that he’d finally gotten her to have a normal conversation with him. Meanwhile, Gwen had run out of things to chop and instead stabbed at a blade of grass that had the misfortune of growing beside her. “It’s my stench that’s driving you away, isn’t it? I know I need to bathe but I didn’t think I smelled that terrible.” He made a show of smelling his armpits and Gwen had to suppress another laugh. Maker Damn him.

“We all smell terrible,” Gwen said instead of a real answer. 

“All the more weapons to wield against the Darkspawn. We can add ‘stench so horrid that it could knock out the undead’ to the list.” Alistair laughed at his own joke and those damned butterflies returned with a vengeance. 

“Perhaps the Arlessa will thank us with a nice warm bath when we return and ease us of the burden.” Gwen conceded. 

Alistair snorted in derision, “You’ll have to request it specifically, I don’t think Isolde has any idea what the meaning of the word ‘warm’ is.”

Gwen raised her eyebrow, this hadn’t been brought up in their previous argument. What exactly had the Arlessa done that made Alistair think of her like that and still feel the need to risk life and limb to help her? Whatever it was, it must have been spectacular to incite that kind of loyalty. There had to have been something, people were keen on being indebted to those who had treated them poorly.

Alistair waved her off, “Let's just say she’s not the mothering type.” Gwen’s curiosity begged her to pry, but she wasn’t about to push him on this when she was trying to avoid certain personal topics herself. That and she was doing her best to keep him at arm's length, and learning about his past was a surefire way to close that gap, she couldn’t risk him getting the wrong idea. 

“Look,” Alistair shifted his tone to his seldom heard serious side, “I just wanted to say that you don’t have to hide your face, we all have our fair share of scars, I can assure you it isn’t worse than anything I’ve seen, you tend to see a lot as a Grey Warden.” 

He spoke to her like she was a cornered animal, snarling and biting at the hands trying to calm it down. In a way she was, she’d always felt a bit feral, like a wild beast running on instinct, prowling the edges of its damp cave and scaring away anyone who dared to come near. The tightening in her chest as he treated her so delicately despite the monster she knew herself to be had her mind flooding with memories she’d unleashed yesterday and was still struggling to reign in; a child’s hand filled with nuts reaching through cold metal bars, the sound of a girl’s gleeful laughter as she played, a warm smile directed at her - even when she didn’t deserve it. Gwen looked away again, squeezing her eyes shut tight to block out the onslaught of emotions she was not ready for and would much rather leave in the dark recesses of her mind where they belonged. 

"I mean," Alistair said with a laugh, trying valiantly to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, "I've fought hordes of Darkspawn, nothing could be more repulsive than that." 

If someone had told Gwen that her organs had been ripped out of her chest and scattered across the ground, she would have believed them. Hollow was the only way to describe what she felt as his words rang in her ears. Like a dark void had opened up in the chasm that once was her lungs and sucked up all the little bits of joy she had managed to steal away for herself over the past few days. After so long of not having anything, she had been desperate for it, no matter how much she had tried to fight it. But with one simple sentence, she was suddenly reminded of why she’d lived such a miserable existence.

Monsters did not deserve happiness. 

Gwen did not deserve happiness. 

If they knew what she was, they would kill her, she could not fall for his trap, whether intentional or not, it would only end in someone getting hurt and Maker was she tired of hurting. She’d been stupid enough to open herself up to it, she deserved to suffer the consequences.

She stood up abruptly, jostling her makeshift cutting board, some small pieces of carrots rolling off and into the dirt. Alistair startled and stared up at her with a slack jaw, confusion swimming across his face, “Gwen?” He said her name with such concern that it made her want to empty the contents of her stomach.

Gwen clenched her fists at her sides, “I’m done with my task, I need to clean my armour.” 

Not giving him a chance to protest or persuade her otherwise, she strode off to her tent with purpose. The flaps of the canvas door fluttered behind her as she quickly ducked inside, the familiar scent of dust and leather filling her senses. She plopped herself down on her bedroll, the coarse fabric rough against her skin, and ripped off the bandana that threatened to suffocate her as she tried to control her erratic breathing. She took deep, ragged breaths, feeling like she was drowning in her panic. Gritting her teeth, she could feel the sharp edges fitting together perfectly, the seam in her cheeks splitting with the effort as she clenched her jaw tight. In frustration, she balled her fists into her hair and pulled tightly, welcoming the sharp pricks of pain along her scalp though it did little to help other than stop her from biting into her bottom lip and bleeding all over herself.

“‘Tis no marvel that you have little fortune with women, Alistair. Perhaps it would be prudent to provide better company so they are not driven away by your lack of wit and charm.” Morrigan gloated, her voice carrying through the thin fabric of Gwen’s tent. 

“Do you want dinner or not?” Alistair snapped, irritation running through his words. 

“You are truly adept at the art of treating a lady,” Morrigan’s sarcasm rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. 

“You are no lady.” 

“Not the one you want, no.”

Gwen tuned out the rest of the banter, it was of no interest to her. They were not her friends, they were a means to an end, a way to find the answers she needed, a way to find some peace in the awful hand the world had dealt her. 

Gwen ran her fingers over her inner wrist, her dark veins prominent against her papery, blue-tinged skin, the scar left all those years ago still discoloured. She felt the urge to dig her fingers into herself, to rip and rip at her soft flesh until she found her Maker-forsaken blood underneath, to feel the thick, darker-than-natural, liquid pour over her. If she let it all out, would she finally be free of it? 

No, that would not solve her problem, it wasn’t that simple. Darkspawn blood could not be separated from a being once they had been infected. For most, they would die soon after, but Gwen had not, she’d been unfortunate enough to have all the stars align to leave her in this state, half-Darkspawn, half-human, a freak of nature. Outcast from the world and unwilling to succumb to the Calling that sang like an old and rusted music box only she could hear.

A monster concealing herself among heroes. There was only one way that story ended, and Gwen was desperate to avoid the Calling that pounded in her brain, but would it be enough to avoid the tragedy she knew awaited her? 

She still hadn’t figured out the connection the Grey Wardens had to the Darkspawn, how they were able to sense them, how they could fight them like no others. She was reluctant to ask outright for fear they would become suspicious of her and then all this would have been for naught.

Did she deserve to have peace after everything she’d done? After the people she’d hurt? 

A child’s laughter echoed in her head. She would have said yes, that Gwen did deserve peace, but she was dead, and it was all Gwen’s fault. She had suffered for it, but nothing Gwen did would ever be enough, not after the pain she’d caused. And yet she was a selfish thing, and she couldn’t help but pursue the reasons as to why she existed, why she was a monster so despicable that the Chantry had deemed her irredeemable by the Maker. 

Her hand tingled where Alistair had touched her, like she’d sapped the warmth from his skin, leaving her body craving more. Such a gentle touch for a horrid creature, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her like that. She did not deserve such softness, monsters were not supposed to want these things. 

But then why did she crave it more than she craved the air in her lungs? She lay her pale fingers over the skin that he had touched, the chill of her skin nothing like the comfort that he had provided. She dropped her hand, she was being foolish, she could never hope to recreate his touch, and she was sure he would be disgusted if he knew that she had tried.

As she lay down to sleep that night, having forgone dinner altogether as she rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to soothe the grief and longing that threatened to overwhelm her, she shoved all thoughts of her past back into its box in her mind. Or at least she tried, but now that they were out, there was no containing them as they coated her thoughts like sticky sap, pulling her into a time that she would much rather leave where it belonged; in the past.

The cold, stone floor beneath its threadbare sheets pressed into its bony backside as it curled up, knobby knees clutched to its chest, every rib visible beneath the fabric of its clothes. It had longed - selfishly - to eat like the other residents of the Chantry orphanage, but it knew that that was not its place. It wasn’t like the other children, it wasn’t a child at all. It was a monster, a creature that had been forsaken by the Maker and given to the Sisters as a means to prove that they were worthy of His love, that they would not succumb to its darkness. 

They had locked it away in the basement, only allowed out to complete tasks that the Sisters found too distasteful. It cleaned the outhouse, swept the chimney, and was lowered down into the old well when Sister Georgia lost her favourite locket. Yet it was never without its chains, the constant clanking and scratching of metal as its shackles moved with its body was a sound it had learned to tune out long ago. The shackles were securely fashioned around its neck, wrists, and ankles, and had long ago discoloured and scarred the skin underneath with the constant rubbing and tugging. It was safest this way, Mother Freya would say, it was to ensure that the beast did not lash out and harm the other Chantry residents, as was its nature. 

It did not mind these tasks, nor the beatings that came when it did not complete the task to their satisfaction. It was better than being left for days on end in the cold darkness of the cellar, starving and wondering if they had finally forgotten about it this time. It did not enjoy eating the mice and bugs that had the misfortune of scurrying into its cell, but when it got hungry enough, it could not control itself. Sometimes, if it was really lucky, it would pass out from the beatings and require someone to lift it back to its room. It could vaguely remember the soft feel of the Sister’s hand on its arm as it was dragged back to the dark where it belonged. It coveted that feeling, selfishly longing for more.

It occasionally caught glimpses of the children - orphans, much like it - but was quickly hurried away, lest it scare them. It heard whispers sometimes, from children brave enough to venture near the entrance to the cellar where rumour had it that a monster lived. 

Yes, it wanted to say, a monster does live here, but would you come to visit, I promise I do not bite, I only want to play. 

It was finally granted some freedom from the restrictive bridle, a metal contraption that clamped tightly over its face, forcing its mouth to remain closed. This small mercy was only given within the confines of its cell, where it could eat without struggling against the tight restraints. Here, in the safety of its own space, it could briefly taste a sense of liberation but would have gladly traded that privilege to be allowed to come close to the other orphans. 

The day the cellar doors swung open with a creak, the gentle sound of rain against the wooden surface muffled the noise that would normally signal a breach to any Sister, the creature could not have guessed how its life was about to change.

