#i got to witness that bravery firsthand and got to be a part of it

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (7)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 4.8k warnings: ✨kissin✨ 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“I can't believe this happened,” Natasha groaned, sinking further into her couch cushions as if it could swallow her whole. She held a bottle of cheap vodka in her right hand, her left digging through a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Her red hair was untamed for the first time since you’d known her with strands sticking out at the sides and pieces falling out of her braid. She took another swig from the bottle.  

“Maybe it’s not that bad?” you offered, though the slight alteration of your pitch gave way to your doubt.  

Natasha had been hired through her new security firm to work the art rooms at MOMA. You’d walked her through the hiring process and sat through hours' worth of practice interviews and resume building and anxiously bouncing your knee as you both huddled around the library computer and waited for the email to come through confirming her hire.  

She’d worked so hard for this job. She’d held it for almost six months without incident.  

Nat deadpanned as she wiped the excess droplet of vodka from her lips with the wrist of her sweatshirt. “I tackled a civilian, Y/n.”

“You said he was acting suspicious! Isn’t that enough of a defense?” you tried, betrayed again by your tone. You winced.  

“He was staring at me with those beady little eyes of his,” Nat grumbled, shoving a few more chips in her mouth, continuing before she had a chance to swallow. “He kept looking over his shoulder toward me like he was checking the surveillance of the exhibit, like he might be staging a robbery in his head or coming up with methods to blow it all to shit.”  

She huffed the hair from her eyes, only for it to fall down exactly back into place at the center of her forehead. “Turns out the only plotting he was doing was to get my phone number. Didn’t know that, of course, until I’d had him pinned to the ground and his hands behind his back.”

You sighed. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for veterans like Natasha to struggle in maintaining steady employment. Adjusting to civilian life never came easy. It was why so many soldiers chose to reenlist again and again. Even after years of PTSD and the fractured relationships their distance left behind, they boarded that plane. You’d witnessed it firsthand.  

“They fired me,” Nat admitted, sinking further into the couch.  

She was one at the VA the others feared. With her strong features and deep voice, intimidating glare and the aura of a woman twice her size, no one took to her be anything but the stone-cold persona she amplified. You were one of the few she let her guard down around long enough to see the fragile, loving person underneath.  

“I’m sorry, Nat,” you told her. You reached for her hand, squeezing it in your own.  

She shrugged. “It’s fine. Move on to the next one, right?”

You nodded. Keep moving forward. It was the most she could do.  

“But enough about me,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “What’s going on with you and the broody amputee?”  

“Nat!” You swatted her hard on the arm.

She was unbothered, shoving another handful of chips into her mouth. “Don’t pretend like it's not completely obvious how much the two of you are into each other. Every time I look up to take a sip of coffee at book club, one of you is making heart eyes at the other. Spill.”

You didn’t know where to begin. It felt like you’d known Bucky your whole life. But you started with the moment Sam introduced you at the VA. You told her about the moments at the library and how eagerly he read through every book you placed in his hand. You told her about the coffee trips to Luciana’s and the extra time he spent helping you set up for book club and cleaning up when it ended. You told her about the walks in the park and surprise visits at the library. 

There were a few moments you left out, like Bucky’s panic attack on the crowded streets and the flashback episode the fireworks created, but you told her about the good parts. The holding hands. The comfort you felt when he walked into the room. The kiss you’d shared just a few hours earlier.  

“Shit, we’re talking about James Barnes, right?” Natasha laughed as you told her he’d been the one to press forward to kiss you first. “Sam used to talk about him all the time before he started showing his face around the VA. I’d gotten the impression that he was barely keeping it together after what happened over there, like he was a ghost or something. Sounds like he’s got some game back though.”  

You nodded, a laugh on your lips though it felt a little drained. You thought of the picture on Sam’s desk and the vibrance in Bucky’s smile with his arms thrown over the shoulders of his closest friends. You thought of the version of the man Natasha described, the same one Sam referenced in the library the day before when he thanked you for helping Bucky find himself again.  

Curiosity crept it. It was more than that, though. You wanted to understand how a man so full of life and charm and energy could be wiped clean so quickly. You wanted to know, not for your own selfish indulgences, but so you could better understand the man you were falling for. A man who lost himself for so long and was only now starting to pick up the pieces again.  

“Do you know what happened to him?” you asked, a bitter taste of shame lingering in your mouth.

“I don’t.” Natasha shook her head and you sighed, nodding. You resigned to let the inquiry go entirely – it wasn’t something you’d ever ask Bucky about directly, but then Natasha cleared her throat. “I do know he came home with a Bronze Star, though. Sam said he won't even look at it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A what?”

“A Bronze Star. It’s awarded for exceptional bravery in combat,” Natasha explained. “My guess is it’s got something to do with how he lost his arm.”

You suspected as much. He carried himself with such distain, as if he couldn’t stand the body he was in. You’d felt the sharp cringe in his back whenever your hand drew too close to his left side, how he’d often stare at you in disbelief whenever you so willingly reached out to touch him. He’d never once removed his jacket in front of you and sometimes you wondered if he made careful avoidance of the mirrors in his own home, too.  

***

The first time you saw Bucky again, you’d kissed him on the sidewalk. Rushed up to him as you skipped steps descending outside the doors of the Brooklyn Library, hands pressed firmly to the sides of his face, and just... kissed him.

It startled him at first, enough for his arm to hold out at his side, frozen, for just a second too long before it settled on your spine. Your fingers gently traced along the stubble on his cheeks, smiling bright against his lips, and he’d kissed you back as tourists and locals filtered through the busy walkway as if they were little more than a blur around you.  

It became routine, it seemed, for Bucky to be waiting at the steps of the library for you. He didn’t shy away when you raced towards him, didn’t flinch when you reached for his hand, didn’t hold his breath so tight he could hardly focus.  

Instead, he was full of laughter. He made jokes that would put Sam’s cheesy one-liners to shame. He walked with you on empty residential side streets even when his anxiety had started to ease only so could take his time with you, dragging his feet along the pavement to stay by your side as long as possible. It was what he told you, anyway, and your heart just about leapt from your chest. 

You began to see glimpses of the man in the framed picture upon Sam’s desk. Outgoing. Flirtatious. Charming.  

Sam noticed the difference almost instantly. The way his eyes flickered over to the two of you, narrowed upon the absence of space between you both as you leaned against Bucky on the couch, books nestled in your hands. Sam had been standing in the doorway to book club, peering in through the window, when you noticed him staring. His smile grew wide upon his face, a very unsubtle and enthusiastic thumbs-up followed, and you waved him off before Bucky noticed he was there.  

No one in book club asked questions when after another meeting, you’d taken to resting your head on Bucky’s lap as you read, his own book settling on your shoulder. Tony peered over the top of his binding a few times with a curious stare the time Bucky had finished his book early and spend the remainder of the time reading yours over your shoulder, his finger drawing patterns on the top of your thigh, a kiss pressed to your shoulder here and there. Natasha smirked from her seat on the floor.  

It happened so quickly, how easily you’d fallen for him.  

Always in the smallest moments, in the sweetness of his smile, in the way he glanced over at you every so often as if he were checking to make sure you were still there. He opened up pieces of himself to you, set them gently into your hands and waited to see whether you’d keep them safe or throw them to the fire. It was agonizing for him – the vulnerability of trust – but you’d hoped that by protecting the pieces he showed you, he’d feel safe enough to give you more. You wanted it all. You wanted all of him.  

Sam insisted he’d never seen Bucky smile as much as he has been since he met you, including in the time before the war. It surprised you at first, until you remembered the photo on Sam’s desk. It was the same smile Bucky flashed you just moments before when he swiped a bite from your donut while you were talking to Tony. Teasing. Lighthearted. The weight of mere feathers on his back.  

“Y/n? You alright?”

Bucky’s voice drew your attention away from the tourists wandering around the park, taking photographs of the ducks at the edge of the pond and the old oak trees with leaves of fallen red and orange at their roots, the open branches giving way to a view of the Manhattan skyline.  

You blinked a few times, turning to Bucky as he sat on your left, his brows furrowed in concern. You must have been quiet for too long, which was unusual for you, so you pushed out a smile for him, a slight squeeze in his hand.  

“Just thinking,” you told him.

“What about?”

You pulled his hand into your lap, tracing over the lines in his palm absentmindedly. A distant pulse of his heartbeat could be felt in the tips of his fingers.  

“You.”  

He smiled at that, the corners of his mouth curving high up into his cheeks. A twinge of pink rested on the tips of his ears. He chuckled in an effort to hide his nervousness, though it lingered into his voice. “Me? I’m sitting right here.”

“What? I can’t think about you?” you teased, bringing his hand up to your lips as you pressed a kiss to his knuckles. He watched you with the kind of awe that left him speechless for a moment. It was your favorite look on him; how his lips parted ever so slightly, the blue of his eyes shading into something softer, the muscles in his face slacking.  

He cleared his throat. “Uh, I guess that’s okay.”

“Good,” you smirked, setting in against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, playing with his hand in your lap as you watched two little boys chasing the ducks around the pond, flapping their arms and trying to encourage the ducks to fly.  

You’d been sitting on the old, wooden bench under the tallest oak tree for nearly two hours when you glanced up to find a series of dark clouds rolling in and obstructing the cast of red and oranges filtering along the horizon. They hung heavy and ominous as a shadow lingered over the park.  

“Hey Bucky?” you started, sitting up straight as you gestured to the clouds. He had a sort of sleepy look in his eyes like he could have been content to sit there with you all night long. “We should probably get out of here before—”  

You felt the first raindrop on your cheek. Wiping it away, you looked up into the sky just in time as sheets of rain poured out from the clouds. You gasped, grabbing a firm hold of Bucky’s hand and yanking him up to his feet.  

“Come on!” you yelled over the rush of rain as it slammed onto the cobblestones in the park and shook the trees. Bursting into laughter, you threw the hood of your jacket up over your head in a half-ditched effort to stay dry. Bucky’s hand secure in your own, you took off running, only for his laughter to follow you as he chased you down the streets.

Rain drenched into your hair and ran in droplets down your spine, clothes soaked through to the bone by the time you realized where you were running. Luciana’s was just around the corner, calling to you like trumpets at the golden gates. Hot chocolate nestled between your palms, the warm hum of the radiator, nibbling on leftover pastries from the day. Truly, Heaven.  

By the time you reached Luciana’s, you’d nearly slammed into the door trying to get inside. The canopy was incredibly small, no bigger than space for a single person, but you reached out and gripped Bucky by the lapel of his jacket and tugged him beside you to pull him from the rain. You could feel the heat of his breath through his labored pants, the small puffs of warm air pressing out into the cold, and you laughed nervously at how close you were standing.  

“Her daughter has a dance recital tonight,” Bucky read from the sign posted on the inside of the door. “It’s closed.”

Sure enough, as you looked inside, the lights were out, chairs flipped upside down and resting on the tops of the tables. Rain poured against the windows, the mist of it still catching your spine and you pressed up closer to Bucky, nearly against his chest. You tried to control how fast your heart was beating, but you were almost certain he could feel it.  

“Okay, let me think,” you said, more so to yourself, as you looked out into the streets. They were empty, save for a few cars going about ten under the speed limit and a few teenagers sprinting by in backpacks and school uniforms. Your apartment wasn’t too far from here...

“Follow me!” you shouted over the rainfall, grabbing a hold of his hand.  

***

Bucky didn’t have much time to ask questions, because your hand was in his again and suddenly you were dragging him back out into the streets. You took him down the block, through a few back streets, and along a series of brownstones with fallen leaves littering the streets and the high arch of tree branches shading the sidewalk in small relief from the rain.

You skipped up a few stairs, shouldering open the door and pushed Bucky inside. He waiting in the small doorway as you dug through your bag for a pair of keys, wiping a line of rain from your forehead. You exhaled in relief as the door unlatched and you reached for Bucky’s hand again, guiding him inside.

One floor up and the first door on the left, you stepped inside of your apartment and quickly began rushing around to rid yourself of your jacket and the soaking wet shoes on your feet. Bucky stood planted on the doormat, the door closing slowly behind him.

Rain tapped against the outside windows, a dark cloud of grey hanging in the sky and casting a shadow into your living room. A single lamp illuminated the space in a soft yellow tone, touching over dozens of blankets hanging over the couch and bundled up in a basket on the floor, books piled high on the coffee table, newspapers with highlighter marks folded neatly on the kitchen table, and a few cardigans draped over the chairs.

“Can I make you coffee? Tea?” you asked from the kitchen as you wrung out your hair in the sink, shaking off the excess droplets from your hands. Bucky glanced down at the floor, realizing he was carrying water through the hardwoods in your apartment. He winced, quickly making his way back to the doormat.

“I’m alright, thanks,” he said, keeping himself as small as he could on the mat.

“Take your shoes off,” you instructed, pointing to the series of boots lined up by the door. “I’ll go find you some dry clothes.”

With that, you disappeared into your bedroom.  

Bucky stepped out of his shoes, wandering further inside. He’d been too out of it the last time he was inside your apartment, too unfocused with one foot across the ocean to really look around.  

He found himself drawn to the hallway leading up to your bedroom, with pictures hanging along the wall in old, wooden frames. Some from what looked to be your childhood, with softer features upon your face and dressed in overalls and bright pink sneakers. Then, a few from high school with your arms hung around the shoulders of your friends, mid-laugh. But there was one in particular that caught his attention. 

At the very end of the line, hung a photograph of you standing in front of a couple who looked to be your parents. You seemed to be a few years younger, judging by the cut of your hair and the softness in your features. On your left was a man dressed in an air force uniform, hands clasped behind his back. You were standing on an airbase, smiling, but your eyes were red, reflective. Like you’d been saying goodbye and were desperately pretending otherwise.

“This was all I could find,” you said, emerging back from the bedroom with t-shirt and sweatpants in hand. They were too large for you, men’s sizes, and Bucky felt his heart clench as he saw the faded air force logo on top corner of the shirt. He wondered if it belonged to the man in the photo.

“Thank you,” he nodded as you placed them on the counter.  

You were wringing out your hair with a towel when he realized you’d changed, too. The dampness on your skin clung to the fresh cotton of your t-shirt, pulling it tight against your chest. He exhaled a tense breath.  

"God, look at you,” you laughed, a hand reaching up to touch the tips of his hair as they dripped excess water down onto his shoulders. You pushed it to rest behind his ear, brushing the lingering rain from his cheeks. “It’s unfair, you know?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused. “What is?”

“That you look this handsome soaking wet.”

His instinct was to laugh, but the way you were looking at him made his breaths a little shallow, his stomach twisting into knots. You weren’t teasing as you said it, no lingering joke in its wake. He swallowed.  

“I... uh... what? No.” He tried to brush it off, but your hands had slid along his waist behind the hem of his jacket and it stopped him dead in his tracks.  

He held his breath as you flattened your palms against his stomach, running your fingers over what once had been hardened muscle before he let himself fall into darkness that took over his life for months. Now, his body favored something softer. You didn’t seem to mind though as you bit down on the fullest part of your lip, hands sliding around to his spine.  

“Let me take this off? Please?” you asked, voice low, with the kind of inflections laced within your tone that made Bucky shift uncomfortably in his stance. Your hands slipped up along his chest, lingering by his shoulders and you gripped onto the lapel. It was soaking wet.  

“You must be freezing,” you tried again, a little lighter this time, offering him a sweet smile. You must have noticed his apprehension because you softened a bit, letting your hands rest against his cheeks as you drew his attention to you. “It’s alright, Bucky. It’s just me.”

He searched your eyes as you gazed up at him and though he tried, he found no reason to turn you away. His heart was pounding in his chest, his right hand shaking a bit, but then, you leaned forward and captured his lips against your own, and suddenly, he was at ease again.

You kissed him and his right hand found its way to rest against your lower back, pressed flat against your spine; it clenched into the fabric, seeking more, and his fingertips brushed over a sliver of bare skin. He felt your hands slid down along his neck, to his collar, until they slipped under the fabric of his jacket against, resting on his shoulders. You were waiting for his permission.  

Then, as you pulled away from his lips for only a second, he nodded. Your lips returned to his almost instantly, and he wondered if maybe you were trying to distract him, or help to ease him as the fabric draped down off his shoulders. His heart was thunderous in his chest, louder than the press of rainfall against the windows outside, but there was a sense of calm in it, a nervousness certainly, but a comfort, too.  

He felt the weight of the jacket lift from his shoulders as you set it to hang over the chair. He felt instantly lighter, like you’d removed an anvil from his back, and he suspected it had less to do with the rain-soaked fabric than he cared to admit. He kept his eyes closed as your hands roamed along his shoulders, focusing on the feel of your lips as they traveled from the corner of his mouth along his jaw line.  

“Bucky?” you called so sweetly it nearly made his knees buckle.  

“Mmm?” He felt a little dizzy, high on the touch of your lips to his skin.  

He heard the soft ruffle of fabric as you grabbed the clean clothes you brought for him on the counter. Then, your hand slipped into his and he let his eyes flutter open. You were watching him with more affection than he was prepared for. His heart lurched forward, aching to jump right into your arms.

“Come this way.”  

He nodded, trailing behind you as you led him into your bedroom. The lighting was dim, barely casting in a soft orange glow from the lamp at your bedside. The clouds were still dark and heavy as they hung outside the windows, the rain obstructing the view of the brownstones across the street.  

