#her tether to the legion was being SOMEONE WHO MEANT SOMETHING

[jamessunderlandgf]

🖊 + ⚔🩸faustina🩸⚔

FAUSTINA was gifted her name by his holiness escribar. she was an orphan and didn’t have one, so he gave her the name faustina, which means “fortunate”— which. is ironic. because she certainly is not fortunate. he thought so as a sick joke, of course.

how fortunate for her to have been found and given purpose, praise the miracle, etc etc but she is NOT living laughing or loving cs she’s in a constant state of having to prove herself and not once has it worked in her favor. the single time that it does is when she’s DYING.

[rufousnmacska]

Prompt idea but what if Dorian, because he loves to be self sacrificial, decides to forge the lock on his own so that Aelin has the power to beat Maeve with her fire.

Ok anon, here you go. I tried to keep it short and sweet, but I don’t know if that happened. Thanks for the prompt - hope you like it!

Following Erawan’s Ironteeth legion north in his wyvern form was risky, but it was the fastest way he could get to Terrasen. Even so, he’d fallen so far behind, he estimated them to be days ahead.

When they’d set out from Morath, the force of witches and wyverns spread out in front of him was never-ending. He couldn’t see past them to clear skies.

What awaited them in Orynth? Death and destruction?  Or had Manon summoned the Crochans to help Aedion in his defense of the kingdom?

A selfish part of him hoped she hadn’t. If she was still trying to gather the witches to her, that meant she wasn’t yet in the thick of battle. And wouldn’t be facing this hellish force flying ahead of him.

Dorian’s plan was to go to Orynth, hoping to find his friends, hoping they’d found a way around this curse. After being in Maeve’s head and stealing some of her power, he sensed she was still alive. And when she set out for Terrasen, probably with Erawan and the remainder of his armies, he sensed that too.

He should have ended her. Should have tried to kill Erawan, Kaltain’s warnings be damned. Then none of this would be happening.

The wyrdkeys pulsed in his pocket, sending a sickly tempting call to him. And so, his plan changed.

He didn’t need to wait until he reached Terrasen to use them and close the gate. If he did it now, perhaps he could remove Erawan from the equation. That still left the valg king’s armies and Maeve… But he’d just have to have faith in his friends that they could stop her.

Dorian spotted a small opening in the dense forest and landed, switching back to his human form. The place was familiar but he didn’t think he’d ever been to this part of Oakwald before. Nothing looked familiar. He felt it. And when he tried to delve deeper into that feeling, it pulled away. Like trying to remember a dream after waking up.

He’d seen the ruins of a temple from overhead, looking as if it had been pushed into a deep ravine. Who it had belonged to, he didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, he mused. If the ritual worked, there would be no gods left in this world who needed temples.

The thought made him wonder about the witch’s chosen goddess. Would she disappear with the others? What would that do to the clans? To Manon? She’d never spoken in detail of their religion, but he’d heard her invoke the Three-Faced Goddess.

That feeling of recognition washed over him again, prickling his skin like a chilled breeze. Turning around in a circle, he examined every tree, every rise and outcropping. None of it sparked a memory.

Dorian realized he was stalling.

With a shaky breath, he cursed his cowardice and pulled the three keys from his pocket. Manon had never told him the specifics of the ritual that she’d learned from Elena in the witch mirror. But he’d gathered enough from what Kaltain had told him and what he’d seen in Morath.

The wielder became one with the keys, thus becoming the door. The wyrdmarks opened it. What was to come after was vague, and he hoped for some guidance once he went through, perhaps from Elena or the gods themselves.

He pulled his blade free. Sorrel’s gift to him for besting her in their training. Again, that ripple of  recollection passed over him, tugging at his consciousness.

“Enough,” he chided himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

With a quick slash of the knife, he cut an opening in his forearm and put the wyrdkeys inside.

His magic pushed against it, wanting to expel the foul, evil presence from his body. Fighting it back, he willed the wound to heal shut.

Blood still dripped from his arm and he used it to trace the wyrdmarks for OPEN on the ground. The instant he completed the final mark, the keys burst to life and he was dragged into an abyss of searing pain.

It might have been seconds, or minutes, or days before he opened his eyes. Time was meaningless in such agony. And yet, he knew he didn’t have much of it.

There was a hard pull on his magic, so Dorian let it go. The burning subsided briefly and he watched a golden haze begin to take shape before him. As it used his magic, Dorian heard someone approach. Expecting Elena or maybe even Gavin, he was shocked when his father came forward out of the gray fog.

Feeling his sword hang heavily from his belt, Dorian assumed Damaris had summoned the man somehow. As if knowing he needed to see him one last time before he died.

“Did you recognize the place where you left your body?” his father asked.

“No,” Dorian said, gritting his teeth.

“Let me show you.”

Before he could do anything, his father stepped close and placed a hand on Dorian’s head.

In a flash, the pain, the fog, the lock… Everything was gone, replaced with the clearing he’d been in. But his solitary body was not there.

A group of witches and men filled the area, watching each other suspiciously. Dorian saw his father go into a small caravan with the Blackbeak matron. He was spun around to come face to face with himself. The collar around this person’s neck was glinting in the sunlight and Dorian thought he might be sick.

“Hello, princeling.”

Dorian spun again, this time of his own accord. Manon walked forward, a deathly wicked grin on her beautiful face. But she didn’t see him. She looked only at the collared man.

He watched as the scene unfolded, realizing this had been the first time they’d met. After he’d freed himself of the collar, he remembered her face, her name. They were the only things he could remember from that time with any clarity. And without hating himself.