Its rotten heart pounded in its chest, did the Sisters have a new task for it to complete? Or perhaps it had gotten lucky and they would bring a bowl of cold soup for it to eat, the mice had stopped coming, having grown wary of the creature. 

The small, musty cell was tucked away at the back of the cellar. It was a secret hideaway, hidden behind rows of rickety wooden shelves lined with jars of colourful, preserved vegetables from the garden. The air was thick with the pungent smell of garlic and herbs, making the mouth water in anticipation. A few strips of dried meat hung from the ceiling like tempting baubles that made the creature’s mouth water and its stomach rumble.

The cellar door creaked quietly closed and the muted light of day was replaced by the flicker of a candle dancing against the darkness that filled the cellar like the never-ending sense of loneliness. 

“Hello?” A young girl’s voice called out, all high-pitched and innocent in her youth. It shuffled to the back of its cell, the shackles that dug ever deeper into its skin as though it would become one with it dragging across the ground, the sound of metal on stone slithering through the small space. It longed desperately to see her, but a thought suddenly struck it; what if it hurt her like Mother Freya always said it would? It didn’t want to hurt her, it didn’t want to hurt anyone. It didn’t want to be the monster it was. 

“It’s okay,” the girl said, “I’m not going to hurt you. You can come out.” 

It kept quiet, ducking its head against its knees where they curled up against its chest. Maybe if the girl didn’t see its face she wouldn’t know how horrible it truly was and would get bored and leave. It had never seen anyone with the same sickly pallor of skin as it which peeked out beneath the rips and tears of its clothes, or the whiteness of its hair, unnatural for a creature of its age according to the Sisters. Or worse yet, the sharpness of its nails that had been left to grow in the absence of the Sisters’ ripping them off once they had gotten too long. It had been a while since anyone had come to see it, other than to occasionally toss scraps of food and stale water at it. 

Soft footsteps approached as the candlelight became bright the closer the girl got, “Hello?” She called again, and the creature did not answer. 

The footsteps stopped and it realized with a sinking feeling in its chest that she had spotted it. It clutched its arms around its legs as the girl walked slowly forward, the shift of her dress against the ground alerting it that she had sat down just outside of her room, the thick metal bars the only thing blocking her from coming any closer. 

Silence prickled at its skin and it bit hard against the flesh of its lips until it tasted blood. 

“Are you hungry?” The girl asked, her voice quieter than it had been when she’d first spoken, as though she was trying not to scare it. She was the one who should be scared of it, not the other way around. 

Its stomach answered for it with a loud growling noise. It was starving, but that was okay, it was not deserving of food like the others, it had messed up its last task and this was its punishment. Its back still ached from the scabs that had formed after the beating, but that was okay too, if it did not want to be punished it shouldn’t make mistakes. 

“Here,” the sound of the girl’s sleeves brushing against the bars of the cell let it know that she had reached through, “I brought this for you.”

The delicious aroma of freshly baked bread cut through the smell of mildew that grew on the walls and it could not help but raise its head just a bit to peek through its curtain of tangled hair to where the girl waited. Its mouth watered as it watched the bread with rapture, drool falling out of its mouth like a dog who’d smelled a fine cut of steak. 

The girl waved the bread to pull its attention back to her, and as she spoke, it wrenched its eyes away from the food and towards the girl. 

“Do you want me to throw it to you?” She said, her pink lips pulled into a soft gap-toothed smile, her tan skin crinkled around her eyes with a kindness that it had never before witnessed directed towards it. Her skin was splattered with freckles that matched the rich brown colour of her hair which had been pulled back into a thick braid. Her eyes were a warm amber, like honey that had been left to crystallize in the sun. 

Her dress was worn, patched in places, and her hands bore no signs of hard labour. She was the opposite of the creature, and it could not help but feel blessed that this girl had taken the time to grace it with her presence. Even if she never came back, it would cherish this memory forever. 

Taking its lack of an answer as confirmation, the girl threw the bread to it. Its hand snatched the bread out of the air before it could hit the ground and become sullied in the dirt, something as wonderful as this did not deserve such treatment. 

It shoved the bread into its grotesque mouth, its head still bent to hide its face from the girl lest she become afraid and leave. It was so hungry that it did not have time to allow itself to lavish in the sweet taste of the freshly baked bread and cursed itself for its barbarism. It was a beast, and could only do as beasts did. 

“I take it you liked that?” The girl said, a proud smile brightening her face as it watched in awe of her, “I’ll bring more food when I come next time.” 

Next time… No, it couldn’t let her come back, she would get in trouble with the Sisters and then she would be hurt like it was. It was a monster, it deserved pain, but she… she was the most gracious being to ever exist, to entertain the idea that a thing like it was worthy of her time and kindness. It had to scare her off, as much as it hated to do so, it couldn’t allow her to come to harm. 

It raised its head, its eyelids drooping and its lips curling back to reveal its sharp teeth underneath. Its slit nostrils flared and it growled from deep in its chest, the warning of a beast before it struck, its cheeks splitting as it stared her down. It was an affront to the Maker and the girl needed to understand that she was not safe with it. 

The girl gasped, blinking in surprise as her gaze took in every detail of its monstrous face with more curiosity than fear. Instead of running away like it had intended, she leaned forward as though she wanted to see more of it. It didn’t understand, why was she not more afraid. It had to try harder. 

It lunged towards the girl, growling and snapping its sharp teeth in warning, the shackles catching on its weak limbs as it strained against them, its face mere inches from the metal bars that separated them. 

Leave! How do you not see that I am bad? 

The girl jumped in shock, and a sick, hollow, sense of relief spread through it like the sting of poison running through its veins. Good, this was what it had wanted. Now the girl would leave and she wouldn’t have to face punishment from the Sisters. It wouldn’t be its fault that she was hurt. 

But to its eternal surprise, the girl did not flee, screaming in terror about the feral creature in the cellar, instead, she leaned forward, her hand reaching out tentatively towards it. 

What did she not understand? Was she truly that daft to not know danger when she saw it?

“You’re bleeding,” the girl said, barely above a whisper, a tremor in her voice, her shaky hand closing the distance between them as her thumb brushed against its curled lip, wiping away the dark blood that had broken to the surface when it had bit itself moments earlier.

It froze, so stunned by her concern that it couldn’t do anything but stare at this girl in astoundment. What was she thinking, it could have bitten her hand clean off her wrist and she was concerned about a wound it had inflicted on itself. The creature was beginning to think it was hallucinating, it had happened before, when it had gotten so thirsty that it had thought it was going to die. 

The girl pulled back her hand as if surprised by her own actions, but wasted no time in tearing a small strip of fabric off the hem of her underskirt, “Here,” she held out the piece of fabric, “to stop the bleeding.” 

It continued to stare at her, feeling like a mouse caught in a trap, waiting for its end. This had to be a dream, surely this girl could not be real. When it didn’t move, its jaw slack, the growling having ceased in its shock, the girl sighed heavily and reached out again, gently pressing the fabric to its bottom lip. 

It flinched away from her touch, finally able to move, but the fabric had stuck itself to its lip and came with it, the girl's hand left hovering in the now open air between them, her fingertips stained with its blood. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the girl said, it almost scoffed, that wasn’t what it was afraid of, “I just… I heard that there was a monster living down here that the Sisters sometimes bring out to do the work that no one else wants to, but I saw you the other day when you were mucking the horse's stables and I thought that you couldn’t be the monster everyone was talking about, you're just a girl, like me.” A girl like her… it was anything but that, Mother Freya had been firm when telling the creature this. “I think we might even be around the same age, I’m seven, how old are you?”

It stared blankly at her, hesitating under the curiosity that swam in her warm eyes, “I…” it croaked, its voice hoarse from disuse, its tongue heavy as it tried to form the words. It was not usually allowed to speak, but sometimes it practiced on its own when no one else was around, “…don’t know.”

The girl shrugged, “That’s okay, I can tell you’re a kid like me. What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t be stuck down in this gross cellar, it’s not fair.” 

The passion with which she spoke had the creature frowning, “I am not ‘a kid’, I am dangerous and you should leave.” The creature did not fully understand the words that it said, but it had heard them enough times to know that they were true.

“You don’t seem that dangerous to me,” the girl said and the creature felt like it was arguing with a brick wall, she was more stubborn than she looked, “besides, I think it must be pretty lonely down here. Maybe you’d growl less at people if you had a friend and some more food. I’m always happier when I eat.” 

“A… friend?” The words spilled out of its mouth before it could swallow them down, the feel of them foreign on her tongue. It did not deserve such things, what had this girl seen that made her think otherwise? 

The girl nodded enthusiastically, “I’m Lucy and I’ll be your friend.” She placed her hand over her heart in a solemn promise. 

It felt a lump form in its throat, unsure how to clear it, it bent its head, its hair hanging limply, “I do not want you,” it lied.

Lucy laughed and it failed to see where it had made a joke, “Maybe not yet, but you’ll warm up to me soon, I can already tell.” 

Its head jerked up, a scowl on its face and dismissal on its tongue, but Lucy had already moved past the topic, “I’ll bring more food next time, then you can be less angry and we can play together.” Lucy stood up and it choked back the need to beg her to stay, “Oh, and before I forget, what’s your name? It’s only polite since I already offered you mine.”

It had been called many things; mutt, freak, beast, but it felt like those were not what Lucy was referring to. 

“No name,” it said, unsure if that was a bad thing or not. It hadn’t really thought about it until Lucy had brought it up. 

“Hmm,” Lucy tapped her chin with a slender finger, “I’ll have to think of one for you then, everyone deserves a name.” 

It did not deserve one, but it was reticent to not give Lucy what she wanted. After everything that she had given to it already - her time, her kindness, her food - was it too much to ask for this one thing? It seemed only fair.

“I’ll need some time to think of a good one, is that okay?” 