“Here,” you set the clothes on the bed. “Get changed alright? I don’t want you catching a cold.”

You smiled for him and his heart just about burst. Then, you disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.  

Bucky stepped forward, running his hand over the Air Force logo in the top corner of the t-shirt. He picked up the shirt, and held it against his nose. It smelled like you, like maybe you’d been wearing it for years now, but there was a name written in sharpie on the inside tag. It was barely legible, but it didn’t look like your own. He tried not to think about who gave you this shirt and who wore it before him, and he quickly removed the damp one soaked to his skin in favor of the one you’d given him.  

He changed his pants, too, and a wash of relief came over his body as the chill faded from his skin. The clothes were warm, soft, and he raked his fingers through his hair, thankful it had dried enough to stop from dripping down onto the fabric.

“Hey,” you called, emerging from the bathroom. Your eyes paused on him for a moment, taking him in with the fresh clothes on and something unrecognizable flashed over your features – something that resembled sadness. You shook it off quickly, pushing out a smile as you walked toward him. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your hairline as you wrapped your arms around his waist. “Thank you.”

You leaned up to kiss him again and he swore everything around him came to a sudden stop. You tugged him down onto the bed, sliding in behind him as you threw the covers over you. Bucky kept his back pressed to the mattress as you climbed over his waist, settling with just enough of your weight compressing against him that he found a relief in it.  

His right hand slipped along your waist line, sliding flat over bare skin, warm to the touch. You smiled against his lips and he found himself laughing as you peppered kisses along his cheekbones, his nose, his hairline, down along his jaw, and then finally – back to his lips again.

So lost in you, in the moment, he felt his left hand slid along the underside of your shirt, fabric brushing over the top of his hand as he touched over your ribs and inching closer to your chest. He stifled a moan as he cupped at your breast, swiping his thumb along the pebbled nipple. It wasn’t until he felt an echo of a muscle spasm at his left shoulder that he realized he wasn’t feeling anything at all.  

His eyes snapped open and he found his right hand at the base of your spine, your shirt untouched. Reluctantly he glanced down at his left side; the open sleeve of the t-shirt leaving no pretenses in its wake. He was empty there. A piece of him missing. He tried to swallow back the frustrated groan before it passed through his lips, but you heard it. You felt it, too.

“Bucky?” you questioned, concern littering your eyes as you pulled away. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, of course not,” he replied quickly, brushing his hand along the side of your face until it drew a smile back to your lips. The way you were watching him, like maybe he could entrust you with the darkest parts of himself, if only for glimpse, and it pushed him to say more. “I just... I hate that I can’t hold you the way I want. There’s more that I would—” He groaned, head sinking back into the pillows. “I’m not used to... I don’t— I don’t know how to with only one... um...I haven’t— Not since before—”  

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, his ears flushing red. You seemed to understand what he was saying as you nodded ever so slightly; the fact that he’d barely learned how to manage his life again with only one arm – everything from washing his hair to getting dressed in the morning, to chopping vegetables and reading a book. He hadn’t even attempted to consider what it was like to be with a woman like this; to want to hold her and please her and touch as much of her as he could. It never crossed his mind before you.  

“I’m in no rush,” you said simply, like maybe you were implying you’d wait around long enough for him to figure it out. Or maybe, you’d be willing to help him learn again. You leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s late. You’ll stay tonight, won’t you? I don’t want you out in that storm.”

Bucky nodded, feeling a little dizzy as he stared up at you. Backlit from the soft glow of the lamp illuminating around you like a halo, Bucky would have said yes to just about anything you could have asked of him. Relief pressed over your features and you sank down onto the bed beside him, curling up against his right side.  

Your arm draped across his waist as his circled around your shoulders, fingertips drawing patterns along your skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then, you reached over him to turn off the lamp and a comfortable darkness blanketed the room, the only break from the silence the gentle tap of the rain against the windowpane.  

For the first night in months, he welcomed the kind embrace of a dreamless sleep.  

[ackerfics]

so this is love — annie leonhart

— annie leonhart x female reader

— request by anon: I kinda have a request. How about royal au? Where 2 kingdoms are at war with each other, and reader is the heir of the throne of one kingdom (but they’re not the spoiled type of heir, more like the solider one?) and then the kingdoms decided a truce. Reader will have to marry the heir of the other kingdom which is Annie. Idk maybe those arranged marriages that they never get along at first? Kinda like they were enemies bc they never get along until some development of feelings happen along the way. Maybe Annie will realize that she has feelings when reader got injured since they’re a soldier

— warnings: mentions of war, slight angst if you squint, just two idiots falling in love with each other :))

— summary: you were sent off to another kingdom as a sign of a truce, promising to yourself that the engagement is close to death at how you got off on the wrong foot with your betrothed. it was hell at first but who knows? maybe, unbeknownst to you, the two of you are a match made by the gods.

— word count: 7.5k

— author’s notes: i am so sorry this came out so long :((( we just finished our exams and we have a case study to write as our midterm for a subject. i hope this will still quench your annie fic cravings. and by the way, i fashioned the kingdom of idylle to mondstadt because genshin impact is my stress reliever right now and a kingdom built upon freedom sounds like a gem. plus, the glass castle of the reader is based off of the castle of cinderella, which is the reason for the title hhhhhh happy reading !!!

so this didn’t appear in the tags so i reposted it :”(((

Corsets were abominations that needed to be burned.

The girl with your features staring at you from the mirror was someone you couldn’t recognize from all the preparations your chambermaid did on your figure. The make-up was appalling and thick that you could see a smear on the back of your hand when you tried rubbing your itching nose. Your hair was done in a half up-do with too many decorative pins sticking out, creating a makeshift crown of silver roses, one of the symbols of your kingdom. The dress your mother expected you in was straight-up ridiculous, you couldn’t move from the tightness of the corset and the heaviness of your skirts was hindering you from moving freely. You couldn’t even deny that it was a lovely gown but its inconvenience was irking you at the slightest turn or stretch.

Dressing up this lavishly was rare for you, the Crown Princess of the kingdom boring flags of silver and lilac. You very much preferred the heaviness of your armor and your title as one of your kingdom’s Commendatore rather than the ladylike image your mother has been forcing you on the past few weeks.

You were livid when your parents renounced from the ten-year war that was purging the continent with just a sign on a piece of paper — one that included your name and your honor. Everything was brutal, carnage dotting every town and village of the two kingdoms throwing spears and fire cannons, and you witnessed it all firsthand when you started being one of your kingdom’s soldiers four years ago — a sixteen-year-old girl throwing orders that gave you an advantage from your enemies wearing the crest of the kingdom that painted your lands a heart-wrenching red. Of all solutions that your parents and the other kingdom could come up with, it involved you in the most unacceptable way possible. Officially entering your twenties this year, your parents thought it necessary to offer you as a bride that signified peace to the warring nation right beyond the border. The idea made your vision red, an outburst coming out of your mouth mere seconds after the proposal was announced in the council meeting.

A soldier, a knight, a commander — that’s what you are.

Not some forsaken young woman ready to be shipped off to your rival nation because it was the only way out of this bloody mess.

You had no choice.

The only way for you to grasp the final moments in your kingdom was relishing the touches of the chambermaid and taking in the décor of your room — the small trinkets scattered on your nightstands, the books you escaped to, the jewelry that boasted the colors of your family, and the stuffed animals your nanny sewed for you when you were a toddler. You closed your eyes and let the feathery fingers of the people around you lull you into a prayer for the gods in their celestial thrones, asking for their blessing in this far travel. In the middle of reciting an ode dedicated to the goddess of divine bravery, you felt a cool pendant carefully slide over your collarbones.

Your mother’s face appeared beside the watery princess of the mirror, a forced smile pulling on the corners of her lips. Your distinctly colored irises flickered down on the necklace your mother placed upon the exposed parts of your body. It was a flower-pressed necklace, the gold plate carefully protecting the flower representing your birth. The golden chain holding the necklace together was so thin that you worried for a moment that the fragile piece of jewelry might break in less than an hour while you meet your partner-to-be. You met your mother’s gaze in the mirror — from a chivalrous princess of armor to a dignified queen ruling within a land of eternal spring.

“You look so beautiful,” your mother breathed your name, holding your arms tightly against her ring-adorned hands. Tears blossomed her eyes, trickling down her cheeks akin to the lavender flowers’ petals of the large white tree in your backyard. “You look like the queen you were supposed to be.”

You tried smiling but your wobbly lips made you falter. You can only purse your lips in a tight, flat smile as you face your mother, face set in a kind expression. “Please don’t cry, Mother,” you murmured, placing your palm on top of hers, squeezing it for reassurance. “They wouldn’t do anything to me.”

They, meaning the kingdom you were at war with, the nation that claimed they needed a bride for their Crown Heir. In your world, there was freedom even in marriage — with the kingdoms pairing their sons with the sons of their enemies all for the sake of a truce, especially if the two of them were firstborns. This is very much your situation at the moment. The kingdom of Idylle was a beautiful haven of songs dedicated to the god of the winds, very contrasting to their military power that could take down a good number of your soldiers. You heard stories from some villages in your nation that Idylle was a hoax, that they were bloodthirsty warmongers hungry for the spilled blood of the people of Glaieul, your kingdom. You couldn’t help but believe their words. That was the only addition to your knowledge of Idylle except for their battle tactics and placement of soldiers on the battlefield.

“We’ll pray to the deities that they will do just that,” your mother laughed a little despite the tears. “Or else your father will wage war if they so much scratched you.”

“He wouldn’t do that, Mother,” you shook your head with a slight smile. “You two have worked so hard for this peace treaty. If I ever scratched myself in Idyllic lands, trust me that it would most likely be my fault. Not theirs.”

Your mother’s laugh twinkled in the room, painting everything in a light that erased the heaviness shrouding in every corner of your chambers. “I suppose so. You and your love for your sword are unrivaled. I can still remember the time when you first got the weapon, you were so thrilled for a six-year-old that one would think you were born in the barracks. I have to admit, you looked adorable swinging your sword until the greeting of the night and its stars.” She wistfully sighed, looking down at the necklace she gave you. “Your father was so proud when you came back for dinner that night.”

“My sword has always been a lifelong companion. I will even bring it to their castle.”

Your mother placed a hand on top of her chest, over her heart. “I hope you don’t unsheathe it in front of their royal family.”

You breathed a laugh. “No promises.”

The two of you talk about all the things that happened in your childhood, your laughs echoing through the hallways. The maids and the butlers bade you goodbye and safe travels as you passed by, never forgetting to nod in their direction in acknowledgment. You will miss their company for they saw you grow up before you decided to partake in the war. Almost all of them fussed over the mess you made while practicing your swordplay, cleaning up the broken vases and the mud on the carpeted floors. Even one of the apprentices of the Keeper of Books residing in the palace, Armin, enthusiastically waved at you, his friends flanking him for a visit in the kitchens. You didn’t miss how Eren directed an incredulous stare towards the blonde man, with Mikasa looking shocked at how easily the apprentice interacted with you in a public setting since your times with them only happened behind prying eyes.

You gave the three of them a huge smile that gave their faces a pretty rose shade.

Upon reaching the foyer, your father stood at the foot of the stairs along with the soldiers you acquainted in your time on the battlefield, sending a wave of warmth through your chest. His silver coat lined with gold details was a beacon and his white breeches were tucked in a pair of knee-length boots. His chest was decorated with his sash full of medallions, the kingdom insignia of lilac gladioluses and silver roses pinned on top of his heart. The king of Glaieul softened his eyes, crinkles appearing at the corners, at the sight of you and your mother descending on the stairs.

“My little flower,” was his greeting to you when you reached him.

“Father,” you breathed, picking up your skirts to settle in the embrace of waiting arms. You buried your figure against him, inhaling his scent of pine and rosewater, creating the last memory you will have of him. The two of you pulled away for a moment, your eyes watering at the sad visage your father sported. You felt the lightest brush of his kiss on your forehead. 

“Now I’m becoming reluctant in sending you off,” he told you. “I felt guilty when I saw you fight against this during the council meeting. But it is what they offered and I have no say in the matter.”

“I know.”

“May the eternal spring never waver in your soul.”

You nodded before taking a step back, bowing with your knees on the marble floors. Your crown glinted against the light from the stained-glass windows, your hair forming a curtain around your face as you replied, “I will let it fester among the ballads and idylls they will offer. I will carry the name of Glaieul with faithfulness, honor, and grace.” You raised your head to meet your father’s eyes. “I promise to never deter the eternal spring.”

It would be that way until your last years in that kingdom. And as you rode the carriage with the soldiers you fought with guarding the vehicle with their lives on the line, you could only sigh and offer another round of prayers that this swerves in a more positive direction than what you were expecting. After a hefty journey across the bustling capital (people stopped by and waved your carriage goodbye, offering you flowers that one of the captains of the fleet, Levi, scowled at — you coaxed him that it was alright, though) to the hectares of meadows in the countryside, the sight of flowers mixed with emerald turned into a sea of teal as you entered the outskirts of Idylle, your betrothed’s home. Everything was bathed with the endemic species of grass solely blessed by the god of the winds on Idylle — legends say that it was because He wanted the kingdom that worshipped him to look different than the rest. No matter how much you deny it, it was beautiful.

“How are you faring, princess?”

Your daze was interrupted by a baritone voice, deep enough to alert some of the men around the carriage. His gray eyes provided you support during the war. You couldn’t help but smile at the onyx-haired man riding by your right window. “Hello, Captain Levi.”

“Tch. Drop the title, brat. You and I both know that the war made us friends somewhat.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well, Levi, to answer your question, I’m quite fine even though my parents just sold me to gain peace.”

Levi rose an eyebrow at the remark. “I am not one to have the capabilities to comfort someone but think of this as a way for you to help the kingdom without sacrificing your life for once. A nation without its heir is just like losing its king. I’ve seen you train when you’re starting as a squire and to the point when you got the position you deserve. This would be like a small walk in the gardens of your mother.” He fixated his stare on you, eyes dull yet determined to get his point across. “You have a role in every part of your life and this time, this is what the gods crafted for you. Do not fret, princess, you have more chances of being on the battlefield again.”

The words Levi spoke settled in you until you reached the capital of Idylle, a small island in the middle of a clear azure lake with walls resembling a huge castle. The bridge leading to the gates was lined with guards bearing the kingdom’s crest, all of them standing under the flapping flags bearing the symbol and colors of the royal family they serve — a harp surrounded by the colors of gold and blue. Their eyes warily followed the series of carriages, postures becoming stiff in the realization that the entourage holds the visitor their rivaling country sent. That was still the scenario when the series of carriages and horses passed by the marketplace, the vicinity on the lowest part of the walled capital, as if the wind even ceased to let the people gawk at the brightly-colored entourage making its way to the highest tier depicting mansions and the main plaza where their patron god stood tall and proud in front of the palace’s gates.

Everything looked magnificent.

It was a breath of fresh air from the glass castle you grew up in. Whereas your kingdom built a white, blinding home that withstood for hundreds of years, Idylle’s palace blended with the brick walls with its leveled mansard roofs and turrets. The gates were made of gold, welcoming you into a huge square of maze-like hedges, a fountain sitting in the middle of the labyrinth. Some gardeners stopped their daily chores to greet the carriages with a wave of their hat, seeing as you were going to be an addition to the royal family after the wedding in a few months. The steps leading to the main doors loomed in front of you with only a few servants waiting for you to step out of the carriage.

You took in a deep breath, nodding at Levi to open the door. When it swung open, you placed your hand on top of Levi’s as he guided you down the propped steps on the side of the carriage.

“Well,” Levi hummed from behind you, making you glance at him with a curious eye. “May the eternal spring never waver in your soul, Your Highness.” He bowed in front of you, only a dip of his head, a firm hand on his heart, and yet that was enough for you to reciprocate it with a kind smile.  

“Safe travels back, Captain Levi. May the gods protect you.”

The servant boys standing on top of the stairs jumped an inch in the air, going down in fleeting steps to get your luggage when they realized they were staring too long at you. You smiled at them in gratitude before stepping inside the palace as the guards opened the huge, gilded double doors in front of you.

The inside was just elegant as the exterior appearance of the entire capital. Everything was bathed in gold that seemed to rival the Sun and it made you look away for a moment. The grand hall followed the kingdom’s colors, from the turquoise carpets leading towards two winding staircases to the golden ceilings decorated with paintings of cherubs and the story of how their god of the winds came to be. One of the servant boys slightly cleared his throat, snapping you out of your curiosity of the myths laid on the ceiling. You turned to him with raised eyebrows, spurring him to whisper a faint, “Follow us, Your Highness.” They led you through hallways hung with tapestries and paintings, drawing rooms where the queen hosted her tea parties (Levi would have loved it), and ballrooms that have the same aesthetic as the foyer. Finally, you stopped in front of one of the apartments in the palace, the servant boy who told you to follow them brightened at the guard stationed there.

“Reiner!”

You waited patiently and let your eyes roam across the hallway.

“Hello, Falco, Udo.” The man, Reiner, smiled at the young boys before turning to you. He placed a hand on his heart and bowed. “Welcome to Gale, the capital of Idylle, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for the welcome,” you replied, motioning for him that it was quite alright to straighten his posture. “The palace looks lovely.”