But he could never remember the specifics of how her face and name had come to be embedded in his mind.

Somehow, his father was showing it to him, now, before he died.

The setting shifted. They were still in the forest, he still wore the collar. Manon approached, spoke angrily to his father, then turned to face him as he cringed meekly in his saddle.

She spoke his name, peering at him. Not the valg. It was truly him whom she addressed.

The Dorian watching all this for the first time felt a sharp warmth spread through his chest. The heat wasn’t like the pain of creating the lock. It came from being reminded of something he was giving up. Something that hadn’t even had much of a chance to live.

As quickly as it had appeared, the forest disappeared and Dorian was back in this place between places.

His father offered him a wordless apology. Words weren’t always necessary here it seemed. He understood every ounce of regret and sorrow in his father’s eyes. He didn’t know if he could forgive the man, but the sentiment filled a small hollow he’d been carrying in his chest all his life.

As the lock continued to suck his power from him, the mist surrounding them parted, and two figures appeared. He recognized them immediately.

Kaltain and Nehemia. Their forms were like his father’s, solid but they moved as if floating on air.

The pain was cresting again, but he managed to ask, “How? Why are you here?”

Nehemia smiled and pressed her thumb to his forehead. It was a gesture she’d made once before. At the time, he’d been ignorant of its meaning. Only after she was gone had he known she’d helped to awaken his magic with the touch. This time, it awakened nothing. Instead, it soothed the growing agony within him.

Both the women looked to his father. In reply to their unasked question, he said, “Not yet. We are waiting for more.”

Dorian looked around, hoping beyond hope to see one more person walk from the mist.

Kaltain’s dark eyes looked at him with pity. “She is not coming. No magic tethered her to this place, and she bore no favor from the gods to keep her here. She has moved on.”

“Moved on? Where? I thought there was only one afterworld for the dead.”

“There is,” Nehemia answered. “But as long as the doors are open, the dead can travel. If they so wish.”

Dorian looked towards the lock. It still lacked a concrete shape, but it held the faint outline of what he’d been imagining it should look like.

“Will I-” A spasm of pain tore through him as the lock became corporeal. It eased again, leaving him panting for breath. “Will I be able to move on then? Can I follow her?”

A voice from behind him said, “No.”

It sounded familiar in a way that made him sick. If she was here… He refused to turn around. But it didn’t matter.

Asterin glided around to face him. The rest of the Thirteen fell into formation behind her.

“No,” he croaked. “No. All of you? No!” Tears filled his eyes, blurring everyone around him.

Asterin gave him a sad but gracious smile, then took his hand. “You can’t go on. Manon needs you now. More than ever.” Her look turned knowing. “Even if she won’t admit it.”

A curt laugh escaped his lips and her grip on his hand tightened.

“We have enough now,” his father said to the others.

Dorian whirled towards him, understanding too late what his father meant.

Another smile crossed Asterin’s face. “Live, Dorian.”

Before he could move or speak any protest, Asterin flung him backwards. Blackness whooshed around him, as if he was falling through the night sky. With a violent jerk, he landed in his body, still upright, tears running down his face and his voice hoarse from screaming a single word. No.

**

It was all he could do to stay sane each night when they stopped to set up camp.

The Khagan’s armies were well-trained and fast. But no force this large could move through rough terrain quickly. Chaol and Yrene seemed to sense his impatience and left him alone in the evenings.

He needed to get to Orynth. Not just to relieve the forces besieged there.

They’d received word that the witches had arrived in time to meet an opposing legion. The news was old to him. Why else would the Thirteen have been in that in-between world.

Erawan’s armies were also on the move, though they hadn’t been able to find out if the valg king led them.

When Dorian happened upon the Khagan’s army and his friends, he’d told them everything. Rowan’s relief at hearing the keys were no longer an issue - meaning his mate didn’t have to finish the task herself - quickly morphed into confusion. As had Aelin’s and Chaol’s.

Having been thrown back into this world before the lock was completed, Dorian had no idea if the ghosts of his family and friends had been successful in banishing the gods. And Erawan with them.

Those bestowed favor by the gods - Elide, Lorcan, Yrene - none of them felt any sign that their guiding hands were gone. But that was not confirmation.

The uncertainty gnawed at them all, making Dorian’s desire to find Manon unbearable.

If it wasn’t for Chaol, he’d have transformed and flown to Orynth already. But he just reunited with his best friend. He couldn’t abandon him.

Instead, they moved slowly north, each night growing longer, leaving Dorian feeling more and more desperate.

**

Dorian was covered in blood. Red, black, even speckles of blue that had rained down from above. Looking between the black stain on the ground and its mirror on Damaris, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in that space between worlds.

Whatever his father had done to rid them of Erawan hadn’t worked. At least the keys themselves were no longer a threat. Traveling between worlds wasn’t possible. While there had been more signs that the gods were gone, he supposed only time would tell.

A boom of wings woke him from his thoughts and he turned in time to see Abraxos land behind him. The wyvern was himself covered in blood. And bandages. Dorian’s eyes widened in shock at the extent of the wounds he’d suffered.

As he moved quickly towards them, Manon slid down Abraxos’s side, too exhausted to leap.

By the time Dorian reached her, she was smiling faintly. He pulled her into a hug, releasing an anxious breath when her arms wrapped around him.

“Hello, princeling,” she rasped in his ear.

“Hello, witchling,” he replied, squeezing her a little tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

Her body tensed for just a moment before relaxing into him again.

“How did you know?”

“It’s a long story for later,” he said. “I’m just glad we’re both here. Alive.”