It nodded, it could wait, it was in no rush to have a name. All it was looking forward to was when Lucy would come back next. It hadn’t been able to scare her off, and it still feared for her safety, but with the way the girl smiled at it, it couldn’t help but selfishly wish for more of the warmth that radiated toward it.

It would ruin this, as it ruined everything it touched, but it was too young to understand the consequences of its greed. It should have listened to its first instinct, tried harder, and done more to get her to leave. But it was never good enough, and Lucy had suffered dearly for it. 

Nothing Gwen did would ever make up for that.

Next Chapter

A/N: I’m curious, is anyone reading this?

The art at the beginning of the chapter was done by me and can be found on my art Tumblr @truffle-draws

[tildeathiwillwrite]

🖋️"what inspired you to write your WIPs?"

❤️"what are your favorite scenes from your WIPs?"

😭"what are the biggest challenges writing your WIPs?"

❗"how many WIPs do you have?"

(in response to this ask game)

🖋️"what inspired you to write your WIPs?"

They always start with the characters. The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure began with Draven and Octavian, and Reese came about during the first draft to complete the trio. Mostly a sense of "I have these characters, how can I make their lives interesting for the Plot?"

The Watcher and the Thief started as a backstory for one of my D&D characters and underwent a massive overhaul into what it is now. When I created Trials of the Six I had about as much knowledge of the world as Hiel did when he woke up with anmesia, but I knew I wanted to start a story like that. Same with The Legend of Orian Goldeneye in the first draft, although that one's changed a bit too.

Both of my current fanfiction WIPs are crossovers. Demigods of the Death Gate was basically me going "hey, what if I stuck Percy Jackson in Dragon Wing, a setting where water is so rare it's literally currency?" and it turned into a fully outlined series so that's fun. The Assassin and the Dragonlance is the same way. "What if Hugh the Hand (assassin character from Death Gate Cycle by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman) got somehow transported to Krynn (the setting from Dragonlance by the same authors)?"

So yeah. Always the characters, and how I can make them suffer.

No wonder I'm into whump teehee

❤️"what are your favorite scenes from your WIPs?"

Oh goodness. Considering they're all in progress my answers might change later on, but I can give my favorites so far!

Long post incoming, content warning for hypothermia, passing out, magic whump, electrocution. Other questions answered below the cut.

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure (Chapter 1):

Draven leveled his gun at the hole as the same hand appeared at the edge of the newly formed opening, grasping the surface with the desperation of a drowning man. A second hand appeared, this one clutching something tightly in closed fingers. Its owner pulled himself through, dragging his dripping-wet body out of the water, gasping and coughing violently. He was an elf. That much was clear, from the delicate features of his face to the slight points of his ears and how he was built for speed rather than strength. His hair, shaved on the left side and long on the right, gleamed strangely in the moonlight, and a simple earring of dark metal pierced his left ear. He wore leather armor—breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses and graves—over what appeared to be a cotton tunic and trousers, with worn leather boots completing the ensemble. A pair of sheathes and a water-damaged pack hung from his belt. All appeared to be empty. The elf glanced up and seemed to notice Draven for the first time, making brief eye contact. He moved as if to scramble away, but a strange look crossed his face. Before Draven could say a word, the elf’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped, even as his body began to shake uncontrollably from the cold.

The Watcher and the Thief (Chapter 1, Part 3):

The magician laughed, a harsh, bemused sound that echoed throughout his skull. “They’re sending you over that?! Ha! After I took care of the sang for them? Ungrateful, much!” Octavian turned into a slow circle. “And the young Watcher?” “He simply got in my way,” the magician dismissed. Air displaced behind Octavian, and he whirled around, slashing blindly. The only thing they sliced through was air. She must have ducked away. The magician tsked softly. “Can’t have that, now. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” “Enough with this game!” Octavian snapped, backtracking in a random direction until he hit a tree. “Are you going to kill me or not?!” Silence. The magician hummed softly in thought. “Hm, no. I don’t want you dead.” Octavian’s hands suddenly went completely numb, the knives slipping out of his fingers and landing somewhere on the ground, unseen and unheard. The strange sensation spread up his arms with terrifying speed. “How are you doing this?” He demanded, voice shaking as he stumbled, trying and failing to maintain control. “Oh…” the magician said mockingly, “has the devar gotten used to his rune resistance? Don’t worry, love, when I’m done with you, there will be no need for such fear any longer.” The last thing Octavian felt before his entire body went completely numb was cold fingers closing around his throat.

The Legend of Orian Goldeneye:

Jas slowly turned, afraid of what she might find. What she saw still felt like a punch in the gut. Her own body was slumped on the bench, eyes closed. Was her chest moving? She couldn’t tell. “What the hell did you do to me?” She demanded, turning on the boy. “Am I dead? Did you kill us?” The boy flinched back. Killian stepped in front of him protectively. “He’s here to help."

Defy (Chapter 5):

(Honestly just. The entire chapter where Annabeth meets Zifnab. But in particular I love this part):

“My deepest apologies, sir!” The dragon shouted, staring at the old man in what might have been shame. “I do not know what came over me.” It glanced over at Annabeth. “I don’t suppose you could point us to the nearest settlement, my lady? My wizard is a frail old man and it is not safe—” “Frail?!” the wizard demanded, shaking his fist. “Who’re you calling frail, you oversized gila monster?”

Trials of the Six (Scene 41 (I think, I write the scenes for this one out of order)):

His mind raced, outlining a hasty plan. First, he would make the water swell inside the canteen, causing it to explode. That would distract Enitan, at least for a few seconds. Then he would divide the water, shoving half into Za’ret’s lungs and the rest into Enitan’s. Once they asphyxiated, he would worry about the chains. Aquilar embraced his Mage energy, reaching for the water and—! Pain erupted all over his body, agony like a million tiny needles stabbing him over and over and over again until he should have bled out.  His muscles jerked involuntarily, throwing him onto the floor.  Light flashed across his vision, blinding him, and a sound like a hundred angry wasps filled the air. When the pain finally passed, Aquilar vaguely registered laughter from above him. He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to find Za’ret standing directly over him, laughing like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. 

😭"what are the biggest challenges writing your WIPs?"

Finding time to write and the inspiration and motivation to actually finish without getting distracted by a different WIP. I'm lucky I finished the first drafts of The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure and The Legend of Orian Goldeneye but they still have a long way to go. I've had Trials of the Six since I was fourteen and its first draft is nowhere near completion.

❗"how many WIPs do you have?"

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha----

Twenty-four. Give or take.

Most of those I haven't touched in years, and I am currently focusing on the eight I post about. Some of them get more attention than others but that's just how I roll and if you don't like that then get off my blog.

And I still have more ideas in the ideas folder sooooooo it will end up being more. I'd love to revisit some of them when I finish my current ones (if ever).

[varl-the-sloth]

An Omen From the Void

((CW: Excessive violence)) In spite of the late hour, the heat of summer persisted: sweltering, insufferable, and best avoided. Nary a breeze in the air to spare even a brief moment of relief and an uncharacteristic silence lingered this particular evening. The estate of Lady Ophelia Stafford stood on a lone hilltop amidst the dense forests of Duskwood. The manor's inhabitants had largely retired for the evening, except for the night watch that had settled comfortably into their shifts and made steady patrols of the grounds while a small number of servants had busied themselves with last minute preparations for the following morning. Lady Stafford sat alone in her office, her desk piled with correspondence she had yet to address. A low groan of annoyance escaped her lips as her quill broke while writing a reply letter, staining the parchment with an unsightly splatter of ink and completely ruining it. As she reached for a drawer to replace the quill and parchment, a hint of movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She froze momentarily, wary of what could've made its way into her office. The door had been firmly shut and locked the whole time, hadn't it?

"Who is it?" she hissed, "I've little patience for games."

The figure stepped into the dim candle light, revealing an elven woman of an assumedly average build that was draped in a cloak of black dragonscale which hid most of her body from sight. Long and loose blonde hair flowed down to her waist and a singular, piercing blue eye bored a hole right through Lady Stafford; the other eye had taken a milky grey hue.

The noblewoman took pause as her gaze settled on the face of her unbidden visitor. The elf was known to her, but what was with that cloak? She sneered as she addressed the woman, "It's you. Where - how did you get that?"

The elf didn't deign to speak and instead her cloak flew open and revealed a blade, the steel reflecting the dim candlelight. She lunged for Ophelia and the woman barely managed to duck out of the way, the shortblade only slashing her arm.

"You impudent whelp!" Lady Stafford groaned through grit teeth, "What has gotten into you?"

The woman stopped clutching her fresh wound long enough to conjure a ball of flame which she flung at her assailant. "You were made to serve! Cease this at once!" she howled.

The fireball harmlessly phased right through the assassin, slamming into, and scorching, the wall behind her. Ophelia stared at the elf, wild-eyed with a growing sense of dread. "Wh-what are you?" she stammered, "What has he done?!" The elven assassin slowly approached her, the steady rhythmic sound of her boots hitting wooden floorboards, serving as an omen of what was to come. Lady Stafford bolted for the door, fumbling with the lock briefly before she burst out into the hallway. Her eyes darted every which way to find somebody, anybody that would fly to her aid. "Guards, guards! An assassin!" she called out, but no one answered.

She had to run. If she could get outside, she could be safe. Still holding her bleeding wound, the Lady sprinted down the hall of her estate, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. No matter how much distance she felt she had put between herself and the assassin, the echoing of her slowly treading footsteps always sounded just two steps behind her. In a bid to gain more ground, she turned and raised a wall of flame in hopes that it'd impede the elf. Yet moments later, as she continued to run for her life, the footsteps never missed a beat.

Step, creak.

Step, creak.

Step, creak.

Step, creak.