“Indeed, it is.” Reiner opened the doors of your room and once again bowed with an outstretched hand towards the room. “Here are your chambers and I will be your guard for the entirety of your stay here in the palace, Your Highness.” You muttered a faint ‘thank you’ as you entered a drawing room with a door to the private chambers on the left and the bathrooms to the right. There was a table fit for two people, armchairs, and drawers with vases on top. A huge floor-to-ceiling window illuminated the room, your feet carrying you there to open them, and letting the wind caress the curtains as they danced in the breeze. “If you ever need anything, you can call for my name and I will be here in an instant. Your chambermaid will be up here in a moment to help you prepare for the family dinner. For now, rest well, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Reiner, Falco, Udo,” you smiled, retreating towards the private chambers.

You let out a sigh and stared at nothing for a few moments. It came down to this. To think that you were in enemy lands and was treated so well without any degradation came as a shock to you. The people so far that radiated negativity at your arrival were the guards stationed at the bridge and some of the townsfolk and nobles parading in the streets. As you think about the servant boys and Reiner’s calmness in receiving you in the palace, you immediately thought that it would be better than you expected.

You took off your heels under your dress, mind racing that this wouldn’t be so bad, and plopped on top of your canopied bed, its baby blue curtains protecting you from unknown disturbances and drowning you in a rapid of dreams.

-

The dinner didn’t go so well as you expected.

You donned a more suitable dress for indoor use, something that doesn’t include forcing your figure in a tight corset and yet presentable enough to be shown in the family dinner. You even placed a circlet of silver flowers on your head to compensate for the dull dress you chose, the description fitting after one of the chambermaids expressed their perplexity at how simple regarding design your dress has. Your light blue skirts fanned out around you as you made your way to one of the grand dining rooms reserved for family use. The choice of the color of the dress should be enough to express that you are willing to be on good terms with the family of the person you will marry.

But your first meeting with Annie Leonhart was interestingly disappointing.

Before departing from your kingdom, you learned the royal family and even Idylle’s customs. You learned how they always valued freedom and expression above all else, compared to your home that valued their ties with the gods more than the idea of getting rid of the shackles placed by your deities. You learned how they have this festival dedicated to celebrating the love they share with their patron god and how it spanned for half a month.

Finally, you learned about the indifferent Crown Heir of Idylle, the young woman with the piercing blue oceanic eyes sitting in front of you at the dinner table. She was known for building up walls that discouraged some of her engagements with other royalties across the continent. She was so closed off that she didn’t even glance in your direction for one second. Her hair was done in an elaborate bun wrapping around her head in a braid, her small, thin diadem resting against her golden hair. Annie kept her gaze on her plate, even playing with her food mindlessly for a couple of minutes before sighing and taking a bite of the chicken the maids served. No conversation was exchanged and the dinner ultimately became one of the most awkward meals you had. The king even tried to engage his daughter for casual talk but Annie dismissed them with a hum.

The queen had to apologize to you several times after the dinner, with Annie huffing at the back and eager to get out of the room. Despite how much she was against this engagement, you still bowed at her before you retreated to your room.

Now dressed in your nightgown, you stared at the canopy of your bed, already missing your home the more you fixed your attention on the bundled-up curtains. You badly needed to hit a straw dummy with your sword to let out your frustrations. Of all the royalties present in your continent, why did it have to be you that was shipped to this measly forced marriage? There were still so many solutions that could lead to a peace treaty but why was this the only one the kings and queens could present to their courts? A sigh escaped your chest once again at the thought of actually getting to know Annie. You laid on your side, curling your legs towards your chest and prayed that the god of dreams will visit you sooner than expected.

A knock reverberated through your chambers, the sound making you sit up.

You went to the receiving room and opened the door. You kept the small hitch of your breath in your chest at the sight of Annie and her half-lidded eyes. There was no one in the hallways. You figured that she sent Reiner away for some privacy, meeting the blue irises you likened to brilliant sapphires. 

“What brings you here, Your Highness?” you asked, opening the door wider.

“Annie.” She saw how your eyebrows raised in surprise. “Call me Annie, we’re betrothed after all.”

“Of course.” You smiled. “Annie,” you tested her name softly, missing the way she inhaled too sharply at your voice. 

Annie reciprocated the gesture by saying your name. The two of you stared at each other and it felt like an eternity before she looked away to focus on the receiving room behind you. She noticed how your eyes held kindness underneath the star-like shine even though she showed hostility during your first dinner with her family. Your hair was disheveled and it didn’t take her a minute to realize she might have woken you up from a good night’s rest. The journey from Glaieul to Idylle was a long one. You deserve all the rest you can get, “I apologize if I woke you up but I feel like I should do this before dragging it out.” You once again raised an eyebrow so she took out a leather box, opening it to reveal a ring with a holographic gem showing teal and pink in the middle. The Leonhart family ring. “Here.”

“Oh.”

You were gawking at the beautiful piece of jewelry, with Annie taking the matter in her own hands. She took the ring out of the box and pocketed the container. Her hand reached out to hold your palm against hers, sliding the ring in your ring finger. Your hand still hovered in front of you after Annie retracted hers to find their place by her side. She continued to eye your mesmerized visage with a half-lidded gaze, clearing her throat to catch your attention. You turned to her with a small apology for spacing out.

“It’s fine,” Annie waved off. “It’s yours starting today.” She turned away from you and went down the hallways but not before saying a “Good night, [Name].”

-

The entire week of your stay in Idylle was uneventful, to say the least.

Annie kept her distance from you after that night she gave you their family ring. It left you thinking that you should also gift her the [Last Name] ring your family treasured for centuries. The ring was placed in a small cushioned jewelry box that you opened and propped on one of your night tables. Your conscience was telling you to give it to her but there wasn’t exactly any moment alone with her let alone just passing by her in the hallways. The blonde princess made it her mission to never let your fates meet the more time you spent in the capital. You then decided that she probably didn’t want this engagement to happen.

But she gave you the ring. Wasn’t that a strong signal that Annie accepted you as her betrothed, unlike the others before you?

You shook that thought as you focused on giving consecutive hits on the dummy in front of you. Two days before, you proposed to the king to let you have a moment alone in the training grounds for about two hours or so to keep you in shape. He reluctantly agreed, but not without a side stare at the queen. They heard of your glorious feats during the war, how you managed to become one of the Commanders of a battalion of soldiers tasked with being in the frontlines and how you won constant ambushes against Idylle’s numbers. Two hours of training became three until here you are, still not stopping as you finished every single dummy in the private training grounds. With your day spent outside, you thought it would be nice to have a nice dip in the bathtub before dinner.

In your walk towards your chambers, you spotted Annie in one of the drawing rooms, sitting in the window seats with a book of war tactics in hand. You recognized the author as one of the revolutionaries mentioned to you by your tutor. 

“That’s a nice book,” you couldn’t help but mention. Annie turned to you unfazed by your interruption though there was a glint of interest in her eyes. “The book mostly describes battle formations but I think the author likened it to every situation on the battlefield. For instance, the phalanx was native to the empire of Great Findara and it was great for preventing casualties until it was overpowered by the infantry tactic of the city nation of Khisfire where every man has a role and a weapon depending on their group. The latter was more on the long-range yet melee way of taking back the territory.”

Annie hummed. “Do royal tutors of Glaieul teach this to their students?”

“Oh, no. I learned it while taking on the role of a squire.”

She once again hummed. “It completely slipped my mind that you are one of the Commanders in your military. You were ruthless as the folks in the noble plaza say, blood tainting your hands from doing raids in the border villages of Idylle.” Her tone was like a jab to your side, like an arrow tearing through your skin. “I know it was a time of war and desperate times call for desperate measures but our people didn’t deserve to experience the massacres.”

“They were far from being massacres,” you gritted your teeth.

Annie scoffed. “Then what were they? Because that’s what it looks like to me. I can still remember the story two years ago of a young girl wearing her lilac cape in the bloodbath, eyes so dull that you can see your reflection on it. What’s to say that this engagement is a hoax plotted by your parents to assassinate my family for you to win a territory you greatly needed because of the resources?” She closed her book with too much force, bitterly spitting out the next words, “The apple doesn’t fall from the tree as the saying goes.”

“If you question my being here then why did you give me your family ring, Annie?” you asked, your body now facing the tense young woman by the window. You cursed at how the light made her look angelic like the girl the god of the winds sacrificed his life to before he ascended to the heavens. “This peace treaty is everything my family wanted even though hundreds of our soldiers died in vain for not meeting the ends of what they fought for. If you’re saying that my parents placed me in an undercover predicament to add to the weight of deaths on my shoulders, I suggest you tell your father to put a stop to our betrothal. Because I don’t even want to be here, Your Highness, and it would do me such a huge honor. I would rather spend my time out with my fellow soldiers than pretending I’m some dainty princess my family sheltered when in fact, I was anything but that.

“Have a good day and I hope you enjoy the rest of the book. Chapter ten was a personal favorite of mine,” you dismissed, turning towards the direction of the apartments.

Once you reached your door, Reiner straightened his posture, faltering for a second when he noticed the cross look on your face. He chose not to say anything as he opened the door for you. You took off your boots right beside one of the armchairs of the receiving room and immediately went inside your private chambers. The glint of the ring on your night table mocked you. You stomped over the furniture and forcefully closed the small jewelry box, throwing the container inside one of the drawers.

Maybe sleep will be much kinder to you, the sheets enveloping you in an embrace you wish your mother can only give in this time of need.

-

You were radiant under the harsh heat of the Sun.

Annie was scheduled to have a free slot in her timetable after being included in one of the court meetings regarding the resiliency plan of some of the villages in the borders that managed to survive the Glaieulian raids. She suggested that the villages should be moved to one of the more remote villages nearer the capital, where the terrain is suitable for growing crops and starting small farms. There wouldn’t be an issue with overpopulation because the recommended village was home to the elderly and children. The newly situated families will also aid the old people as they go about their mundane activities. It was a sound suggestion and her father was also considering it. Annie hoped that would be the case as she scribbled a small note on a piece of paper. After the meeting, she stopped by one of the windows overlooking the training grounds, and there you are.

Your small argument that happened a few days before stirred some guilt in Annie’s stomach. 

You weren’t even part of the raids she was talking about. They were led by a commander by the name of Erwin Smith. The stories about you that she heard were from Idyllic soldiers that suffered a lot during the war, not from the people of the villages Erwin raided. Annie couldn’t deny it but she did step out of the line by accusing you of being an assassin. That was too far-fetched. She was just stuck in her suspicions when she was supposed to be getting to know you.

All she knew about you was that you were adept with a sword and can name any tactic written in books about wars.

Annie saw a maid cleaning one of the vases in the hallway. “Miranda.”

The maid turned around, curtsying in a haste before patting her uniform. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

“Can you prepare a tray of iced apple juice and some cakes?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Annie nodded. “And can you place this note on the tray and deliver it to [Name]’s room?”

The maid was taken aback. “Well, it would be my pleasure, Princess.”

“Thank you.” With that, Annie walked away without a glance back.

Curious eyes followed the princess’ form, the maid finding herself looking at your figure sparring with Reiner and a smile instantly greeted her face. This could be a turning point in the betrothal because she could’ve sworn Annie had a small blush on her cheeks at the mention of the other princess. 

After your training, a tray of sweets and a pitcher with glasses of apple juice awaited you in your receiving room. You wanted to ask Reiner if he asked some of the chambermaids to prepare the afternoon snack but a folded note caught your eye. With one hand gripping the towel around your shoulders, you read the note, your face warming up at the short yet endearing sentence.

Indulge in these, they taste better after a good training session.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all, you thought as you munched on a sprinkled cookie.

-

Her eyes kept following a trail of gold tulle, silks, and laces, never looking away the moment her blue eyes laid themselves upon a beauty that rivaled the goddess of oneiric realms, the most ethereal goddess of the heavens. You were dressed in an off-shoulder gown with loose sleeves reaching your elbow, the bodice carefully wrapping around your torso in the most flattering way possible, and skirts adorned with silver gems. In a sea of aristocrats with fabulous dresses, you were a sight to behold in this ball dedicated to commemorate the truce between Glaieul and Idylle as well as announce the engagement between the two countries. You were starlight personified, shining in Annie’s eyes under the lights of tens of chandeliers in the ballroom. 

You were on the other side of the ballroom, laughing with your friends from your home kingdom. There was a tall brunette that seemed to be star-struck because of you just like Annie, a black-haired young woman who was smiling slightly, and a blonde who was engaged in an animated conversation with you. Your smiles were refreshing, to say the least, Annie seeing it for the first time since you came to their palace. Your laughs are genuine and it came out of you so easily when in the company of your friends.

Annie visibly stiffened when you turned around and smiled at her, gesturing for her to come to join the small huddle. Your three friends tensed noticeably at her half-lidded stare, with you reassuring them that she’s not that indifferent all the time. 

As if sensing Annie’s hesitance, Reiner chuckled behind her. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to introduce yourself to them, Your Highness.”

“I’m getting to that, Reiner.”

A laugh came from the blonde man. “She’s good for you. That much I can tell. The kindest soul I’ve ever met in my life.”

Again, guilt pooled in Annie’s chest. Those words are the opposite of what she spewed out to you the last time you talked. She called you a power-hungry monster who ravaged the war with no care on your shoulders. She didn’t even apologize yet. Annie sighed, “I know.” Then, she pulled up her skirts, navigated the ballroom, and stopped directly beside you. Her blue eyes scrutinized the three people you grew up with, with the brunette and black-haired woman stepping a small step forward to assert their dominance while the blonde pinched their backs to warn them not to step out of line in another kingdom. “Hello.” She transferred her eyes on you afterward, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back and rubbing it in a comforting motion. “I hope you enjoyed the ball so far.” Those words were directed to you.

You only nodded with a smile. “Annie, this is Eren, Mikasa, and Armin. They’re my friends when I was growing up in the glass castle.” Annie nodded. “Everyone, this is Annie, my fiancé.”

“We know,” Eren, the long-haired man in a low ponytail murmured with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Eren,” Armin reprimanded. He smiled at a stone-faced Annie. “Thank you for making [Name] happy! I can sense that she has a different air around her while we talked. It must be because of you.”

Annie stayed quiet, her hand coming into a still on the small of your back. It was a good thing her left hand was hidden away because they would immediately think that you didn’t accept the engagement. She glanced at the ring nestling in your finger, a perfect match against the golden train of your dress. Realizing that she created an awkward stretch of silence, Annie could only nod wordlessly before shifting her attention to you again. It seems like you’re the only one who can calm her nerves down inside the vast ballroom. She never took her gaze on you even as you continued the conversation between your friends.

Her mind was fogged with thoughts of only you throughout the ball.

The two of you excused yourself from the trio when Annie’s father called for everyone’s attention from the front of the huge chambers. “Everyone, kind souls and pure-hearted people of the continent, since tonight is all for enjoyment, the waltz of the ball will now commence.” His blue eyes went to his daughter, standing at the side of his throne. “The moment everyone is waiting for — the first waltz.”

She rehearsed this too many times for when a proper betrothal comes into play but why is her hand shaking when she outstretched it in front of you? You must have felt it because you flashed a comforting smile her way. The two of you went to the middle of the ballroom, the guests staring expectantly at the birth of a romance. They were wrong because you hate her and she hates you. Right? Her hatred for you will never waver for killing her people even though you look like a descended goddess with the lights of the chandeliers raining on you. Hatred must be fueling her heart to beat faster than ever, why she seemed to trip over her skirts and how her words stumbled in her tongue. That must be it.

The dance slowly made its way to the part where she struggled, dipping you as gracefully as she can. Before it happened, you whispered to her, “Please don’t make me fall.”

Annie’s voice was soft, for your ears only. “I promise, my princess.”

It truly was a birth of a romance, the two of you unaware of it all.

-

“Come on, Reiner!” You shouted at him from across the training field. “Come at me with all you’ve got.”

The blonde man hesitantly shifted into position as he eyed you. “Are you sure, princess? I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” He remembered the threatening look he received from Annie before this training session and he would like all of his limbs intact, thank you very much. “I just don’t want your chambermaid to nag me again after last time.” He managed a cut on your arm your previous session and you had to wear a long-sleeved dress in such stifling weather.

You scoffed lightheartedly. “I can handle it, Reiner. You don’t have to worry about it. Plus, I can dress my wounds perfectly.”

Reiner didn’t believe that. Your skills in covering up your wounds were lacking despite being a soldier. The most you could do was apply some salve on your bruises, that was it. He had no choice because the past month he spent his days with you, you were like a persistent little child that reminded him of his younger cousin. He hoped that you two wouldn’t meet. “Alright, here I go, Your Highness.”

Parry after parry could be heard in the private training field. You were doing fine in deflecting Reiner’s sword but your ankle immediately ached after shifting your body, leaning back to avoid the sharp edge of the knight’s weapon. You let out a huff as you dropped on the ground, jolting when Reiner called for you to stay alert. Seeing the glint of his sword, you rolled away and the pain on your ankle flared, even more, traveling through your calf. It also didn’t help that you received a cut on the side of your bandaged arm. You picked yourself up despite the throbbing pain on your ankle and arm, now being on the defensive as Reiner continuously struck you with his sword. He then circled his weapon around yours, throwing your sword on the side and pushing you to the ground with the tip of his weapon. That was the time where your ankle finally twisted into a sprain.

“Ah!”