Where were the guards? Why was everything unlit? It's too dark, Ophelia's mind ran through a hundred thoughts a second as panic gripped her heart. The Lady heavily panted as she ran short of breath, but adrenaline managed to keep her body moving until she tripped and fell forward. Her wounded arm stung from the impact and she silently groaned from the pain. She scrambled to pick herself up, but the leg she had tripped on refused to move. She jerked her head down to look at her ankle, which had been grappled by a mass of tendrils that had burst through the floor. Ophelia repeatedly tried to pull her leg free, but the tendrils refused to yield.

All the while, the footsteps continued to echo. "Please! Not like this..." Ophelia pleaded to a foe she could not see.

Another tendril crashed through the floor, armed with a flail of jagged keratin at the tip. Before the pinned woman could even react, it began to repeatedly slam the immobilized limb. She wailed in agony and, in spite of the assault, launched a gout of flame from the palm of her hand to incinerate the flailing appendage. As it burned, it continued to barrage her leg with blows until it finally withered away. The noblewoman lurched forward, her bloody mess of a crumpled leg finally free from being bound. Her head was a haze with the excruciating pain as she inched forward with a crawl, until she could no longer find the strength to keep going.

The footsteps inevitably caught up with her.

A swift kick to her swimming skull sent her thoughts into a blur as her consciousness dwindled, but she could still feel the hand that grasped the roots of her hair and began to drag her down the hall. A tense moment later, a door swung open and she could feel the hot outside air on her bare skin as she was dragged out into the courtyard of her manor. Her body was leaned up against the side of the fountain that sat in the center of the yard and the assassin knelt beside her, yanking her head back by her hair.

"Look," the elf finally said, "Gaze into the starlight."

Ophelia strained and winced as she forced her eyes open, the pinpoints of stars only a distant blur. The shadow of death shortly came back into view, looming over the noblewoman. The elf's fingers peeled at Ophelia's eyelids to force them to stay open and she could only fixate on that one eye; that one sapphire eye that glared, unblinking and rabid with hatred.

Her eyes began to feel uncomfortably dry and she wished to blink so terribly bad, eyelids straining to close shut, but the elf refused to relent. Her hands firmly gripped the Lady's skull and from the assassin's mouth spilled the twisted language of ancient gods as she began to mutter an incantation. As the spell progressed, Ophelia could feel a presence swell within her mind and her head ached as memories were forced to the forefront of her mind's eye. The dealings she had with her kin, their plots, their names and locations, her own true identity: Basalia of the Black Dragonflight. After every shred of her true self was exhausted, she could feel her mind begin to collapse in on itself. She was consumed by fear and uncertainty; things stopped making sense. She begged, cried, and pleaded to be spared. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks and her voice grew hoarse from screaming. She could feel every agonizing moment as her mind was reduced to oblivion, consumed by the Void. The assassin released her grip on Basalia's hollow mind. The dragon, now trapped in mortal guise, reduced to a shriveling husk stripped of self and sapient thought. Her face contorted in perpetual fear, staring blankly up at a visage that showed no hint of remorse. The elven woman shoved Basalia down to the ground and her body slumped over on her shoulder. The elf clenched her fists and took a long, deep breath before she stomped and kicked the head of the defenseless Basalia. Stomp, crack. Stomp, crack. Stomp, crack. Stomp, crack. Even long after the spark of life had left the woman's body, the assassin did not stop. Not until her head was reduced to a bloody mash of split flesh, shattered bone, and splattered brain. The sight of her obliterated skull sent a shiver up the elf's spine, convulsing with a brutal, murderous euphoria. _________ The overwhelming sensation awoke Zevstana from her rest, her one good eye suddenly staring intently at the ceiling. After blinking herself awake, the Ren'dorei sat up in her bed and cradled her head. She suffered from a dull headache, felt uncomfortably hot, and the ravings of the Void rambled incessantly in the back of her mind.

Another memory. Just when I thought I'd get some good sleep, she thought to herself.

The elf pulled away the sheet and slipped out of bed, exiting out into the hall and making her way to the bathroom.

"Need another dose already," she muttered, "At this rate, I'm going to need to double up on the supply." Zevstana fished around in a cabinet for a pack of vials and retrieved one along with a clean syringe. The vial contained a clear liquid and was cool to the touch, a small amount of condensation on the glass. She fell into the routine of drawing the medication into the syringe and jabbing the needle into her arm to inject the fluid into her bloodstream. Within a few seconds, her blood cooled to a comfortable degree and she heaved a long sigh of relief.

As she tossed the spent syringe away, she paused to stare at herself in the mirror. Her reflection distorted into a mass of flesh and eyes, a clawed hand scratching on the surface of the mirror from the other side. Zev rolled her eyes. Usual drivel. Not this day and, fate willing, not ever.

Some months ago, she would've wholly believed that, but the looming threat of Xal'atath left a writhing knot in her stomach. To make matters worse were the dreams of memories. They came sporadically, but every time she had dreamed of one of her many murders in vivid detail. She had broached the topic, carefully, with others, but no one reported experiencing anything similar. She ran herself ragged looking for answers; every lead resulted in dead ends.

Zevstana looked herself in the mirror again, seeing her exhausted self look back. She could feel that something was lurking beyond the veil. She couldn't see it, but she could feel that it loomed over her shoulder in the mirror. Something was coming. Not just for Azeroth, but for her.

[aaravos-answers]

May I have an Aarapod? They seem like nice companions

Sparkling-half-elf

Purple, green, or purple, starling?

You may have one if you will care for it properly. This includes feeding it mainly leafy greens, and souls only rarely.

[syrupwit]

one of your poetry prompts reminded me of Beowulf, which I love, so I will prompt you with that for a Warden of your choice?

Do not give way to pride. For a brief while your strength is in bloom but it fades quickly; and soon there will follow illness or the sword to lay you low, or a sudden fire or a surge of water or jabbing blade or javelin from the air or repellent age. Your piercing eye will dim and darken; and death will arrive, dear warrior, to sweep you away.

Hi Rosella, thank you so much -- this is a really great prompt! I went some places with my Neria on this, meandering as usual.

Under the cut, please find ~534 words of f!Surana for @dadrunkwriting. CW: character death of various types.

-

Mouse’s voice in her mind is quiet, almost tender. “You made the wrong choice, little mage.”

Neria chokes on a breath that isn’t hers. Her hands come up in front of her face, and she sees blue corruption spreading to her fingertips, veins warping and bulging. She feels her robes tear as her shoulder blades erupt from her back.

“You tricked me,” she says with the last of her will, low and distorted, and then the watchers are on her.

-

When Jowan makes the Templars fall, he sends her falling with them.

He had always been jealous of her.

-

Knight-Commander Greagoir’s voice is shrill with satisfaction. “She may be one of your pets, Irving, but she aided a maleficar. You know the punishment for that. You can’t shield them every time.”

The First Enchanter looks at him, not her, when he says, “Neria, I only wish you’d told me.”

-

“You made the wrong choice, little mage.”

“I meant to.” She laughs, and feels Mouse freeze her muscles in a grin. A death-mask. “Make them pay for me.”

-

The Warden recruits get their vials of darkspawn blood, but one of them is struck down. It’s the elf, of course. They all knew she was the weakest.

-

“For the greater good,” Duncan says, his face solemn and streaked with Jory’s blood. His voice doesn’t sound near as kind now. She knows he means to be.

Neria drinks. As she collapses, before the pain takes her mind, she thinks: at least I’ll be remembered.

-

They have to get to the tower to light the beacon. The bridge shakes, it won’t hold, and it’s so high up. Neria runs blindly, ducking past arrows and imagined arrows, her robes soaked with sweat. There’s a hand grabbing at the fabric, tugging her back from the cracked, crumbling edge—

“Careful,” Alistair shouts.

She jerks from his grip. Spits at him. 

“Don’t touch me. I can do this by myself if I have to.”

Later, at the top of the tower, when the ogre has thrown him aside and is bearing down on her, her mana as diffuse and ungatherable as the smoke from a snuffed-out candle: I can’t do this by myself.

(Alistair, in Flemeth’s hut, wakes up on his own. She’d be surprised to learn that he mourns her.)

-

Wolves outside Lothering; a bereskarn in the hills; bandits on the road; assassins on a mountain path. Demons and abominations and furious things wearing the skin of her former classmates. Poison meant for a dwarven politician. An unlucky wind, an infected wound. A misfired spell, a misplaced step, a sudden current in the river. 

Golems in the Fade. A long-dead creature in a crumbling temple. Sten, on the road to Haven. Ser Cauthrien, Anora’s face flashing in her sword and shield. Zevran Arainai in a back alley in Denerim, though he’s usually courteous enough to apologize first.

Darkspawn in the forest, in the Deep Roads, in Neria’s dreams. Blood and fire, bloated flesh, laughter that raises goose-pimples and curdles her stomach. Not all of it is cruel; they know her, they want her. Their voices mingle together with the Archdemon’s, singing and calling to her, our sister, little sister—

Sometimes it’s just spoiled food that takes her out.

[postsfromthedark]

Theory for s4

So, we see that rayla left to find viren- she did this two years ago now. We also know she struggles with self doubt, feelings of not being good enough. She's holding out hope that runaan is still alive that she can right what she vies as her wrongs. All thos combined leaves a rather reckless, highly trained teenage assassin

But maybe she found claudia. She didn't do anything for a whole but follow her around a bit, see where she went, what she did. Seeing if viren was with her. Maybe, on this path, she leaves... traces. Slips her name to someone running a stall, leaves a piece of her clothing/gear/weapons on an alley when she ducked in to avoid being spotted. Maybe callum sees someone with it -recognizes it. He asks the earthblood elf, a stranger, where he found it. He tells him and thus starts callums search for rayla (she would never leave something behind unless there were no other options, trained and practical as she is).

Maybe the elf lied.