“Princess?” Reiner’s tone became alarmed, dropping to your level and taking off your boots in an instant. His hands ghosted around your swollen ankle, not knowing what to do. “Gods, Annie’s going to kill me!”

“Annie?” You asked between pants. “What does this have to do with her?”

He only shook his head, carrying you in his arms and into the palace. His steps were hurried and the maids gasped at the sight of your red ankle. “Please prepare a bucket of ice and bring it to Princess [Name]’s private chambers.” He turned to you. “Hang on for a moment, Your Highness, we’re nearing your room. Just a little bit more.” Reiner entered your room and gently placed you on your bed. “I’m going to be taking off your other shoe, Your Highness.”

“Reiner, I think I’ll take it from here.”

Reiner stiffened, slowly turning his head to the entrance of your private chambers. Annie was impatiently standing with a bucket of ice in both hands, eyes glacially set on the blonde man kneeling on the floor in front of your confused form. She didn’t care if Reiner trembled in front of her. She vividly remembered telling the knight to never hurt you (she didn’t see the cut you had last training session because Annie was in another court meeting involving the incoming tax collection of various villages). Annie glanced at your ankle, barely grimacing at the state of it before gesturing for Reiner to get out of the room. The large blonde man took his leave, bowing at the two of your hastily and closing the doors with finality.

Annie mimicked Reiner’s position, kneeling in one knee to place your injured foot on her thigh. She didn’t wear any dresses for the day and it made her look dashing. The image implanted itself in your brain. Her hands are gentle against your skin, your cheeks flaring at the contact. Her features were contorted in a downturned one that showed how bothered she was. 

“How did this happen?”

Your eyes settled on the top drawer of your nightstand. “I dodged Reiner’s blow and I twisted my ankle in the process.”

“You should be more careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

Annie scoffed. “That’s clearly obvious.” She said nothing more while dipping your foot in the ice bath. She lifted her head too fast when you winced at the coldness of the water. “Deal with it. We wouldn’t want this to be worse than it already is.”

“Thanks for the concern,” you dryly mentioned.

“What makes you think that my being worried is all fake?” You’re silent, Annie choosing the moment to continue the words she didn’t have any control over. “When the maids prepared this bucket of ice in the kitchens, I was out of the council meeting. When I saw then bringing this up to your chambers, I was alarmed and my mind was a mess of thoughts concerning what happened to you.” At each word, her face held a multitude of emotions that you never saw on her. Her lips became pursed whilst you wordlessly stared at her. “I am not pretending to care for you. How could I pretend when I’m already feeling foreign emotions when it comes to you? It’s my first time feeling this way so I don’t know if I can categorize this as falling in love. But it feels like it. So, for the love of the gods, can’t you see that I’m rambling because of you?”

You didn’t reply, instead, you reached out to the drawer where you kept that ring.

“What are you doing? You should be still right now.”

You pulled out the jewelry box and flipped it open, showing the blonde the ring fashioned in a vine, the centerpiece being a group of small gladiolus flowers with diamonds in their centers. 

Annie’s cheeks reddened, flustered at the pretty jewelry. “What?”

Words never came out of you as you took Annie’s left hand. The ring looked pretty on her, the two of you admiring it after you slid the engagement jewelry in her ring finger.

“I now accept you as my fiancé, my future lover, and holder of my heart. Annie Leonhart, may our eternal spring bloom for centuries, and may your god of the winds bless us with his idyllic ballads.” Annie’s eyes were wide and you can see your reflection on them, along with constellations that lit up her irises. You placed your forehead against hers, looking straight into her flushed face. “They were right, this is the birth of a romance.”

And as you two kissed for the first time, the gods were rejoicing in their thrones, each of your prayers answered — your love finally etched in a whimsical melody. 

[shakasa]

sakura haruno fanfic rec list.

I tend to lean towards longer Sakura-centric fics. I'm not really one for oneshots, so if long rides are your type of thing, you're in the right place.

Maybe if this gets a lot of attention, I'll make a part 2 but as of now, this is all I'm posting since its 3am. It's still pretty decently sized though.

I'm also on mobile so sorry if my formatting looks wonky.

Anachronistic Drift

Summary: Her plan was flawless. Save Shisui. Save the world. Time-travel, Sakura-centric AU

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 93k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Dec 29, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/11675447/1/Anachronistic-Drift

Survival of the Fittest

Summary: Sakura is thirteen, still a Genin, lost in the middle of Earth Country, lugging an unconscious Chuunin around, and so far beyond scared that she’s moved right on to pissed off.

Pairing: N/A. Shikasaku if you squint really hard.

Word count: 24k

Status: Complete.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127889

Sunrise

Summary: They say hello more times than goodbye, and Sakura thinks it might be for the best. Especially when it's time to go. / (AU) War-torn Japan, 1600s. Married life.

Pairing: Sasusaku

Word count: 141k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Dec 25, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/12769548/1/Sunrise

Kill Your Heroes

Summary: It's time to stop waiting for other people to save you. A story about fear, resilience, and Sakura.

Pairing: N/A but hints of Itasaku later on but it's really ignorable.

Word count: 268k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Dec 25, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/11418526/1/Kill-Your-Heroes

Retrograde Motion

Summary: From sixteen to eleven didn't feel like a big jump until she realized that she was now the best ninja in their class. And that tiny Sasuke hates her for it.

Pairing: N/A.

Word count: 75k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Feb 6, 2019.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12566900/chapters/28622888

Believe Me When I Say I Carry All My Sins

Summary: Sakura knew the best way to tear a man's spine out of his nose without breaking a sweat. She didn't know how to live in a village with Minato as Hokage and the Uchiha clan as the beloved police force. She didn't know how to live as a disgraced genin in a bloody apartment with dead men knocking at her door. She didn't know how to forgive herself for failing Konoha. Now she had a chance to save it.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 30k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Apr 26, 2019.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103049/chapters/35020064

Hokage by Necessity

Summary: Hokage-it was Naruto's dream, just as Sasuke was his promise. And for a short, glorious time, he had them both. But when tragedy strikes, it is Sakura who must continue to bear the reality of the dream: endless paperwork, bickering Kage, and political factions.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 65k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Jan 16, 2015.

https://fanfiction.net/s/9576833/1/Hokage-By-Necessity

Daughter of Fire

Summary: Sakura got up and didn’t bother brushing the dirt from her dress. She had a feeling she was about to get even dirtier. She looked at the memorial stone one last time, memorizing the characters without even realizing she was doing it. It would serve from that moment on as a reminder of her determination. She wouldn’t let Naruto and Sasuke join the names carved on that stone. That was her nindo.

Pairing: Kakasaku but it's endgame.

Word count: 53k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated January 15, 2020.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17306768/chapters/40708583

Expedient

Summary: Konoha and Iwa sign a truce and agree to an Exchange Program between recently promoted genin to "bolster village relations." Fortunately, if anything were to go wrong, Haruno Sakura was just average enough to risk losing.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 277k

Status: Complete

https://fanfiction.net/s/6004135/1/Expedient

Shikkotsu no Sakura

Summary: Sakura made a promise to the slugs of Shikkotsu Forest. She will not fail them, not for anything. (I HIGHLY recommend reading the previous fics in the "the ballad of the slug sage" series. This particular fic is part 7 and may not make sense if you don't read the previous parts.)

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 119k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated November 28, 2019.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13439829/chapters/30802980

The First Flower of Spring

Summary: Because every ninja comes from somewhere. Lacking a presence in any ninja village, the Haruno are a clan just the same. Beholden to the traditions of her family, Sakura is changed, as are Team Seven's dynamics. What will become of them? (Super duper OOC Sakura with a kekkei genkai but I still found it entertaining.)

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 90k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Jan 10, 2015.

https://fanfiction.net/s/7476705/1/The-First-Flower-of-Spring

Hollow Point

Summary: Arms dealing is her trade, but young and in a man's world, it takes a criminal mastermind to play with the big dogs without getting bit. TobiSaku/ItaSaku. Crime!AU. Rated M for mentions of adult themes.

Pairing: Tobisaku. Itasaku.

Word count: 137k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Nov 22, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/12960050/1/Hollow-Point

The Vessel

Summary: I started out as a girl without memories in a foreign land, and life took a turn for the worse after that. Sakura-centric. (This is a crossover between AOT and Naruto.)

Pairing: Levi x Sakura

Word count: 282k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated May 27, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/10032202/1/The-Vessel

The Man in Black

Summary: A man in black haunts her hospital. But what does he want and why is it that Sakura is the only one that can see him? ItaSaku. Modern Myth AU. Death AU

Pairing: Itasaku

Word count: 9k

Status: Complete. Oneshot.

https://fanfiction.net/s/13160495/1/The-Man-in-Black

Close to Home

Summary: Something in his eyes told her, it was always you. [SasuSaku. Blank period. Bonus chapters to come.]

Pairing: Sasusaku

Word count: 38k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/12884838/1/Close-to-home

Dirt and Ashes, or the One-and-a-Half Body Problem

Summary: The invasion of Konoha during the chuunin exam didn't fail. Team seven is broken, people are dead, and Sakura is hurt and frightened and a very long way from home. Alternative summary: In which Sakura carries half of Hidan across two countries, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and other people's legs.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 90k

Status: Complete

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012402/chapters/9015190

Nightmare in Red

Summary: Haruno Sakura used to think the eyes were the windows to the soul, but after witnessing the horrors of the Sharingan firsthand, she's convinced they are the doors. Itasaku. Nonmass.

Pairing: Itasaku

Word count: 109k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/12024623/1/Nightmare-in-Red

I Found You Missing

Summary: 'They're asking us because these soldiers have absolutely no one left to write home to,' Sakura thought with a frown. So she signs up for the Shinobi Letter Exchange, not realizing how large the consequences would be. - AUish one-shot [KakaSaku]

Pairing: Kakasaku

Word count: 18k

Status: Complete. Oneshot.

https://fanfiction.net/s/10752939/1/I-Found-You-Missing

Five Kingdoms for the Dead

Summary: After the Forest of Death, Sakura comes to realize that being weak is no longer an option. However, she finds that change is sometimes painful and that truth doesn't always come easy. Luckily, she'll have some help along the way.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 220k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/4545558/1/Five-Kingdoms-for-the-Dead

Catch 22

Summary: Sakura isn't weak because she lacks strength. She is weak because they protect her. Sakura-centric

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 106k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Apr 22, 2013. (Yeah it's probably never going to be finished but still a good read)

https://fanfiction.net/s/5405135/1/Catch-22

Freedom in the Eyes of Another

Summary: The Wave Mission was a failure. They got caught, captured, taken-it didn't end well. Now Sakura has a half-heard order, uncut fingernails, and more desperation than bravery. One way or another, she's getting Team Seven out today. Complete.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 20k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/7281191/1/Freedom-in-the-Eyes-of-Another

Stripped Bare

Summary: When Sakura wanted a change of pace, she hadn't expected THIS! Now she's on a mission with Kakashi, masquerading as a dancer at a club far away from home and she finds herself forced to explore her own powers of sexuality and seduction. KakaSaku (Rated M)

Pairing: Kakasaku

Word count: 295k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/3998157/1/Stripped-Bare

The Way of the Wind

Summary: ANBU Captain Uchiha Itachi had things well planned out, until a medic-nin with ridiculous hair went and made herself interesting. Sakura insisted she was just doing her job, but Itachi didn't quite see it that way. Non-massacre. Sakura/Itachi.

Pairing: Itasaku

Word count: 158k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/4136594/1/The-Way-of-the-Wind

Take It or Leave It

Summary: Akatsuki & Sakura. After a moment of shock, Sakura realized that two fully grown, fully naked men were sitting squished uncomfortably together in her bathtub. (This one has a huge plot twist. Don't let the summary turn you off from this story)

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 79k

https://fanfiction.net/s/3608990/1/Take-It-or-Leave-It

Found

Summary: Deidara & Sakura. He was peculiar and a little too observant for her tastes, but he was also alone, just like her, at the fault of this supercilious war. So she would dance with him, just until they could both forget how much they had lost.

Pairing: Deisaku

Word count: 105k

Status: Complete.

https://fanfiction.net/s/3478457/1/Found

Vertigo

Summary: Sakura accepts the most critical and dangerous mission of her life, but the price of success may very well be her soul. When your entire world turns upside down, how do you keep from going under? DeiSaku.

Pairing: Deisaku

Word count: 201k

Status: Complete

https://fanfiction.net/s/4146785/1/Vertigo

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond

Summary: Naruto had been bragging all day that his new jutsu was his best yet. Sakura and her new situation beg to differ. Post timeskip. DeiSaku.

Pairing: Deisaku

Word count: 82k

Status: Complete

https://fanfiction.net/s/3281376/1/Somewhere-I-Have-Never-Travelled-Gladly-Beyond

Seven Days

Summary: A mission gone awry lands two squeakyclean ninja in the Konoha Prison for a week. One cell. Seven Days. What could possibly happen? [Aside from the obvious throttling, of course. This is Kakashi and Sakura we're talking about].

Pairing: Kakasaku

Word count: 68k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Mar 25, 2008. (It's been over a decade so it's a lost cause.)

https://fanfiction.net/s/3063206/1/Seven-Days

The Window

Summary: Sakura always wanted to see Kakashi unmasked. This was a bit much though...

Pairing: Kakaskau

Word count: 165k

Status: Complete

https://fanfiction.net/s/3161976/1/The-Window

Fated

Summary: Sakura runs from her past as Kakashi wants to run from life. Naruto and Genma witness the painful trials their friends must go through.

Pairing: Sasusaku. Kakasaku

Word count: 124k

Status: Complete

https://fanfiction.net/s/2144296/1/Fated

Loyalty

Summary: Blind loyalty is simple. The problem only begins when the world makes you open your eyes. Sakura-centric, AU, pre-timeskip.

Pairing: N/A

Word count: 243k

Status: Incomplete. Last updated Dec 3, 2019.

https://fanfiction.net/s/5316196/1/Loyalty

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Love me, love me not ~ pt.10

10: When Grayson learned to love

Summary: Trying to protect him, Y/N tries to end things. But after their argument, Grayson surprises her with his actions.

Warnings: ANGST, swearing

Word count: 2.3 k

A/N - I’m considering leaving it at this, although I have an idea for one or two more parts. Should I end the series like this? 

Love me, love me not ~ Series Masterlist

Being a celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked out to be. Y/N learned that firsthand when the man she trusted had turned their relationship from dreams to nightmares. It was toxic, she knew it early on. It was full of ultimatums and non-disclosure agreements, of fights about how tight her dress is or about the hug she gave her male castmate…but she let it slide even when she shouldn’t have. Even when she knew what was happening because that’s what Hollywood told her love is.

Until she met Grayson.

No longer would she look back and feel regret wash over her for leaving that cheating bastard. He was a man of many talents, lying being the main one. He turned the story on her, making her the bad guy, nearly taking out her career in just one video leak of her losing it after finding out about his ‘hobbies’.

Y/N thought her misery was over and her career safe. She believed she was done suffering, that she found stability in her newfound bravery…and in Grayson.

She was wrong.

Frantic, she dialed her manager’s number, her hands shaking. She didn’t even know what she felt anymore – anger? Fear? Confusion? Too many emotions came to life as she waited for the annoying ringing sound to stop and Tracy’s voice to come through on the other line. When it did, she realized rage was the main emotion after all.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?!” Y/N’s sharp, loud tone had alerted the twins who exchanged worrisome looks before scrambling to their feet. They ran into the room, nearly toppling over each other in the process.

“I TOLD YOU TO SHRED THE DOCUMENTS AND EVERYONE SIGNED NDAs!” Y/N continued to yell, running her hands through her hair in frustration, nearly ripping it out in her craze. Her face burned as if someone pushed her into the fire, her eyes turned to flames and her usually sweet tongue into acid, matching the unforgiving rage bubbling inside. She stood up, pacing the room as she listened to Tracy whine about being clueless herself, how she plans to get to the bottom of things.

“What happened?” Grayson asked timidly, dropping his phone on the bed, getting a violent wave off as his answer.

“I don’t fucking care, Trace! I want this resolved. I’ll film a video with Grayson on the matter, but find the leak and make sure it never opens up again. Got it?!” Her words terrified the twins, mostly because they watched way too many mafia movies and that usually meant someone would die. But she scared them more because she had never been so angry before. She was never red in the face as a result of pure, unadulterated rage.

She threw her phone to the bed, her hands tangling in her hair with a pounding headache coming on. Closing her eyes shut to keep the world at bay, she felt her temples pulsate, her nostrils flare with a sudden need for deep breaths, her lips pressed together to stop herself from screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Princess? You’re starting to scare me.” Grayson’s voice is soft and accepting, a gentle caress of a sweet soul like his. He didn’t call her a drama queen as Henry would. He didn’t shout at her for acting out as a child as Henry would say. He didn’t even stop her from expressing her emotions, letting her be who she is – sometimes overly dramatic with a tendency to throw tantrums, feeling everything with every part of her being or nothing at all…he let her be human; tempestuous, deeply flawed and in the end…his.

She is his. Despite the way things started, she was truly his and no amount of denial will ever change that. And she was done denying herself the finer things in life because of some guy who was maliciously intent on damaging her. He had cracked her, but Grayson was the compass that showed her a way to the glue she needed to repair herself.