[zuppizup]

Purgatory - Dark

Summary: Almost three years ago, assassins came for Harrow. Callum was cornered, at her mercy and then… she let him go.The elf. He never even knew her name. She might be long dead, but Callum was determined to do as Harrow suggested. To reject the narrative of strength and instead embrace the narrative of love. To make a better future for all, humans and elves alike. But when he and Ezran stumble upon something hidden in Viren’s secret chambers, Callum realises he might actually be able to make up for the mistakes of the past. To make a real change, right here, right now. To free them both from their haunted past.

Pairing: Rayla/Callum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 Link: Purgatory

The blast of burning hot air behind them and powerful roar was almost enough to knock Callum off his feet. He gasped in shock as they ran full pace away from the rampaging dragon. He wasn’t even sure where they were going, only that they needed to get away.

He ducked behind a pillar, pulling Rayla with him. Desperately trying to catch his breath, he peeked around the rock shielding them from Sol Regem. The Archdragon was stomping around, knocking over rocks and outcrops with his tail and legs. If it wasn’t so terrifying, the tantrum would almost be amusing. Taking a deep breath, he looked back to Rayla, finding her staring straight ahead, somehow paler than usual.

“Are you okay?” He squeezed her hand, successfully getting her attention.

She swallowed and looked over at him. Stiffly she nodded her head. “What now?” She cringed as Sol Regem bellowed.

Read More On AO3 – Purgatory: Dark

[moonlighttinkered]

Targeted Mistake

This was the day. 

Athux had been spending weeks planning this after learning about the existance of a moonshadow that connected to the star primal, first learning more about this “Ethari” character then finding the town the moonshadow was living in currently. Athux didn’t understand why an elf would want to live in the human kingdoms, even Athux’s old community in Xadia was infinitely better than any human town but it made no sense to think about now as he finished the trap he was working on. Star magic was the rarest form of magic in Xadia, therefore it was unpredictable in what it could do, before, during, or after capture. Especially in the hands of a moonshadow elf. Athux had been running prototype after prototype of this trap for three weeks because of this, and finally he was convinced it would work. 

Now to do the capture...

Despite the moonshadow having connected to star magic and apparently helping stop a dark mage from conquering Xadia among the midst of the sudden rise in deaths last year, there was no visual evidence of this moonshadow. And of course there were two moonshadows in this town. That also took time to figure out, but Athux finally decided the one with long hair was the star connected one. He seemed too aware of his surroundings, seemed to see exactly what was going on. That had to be him. 

And so... Here Athux was, sitting in a bush waiting for the long haired moonshadow to come out of the building he was in. Some human school. The trap was entirely automatic, all Athux had to do was knock out the moonshadow...

-----

School had gone well today, despite it being most of the student’s most hated part of the year where pacing tests and cardio were required. Runaan liked it about as much as his students did, but did decide to join in on their suffering by running the pacer test alongside them. To show he understood if anything. Him and Caden, the fastest runner in class, ended up going head to head for who could go the longest while the rest of the students watched. Despite having shorter legs, Caden actually ended up beating Runaan and surprising everyone. Of course, the trained assassin was getting older but the Caden’s endurance was a pleasant surprise. He would have to give a good reward to the boy next class...

Unfortunately, his thoughts on what reward were cut short as he stepped outside, only to instantly duck out of the way of an arrow in alarm. The arrow deployed a net however, with another arrow following close behind and deploying another net. An enchanted string followed that other arrow, wrapping both nets together. Runaan struggled, looking around for the attacker while pulling his hands away from the magic rope that tried to bind them to the net. Finding only a machine a distance away that was firing arrows and had another one ready. What-

He hissed when the rope suddenly wrapped around his neck tightly and squeezing until Runaan couldn’t breath. He pushed through that to continue struggling, but the rope moved to catch his hands again. His wrists were tied next despite his attempts, stuck to the net unable to move. 

The lack of air was getting to him now, but he pushed on, trying to break the rope. Another arrow. This struck his feet. A blue goo surrounded his feet, and when he tried to move he realized with horror that the goo hardened instantly and he couldn’t move. 

With the rope still working to keep him still, the goo somehow working its way up his legs, and the lack of air, Runaan fell. Struggling as sight was lost to him. Footsteps sounded. He looked up sharply, finding a tidebound holding a cloth in one hand approaching. A smirk on the blue face. Runaan couldn’t breathe, much less talk, but the tidebound began acting as if Runaan was speaking. Or making any noise. 

“Shhh, shhh,” The tidebound practically whispered, taking Runaan by the only full horn the former assassin had left, then pressing the cloth to Runaan’s mouth. The rope loosened around the assassin’s neck, but the first true breath sucked in was through the cloth. The air tasted sweet somehow. Sickly sweet. Runaan’s eyes widened as he felt the effects of a daze coming onto him. He tried to retreat in alarm despite being immobilized, but the cloth was held tighter to his mouth. He was forced to breathe it even when he cut off his own breathing to stop. By that point, however, it was too late. His consciousness flickered out with every breath, until he fell limp, the tidebound being the only thing that saved Runaan from the ground beneath him. 

-----

He actually got him. 

Athux grinned, giving a laugh. That actually worked! 

He whistled, calling a horse he had painstakingly bought because of her understanding of commands, to come here. Not long after a brilliant white horse pulling a small carriage turned a corner. Stopping right in front of Athux. Athux used a simple rune to clear the ocean glue, then deposited the unconscious moonshadow into the carriage, using chains he had installed himself to ensure the moonshadow was completely unable to move if he woke up. Then, satisied, Athux removed all the evidence of capture, and took off. 

-----

Ethari was anxiously watching the door for Runaan to come home. Having a new horn decoration he wanted to give the former assassin after the last horn cap Runaan had was dented from breaking up a fight between two students. He had closed the shop early even to make sure he could surprise Runaan with this gift as soon as Runaan was home. But it had been an hour. Runaan hadn’t come through the front door. He was probably in a meeting, he supplied himself. But why did something feel off? 

@asking-the-danger-star

[samstree]

splash of the waves, and the sand castle crumbles (1/?)

Geraskier, Prince!Jaskier, fairy tale elements but with a twist, fluff and angst, 6.9k, rated T

Read on AO3

Geralt finds himself drawn to the prince despite himself. As he and Jaskier grow closer, war also looms on the horizon. It's the stuff of fairy tales, but can a witcher find his happily ever after in the time of heartbreaks and deaths?

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened next?”

“The farm girl became a princess and married the prince. They lived happily ever after,” she smiled, her eyes so warm in the candlelight.

“But what next?”

“Happily ever after, sweetie. It means there will only be happiness for the rest of their lives.”

She places a kiss on the top of his head and blows out the candle. Her hands are soft and gentle when she tucks him in.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Will we live happily ever after?”

She pauses in the darkness.

“Of course, my darling. Now you need to close your eyes—”

“Like the prince and the girl?”

“Even better.”

“But she married the prince. How can it be better?”

She sighs. The warmth of her palm brushes across his forehead, making his eyelids droop heavily.

“Your future holds much more, my sweet boy. You will find out tomorrow when you wake up.”

Sleep overcomes him. Indeed, he dreams of fairy tales and royal balls, magic spells and grand weddings.

The next morning, he wakes up believing in those happy ever afters.

*

Sometimes, when stones are thrown and pitchforks raised, Geralt regrets ever doing so.

*

The crown prince of Aedirn is a beautiful thing.

His pale blue doublet shines under the bright morning sun, the silvery embroidery sparkling in the light. A big smile —that ever-so-friendly smile that Prince Julian is known for— spreads across his face as a man with blond hair riding next to him speaks. Windswept brown hair brushes over his eyes, obscuring his youthful features.

Everything about him screams royalty. Privilege.

Even his horse is the most nicely-groomed white stallion Geralt has ever laid eyes on.

Prince Charming needs the whole get-up. The witcher snorts behind the bush, observing the royal convoy. It’s too small and moving way too slowly. They must have let down their guard because of the proximity to the castle. If Geralt were to assassinate a royal, he would choose to do it here as well.

It doesn’t take long for the first one to approach from the side of the road, hiding behind the shrub just like Geralt. The man in black works silently and quickly, but not as quickly as a witcher.

Geralt strangles him from behind, gripping tightly until the man passes out. A crossbow falls to the ground. The convoy travels ahead, unaware of the witcher disposing of a deadly threat to their prince’s life.

The swoosh of an arrow pierces the air.

“Protect the prince!”

Two dozen assassins in the same black suit appear out of thin air, charging into the royal guards’ formation. In an instant, the heap of pale-blue is tackled to the ground. Swords clash as more men start yelling.

“Fuck.”

Dodging a stray arrow, the witcher rushes into the chaos. The small convoy being overwhelmed by the incoming force, they hardly notice one of the assassins circling around the battle and moving directly to the prince. With a few long strides, Geralt stops the man with a clean strike.

“What—” the prince scrambles back at the sight of blood, looking at the witcher’s towering form with disbelief.

“You need to come with me,” Geralt says, before hauling him up by the collar of his doublet.

*

He half drags the prince to the hide-out. It’s only a cave where he left Roach earlier, but it should be enough. The young man slumps down against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Why are you—”

“Shh.” The witcher quickly crouches on the ground and presses his palm over the prince’s mouth. Distant footsteps disappear in another direction, before he slowly lets go. “We should be safe for now.”

In the quiet of the cave, he can hear the prince’s pounding heart, his eyes blown wide like a startled deer. Specks of blood smear across his cheeks, making him appear even younger.

“My men?”

“These are hired assassins. They will disperse once you are gone.” Geralt is surprised at how gentle his voice comes out. “Are you all right?”

“I—” the prince swallows, and looks down to his bicep where the flesh is grazed by an arrow. The wound is shallow and slowly seeping blood into the torn fabric. Geralt reckons that it should be fine left alone. “I’m fine. I—I’m…fine, yes. I’m alive.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, both in shock and relief. The prince tries to appear unaffected but the overwhelming panic in his scent betrays his seemingly neutral expression.

“You are lucky it didn’t go through your heart.” The witcher leaves him to check on Roach. Sensing the danger in the air, the mare has stayed quiet this whole time. He pats her mane in thanks. “Didn’t think the prince of Aedirn was this careless.”

“I didn’t think witchers got themselves involved in political squabbles either.” Cornflower blues meet Geralt piercingly, despite his shakiness. “I know who you are,” he chuckles tightly. “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt grunts.

“I didn’t get involved.”

The prince only gestures to himself, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve saved your ass. Now you can return to your castle and pretend we’ve never met, your highness.”

“Please, call me Jaskier.” The prince stands, patting the blue silk to get off the dirt and wincing when the movement tugs at his arm. “Aren’t you curious as to how I learned about you? Your fame precedes you, witcher.”

The young man meets his gaze assuredly. There’s no trace of fear in his scent.

People usually learn about Geralt one way—his moniker is not something to be escaped. But the prince doesn’t act like everyone else who meets the Butcher. Or at least, he hides it well.

“Are you not scared for your life, prince?”

“It’s Jaskier. And no, I’m not scared by the Butcher, if that’s what you mean.” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “I know you from a… mutual acquaintance, let’s say.”

“Oh?”

“Filavandrel mentioned you.”

“The elf king who hides in the mountains?” Geralt frowns. “I never really knew him. Not for more than a day.”

“No? He spoke of a white-haired witcher who was paid to hunt his people. Only that witcher left his own coin purse to them upon finding out about their circumstances. It showed compassion that no human had ever shown them, witcher. From his description, I thought the elven king and you shared a moment that day, or rather, an understanding.”

“Only of men.” He pauses. “Haven’t you come to the same understanding? Or why else would the prince of Aedirn make a target of himself by providing shelter to elven refugees?”

Geralt remembers his encounter with the elf king vividly, his anger and despair. The path took him back to Lower Posada years after that day. His curiosity drove him back to Dol Blathanna, only to find a much larger settlement and an exploding population of elves and other non-humans. Not only that, everyone there spoke of the kindness of the prince, who gave equal status to all sentient creatures on Aedirn soil.

“I see someone did homework on me.”

“People here sing your praises on the street day and night. It seems half the country has fallen in love with you,” Great admits begrudgingly.

“And the other half dislikes that I’m giving land away. Land that could have been providing for humans. The other half of my country believes I’m crazy just like all the other kings and queens in the north.”

The prince steps into Geralt’s space.

“You see, Geralt of Rivia, I cannot change the war that others deem just. I cannot stop the Lioness of Cintra from slaughtering elves and non-humans alike on the other side of the Yaruga. All I have is a piece of land in the Blue Mountains and, perhaps, I can provide them the means to rebuild. Those settlements are only a start.”

“It sounds like a noble cause, prince, but I’m not sure how much you can achieve.”

“Sometimes,” the prince’s attention shifts to Roach. “I wonder the same thing. The continent won’t change overnight just because one kingdom decides to show them a little bit of decency. The same decency that we humans are treated with all along.”

The young prince falls silent, his hand reaching out to touch Roach’s mane but retreats when she snorts anxiously. Geralt shushes the mare with a carrot from the pack.

“And I think, my friend,” the young prince continues. “Despite your claim of neutrality, you are on my side.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No? But I wish to become yours. After all, you just saved my life so selflessly and gallantly,” he proclaims dramatically. “You should have seen yourself, Geralt. So brave with a sword, like a knight from the stories! If we were in a fairy tale, this is where I offer myself to you in eternal gratitude.”

“Are all princes this cheeky?”

“I don’t know. Are all witchers this heroic and beautiful?” Blue eyes roam up and down the witcher’s body, before meeting his gaze with clear interest.

Geralt grunts, ducking away from direct eye contact with the prince. Suddenly the air in the cave feels too warm. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Are you being shy, Geralt the witcher?”

The teasing comes so naturally for the prince. Gods, is that why all the maidens out there are so enamored with him? With those easy smiles and dreamy blue eyes, as soon as he throws in some flirtatious words, any inexperienced country girl would swoon upon meeting with him.

What fools they all are.

“We are not in a fairy tale,” Geralt says, palming his face. “Don’t expect a happy ending from this, my prince.”

“Jaskier,” the prince repeats insistently. “Although I do like the way you call me ‘my prince’. I’d certainly like it more if we were in a… different situation.”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively, and Geralt wonders if he can un-save this ridiculous man’s life.

“Fine then. Jaskier.”

The prince, who insists his name is a flower, smiles smugly for having gotten his way.

“But why?” he then faces Geralt head-on, his voice steady. “Why help me? If you don’t seek the favor of a prince, and the conflict never concerns you?”

Geralt blinks.

He’s not sure what drove him to the decision. The only emotion he had upon hearing about a price on the head of the crown prince was unease. The witcher has seen the war and how all the non-humans were killed with little reason, their corpses a feast for ghouls. The prince of Aedirn made himself an enemy to many realms by taking in all the refugees.

It wouldn’t sit right to let him die.

“I was in Cintra a month ago,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier tilts his head.

“So was I. I went to negotiate the relocation of the defeated elves with Queen Calanthe.” Something dawns on him. “You heard something, didn’t you? Was this assassination ordered by her? The negotiation ended up a complete waste of time, but never have I thought she could resort to such a dishonorable way of killing. No matter how much she must want to get rid of me permanently… Oh, I—I never thought…”

The prince—Jaskier trails off, his face drained of blood.

“I only learned about the bounty on your head,” Geralt explains, confused by the prince’s sudden show of weakness. “Hired swords get quite loose-lipped after a few drinks. As to where the order came from—"

“Wait, I…"

A pained grunt escapes the prince’s throat. He sways on his feet ever so slightly, but steadies himself with a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. They both look down to where the wound is still trickling slowly, soaking his sleeve with a patch of dark crimson.

“Wait, I thought…” Geralt reaches out to hold Jaskier’s arm. His palm comes away covered in blood. “Shit, it shouldn’t be bleeding this much.”

“You followed all the way from Cintra, just to stop them from killing m—" Jaskier breaks off for air as Geralt rummages through his pack for bandages. The prince clenches the fabric over his chest, as if something is hurting him from within. “So much for… n—not getting involved.”

“Shut up, prince.” Geralt’s fingers reach the bandage. “Or Jaskier, or whatever flower you prefer.”

A strained smile contorts into a grimace on the prince’s face, his knees buckling.

“Shit.” The witcher barely manages to catch his limp body before his head hits the ground. Blue eyes become unfocused as his head sags against Geralt’s shoulder. “Jaskier? Prince? Can you hear me?”

Geralt inspects the wound on his arm closely for the first time, and that’s when his witcher senses pick up on the faint trail of bitterness.

“It’s poison,” he mutters and curses under his breath.

Jaskier whimpers weakly upon hearing the words, his eyes filled with full-blown panic. For the first time that day, the witcher senses potent fear in the prince’s scent.

Or is it his own?

Geralt can’t tell.

*

Roach is almost at her limits. The weight of two grown men puts a lot of tires her way too quickly, but Geralt doesn’t dare to slow down, not until he can see the castle walls.

“Don’t die now,” the witcher murmurs into the prince’s ear, who is slumped against his chest, half-delirious and slurring nonsense. The make-shift tourniquet on his arm is soaked through with specks of blood.

The poison is attacking his heart, Geralt notices. It’s also speeding it up, disrupting its rhythm. It’s the vicious kind, one that is designed to make the victim suffer before they die.

Jaskier’s face is white as a sheet, and his lips are turning a sickening purple. The trembling comes and goes, making it harder to keep him in place. His blue eyes roll back, and for a moment, Geralt thinks he’s lost him.

“We are here, prince. Do you hear me?” The gate opens when the guards realize that their prince is brought back injured. A lot of people are shouting but it’s all a blur when Geralt carries the prince down from the mare’s back. “Just hang on, Jaskier.”

Jaskier clings, his heartbeat fluttering dangerously.

They take Jaskier away with force, his limp hand slipping from Geralt’s grip. Someone kicks the witcher behind the knees, sending him to the ground. Weapons suddenly appear at his throat, stopping him from going any further.

“G’ralt…” Jaskier protests, his hands grabbing blindly.

“He needs a healer!” he shouts at those guards who only seem to be interested in restraining him.

Cornflower blues are fixed on golden yellow. The prince’s skin is covered in sweat, his lips quivering, struggling to form words. It takes a second for the witcher to realize that he’s talking to the guards.

“He saved my life. Don’t… He saved…me,” Jaskier chokes out a breath, and Geralt feels those guards release him.

The witcher is left kneeling as more men surround the prince and rush him inside. They’re either fussing over Jaskier or calling for help. His faint heartbeat gets lost in the commotion.

“Wait, is he going to—"

The gate shuts in his face. The last thing he sees is Jaskier collapsing in someone’s arms.

*

No word about the prince comes out for months. Not about the assassination. Not about his poisoning.

Rumor says that he was gravely injured during the attack, and that he has been bed-ridden since returning from Cintra. Some even suspect that he’s already dead.

*

“…I opened the envelope and it was an invitation from the prince!”

“It was magical, wasn’t it? He doesn’t show up for ages and suddenly we are all invited to a ball! In his castle! A royal ball where anyone can attend, no less! I heard he will choose one to marry tonight.”

“Although I heard he’s sick for quite some time…”

Geralt ducks his head while listening in on the two women’s conversation. They are each dressed in a luxurious ball gown, their faces powered and lips painted. Like everyone else in the room, they are trying to impress the prince at his first outing in months.

But that is not why he is here.

Geralt has been lingering in Aedirn since that day, when he sent Jaskier back to the castle with poison coursing through his veins, not knowing what would become of him. Months of dead silence only make his stomach sink further.

A chance presented itself when news came out that the prince will hold a ball to the public.

It only makes sense that he should go and check, just to make sure Jaskier is all right. After all, he doesn’t want to put in all the effort to save someone only to never know if he will end up fine.