“Someone tipped off the media on our contract.” She sighed, shaking her head. Her eyes still closed, she felt the surge of panic is still present, unyielding. She didn’t even hear Grayson as he stood up, the bed creaking in the process. She didn’t feel him come closer, nor did she notice when he towered over her.

But she did feel his hands on her elbows, traveling up her forearms and to her hands that had made a complete mess of her hair. He untangled her hands, encasing them in his own carefully, rubbing his fingertips over her knuckles patiently. Grayson Dolan had learned to be a patient man – at least with her.

“They can say whatever they want. Proof is gone and our feelings are too obvious for anyone to deny. We don’t have anything to worry about.” Grayson tried reasoning with her, sensing she’s spiraling and closing in on herself. She’s always been her own worst enemy.

“How can you say that when everything is on the line?” Her voice didn’t waver and Grayson knew her anger didn’t either. At least she was angry. He could work with anger. Indifference scared him and he found himself feeling relieved when he realized that wasn’t the case.

She opened her eyes, the usual swirl of color now darker with the sudden turn in her heart.

“You do realize we can lose our roles for this? A rumor is enough to ruin your reputation and that can put a big risk on a movie franchise like The Vampire Academy who failed miserably when they tried to get it going the first time around! I’m already broken in their eyes, but you? You’re just starting out and being linked to someone like me could ruin you Gray. Being in my vicinity will make your career implode.” Her eyes widened while her own words washed over her, knowing she was right. She was right and she couldn’t do that to him. Grayson was her safe harbor, but she was his stormy sea and even the best-equipped harbors can’t stop a tsunami…and that’s how she felt – like a tsunami.

“Break up with me. Okay? Say I seduced you to get my image clean and broke your heart. It will secure your future, okay? I’ll step down from Rose and I’ll –“, she didn’t get far with her self-destructive rant, interrupted by his lips on hers. It didn’t take her long to pull herself together and gather her wits, pushing him away as firmly and definitively as she used to do before.

Ethan remained quiet, scrolling through the tweets and reading all the reactions. Most fans refused to believe it, but some were ready to flay them alive.

“Stop talking nonsense.” Grayson hissed, losing his patience.

Not for an instant did his eyes leave hers. Y/N was forced to hold his gaze while inside, her heart ached. The world left her no choice. Lifting her chin, she struggled to draw breath and forced herself to shrug as she looked away. "This day was very pleasant, quite eye-opening, but…" Shrugging again, she swung aside and stepped away, feigning indifference. "Not enough to make me stay."

She was a good actress…too good for Ethan to doubt her words as he looked up sharply, but not good enough to fool Grayson.

"Look at me, dammit!" The command was issued through clenched teeth. Swinging back to face him, Y/N saw his fists clench and sensed the battle he waged not to touch her. She immediately lifted her chin defiantly.

"You're making too much of it, you, as all men, should know just because we had a few nice moments together doesn’t mean I should stay with you or marry you." Her heart twisted; she forced her voice to lighten, forced her lips to curve lightly.

For one instant, she feared she'd gone too far. There was something, a flash in his eyes, an expression that flitted over his face that locked her breath in her throat. But then he relaxed, not completely, but much of his frightening tension - battle-ready tension - seemed to flow out of him.

She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace and the intimidating flare. She wasn't sure which she found more unnerving the intimidating warrior or the graceful predator.

"So you really think I can’t read you? That I don’t know when you’re lying to me? Didn’t you promise me you’d never lie to me again?" His fingers, cool and steady, slid under her chin and tipped her face up to his. He smiled, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes.

“You, Y/N Y/L/N, own my heart. I am not going anywhere no matter how hard you try to push me away. Even if your words did wound me just by knowing you’d ever say them, even if you don’t really mean them. You hurt me. Deeply. Repeatedly. But I’m still here. I always will be. Fuck my career if you’re not a part of my life.” His eyes locked on hers. Only desperation allowed her to keep her features still, to stop them from crumpling. Inside, she was weeping - for him, and for her. But she had to turn him from her. There were no words on earth to explain to him how much he’d miss out on if he chose a girl who he barely knew.

But he continued.

“I’ve had a life where all I did was make content and nothing else. I’ve had fame without love. It’s not worth it. It never is, princess. Because…in all my time on this Earth I have never known what love really is. I thought I did, but now I know. I found love with you. And you might not feel the same way and you might be willing to throw everything away, but I’m not. I. LOVE. YOU.”

She was at the end of her strength and she knew it. She put her last ounce into brightening her smile, her eyes, her expression. Her fists clenched so tightly, her nails cut into her palms.

“When I was in pain from him, I took it out on you. When I couldn't say to him how his actions kept me in constant pain, you were the safe target. So all you saw was ‘push and pull’ of my brain and heart fighting to find some middle ground. A push away when I needed to act out a form of strength, and a pull when I panicked, needing you close. I'm sorry. I wasn't aware, now I am. You heal my mind with nothing fancier than a smile and warm hugs. You always come when I call. I guess this is recovery, when I can see the people who are really helping and ask them to come closer, staying quiet when the urges to push them away returns, ensuring that their kindness is mirrored by my actions and words. And I’m still working on the staying quiet part.” She chuckled dryly, letting a single tear slip past her defenses. He caught it with easy, intently pressing his thumb into her left cheek, only to cup it after.

“I love you too, Grayson. I really do and I know I’ve done a crappy job in showing that. I want so badly to protect you and if letting you go is a part of that, I’ll take the pain. But you’re right. I won’t push you away. You have the power to decide if you want to leave or not.” With one of his usual graceful nods, he headed for the door. He opened it, and, without glancing back, left, pulling the door gently closed behind him. Y/N held her position; for a long while, she simply stood there, staring at the door, not daring to let herself think.

“E?” She whispered, her lips quivering as her eyes flickered to the still brother in the corner of the room who was trying to comprehend what just happened as well.

“I’ll check on him. Don’t go anywhere, okay?” Ethan told her, rushing after his brother.

It didn’t take long before she heard the car engine, forcing her legs to move. She held the tears back. Why on earth was she crying? She'd done what had to be done. She reminded herself sternly that it was all for the best. That the numbness enveloping her would eventually pass. That it didn't matter that she would never feel his hands on her body, worshiping every inch of her skin or that soft smile he reserved just for her, or the way his voice would go higher whenever she challenged him to drive him insane…She’d miss a great deal of things about him – his heart most of all.

Finding the driveway empty, her car the only one remaining, Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying openly. The sob in her chest made it harder to breathe, but she couldn’t break down now.

Instead, she returned to his room. Her shaky fingers pulled at the band of his father’s ring, sliding it off her thumb. It didn’t feel right keeping the ring anymore. Not when he didn’t want her. Not when he decided he didn’t want her just as she admitted her love for him.

She gave him an out and he took it.

She couldn’t be mad about that, could she?

Tags: @xalayx @dolandolll @godlydolans @dolanstwintuesday @anything-dolan @peacedolantwins @maybgrayson @nowheredolan @graydolan12 @beautorigin @justordinaryjen @starrydolan @pitreshawn @grays-laugh  @adventureswithmell @gia-kerks

[clansayeed]

Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 22: Cleansing Grimfire

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Coven Elders deal with the consequences of their actions. Taylor and Elric participate in a father-son activity. The Council takes some responsibility.

[READ IT ON AO3]

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still must only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp.

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will not.”

The entire Garden watches in bated awe as the wraith obeys. Hovers back far enough where Taylor can breathe without the scent of rancid flesh in his mouth.

Oh he’s still scared shitless — and rightly so. But just like he can feel the bad things hovering in an aura around them so too can he feel the good.

And the sudden rush of adrenaline, defiance, bravery in Vera is incredible.

The Elders are still together, still united, but their understanding is unmistakable. They know whose hand Vera wields. They realize what has changed with its discovery.

The only thing that hasn’t settled in to their collective hive mind is that it’s over.

“You killed Cassiopeia because she was the necromancer — she was the one in control of whatever creature she summoned and you needed that control to be yours and yours alone. You didn’t realize that you screwed yourselves.”

“‘Cause they were busy screwin’ everyone else,” huffs Nik behind him.

Millet has gone pale, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced against her almost skeletal pallor. “Her body became a totem.” Is that a hint of resignation in her tone? Or maybe just wishful thinking.

“Specifically her hand,” Cadence confirms with a nod, “like the trophies Reimonenq kept in his mortal life. If you had conjured up any random malevolent soul instead of going for sick, twisted irony maybe it would have been different but…”

“But she who holds the Hand holds the power.”

There was a lot about the plan that had been left up in the air. When, or if, the Coven Elders would even arrive. If they would summon the wraith immediately or attack in some other form. If there was even the smallest chance they could be convinced to stop the needless violence; their grab for power stayed in favor of the cooperation that should have happened in the first place.

But the one thing they had all been forced to agree upon was the one thing no one wanted to think about.

They had the totem, now what?

An eye for an eye was the most logical, solved the most problems. But then how were they any better than the Elders?

They may have been forced to agree but that didn’t mean it was without argument.

Cadence had been the last one to exit the underground tomb, his gruesome work finally done. Cassiopeia’s hand had been wrapped in Cal’s flannel and held out between them all as an unholy relic.

It made sense for Nik to take it — for a Nighthunter to be the one to make the final blow whatever that blow may entail.

Instead he held it out to Vera; insisted she take it. “You’re the one who’s suffered the most here. He’s your kin.” And polite Vera, kind Vera; Vera who had been tangled up in this out of fear and a desire to save Kristin and had resigned herself to suffering a curse she could never lift, took the bloodied bundle and made her peace with accepting the burden.

Never said what she planned on doing — it was just assumed she’d send the creature after the Elders; wield the totem the way a hero wields a sword to deal the dragon a final blow.

Maybe it was something Vera didn’t know herself. Couldn’t know until she was in the moment and had to make the choice before hesitation was their undoing.

Well they’re in that moment now. Taylor watches her square her shoulders, her bare hands grasping real flesh for only the second time in her entire life, and knows she���s chosen.

The wind rustles her curls silently as Vera holds out the severed hand in offering to the bloodwraith.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” The words come out of Daniels’ mouth but they don’t sound like her at all — there’s no restraint in her fear now.

Vera doesn’t deign the woman worth an answer. Just watches, waits for the creature to move. But even it doesn’t seem to understand what her intentions are.

Vion sneers — but even that wavers. “Foolish mortal child. If you wish to live you will keep that thing away from its totem.”

“I won’t do it —” —she whips around to Taylor behind her, tears stinging where they well at her eyes— “— I can’t do it, Tay. I can’t kill them.”

She can’t. If she does, she’s no better than they are. She’s the monster her mother is, the monster her ancestor is. Whether it’s true or not it’s how she feels so he feels it too.

“Baby girl if there was ever a time to grow a spine… now’s it.”

Vera stares over his shoulder to her mother’s wavering figure straining down the garden path.

They knew taking her out of the hospital was a necessary evil. She was the wraith’s last true victim. Her presence made some of the uncertainties of the plan less so because they knew it would come to finish what it started. But the fight, rushing her out of the fray; it’s proving to be too much. Ashen-faced and every muscle in her body screaming let me rest but she doesn’t.

Lady Smoke does not run from her enemies.

“Momma…”

Yet even with everything they’ve been through, despite her daughter refusing to leave her hospital bedside, there’s the furrow of command in her hardened face. She looks at Vera in the same way she had back at her club. Not a mother; a mob boss.

“Tonya, don’t —” Katherine tries to stay her advance but she’s shrugged off; hand batted away like a bothersome fly.

“Your whole life you’ve been runnin’ from who you are, Vera Claire. I shouldn’t have indulged it, that’s my sin to bear; lettin’ you make yourself weak. But now there’s lives at stake, includin’ your own. Maybe you still ain’t got the sense to use your gift for me but would you forgive yourself if your weakness killed everyone else?”

Vera can’t believe it. Frankly neither can anyone else. “What — Momma, stop. Why’re you doin’ this now of all times?”

“Because you’ve always been too stubborn to see what needs to be done!”

“No one else needs to die!”

“Then they’ll kill you first!”

“I won’t do it, goddammit —” if Smoke thought scolding her daughter would shame her into acting she has another thing coming, every word pulls Vera back from the murderous edge, “— I won’t be you! I refuse! I refused then and I refuse now!”

Vera’s voice cracks and the dam breaks; tears down her cheeks with the hovering shadow of pure evil behind her and a lifetime of rage and loathing coming out at the wrong moment but it wasn’t she who chose to rip open these old wounds now — so why should she have any mercy, any sympathy for the frail woman who did this to herself.

“We were both here that night. But it went after you — and if you weren’t so obsessed with gettin’ back your damn Touch you’d realize why that is. I won’t do it. I won’t take a life, even like this. I won’t be you — I won’t be a monster.”

And it’s final this time; when she turns away from her mother to face her decision right in the bloodstained face. “Derek Reimonenq was a monster too. I won’t use him and I won’t become him to get what I want. I know there’s another way.”

“You know nothing of the craft,” all of Daniels’ malice shoved into one last push; one last attempt. Her hands twitch at her side but the witch knows better than to act. Acting runs the risk of losing the totem holding the bloodwraith bound — or the wraith itself.

All her power and all the misery she’s orchestrated up to now and she’s reduced to nothing but words. Words that cause Vera to look up at her with pity. The ultimate insult.

Taylor sucks in a breath as she takes a step closer to the creature; can’t help himself even though he trusts her. Trusts she knows what she’s doing and believes in the path she’s taking.

So he has to believe in her, too. Their lives depend on it.

“I know the misery it’s brought. And I know I won’t have a hand in it anymore.” On silent command the bloodwraith opens its ghoulish talons held aloft. And with all of her fear and grief and anger put aside Vera lays the dead witch’s token upon them.

The skin fades sickly pale and bloodless veins spread black and ruinous. A horrific sight not unfamiliar — and Taylor knows in a part of him that’s still tied to the grief of Cassiopeia’s misplaced trust that the unknown magics preserving her body in the tomb lift and allow her to finally rest.

Even accepting the reality that there was a tortured soul powering the bloodwraith like Satan’s battery — he still couldn’t think of it as something with thoughts; something beyond a mindless killing entity. Which probably explains the weird feeling that comes with watching the creature as it looks down at the totem with a curiosity that could almost be called human.

Behind it the Elders close even tighter ranks. He’s not entirely certain they shouldn’t be doing the same.

Then, like all living things the wraith crosses, the hand begins to wither. Flesh pulled taut against skeletal fingers before eating away at itself the way maggots do; reveals the muscles underneath and the tissue between bones until those desiccate too. Until all that’s left are pale off-white bones that fall in little thunk-thunks to the dirt at its… levitating burial wrappings.

Uncertainty hangs over their heads crisp and icy, prickles like needles at Taylor’s skin and tries to choke him from the inside with every breath.

Now what?

The witches strike first. Try to get the jump on the bloodwraith while its back is still turned with three right hands extended and three burning spheres of fire brought together in Daniels’ power and sent hurtling forward.

Like that’ll make a difference.

The blaze collides against the creature’s spine and even manages to set a few tattered edges of it’s billowing wraps alight. But fire is like all things; needs oxygen to breathe and live. And nothing lives that close to the wraith’s existence. Cassiopeia’s hand proved that.

What would have happened if they’d done nothing; if they had fled, or held their breaths and stayed very still? Would they have been spared? Would Reimonenq’s soul take its newfound freedom and flee beyond the Veil?

It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Because they act — they lash out first. So technically there’s nothing against the retaliation coming.

Maybe if they’d kept Cassiopeia alive she could have banished it before the slaughter.

And it is.

The ghastly, gleeful grin Taylor swears he can see twisted back upon its lips will haunt him for some time; whether it’s really there or not.

The bloodwraith makes quick work of the ones who bound it to bone. It may have enjoyed the hunt every other time before but this — this it has been waiting for from the moment it was birthed in blackness and greed. Taking no time to savor their screams.

Not that the Elders go quietly — each new barrage of magic changes the air pressure and makes Taylor’s eyes swim dizzy and confused. They send spell after spell and chant after chant at the bloodwraith’s face, it’s torso, the space between it and the ground. They try to swallow it up with a tear in reality, send blood from their open veins to slake its thirst; things magic might not even be capable of but are made real in those desperate last moments.

As if the universe, the forces Beyond, the things that bind The Fate in rules against intervention give the witches all the power their mortal bodies can hold. In the same way a death row inmate is given a feast for his last meal.

The wraith’s tainted touch is too good for them. Keeps them whole, maybe even alive long enough to continue toying with. It can’t have that.

So it plunges through Millet’s abdomen bodily. Cleaves her in two uneven pieces and the rest of her splattered on the stone wall at her back. The viscera is dark, almost black against the bleach-white bones that emerge like a butterfly that could only come from the mind of H.G. Wells.

Vion’s cloudy eyes are plucked from his skull with veins and nerves snapping like taut strings. His mortal mouth isn’t wide enough to fit the wraith’s claw until it is — but only after flashing the onlookers with the bottom half of the smile he never learned how to give. Like scooping stew out of the pot with knives his organs come out mangled, misshapen.

The smell is awful and Taylor wants to look away but he doesn’t. Forces himself to watch each new torture and indignity those husks are subjected to. Because they are husks now. There’s no way anyone could be alive after that.

Even when he feels Nik’s tension closer than before and a hand inches its way up to the corner of his eye he brushes it aside. “You shouldn’ have to see this,” the Nighthunter whispers. And he’s right. He shouldn’t have to.

But the Coven Elders only have themselves to blame for that. They were the ones who pulled him into the dark and horrible. “I will anyway;” his equally voiceless reply.

And then there’s Elder Daniels. Made to watch the evisceration and mutilation of her kin. The last witches to fall to The Bloody Hand. That’s her fault, too.

It backs her into the Millet-strewn wall but she does not cower. It rakes talons through her throat her gut her four limbs but she does not scream. It hovers in the air over the pile of her it created but she does not look away — eyes brighter in death than they ever were in life.

The hardest part comes after. Waves of nausea and anguish and the taste of blood at the back of his throat that leave him shaking, crying even though he knows there was no other way — that someone had to die. It takes time but the feelings and all their overwhelming wrath do fade.

Belatedly he realizes — the last of the Coven Elders, those tiny wisps of purpose and ill, have left this world.

The fallout of them remains.

The bloodwraith hovers there among its finest work. Takes them in maw dripping blood and tissue stained red and reeking of death and righteous revenge — but still, silent as the grave.

Without tether or ruling hand there is nothing left inside its hollow ribs. Its great work is done.

Elric is the first to speak, voice cracked from exhaustion, and Taylor isn’t the only one who jumps slightly at the broken silence.

“We must destroy the creature before its nature overpowers the echoes of its former self.” Not that he has to tell anyone twice.

“Think it’ll sit still long enough fer us to put it through a woodchipper?” Kristof isn’t joking.

But Elric shakes his head; doesn’t humor even outlandish ideas. “I… do not know.”

Katherine favors her left side as she hobbles close enough for Ryder to prop her up. “We could pursue another necromancer — but the odds of one being close enough to get here in time…”

“An’ I definitely don’ have enough arrows to banish it to the Veil.”

“So we’re fucked?”

“Every passing moment deteriorates its complacency. It will go rabid.”

“If we had the totem —”

“— the Elders would still be alive, so stop lookin’ at me like that mother.”

Through the din of arguments and ideas tossed forward and debunked Taylor sees their guest again. Watches as The Fate holds his gaze then looks out, slow and with purpose. Over the grass and gravel stained black that now shines like glass under the revealing moonlight.

The stars shine much the same but the trails left by Elric and Garrus’ valiant effort in cornering the witches are a different beauty. Something ethereal and as bright as it is dark. Scorched trails of obsidian creating beauty in destruction.

With all the weird and cryptic help they keep giving, he’s gonna need to get The Fate a fruit basket delivered or something.

“Do you have enough strength to do it one more time?”

Elric looks at him with a furrowed confusion — takes a moment to understand before he withers further. “I worry not even Garrus’ aid will be enough to burn the beast. Not alone.”

Taylor’s heart sinks, but Nik catches it before it gets too low.

“So help ‘em out, Rook.”

“Me?”

“You did it before.”

“Yeah but not on purpose.”

“So get Elric to channel it to you again.”

Then his father is at his side with pale palm turned up in offering. “You are not the same person you were then. You may not need my help.”

Everyone’s stopped arguing now; listening intently. Talk about stage fright.

“Yeah I — I don’t think so. The other fae, the ones inside…”

“Not all of us have the touch to do such wonders.”

And isn’t that just great. “Obviously. Why would it ever be easy?”

He throws a look to Garrus, still half-caught in Krom’s arms though looking far less on the verge of unconsciousness. Not that Krom worries over him any less. They catch him looking and their smiles are matched; happy, relieved, sheepish. Makes Taylor have the just-barely resistible urge to shake his head and say “those crazy kids.”

What’s the use arguing at this point?

“Okay. I mean — however I can help.”

Of course the stone troll is reluctant to let Garrus go, takes more than a fair bit of coaxing from Ivy but he does. “I haven’t stretched these muscles in a century,” comes the anticipated complaint, “and now you have me conjuring twice in one evening?” But Garrus doesn’t hesitate as he takes his position back up.

Elric directs Taylor nearest Isadora; doesn’t argue when Nik follows like an extension of him.

“I’ll be okay.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate the support.

“I know —” then, after a beat, “— still. Don’t have to leave you, so I won’t.”

A hush falls with the fae men in their positions. The outcast, the Lord, and the halfling in a triangle around the dormant wraith.

He knows he shouldn’t but that’s never stopped Taylor before. Cautiously reaches out with that feeling inside and tries, more out of curiosity than anything, to search for anything that remains of Reimonenq within its cursed bones.

But he’s just met with a void. Blacker than black — no revenge, no vendetta to carry out; nothing at all.

So he pulls it back… and feels the faint whisper of death like velvet on his cheek.

It’s as ready as they are for all this to be done with.

Not that he was expecting a lesson on a chalkboard or anything — Conjuring Grimfire 101 — but there’s a distinct lack of any kind of instruction that leaves Taylor more than a little lacking. Has him looking back and forth to mirror the men in everything he can see.

One minute the uncertainty is there; building inside of him a threatening mass of the unknown — and then it isn’t.

It’s just gone.

Whatever takes its place—not confidence, not quite—is enough, somehow. He knows it’s enough.

Looking down Taylor isn’t surprised to see wisps of black flame licking at his palms. Both enveloped and not, but not a burn in sight and so so beautiful.

It doesn’t take much. Barely even a gesture but moreso the power to let the grimflames take to the world beyond him.

Taylor, Garrus, Elric — they aren’t three people and three flames anymore. They’re one in the same; send their combined will forward. Rushing, racing on still winds lapping and hissing at one another until they seek home in the only thing they can.

A column of midnight fire erupts towards the sky as the bloodwraith is consumed. The last of its flesh, the tendrils of cloth, the thrice-burned bones engulfed in a fire that bathes the entire garden in light.

Taylor prepares himself — muscle memory — for a stinging wave of heat that never comes. And the sight is as captivating as it is terrible, as magical as it is destructive. Colors without names taking the wraith’s shape within the black — aberrant and awe-some.

Higher and higher the grimfire clamors for the abyss; seeks home in a darkness just as endless. The colors within grow to a blinding brightness as, within, the creature is devoured.

The Council of New Orleans watches as one. Blooded and bruised and alive. Shadows of light in lashes across every face like a ritual of cleansing.

Cadence shoulders the combined weights of Kathy and Cal; holds them up with tears in his eyes.

As Kristof watches, jaw slack, Octavia lumbers up to him with blood-matted fur and noses at his palm, turns a golden gaze up to the place where the fire and the heavens meet. Even Isadora finds herself held captive by the sight.

Vera’s hands cup her elbows, the glowing shadows catching on her curls and every teardrop that collects at her chin. Behind her Tonya stands shrouded in the dark of her daughter’s figure. The only one focused on something else.

But it makes sense. Don’t ask him how but it does. It isn’t just the bloodwraith that is forced to make peace in the fae fire’s glow. It shines on all of them and chases away every shadow left in the chambers of their hearts. Leaves within Taylor a feeling of profound peace; of understanding.

From tip to temple the remnants of the bloodwraith scatter upwards, rainbow embers scattering to every corner of the city — further even.

Upturned palms slowly close with curled-in fingers; Garrus, then Elric. Elric who looks at his son with pride to which nothing can compare. Taylor almost doesn’t want to let it go. Wants to let it build and stay in this beautiful monument to everything… everything.

Instead he closes his hands and snuffs out the light.

The curtains close.

Cade pulls away gasping; covers his mouth with the back of his hand with something akin to shame burned into his red eyes. Katherine gives him time; lets the vampire come back to himself with her bare arm still offered; just in case.

It isn’t lost on Taylor — or anyone, really — that the huntress was content to push half a wine glass of her blood towards Isadora de la Rosa. That the vein was a luxury only Cadence was allowed.

Cadence who holds her arm gingerly as he smears blood from his nicked thumb along the skin and lets it heal.

All around them the Mardi Gras decorations still shimmer with delight. Enticing them to forget their worries and relax; to enjoy themselves in a way they might finally be allowed, now. But the night isn’t done yet. Neither are they, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.

Two ashtrays pass between hands. Inside; a thin layer of blood shared among them like a church sacrament. The unspoken rule — take just enough to heal your wounds, because the likelihood that either vampire was willing to part with more than they could afford was slim.

And he cares about the rest of his friends — he does. He’s glad to see the bruises fading from Kathy’s ribs where her shirt is hitched up; to see Cal testing the motion of his arm where Octavia had helped relocate his shoulder. He’s glad — yet it doesn’t stop him from devoting the majority of his attention to Nik.

“No physical signs of a concussion,” mumbles Cade through his careful examination of the man’s pupils; flashes the mini-light from Taylor’s keys between them just in case, “and as any possible wounds would be internal there isn’t much my blood can do that it wouldn’t have done already.”

But Ryder will only humor them for so long. The frustration is already starting to tick in his brow. “Cool, then will you lay off?”

“Nik —”

“I’m fine Rook, see?” He gestures with arms spread wide and what is that supposed to prove? Can anyone blame him for worrying? Would anyone dare to try?

No, not like this. Not when the events of the night still hang over those gathered like an anvil on a very thin rope. Only when it drops it won’t be for comedic effect.

All they need is someone to cut the cord.

Good thing Nik Ryder has never been one to sugarcoat anything. Or hold his tongue for that matter.

“They weren’t wrong, you know, the Coven Elders.”

Which is so the wrong thing to say and gets a couple hundred pounds of angry sweaty werewolf in his face, growling; “The fuck’d you just say, Ryder?”

Even Isadora’s disapproval isn’t so easily contained. “Poor taste, Nighthunter.”

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Looks Kristof square in the eyes with a matching frown and a set jaw.

“You could ignore it before, but you sure can’t now. Things around here have gotten way outta hand. Each one’a you only cared about what was right under your noses. I ain’t sayin’ they went about it the right way but to walk outta here with nothing changed would be almost just as bad.”

That he doesn’t end up with a broken jaw is surprising on its own. When Kristof actually steps back as if to listen? Well Hell went straight from frozen over to a winter wonderland.

“Continue,” prompts Elric then, since no one else is willing to offer the floor to him. Why would they? Who wants to be told everything they’ve done wrong? Especially when it leads to… well.

“I didn’ think about the state of things until I saw what was goin’ on inside Persephone. Told myself it wasn’t any of my business —”

“— which it is not,” Tonya interrupts, and meets the glare Vera snaps at her with a hard set to her jaw. “Nighthunters have always been a complicated party. No allegiances, no code of conduct but their own. And now this one wishes to dictate to us all of the things we are at fault for as though he stands on some sort of higher ground?”

Vera just shakes her head, dislike rotting into distaste on her tongue.

“Unbelievable. You still don’t think you have any blame to take in any of this.”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve done to keep this city safe?”

“Oh I’m well aware, mother,” the words lash out on the tip of her tongue; make Tonya recoil however slight. “In fact — that, that right there — that’s half the problem here! That’s exactly what Ryder’s talking about. You stand there actin’ like a martyr when all you’ve done—all you’ve really done—is bully, bribe, and threaten your way into power. How long do you think it’ll keep now?”

She’s no longer the woman who went running at the smallest sign of danger. It’s a thing to behold, really.

And Vera isn’t the only one. Even with all of his huffing and puffing Cal steps up and looks Kristof square in the eyes. There’s a set to his jaw and his eye is still a little purple but hell if he’s backing down now.

“Now don’t you go makin’ trouble for yerself, pup,” his kin warns, but what else could he possibly lose that he hasn’t already?

“Anyone who disagrees with you makes trouble.”

“Yeah, and?”

The younger wolf’s joints pop and crack as he cranes his neck from side to side. Both of them rearing to go even after everything.

“That’s no way to lead a pack.”

Kristof snorts through a cherry-red face. “An’ I take it you’ve got a lotta thoughts you been holdin’ in.”

“You could say that.”

“Until you’re an Alpha I don’t think you’ve got much of a say.”

“He may not, but I’ve a few thoughts, cher.”

There’s a very Et tu, Brute? vibe in how Octavia places herself in the familiar space between the argument. Back then and here in the now Octavia remains a voice of reason to compensate for the one her Alpha just doesn’t seem to have been born with.

His nostrils flare. “Tavvy…”

“I ain’t sayin’ the pup’s right, but you an’ I both know he’s got a point. Things have been good for us, Kristof. Good for the pack.”

“Yeah, why the hell d’you think that is?!”

“I’m not sayin’ you ain’t sacrificed to keep us goin’. An’ I’ve backed you up on every single thing to date. But Kristof Jensen so help me if you raise your voice at me again I will whoop your furry behind to kingdom come and that’s a promise.”

The Alpha and his Beta square off, eye to eye. She commands the space around her despite behind several heads shorter than him. Being part of a pack means something deeper than most can understand and it radiates out from them in viscous tension.

He’s an Alpha; he can’t back down. But she’s his partner — so she won’t.

And Cal, who can’t tell if he has the other wolf on his side or just not on Kristof’s, refuses to let himself be pushed out of the conversation.

“Uncle,” one word that snaps all attention back to him, “you picked up the pack when we needed it most. You know they’re grateful — you know I’m grateful —” and there’s something hidden unspoken in Cal’s words, something from before all this but can’t be held back any longer, “— you were the Alpha they needed when I couldn’t be.

“But the pack can’t be more important than the community it’s part of. You can’t pull away from the rest of New Orleans and call it keeping everyone safe. Not when it leads to shit like this.”

There’s so many emotions and reactions twisting on the Alpha’s scarred face; Taylor doesn’t even attempt to reach out to feel them for fear of empathy whiplash.

So he’s just as surprised as everyone — Cal and Octavia included — when the wolf deflates; sags his shoulders and reaches out for the Beta to find a home crooked under the weight of his arm.

“Now ain’t the time to get into the nitty-gritty.”

Before Cal can object, Octavia squares him away with a single glance. Maybe not now, but soon. And that’s more than before, so he’ll take it.

To everyone’s surprise Isadora steps forward with a steely eye.

“My father was no saint. Since inheriting his seat and estate I have come upon a number of… gruesome things; things he was content to keep from me, and no doubt from the rest of the Council.”

If anyone notices the way her eyes flick to Cadence, they don’t mention it. “But I think that is the point Ryder makes; we, this Council, are supposed to be the ones making decisions for the betterment of this proud city. Instead we have burrowed our heads in the sand, contented ourselves with turning a blind eye to one another’s wrongdoings lest our own come to light.

“We cannot continue like this. The Council will not survive it. New Orleans will not survive it.”

Murmurs of agreement echo throughout the foyer; Elric stands.

“We are tired; we are battle-worn. Yet we have ignored our obligations to the city for long enough I think. If we are to be the ones to bring about a positive change then the time to act is now.”

“Now?” asks Tonya in protest, “don’t you think we should postpone this — at least until Mardi Gras has settled?”

Nik drags two stools forward. Taylor takes the hint and he isn’t the only one — Krom and Ivy join him in grabbing chairs and other seats until everyone has a place to get comfortable.

“No time like the present.”

[gffa]

Re: humans vs alines during the Empire, at this point I might be confusing canon with fanon, but were the human Jedi like Anakin, Obi-Wan or Mace Windu actually more popular too? Was it part of the propaganda to "show the human saviour vs alien enemy"? Even if Palpatine promoted distrust&hatred towards Jedi, he still could've used it to make his point?