He will see for himself that Jaskier is well, and then he will leave.

He will not get involved.

Of course not.

Geralt takes another sip of the wine, surprised at the buzz it gives to his temporarily human body. When the mage sold him the potion that could hide all visible witcher traits, she did not mention it would also slow his metabolism to an ordinary human’s.

“The disguise will expire at midnight, when the bell strikes twelve.” Luckily she didn’t forget about this.

What a cliché.

It seems that no mage can resist a touch of dramatics.

For now, he looks like another random lord with dark hair and brown eyes. She also threw in a spell to turn his clothes into a silky ensemble in a muted black color.

“His royal highness, Prince Julian!” someone announces.

The crowd turns their eyes to the top of the stairs, where the heavy wooden doors open in everyone’s anticipation. One of the two women lets out an audible gasp as the prince steps out.

And there he is, Jaskier.

Those blue eyes are bright as the sky, those cheeks rosy-pink. He’s a picture of health compared to the last time Geralt held him in his arms. The witcher lets out a relieved sigh he never knew he was holding.

A smile spreads across the prince’s face. Suddenly the wine isn’t the only thing making Geralt all warm and fuzzy inside.

The prince descends the stairs with such elegance, his doublet a pristine ivory color under the chandelier’s sparkling light. The clothes sit perfectly on his frame, but with a heavy heart, Geralt realizes that he’s also lost weight.

It’s minuscule, and the puffy sleeves hide it well, but it’s there. Bed-ridden for a long time, they say. The witcher swallows the lump in his throat.

The crowd parts for the prince, retreating to the edge of the dance floor. No one dares to breathe as they await his invitation to the first dance.  Once the dancing starts, the music will be too loud and the people too busy, giving the witcher a window to easily disappear into the night. But Jaskier continues to search through the crowd as if he has a specific someone to look for.

Before Geralt can even react, blue eyes have locked with his. The piercing blue makes him instinctively want to hide, but the witcher is frozen to the spot. The prince walks directly towards him, the grin spreading even wider if that is possible.

“May I have the first dance?” Jaskier reaches out, his palm facing up.

Countless eyes fall on Geralt, making his skin prickle, but he pays no mind. All he can focus on is the prince’s expectant look. Even now, without his witcher hearing to know Jaskier’s heartbeat, he can see the tentative hope in the way Jaskier seems to hold his breath.

Geralt takes his hand.

*

The royal garden is quiet under the night sky. The cool breeze is nice on Geralt’s skin, the faint hum of cicadas a soothing balm to his ear after hours of music and dance.

“Apologies. I was getting a little… uncomfortable in there.” The prince leads the witcher to a bench. His hand rubs at his heart like it’s bothering him.

“Are you well, my prince?” Geralt helps him sit down.

“Please, call me Jaskier.”

Geralt pauses. Does Jaskier tell his preferred name to anyone? Even a stranger he just met at a ball?

“Why Jaskier?”

“It’s the person I dream to be,” he answers wistfully but adds nothing to explain. Geralt wonders why a prince could possibly dream to be another person.

“I see.” He nods. “Are you feeling alright, Jaskier?”

The prince’s eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a lock of curly brown hair out of Geralt’s face. The movement is so gentle that the witcher can’t help but catch his hand, holding those slender fingers in his palm.

They are way too slender, he thinks. Repressed worry bubbles up in his throat again.

“I’m fine now.” Jaskier squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Although I haven’t been for a few months, as you already know.”

“Uh…yes.” Geralt splutters. This closeness, combined with the touch of skin, seems to be slowing his brain. “There are rumors, from outside the castle. It was an attack, wasn’t it? At least that’s what I heard.”

“It was. They used poison, no less. The healers told me that it weakened my heart, even stopped it for a few seconds.” He chuckles sadly, threading their fingers together and pressing both their hands over his chest. “The pain still comes and goes these days, but I cope.”

The thumping underneath Geralt’s hand is rhythmic. Calming. It feels so fragile, especially now that he knows how little it takes to stop it. To snuff out the light in those cornflower-blue eyes along with it. And yet, this heart keeps beating.

“I’m glad you survived, Jaskier.”

The name comes out reverent, like a prayer.

“So am I, my friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Moonlight frames Jaskier’s fond expression, giving it a soft glow. Long lashes cast a shadow on his faint blush. A grin spreads across the prince’s face when he answers.

“I hope? Or maybe I can hope for more. After all, this ball is held so I can find my future intended in the crowd.”

The implication makes Geralt’s breath hitch. He blinks.

“You don’t even know my name.” 

Jaskier’s eyes darken as he leans in. His hand comes up to cradle Geralt’s chin. “Somehow, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

The crisp night air is mixed with the fresh smell of grass, but on top of it is a floral scent that reminds him of spring and hope. Geralt lets his senses be overwhelmed by the prince, by his soft breaths ghosting over his skin and those enchanting lips well within reach.

Not getting involved, the back of his mind screams.

Despite himself, Geralt meets Jaskier halfway, their lips a hair’s breadth away when—

The bell strikes. Once, twice…

The noise is the loudest wake-up call, turning Geralt’s blood to ice. What is he doing? Is it midnight already? Fuck… he needs to get out of here before the magic expires.

“I need to go,” Geralt blurts out. “I have to leave right now. Ah… I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together in confusion. “What is wrong? I thought you—”

“I came here to make sure you are all right, Prince Julian. Nothing more. It was never my intention to let you believe there could be anything else.”

The prince’s face dims at his apology. The dejection on his face tugs at something in Geralt’s chest. It leaves him wanting, but there’s no time. The bell counts down his sentence.

He takes Jaskier’s hand and places a simple kiss there, and turns to leave, only to be halted by the prince’s tightening hold.

“Wait, you don’t have to go."

“You don’t understand,” Geralt’s voice quivers with urgency. “It’s important that I leave.”

Those gentle fingers wrap around Geralt’s steadily, Jaskier’s skin cool against his. The prince continues to ignore his plea. If anything, he steps closer.

“Stay. Please.” Jaskier whispers, and it’s all it takes.

The witcher can break free easily, but for some reason he is unable. For some reason, he feels the weakest he has ever been under the intensity of Jaskier’s pleading gaze.

To his horror, the magic fades. Geralt can feel his hair change and grow longer, his teeth sharpening. The flow of chaos stings his eyes that are certainly turning back to yellow. His face crumbles.

And yet, Jaskier never wavers.

If anything, the adoration in those stormy blues only grows, ever so beautifully, as the swirl of magic circles around Geralt, revealing plain clothes instead of silk. 

The bell strikes twelve.

The sound still echoes in the air. Slowly, with the utmost determination, Jaskier’s fingers thread through what is now silver-white hair. Tears glisten in his eyes.

“You told me we were not in a fairy tale, and yet, you try to leave me at midnight. You tried to leave me here under the stars. Alone and heartbroken.” The prince lets out a wet chuckle. “Because you think I wouldn’t recognize the man who saved my life. You think I wouldn’t know the witcher who’s risking everything right now just to see that I am well. I’d know you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s feather-light touch continues to trace the shell of Geralt’s ear, the tiny scar under his eye, and then finally, the corner of his mouth. It’s not often, in his long life, that Geralt gets his breath taken away, least of all by a prince.

“How?”

“I suspected,” Jaskier whispers. “Or rather I hoped when I saw you in the ballroom. I prayed. That it’s you.”

“You danced with me because—”

“Because I wanted to thank you properly. We were kind of in a hurry last time.” The prince teases, his palm tilting Geralt’s chin. “May I?”

He nods.

As if in a dream, soft lips press against his, tasting of salt and moonlight. Geralt lets out a tiny gasp as Jaskier opens him up patiently and draws it out like they have all the time in the world. Like he’s something to be treated with gentleness. Something to be treasured.

He pulls away panting, only to realize that tears are rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks freely, so he catches them with the pad of his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Geralt shushes him, but Jaskier sniffles with a smile.

“I’m not upset. Trust me when I say these are tears of joy.” Red-rimmed eyes sparkle like the stars. “But Geralt…”

“Yes?”

“Will I see you again?”

Geralt blinks. He only sneaked into a royal court with one goal. Now that he has achieved it and more, there’s nothing that should bring him back to Jaskier again. His heart twists painfully at the idea, and words tumble out of his mouth. The last of his sanity screams against it, and yet his heart has made the decision.

“I hope, Jaskier. I can only hope to see you again.”

Jaskier beams as he presses another kiss to Geralt’s wrist.

“That is enough for me.”

*

“Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…”

Jaskier’s voice echoes hauntingly. In front of him, the elven family sits huddled together, listening intently. The two children are concentrating so hard that they are almost falling off their parents’ laps. Finally, as the soft strumming of the lute comes to an end, they start clapping with passion.

From a distance, Geralt can only see the prince from behind, but somehow he can sense the big smile Jaskier returns to those excited children. The wind in the Blue Mountains ruffles his brown hair. Jaskier continues to take off the strap and carefully hands the lute to the elven woman.

The witcher approaches quietly.

“…thank you so much! It is such a beautiful instrument.” Jaskier’s voice is warm and welcoming. She’s certainly charmed when they keep talking about music and folk songs.

Geralt stands there and lets Jaskier’s presence wash over him. In the end, it’s the other woman who notices him and gestures in his direction.

Jaskier turns his head and beams.

“Geralt! What brings you here?”

With a few long strides, the prince rushes over and slams their bodies into a bear hug. Anyone who’s not a witcher might have been knocked over by the force, but Geralt catches Jaskier steadily.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Jaskier exclaims as he presses a chaste pack to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I haven’t seen you since the manticore hunt.”

“It was still weird that you would want to come with me on hunts.”

“What is life if not to see your favorite witcher in action?” Jaskier waves it off as if a prince getting monster gut all over himself is a common occurrence. He checks Geralt all over. “Anyway, how’s the path treating you, my dear? Any injuries? Exciting stories?”