I think there’s a lot of influence from Matthew Stover’s novelization of Revenge of the Sith where Obi-Wan and Anakin were galactically famous, where people across the galaxy knew who they were!  And in the movie itself, there is a line where Obi-Wan teases Anakin about being the “poster boy”, but we have no idea how serious that really is.The little we do know is that the Jedi were not the face of the war!re: Their role pre-war:

That is not to say that there weren’t isolated conflicts in this new era. With any society, there are failures of diplomacy and communication that can be resolved only with cannon and carnage. These were blessedly few, and many were quelled in their earliest stages by the earnest pursuit of peace by the Jedi Order. Jedi negotiators settled disputes before they inflamed war. The Jedi Code itself evolved to include provisions that would keep the Jedi Knights apart from such conflicts. The Jedi were keepers of the peace, not soldiers. As such, Jedi were rarely viewed as warriors, and their faces did not adorn messages of propaganda. (Star Wars Propaganda by Pablo Hidalgo)

and

The Core Worlders became more enamored with the fleeting distractions of fame and fashion, transitory fascinations with sophistication that left little room for messages of faith or tradition that the Jedi exemplified. The lack of representation in the galactic mindshare undoubtedly fixed their future, as dark forces were on the rise that would poison the public sentiment toward the Jedi in the decades to come.  (Star Wars Propaganda by Pablo Hidalgo)

During the war, their image tended to be shaped by others, rather than themselves:

Enter Count Dooku. Head of the noble house of Serenno, Dooku emerged as a charismatic firebrand who laid bare the inequities of the Republic. He encouraged worlds to tender articles of secession from the Republic, spurring a tide of separatism that spread across the Republic. Dooku had a commanding voice that demanded attention. He also had the authority inherited from his previous role, a former Jedi Master of the Order. Once again, the Jedi Order’s eschewing of the galactic spotlight allowed another to reshape the image of the Jedi, and for nearly a decade, the most famous Jedi in the galaxy was one who advocated for the dissolution of the Republic.(Star Wars Propaganda by Pablo Hidalgo)

and

The clone troopers, by contrast, were celebrated as heroes. Many Republic bulletins lauded the bravery of the “boys in white,” and Republic citizens were honored to billet clone troopers in their home during extended campaigns. The Kaminoans responsible for the creation of the clones were fast-tracked into Republic membership and given full Senatorial representation as a result of their industry. The need to keep clone supplies replenished caused a major reorganization of finances in the Republic, culminating in Supreme Chancellor Palpatine nationalizing the InterGalactic Banking Clan.Absent from this hero-making were the Jedi Knights. Citizens who witnessed the Jedi in action were understandably in awe of their abilities, but it was the clone trooper who was the public face of the war effort. The mystic Jedi remained forever inscrutable to the Republic citizenry at large. To the Separatists, they were branded as hypocrites (thanks to firsthand criticism by Count Dooku). That they could so callously brandish a clone army—“slaves bred for war,” as Separatist propaganda proclaimed—did not speak well to their character, though few among the Separatists knew that the Jedi were given no choice in the matter.(Star Wars Propaganda by Pablo Hidalgo)

The Jedi didn’t really have a strong presence in the popular culture zeitgeist, they weren’t the face of the war in any kind of individual way, and within their own ranks, there wasn’t really a human bias in any way we can see.  The High Council was made up of more aliens than humans, many of the Jedi we got focus on were aliens, one of the big things the Empire wielded against them was the same thing they said about the Rebellion--that they were bad because they had so many aliens among them (”JEDI THUGS AND SCUMFROTH REBELS CONSISTED OF MANY MORE NONHUMANS THAN HUMANS” is an actual quote from the Aftermath books and I lose it every time).So, the Jedi’s role in the war was more about their cultural absence and being misrepresented than it was about them playing into the “human savior vs the alien enemy”, which would have been pretty hard, considering their Grand Master was a tiny little green frog man!  There may have been some imagery of Anakin used, he certainly had a bunch of stories told about him, but there’s not a single picture of an individual Jedi in all of the propaganda posters in that book, they tend to focus on the Jedi symbols instead.  But there are lots of images of the clones, Palpatine, Dooku, etc.�� (There might be more propaganda posters elsewhere, I haven’t reread Scum and Villainy in awhile, but I don’t recall anything major off the top of my head.)

[rawcatlawnchair]

Chapter 8 - Trixi

Trixi was proud to be a gnome. Always had been, and always would be. His race was famed for their ingenuity, constructing bizarre magical contraptions for all the world to see. While they looked similar to dwarves, with their diminutive size, hairy arms and palms, at their very core they couldn’t have functioned more differently. While dwarves built big and impressive, with their giant metal citadels and over-the-top constructions, gnomes built small and practical. Everything was made for a purpose, and that applied to both contraptions and gnomes.

And right now, Trixi had become a scout. After millennia working in the mountains and mines, gnomes had developed impressive night vision, far exceeding that of any other race on the continent. He stared at the entrance they had passed through just under an hour ago, ears waiting for the telltale sound of horses galloping in. He mentally steeled himself. This fight wouldn't be like the one in the Chalice. This time they didn’t know their enemy, and didn’t know what would they would need to do to escape. They might be taking on five men, or fifty, and the uncertainty was killing Trixi. He knelt with bated breath, taking care not to make a single unnecessary noise, an art perfected after a lifetime spent in stuffy, silent libraries.

After what seemed like an eternity, he spotted several figures approach the fringes of the ruined city. One, then two, then five more behind, all on horseback, barely visible through the dark and the rain. A man at the front dismounted, dressed in a light-coloured hood, standing out amidst the darkness. He raised a hand and flashed a burst of essence, illuminating the area and briefly turning it to day. Behind him, the other white-robed man dismounted, followed by the other men behind him, dressed in brown. He strode forth, almost swaggering, as if he owned the whole place, waving his hand about to shine a ray of light wherever it faced, catching the raindrops as they fell from the sky. Evidently, the rain was letting up, which was bad news for them. The higher the visibility, the higher the odds they got spotted.

After looking around for a brief moment, he turned to face his men and began to bark commands at the five brown-cloaked men. “Fan out! Someone used essence here, they can't have gone far!” As his underlings drew their swords and lit their torches, he turned to speak to the other white-cloaked man.

“The Order of Lua,” Octavia whispered from behind him and he nodded in response. The telltale cloaks of the order not only carried their colours but also their insignia on the back, a winged fist with black trimming. Their agents were no pushovers, but weren't some unstoppable force either. Some quick thinking and good luck would bring about an easy victory.

But before taking down the agents, first the guards would have to be defeated. They had fanned out, trying to flush out the hiding escapees. One wandered over and then past them, aimlessly waving his torch about while walking on a side path. Just barely five meters away, not looking in their direction. It was time to get to work.

From their hiding place, Octavia threw a short quick essence-powered punch, firing out a shockwave. The blast flew out from the shadows, hitting its target and extinguishing the flame on the torch with a gust of air. He whirled around, sword at his side. “Who’s there?” He shouted, looking around in a panic. “Show yourself!” Trixi allowed himself a rare smile. Scaring this man would be incredibly rude, but also incredibly fun.

He raised his hand and began to cast a simple spell, one of the first he had learnt. Behind the man, he made several rocks vibrate, as if someone had ran past and knocked them aside. He immediately turned, but saw naught but upturned pebbles, the evident result of someone, or something running past. Initially used as an exercise in training an elementalist’s fine control of his power, now it was used to prey on this poor man. He constantly looked back to the main road, considering getting backup, but still he stood. Trixi admired his bravery. In the other man’s shoes, perhaps he would have had run already. But it was time for their deception to end.

Octavia rose from their hiding spot, flaring with essence. She stood with purpose, eyes shining bright in the darkness. Her opponent spotted her, and charged without hesitation. Trixi couldn’t see perfectly, but he swore he saw her smirk. Immediately, her hands too began to glow, and as the first strike came down on her, she casually grabbed the sword mid-swing, catching it as if it had been a mere stick, and stared the man in the eyes, drinking in his horrified look. She nonchalantly tossed it aside, and stalked towards him, one step at a time, like a tigress hunting her prey. Any sane man would have run, and so run he did, all the way back to his leaders. Trixi stood up, shaking in the slightest manner. He had known that the essence mage was a terror to behold in combat, but to witness it firsthand was an entirely different matter. Not for the first time, he silently thanked Master Kris for placing her on his side. “He’ll be back with reinforcements, you know.”

“That’s the entire point.” Octavia, still brimming with power, responded with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Elsewhere, he heard Ruzuli’s trademark crackle of lightning, crashing down from the sky, striking once, then twice, then a third time. He looked up and noticed the sky had cleared, the storm passed.

“That all the guards down?”

“Probably one more.” As if on cue, the final guard emerged from a doorway, sprinting towards Octavia’s blind spot, blade in hand. Her essence would protect her, but one clean strike could put her out of commision for a good while. Trixi couldn’t let that happen. And so he began to cast.

One of the core concepts he had learnt during his time in the Grey Tower was that of strength versus speed. Using the same amount of essence, one could shoot a pebble at incredible speeds, or toss a huge boulder, but only have it lumber towards the target slowly. Either strength or speed, never both. He had discovered during his own tests that bricks were nearly the perfect projectile, not large enough to significantly slow down the attack, and not too small to weaken the attack.

He yanked three bricks out of a ruined wall, and promptly plunged them into the back of the charging attacker, sending him sprawling on the floor. When he tried to rise, a fourth found his back, and he went down for good. He knew he shouldn’t have, but he felt good about it anyway. There was something about combat that engaged him in a way that no book could ever replicate. This wasn’t learning how to use a spell from a book, or planning a strategy. This was real, this was happening, and it made him feel in the moment. A pity he wasn’t very good at it.

Octavia looked down at his handiwork, unfazed by it. “I could have handled that, you know. It’s impolite to steal the fun from a lady.” She tapped her chin, powering down but not completely. Suddenly, the street flooded with light, a white cloaked man at its entrance.

“Surrender yourself! We know who you are!” He crouched into a fighting stance, hands already glowing with essence. Trixi frowned at this. Unlike the guards, he doubted they would win this fight with a couple of bricks. Before he could get a single word out, Octavia began the taunting, egging the agent on.

“Oh, then who am I? Or my companion, hm?” The retort dumbfounded him, as he dropped his arms to his side, confused for a moment. After realising he was being toyed with, he roared in frustration and wildly fired two essence blasts, shattering a wall near him, almost as if he was flaunting his might. “No more games!” He proclaimed, as he charged, fists at the ready. Trixi flicked his wrists, retrieving more bricks for his arsenal, before shooting them straight at the attacker’s head. To his horror, the bricks shattered from an essence blast, crumbling to dust before they ever reached their target. The man smiled menacingly, and then charged once more.

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I take it all back about fighting. Please give me back my books. Trixi had painted a huge target on his forehead with his pre-emptive attack, and was evidently more helpless in close quarters. Octavia had leapt in first to take the hit, but she had been shoved aside by the larger, and clearly stronger opponent. She had taken several heavy hits with her guard down, and he had been unable to line up a clean shot to free her from his clutches. Now she lay aside, wind knocked out of her and out of the fight for the time being. Beneath the agent’s white robes was a well-trained body, clearly leaning towards raw strength over anything else. Trixi dodged behind a wall, trying to place some space between them, but the man broke the wall apart, smashing it like it was just a fly rather than a huge brick wall that had endured a thousand years of time. Before he could get another hit in, he quickly formed a platform from the earth beneath and pushed himself out of the broken building, putting far more distance between them. He landed on one knee and began to survey his surroundings. Down the street, he saw Jirei batting at the other agent with her vines, while Ruzuli peppered him with tiny lightning bolts. They were doing significantly better, and for a moment he considered abandoning his duel to help them turn the tides. Then he stopped to think about Octavia. While he still had his doubts about her, there was no denying she was a necessary part of the team. Without her, they would not be able to fight effectively, let alone activate the compass. And right now she needed him. As his opponent lumbered into sight, he stood up and wiped mud off his pants.

Oh. Mud. He had nearly forgotten that the pouring rain had turned the earthen roads around the ruins into mud, sloshy in parts and outright boggy in others. This gave him an idea. He was no hydromancer, but mud was more solid than liquid. He could work with this. At his command, two thin tendrils of mud rose from the ground in the most inelegant way imaginable, twin awkward tentacles hovering behind him, ready to strike. He swore he heard a scoff from his opponent, but he ignored it. When the next charge came, Trixi was more than ready for it. One jet of mud shot for his eyes, while the other went for his gut, aiming to either blind him or slow him down. And while sheer strength could overcome a physical attack, it could not defeat human nature. The mud attack to his eyes blinded him, robbing him of his senses as he haphazardly crashed past Trixi into a wall, crumbling to dust as he barrelled through it.

The satisfaction he felt was more a cerebral victory than a visceral one. He would never be able to match most mages blow for blow, but with some quick thinking, he could turn the tides of battle in an instant. “You fight dirty!” The roar shook the building, as the mud-caked man emerged from the ruined ruins. “But I don’t need to see you to hit you!” At first, Trixi took his words as an empty boast, from a man who had more muscles in his arms than his head. Then he realised he had been expending essence like no tommorow, and to someone so attuned with the raw nature of essence he stood out like a sore thumb. As the essence blasts flew towards him, he hastily threw up a mud wall, but it burst from the very first hit, leaving him open to the follow-up attacks. He took one square to the chest, and went flying backwards into a mud puddle. As the monk slowly walked over, he scrambled backwards, trying to find whatever footing he could, but failed. He closed his eyes and hoped for the worst, as the arm came swinging down.

The arm never connected, and instead a cry of pain reached his ears. He opened his eyes to see Octavia leaning against a wall, visibly injured but still able to fight. Her hands were emitting white smoke, as she continued to hammer a barrage of short bursts into him. He managed to keep his guard up, but his defences were beginning to fall. Finally, she dashed forward and planted a knee into his abdomen, breaking his essence barrier with a sickening crack. The man slumped over, essence all but exhausted. It hadn’t been a fair fight, but they had come out on top, and for the time being that was all that mattered.

Trixi had almost begun to celebrate when he saw Octavia wobbling about, dashed over to grab her before she fell. “Rest easy now,” he said, “We survived.” She weakly pointed over his shoulder, prompting him to turn around. Thankfully, the other duo had also managed to defeat their opponent, crudely dragging him along the muddy floor by his hood. “Jirei, see to Octavia’s wounds. Again.” Ruzuli snorted, then turned to look at the two fallen Lua agents.

“Someone wanted us dead.”

“Or someone wanted us captured,” Trixi said, pulling out a bundle of rope from one of their robes. “I can think of someone who might have wanted this.”

“Celice.” Octavia managed to force a word out, saying his name as if it was a curse. “The Order’s men are his men, and he knows we’re out here. All he needs is proof that you three helped me escape, and Master Kris will take my spot at the noose.” “Then let's not give them the proof they need.” Trixi got to work, propping the two unconscious agents up on the floor as he slowly swirled the mud around them, forming a makeshift sinkhole to capture them for the time being. Ruzuli took the rope that had been intended for them and began to round up the less-threatening guards, binding them to each other in a methodical manner.

Before long, the seven men that had been sent after them had been neatly captured, two men up to their chests in cakelike mud and five more tied up in a circle. They sat neatly at the entrance to the ruins, their horses long run away after the commotion. After confirming that Octavia was fit to travel, they gathered up their things and continued on their journey. Rest would have to wait until they were in the clear from their pursuers.

As they turned to leave, one more surprise lay in wait for them. “Octavia,” they heard from behind them. “Your name’s Octavia, and we’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth. You and your misfit friends.” One of their captives had come to their senses, snarling at them. “You think you can outwit Master Celice? He’s been playing these kind of games for decades.”

“I’ve done it twice so far,” Octavia called out behind her, “And I’ll do it as many times as I have to.” Trixi had to smile at that one. Octavia was absolutely fearless and absolutely focused, complete with a total disregard for her own safety. As she limped away into the darkness of the Walled Forest, Trixi didn’t see an injured essence mage. He saw the makings of a heroine, the stuff of legends. For the first time in their journey, he saw her as Master Kris had, not as some broken criminal, but as an ally in the quest for the gods. Not just some dumb brute after all, he mused, as they continued their twilight trek through the woods.

Next Chapter ｜Start from the beginning

[sheikah]

Jon needing to be saved tim and time again Stannis, Crasters wife, Sansa and LF, Sandy, Benjen is too just overdone. Basically like a damsel in distress because it were a woman, people would have been saying exactly this. They always put him in these situations, same as Jon will die or won't die?

I don’t mind the moments when Jon needs other people to help him. I think that he does so much good for others that when people help him it’s just fine. And I couldn’t think of anyone less a damsel than my boy Jon Snow. 

So here we go, you didn’t ask for this but you’re going to get it. All of the times Jon Snow either shows he is a strong ass dude who can take care of himself and/or the times Jon does genuine good for others that earn him a little good karma and assistance.

This will strictly refer to the show!Jon since anon is bringing up some examples of Jon being “saved” that we don’t know will take place in book!universe (Sansa/LF, Benjen, etc).

Jon grows up in a household full of people he can nevertruly feel a sense of belonging with. He loves his father and siblings so muchbut Catelyn and (we are to assume based on her insistent apology in 6.04) Sansa make sure he is aware that he is one apart from them. So one would understand if maybe Jon turned out to be weak or bitter. But he’s not.

He is driven from his home as a teenager,sent to live in one of the most inhospitable—and we later learn, dangerous—placesin the world. Yes, he’s a bit of a shithead at first when he’s there but he quicklylearns his place and makes friends with his brothers. The real reason I bringup his early time at the The Wall is because we get to see the strength of Jon’scharacter very quickly when he defies Alistair Thorne, putting his own statusthere in jeopardy, just to defend his friend, Sam. That takes its own sort ofbravery.

At the end of the first season after Ned is killed Jonalmost deserts The Wall so he can fight at Robb’s side. He knows theconsequences of being a deserter. Our first scene with Jon shows him watching abeheading of a deserter. He knows that he will be on the run forever and willhave to hide his identity, but he is perfectly willing to ruin his own life totry to help his brother.

In season 2 when he ranges north of The Wall with hisbrothers he is separated from them with Qhorin Halfhand and falls upon thegroup of wildlings. Jon is expected to execute Ygritte but he doesn’t, becausehe thinks for himself and sticks to his own ideals. He knows early on that itisn’t right to kill someone just because they were unlucky enough to be born northof The Wall. He defies his superiors again, again to help someone else.

When he is taken prisoner by the wildlings he followsthrough with Qhorin’s plan to stage a fight, and as Qhorin orders, Jon killshim. This is a man Jon admires, his ally. This was likely incredibly difficult buthe does it to keep them both from dying as wildling prisoners so that someonecan get back to the Watch and deliver news of what they’ve discovered.

Then Jon manages to ingratiate himself to the wildlings andbecome one of them. And while to some extent it’s an act so he can get back toCastle Black alive, he also genuinely likes the wildlings and develops realrelationships with them and a real appreciation for their spirit and way oflife. Even so, he never forgets his duty and almost dies getting back to TheWall to report back to his Brothers.

He doesn’t lie about breaking his vows and sleeping withYgritte. He could. There aren’t any wildlings at Castle Black to contradict isstory. But he is open and honest with Thorne, Maester Aemon, and the othersbecause Jon is an honest person and someone who always takes responsibility.

He takes some men with him back north of The Wall after hisreturn to avenge the mutiny at Craster’s Keep. He is under no obligation toundertake such a task and the party of men to go with him is small. Doing thisagain signifies Jon’s principles and sense of justice. He does not leave theresponsibility to someone else but takes it on himself at great personal risk,and he is successful.

When the wildlings assault Castle Black Jon fights peoplewho were his friends, and he fights bravely. If it wasn’t for his warnings tohis Brothers, his battle strategy, and his own fighting prowess, one couldargue that Castle Black would have fallen to the wildlings’ greater numbersthat day.

He then travels north of The Wall again to face Mance man-to-man and try to treat with him, knowing that to do so is likely suicide. I can’tstress this enough. In what way is this kind of courage indicative of a “damsel”character? 

When Stannis’s men apprehend the wildling forces and attempt to burnMance at the stake, Jon Last of the Mohicans their sadistic asses and shootsMance to end his suffering. Once again, what a badass. He has just witnessedfirsthand what Stannis and Melisandre are capable of, and still put himself onthe line to save his friend from a tortuous death. I mean???

Also in season 5, Jon is elected Lord Commander. He hasrisen through the ranks from being a simple bastard, barely more than a child,to the leader of a force of men that protects the entire realm from thegreatest threat it has ever known. He of course, like literally ANY human, hadhelp along the way from others, but no one gavethis to him. He earned it, and did the job well—though not well enough toplease all of his Brothers (but more on that later).

While serving as Lord Commander Jon brought about the mostradical reform in the history of the Night’s Watch. He travelled north of TheWall to Hardhome with Tormund to treat with the last of the wildling forces.This scene shows us the depth of Jon’s courage when he killed a White Walker insingle combat and evacuated thousands of wildlings to safety so that the NightKing didn’t have a total victory that day.

He actually brought wildlings through the gates and intosafety despite intense protest from his Brothers. Once again, Jon put himselfin harm’s way to help other people. And of course, as we know, this cost himhis life. Literally. Thorne and the others murder Jon for what they considertreason to The Watch.

When he is brought back, Jon is given literally no time tograpple with what has happened to him. He has died and seen that there is noafterlife. He is visibly extraordinarily shaken by this incident and wantsnothing more than to leave The Wall and find peace somewhere else. But thenSansa arrives and we get another example of Jon putting his personal wellbeingsecond to assisting others.

He even tells Sansa that he has spent his entire lifefighting and is tired. But he agrees to help her take Winterfell back from theBoltons and in doing so takes part in an extremely dangerous battle where theodds are stacked soundly against them. This, as we know, starts off with Ramsay’ssick game in which he murders Rickon right before Jon’s eyes. This causes Jonto abandon the battle plan and the pincer maneuver as he rushes headlong into acolumn of armed cavalry.

Is it ill advised? Yes. Is it an emotional decision on hispart? Yes. But is it cowardly, inept, or something that makes him a “damsel”who needs saving? No. I believe strongly after having watched 6.09 severaltimes now that even if Ramsay had not pulled his stunt with Rickon and Jon’smen had followed their original battle plan verbatim, they still would have lost to Ramsay’s superior numbers and clearlyvery well-trained army without the assistance of The Vale.

So I guess you could make the argument here that the men ofThe Vale had to “rescue” Jon like a damsel in distress character. But Idisagree. This is one of the big issues that I have with season 6 and with therelationship the writers created between Jon and Sansa. Sansa knew that she hadLF on her side and the Vale’s army at her disposal, but she chose to hide thisfrom Jon. So I feel this is a matterof viewer perspective. You say Jon needed to be rescued because he is a damsel.I say Jon would not have needed any help and thousands of men could have livedinstead of died on that battlefield if only Sansa had been honest with him. Iknow that Sansa has been hardwired not to trust anyone after all that hashappened to her throughout the series, but we even heard that she trusts Jonwhen Brienne asks her about it. In the now famous scene where Briennehilariously calls Jon “brooding.”

And she had plenty of opportunity to put that trust inJon and tell him about LF. The writing in this part of the season was verystrange to me. We saw scenes, such as the one where Jon receives the letterfrom Ramsay, where Sansa was treated with respect and allowed to speak freelyand say her piece among his men and advisors. When they went around the Northasking the Stark bannermen for assistance, Sansa was by Jon’s side, treated asan equal, freely allowed to speak with these lords and try to win their favor.At no point do we see Sansa silenced by Jon or Davos or Tormund, etc. Yet onthe eve of battle, their dialogue suggests that Sansa has been given no chanceto warn Jon of Ramsay’s trickery or to tell Jon that she’s got an ace up hersleeve, that if they wait just one day, the numbers will be on their side andtheir chances of victory will be far better with LF’s army.

Instead they have a yelling match in the tent during whichSansa cryptically tells Jon not to do what Ramsay expects him to do, and leavesit at that. If she had told him that she has this other force coming their way,then things could have been different and no one would have needed saving inthe first place. I don’t feel that the events of 6.09 are the result of Jon’sown failings or something that required him to be saved as if he is a helpless,damsel character. What I think actually happened in that instance was thewriter’s doing a huge disservice to Sansa’s character–one of the smartest women and most adept survivors in the show–by making her withhold importantinformation with no real good reason that we can see, resulting in anear-disaster that simply made better suspense and good TV for the viewer because it caused the battle to be more dire for our heroes.

And as far as Benjen is concerned, the wight hunt in general seems, from what we know, to be a very foolhardy endeavor but a necessary one nonetheless. It is just another instance of Jon walking into danger to do what MUST be done. It is conceivable for not only Dany but the rest of the southron lords to need proof in order to be invested in the Great War, and someone needs to get that proof. We have seen at Hardhome just how devastatingly powerful the WW army is, and Jon faces their horde with only a handful of men. That is incredibly brave and yes, I am glad that Benjen intervenes to help him in this crucial moment.

But overall, for every person who has ever come to Jon’said, he has helped more people. He is a physically and mentally strongcharacter who still maintains his conscience and kindness in a cruel and twistedworld. Jon Snow is by far my favorite character and I will continue to love himforever, and hope that people save and help him, as he saves and helps others.Because he is the glue holding all of our favorite characters together, andwithout him, we would be watching a very different, and frankly not asinteresting show.

I think what would be boring and unwatchable would be if Jonnever needed help. If he was this impossibly perfect hero figure who not onlyalways saves the day, but is always moral and good, always does the rightthing, always looks fuckable, is a sex god who goes down on women unprompted,always treats his family right …  doyou see what I’m saying? He has to mess up sometimes to be human We all needhelp sometimes, even Jon Snow. And I don’t think that makes him like a weak character as you suggest. I don’t think that at all. If anything I thinkit is more progressive in terms of gender tropes for Jon to need savingsometimes. So I don’t really know what prompted this ask, anon.

[beenasarwar]

Iranian anthropologist Shahla Haeri pays tribute to her Pakistani behen Asma. Photo: Ibrahim Rashid.

Days after Asma Jahangir passed away in Lahore, some of us, members of Asma’s tribe as I think of it, got together at Harvard to commemorate her life, impact and achievements. We had lots of flowers, and music, and chai and samosas – she loved these things and loved hosting people. The languages spoken — English, Urdu, Punjabi, Bengali and Farsi — are a testament to Asma’s reach. Below, a short report about the event by a student at Emerson College, Boston, and a longer one by a Wellesley College student. Video clips of some speakers’ comments below; all video clips online on Vimeo, courtesy Rick Brotman. Cambridge Community Television will run a full video of the event next Saturday.

People influenced by Asma Jahangir gather in Cambridge to celebrate her life, by Maysoon Khan

Celebrating Asma Jahangir – by Aliza Amin

People influenced by Asma Jahangir gather in Cambridge to celebrate her life

By Maysoon Khan

On a chilly Saturday afternoon in February, students, professionals and community members crowded into an over 100-seater auditorium at the Harvard Kennedy School to celebrate the life of Asma Jahangir, a Pakistani human rights lawyer and social activist who passed away at her hometown in Lahore the previous Sunday, February 11, 2018.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Amartya Sen from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

An assortment of people who worked with and knew Jahangir personally paid tribute by sharing stories and reading poetry at an event organized by Jahangir’s friends and admirers including students.

What Asma means to me – a whiteboard series. Photos: Ibrahim Rashid

Introducing the event, Beena Sarwar, a Pakistani journalist who worked with Jahangir, said, “We were originally going to call this a memorial service, then we called it a remembrance, and then we decided to call it a celebration. We want this to be an uplifting celebration of Asma.” Sarwar first met Jahangir when she started voluntary work reporting and writing for the Human Rights Commission in Lahore in the late 1980s.

Speakers ranged from cardiologist Kashif Choudhry who flew in from Baltimore to pay his respects, to entrepreneur Mahmud Jafari, historians Ayesha Jalal and Sugata Bose, writers Sara Suleri and Homi Bhabha, to Nobel Laureate economist Amartya Sen, to a chaplain, lawyers, professors and newspaper editors.

Asma Jahangir was more than just a lawyer and activist. She was a fearless leader and mentor who fought for justice and democracy in a society that is heavily conservative and marred by corruption. She remained undeterred in the face of imprisonment, beatings, and death threats.

She co-founded Pakistan’s first all-women law firm in 1980, the Women’s Action Forum in 1981, Human Rights Commission of Pakistan in 1987 and was also the first woman president of Pakistan’s Supreme Court Bar Association. She took up cudgels on behalf of women, laborers and other marginalized communities in Pakistan. In her role setting up institutions as well as being an activist, she was revolutionary.

Additionally, she was a long serving UN Special Rapporteur who held several portfolios: 1998 to 2004 on extrajudicial, summary or arbitrary executions, 2004 to 2010 on freedom of religion or belief, and mostly recently on the situation of human rights in Iran, a position she assumed on 1 November 2016 and held until her death.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Shahla Haeri from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

Tufts professor Ayesha Jalal, a close friend of Jahangir, said, “You could find her at 7:30 in the morning at the bazaar buying fish. And at 10 am protesting outside the Lahore High Courts, and going to courts to fight her case, and then attending a funeral for a human rights activist, and then going home and making dinner and entertaining friends till 3 a.m.” Laughter resounded through the hall.

The auditorium reverberated with emotion, as speakers remembered Asma Jahangir through both laughter and tears. She was remembered as a ‘mentor of mentors’, as ‘Pakistan’s conscience’, and as a national icon whose courage was needed today more than ever to stand up to the tyranny in Pakistan.

“No country produces only heroes. But no country should do without heroes who can give us examples of integrity, courage, and honesty,” said Thomas W. Simons, former United States ambassador to Pakistan.

At the end, the organizers called for the young people present to continue Jahangir’s legacy, to be the next voice of optimism, and to “overcome sounds of war drums with courage.”

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Celebrating Asma Jahangir: “We will not stop. We will take her work forward”

By Aliza Amin

A memorial titled “Celebrating Asma Jahangir” at Harvard Kennedy School on 17 February 2018 was held to honor to the late lawyer and human rights activist, who passed away on 11 February 2018 in Lahore from a cardiac arrest at age 66. She will be remembered for championing the rights of marginalized communities including women and children, workers, low-income and religious minorities, and ethnic minorities for almost four decades. She is survived by her husband, two daughters, and a son. Her funeral prayers at Lahore’s Gaddafi Stadium in Pakistan were attended by over 3,000 people, around half of them women.

In Cambridge MA, students, community members, writers and professionals, including many who came in from out of town, gathered to pay their last respects at the well-attended event, organized by friends and admirers of Asma Jahangir.

The event began with an introduction by Beena Sarwar, who first learnt of Asma Jahangir through the Woman’s Action Forum launched in 1981, and subsequently worked with her at the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan that Jahangir started in 1987. Sarwar praised Jahangir and her ability to change and inspire the lives of so many.

“We lost someone who meant a lot to people who knew her as well as those who did not know her because she took on issues such as rule of law, due process, and the democratic political process,” said Sarwar. “We will not stop. We will take her work forward.”

Lawyer Yasser Kureshi, a doctoral candidate from Brandeis University, gave a brief summary of Jahangir’s achievements before introducing each speaker to the podium.

Entrepreneur and philanthropist Mahmud Jafari described Jahangir as “a small person with an indomitable will.” He shared the text of a Facebook post that had been widely shared, written by Zahra Hayat, recounting her experience attending the activist’s funeral in Lahore and how moving it was to see men and women gathered in congregation. He also recited a poem by Urdu poet Kishwar Naheed, written specifically for Jahangir.

“She had no fear of speaking truth to power,” said Shahla Haeri, an associate professor of anthropology at Boston University who had met Jahangir while conducting research in Pakistan. “A person with a good name never dies,” she stated, alluding to a couplet written by the Persian poet Sa’adi.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Yasser Latif Hamdani from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

Yasser Latif Hamdani, an advocate of the Lahore High Court and Visiting Fellow at Harvard Law School, said Jahangir was one of his inspirations when he entered the field of law. He considered her to be a mother figure.

Martha Chen, who teaches Public Policy at Harvard University, recalled the time she and Jahangir first met at a conference in Sweden. They discovered that they had much in common, Chen said. Both had attended Christian schools, had a deep admiration of the Urdu language, and been active in protesting the atrocities in then East Pakistan, 1971, and had fought for the recognition of Bangladesh.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Marty Chen from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

Editor of Daily Times Pakistan Raza Rumi had worked with Jahangir while he was an intern at the Center for Advocacy and Rights and witnessed her courage firsthand when she confronted the inspector general of a police station for their inaction over a gang rape case. She continued to display such bravery, he said, as she stood against arrays of killings, missing persons, and brick kiln workers. Rumi talked about AGHS Legal Aid Cell that Jahangir founded with other young women lawyers, which continues to remain a valuable resource for minorities, women, and children.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Raza Rumi from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

“In her home country, she was a firebrand activist and a fearless lawyer. Through her work she ensured that a military dictator, however powerful, would always be regarded as a usurper. In India, she was a messenger of peace and goodwill,” said Sugata Bose, a historian at Harvard University. His mother in India had once nominated Jahangir for a Gandhi Peace Prize, which later received backlash and was disregarded.

Chanta Bhan, an interfaith chaplain originally from Lahore, talked about Dastak, the women’s shelter in Lahore set up through AGHS Legal Aid Centre that Asma Jahangir ran along with her sister Hina Jillani. Dastak remains an exemplary interfaith sanctuary, where Christian and Muslim women live together when they have nowhere else to go.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Chanta Bhan from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

“The sheer integrity of Asma’s voice as a feminist activist is more resonant and relevant today than ever,” said Homi Bhabha, an English professor at Harvard University. “Her struggle must never end because we must interiorize the struggle and make it part of our internal ethical vigilance. We struggle not only against tyranny but for truth that we cannot live without.”

Kashif Chaudhry, a cardiologist at the University of Maryland who had flown in for the event from Baltimore, praised Jahangir’s unrelenting support for religious minorities such as Ahmadi Muslims. “No words can suffice to pay tribute to Asma Jahangir,” said Chaudhry.

“One of my favorite authors, the Viennese writer Karl Kraus, was called a faithful hater of his fatherland,” said former US ambassador to Pakistan Thomas W. Simons, Jr. “And there was something of that in the way Asma felt about her country.”

He went on to speak of her heroism and integrity, concluding, “I must also share with you my first reaction to the news of her death: Pakistan, you’re on your own.”

Author Sara Suleri, Professor Emeritus of English at Yale University, paid tribute to Jahangir’s authenticity of spirit and courage by sharing anecdotes of their decades-long friendship. “She did not have to speak for women. She personified what the travails were to women around and also provided some solutions for our predicament.”

“I would hope that the sense of immediate loneliness is mitigated by this occasion,” said Suleri. “We are all learning a language that is post-Asma Jahangir, and I encourage all of us to keep practicing it.”

Historian Ayesha Jalal, another old friend of Jahangir’s, talked about how remarkable it was that she could manage politics and be a friend and a mother all at once. She reminded the audience that Jahangir was a fallible human being with worries and concerns, and that we all must do even better than her.

Celebrating Asma Jahangir-Ayesha Jalal from Rick Brotman on Vimeo.

“When the canons of Pakistani democracy are put together, this small-framed friend of mine will stand amongst the tallest of giants,” said Jalal.

Nobel Prize-winning economist Amartya Sen recounted some of Jahangir’s numerous achievements while she was alive, such as how she won her first case at a mere age of 18 and went on to become a leading defender of human rights in Pakistan. The two had been close friends for over two decades, and Sen described how awestruck he was by Jahangir’s clarity of mind and boundless humanity.

“The angel of humanity may have gone, but the education and training we got from her is here to stay,” Sen said. “We can have pride in having known so perfect of a human being.”

The event concluded with a poetry reading by Sughra Raza, an associate professor at Harvard Medical Center. She recited passages “Shorish-e-Barbat-o-Nai” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a dialogue on hope by two different voices. The first voice speaks of the pain of destiny and annihilation, to which the second voice responds with hope and commitment to truth and to overthrow the sound of war drums with music.

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Asma’s tribe: a remembrance at Harvard Days after Asma Jahangir passed away in Lahore, some of us, members of Asma's tribe as I think of it, got together at Harvard to commemorate her life, impact and achievements.