“The path is fine.” His excitement is too contagious that Geralt feels his lips tug upwards. “And it hasn’t been long. Two months at most.”

“Nonsense. Any amount of time not seeing you feels like ages.”

The parents lead their children away, the girl still humming the song from Jaskier’s private performance.

“I didn’t know the prince could play the lute. Or sing,” he teases.

“Ha! I’m full of surprises, you shall see! Besides, I always thought—” Jaskier cuts himself off, ducks his head before continuing. “I always thought that in another life, I would have been a bard.”

“Would you?”

“Mm-hmm. I would travel the continent, write songs about heroes and adventures. With a lute on my back, I could go to the edge of the world and beyond. Maybe even meet some interesting people, find my muse, or… fall in love.”

He winks at Geralt cheekily when the witcher realizes something.

“So is Jaskier the stage name you picked? For this bard life?”

“Why yes.” Jaskier sounds so surprised. “How do you know? Oh, my dear witcher, you do understand me like no one else! Not even Valdo is a match to you, no matter how well he claims to know me.”

The mention of Valdo Marx’s name sends a pang of bitterness through Geralt, though he has learned long ago that it’s irrational. The prince’s life-long friend, now an important right-hand man, is the most devoted advisor in Jaskier’s council. He’s supported Jaskier in everything throughout his life, having done nothing wrong by the prince, and yet, Geralt can’t bring himself to like the man.

Maybe it’s because of his too-shiny blonde hair. It gives him a headache if he stares at it for too long. Maybe it’s his all-knowing eyes that tend to judge the witcher silently every time they meet. The distrust is too typical for politicians such as him.

Or maybe, it’s because anyone with eyes can see how Valdo is desperately in love with Jaskier, but apparently, it’s not that obvious to the prince himself.

“I know because only you will have a tacky name like Buttercup for your professional career.” The words come out more sour than Geralt expected.

Jaskier squawks with rightful indignation, and Geralt can’t help but snort out a laugh. It’s truly too easy to rile him up.

“It’s just hard to picture.” The witcher continues, while taking Jaskier’s hand. “Someone like you, with soft hands like these. It would take a lot of hard work if you want to make it as a musician. I’m not sure if my prince is up for that job.”

Jaskier slaps him on the arm offendedly. “I’ll have you know, Geralt of Rivia! I am perfectly capable of enduring hardship for the right cause! Now that was truly rude of you to assume that I am spoiled just because I’m a prince! Really, it’s very unbecoming of you!”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his head, amused. “And what is a right cause in your book?”

All jokes dissipate after that question.

The prince looks around to the new camps and make-shift houses, everything illuminated by the setting sun. Bonfires are lit where families are gathered after dinner, laughing and dancing together, despite the hardship that brought them here.

“I want everyone on my land to live happily, no matter how they came to Aedirn. I wish they could all see it as a home,” Jaskier says sadly. “That is the most important cause in my life, Geralt. Although I’m not sure if that’s just a fantasy.”

Geralt squeezes the prince’s hands gently. They are exceedingly soft, and cold to the touch. The witcher used to assume that Jaskier just runs a little colder than the average person. But later, to his dismay, he found out that it’s yet another result of the poisoning.

He never wants to see Jaskier’s chest pain flare up again. He never wants to see Jaskier bend over in agony, his hands turning into blocks of ice from the lack of blood flow, his face skin covered in sweat in an instant. Just witnessing it happen almost gives Geralt phantom pain. What’s worse is that there’s nothing he can do but wait it out, holding Jaskier close and rocking him back and forth slowly.

At least he’s now feeling contrite. Teasing Jaskier about not being strong enough was a low blow, when in fact, the young prince is the furthest from deserving such an accusation.

He doesn’t need swords or muscles to be strong.

Jaskier is strong for his stubbornness and his unwavering faith. The elven settlement around them is the best testament. He carried on despite being hated by all other kingdoms, despite the attempt on his life, one that was nearly fatal. One that still hurts him in the quiet of the night.

“Fantasy or not,” Geralt’s insides melt at the way Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I’d like to see it through with you, if you allow me to.”

Blue eyes suddenly sparkle with renewed excitement.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Geralt?” Jaskier asks carefully as if he could spook the witcher. “Are you finally saying yes to my proposal?”

“I���m considering it.”

“You’ve been considering it since the first time I asked!”

“You asked on our third ever meeting, Jaskier.” Geralt chuckles in exasperation. “And you’ve been asking every time we see each other.”

“And you’ve been giving me the same response every time.” His pout is too adorable Geralt wants to kiss it away. “One might suggest it’s rude to string a prince along like this.”

Geralt hums while cupping Jaskier’s jaw in his palm, tilting it so their gazes meet.

“One might also suggest that our beloved Prince Julian is too good for a witcher like me.”

Ho only means to joke but the smile on Jaskier’s face falls, hurt immediately replacing the earlier chirpiness.

“Shit, Jask… Forget I said that.” Geralt closes his eyes, regretting having ruined the moment.

“Darling, we talked about this.”

“No, you’re right. Of course…”

Jaskier takes the witcher’s hand and places a kiss in his palm. “I won’t allow terrible things to be said about the man I love, and that includes you, my dear. I’d hate it if you joined those senseless folk who can’t see you for the good man you are.” He bites into his lower lip. “Now, I understand if you have reservations about us. I mean, what I am… or what I do, is a lot. I won’t rush you into a decision anymore. I never meant to pressure you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Jaskier.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are from completely different worlds. Anyone who has eyes will tell you we’re not compatible.”

“Did Valdo say something to you again? Or is that truly what you believe?” Jaskier takes a step back. “Do you wish to end things with me? I—I’ll understand if you want to—"

“No, Jask.”

“—I know how much I’m keeping you in Aedirn, and maybe you wish to be free of court rules and politics and—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interjects, and cornflower blues meet him in earnest. He knows too well how the prince could spiral out of control, dredging up all the terrible scenarios hidden in the dark corner of his mind. Jaskier looks so lost right now and all Geralt wants to do is make it better, so he does it with action, as always.

He kisses Jaskier with a bruising force. It’s too rushed, too clumsy compared to the gentle caress they normally share, but it conveys everything Geralt cannot promise yet. Not out loud. Not right now.

Geralt threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, playing with the soft locks. He lets Jaskier lean against his shoulder when they break off the kiss.

“I’m yours, my prince,” he whispers.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you call me that.”

Geralt hides his amusement in soft brown hair.

“Many times, my prince,” he indulges Jaskier. “And yet I cannot help but worry. I fear that things will not work because of our differences. I am a witcher. I am the Butcher of Blaviken, no matter how noble you believe me to be. I will never become someone else. Not like in fairy tales, where a farm girl can transform into a princess and suddenly become worthy of her prince. I fear you’ll make too many compromises because of who I am, bear too many scrutinies, and you will end up resenting me.”

Jaskier shakes his head at those words, his hair ticking Geralt’s ear.

“You speak of my sacrifices, but what about you?” His hand rests between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “You’ve walked the continent for so long. Will you resent me for caging you in a castle because of who I am?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes the name solemnly. “You promised to never trap me in the drudgery of court life. You promised that no matter what we become, I can always return to my path when my heart desires. I trust you on that.”

“And I trust you in return, that you won’t dishonor me. Not in ways that matter.”

They pull away. The sun is hanging just on the horizon, drawing a golden line around Jaskier’s hair.

“I will ask one thing of you, my prince,” Geralt says. “Allow me more time to be sure. Of myself and of our future.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle at the corners, taking the witcher’s hand and presses it over his heart, where the doublet is left wide open. The warmth of his skin seeps through the thin chemise and into Geralt’s calloused palm.

“Don’t you see, my darling? I’d give you the stars if you asked. What is a little more time?” His chest rises and falls. “Although I need you to promise something as well.”

“What is it?”

The last of the sunlight fades, darkening Jaskier’s eyes like a stormy night.

“Don’t break my heart in the meantime.”

The plea comes out desperate, vulnerable. Under his palm, Geralt feels the soft thumping that he knows to be fragile.

“I won’t,” he breathes the words reverently. “I promise.”

Jaskier’s heart is so full of the world and its sufferings, so full that there’s hardly room left for himself. So full that the witcher should build a shrine for whatever gods out there that it gives him any attention. To think that he has any power over it, that he can hurt it easily, makes his stomach turn.

He’d live out his life fulfilling that promise if allowed.

*

The witcher walks the path just like he’s done for the past decades. Temeria’s wind is as freezing as ever, and its secrets even more so.

Another dangerous contract is nothing new, and yet, something in him shifts. Somehow, the days ahead are no longer painted with monotonous black and white, but an unpredictable mixture of colors—orange like the setting sun on Jaskier’s long lashes, or rosy-pink like the too-easy blush that dusts over his cheeks when he’s pretending to be unaffected by Geralt’s attention.

More often than not, he sees in his future the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, deep and vast like the sea.

The same blue is what flashes across Geralt’s eyes as the striga’s teeth bury into his neck. With the crypt cold and hard against his back, the witcher would laugh at the irony of it if not for the blood choking in his throat.

Funny how the moment of revelation does not come in a whirlwind of poetry, one that is befitting to Jaskier. The moment Geralt realizes that he is finally ready to take Jaskier’s hand might just be his last moment.

He drifts into bottomless darkness and wakes to cool fingers on his forehead.

And here Jaskier is, sitting by his bedside, his frame so lonely in the Temple of Melitele. A relieved sigh by his lips and tired bruises under his eyes. Gone is his composed regality. Jaskier looks like he hasn’t slept in days, like he just rode all the way here with wind still in the tousled mess of his hair.

“Yes,” Geralt croaks.

The prince rushes forward to fuss over his bandages and splints, cooing with the most distressed frown. “What do you need, my dear?”

“Yes.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, caressing those cool fingers. The stitches in his neck tug uncomfortably.

“Yes, I’ll marry you, my prince.”

---

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