#interesting anime ladies that’s all I’ll say | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

draconic-desire · 7 months

Text

A Dance With the Dragon I — The Tides Beckon

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

[Part I — You are here] [Part II] [Part III] [Part IV]

The last thing you expected was to have caught the eye of Fontaine’s Chief Justice. You have no choice but to be swept into the dragon’s dance.

Warnings: Yandere tendencies, possessive behavior, forced imprisonment, unrequited relationship

It all started with your realization that Fontaine has some rather intriguing laws.

For as long as you could recall, you had aspired to become a marine biologist. Though you hailed from Mondstadt, you forged your curiosity in the tide pools and lakes around the edges of the region. You scoured over any novel you could find on marine ecology and animal behavior, spending endless hours lost in the Knights of Favonius library. On your thirteenth birthday, your parents bought you a Kamera, which launched your career in wildlife photography and research. You even went on to publish a book cataloguing pictures of your nation’s aquatic life. It came to no one’s surprise, then, when you were gifted with a hydro vision.

Although you loved your life in Mondstadt, the vast waters that surrounded the Land of Hydro beckoned you like the pull of a tide. So, on your twenty-fifth birthday, you parted with your family and homeland, traversing across Teyvat and experiencing its many wonders. You relished in the culture and cuisine in Liyue and marveled at the natural architecture of Sumeru’s forests. Yet nothing would ever be as breathtaking as your first glimpse at Fontaine, at the granite peaks rising above the crystalline waters teeming with life of all forms.

You had secured employment with a group researching the sudden uptick in seal strandings across the nation, taking you across Fontaine’s many beaches. Your main base was located near Romaritime Harbor, which prompted you to spend your lunch breaks exploring the Court of Fontaine.

You made quick friends with the Melusines, some of whom were still a bit nervous being around humans; however, you found their stories of the ocean fascinating and often invited them to join you for lunches or strolls through the city.

One in particular, Carole, had become your close friend after you encountered her being pelted with rocks by a mob of Fontainians. You didn’t hesitate to use your vision to immobilize the rocks and create a barrier around Carole, quickly ushering her to safety. You couldn’t comprehend the prejudices directed towards her and the other Melusines, but after that incident, you made sure to keep an eye out for all of your little friends.

One day, on one of your walks, you ran into said Melusine. She seemed despondent that only a handful of citizens were interested in her hand painted posters, so you decided to treat her to lunch and pastries to cheer her up. That’s when you first caught wind of the Hydro Dragon.

“Well, if you’re worried about the seals, you might call upon the Hydro Sovereign himself!” Carole chirped.

You tipped your head curiously, lowering the cup in your hands onto the cafe table. “Don’t you mean herself? Although I’ve never met the Hydro Archon, I’ve heard others refer to her as ‘Lady’ Furina.”

Carole shook her hands back and forth in front of her. “Oh, no, I mean the Hydro Dragon! He is responsible for keeping watch over Fontaine, which includes all of its resources and residents. I’ve heard that with every sea creature that passes, the heavens open and the dragon sheds his tears in mourning.” She took a bite of her croissant. “I have a feeling he’d be willing to help.”

You tapped your chin in thought. “You don’t say. Well, we are in a bit of a drought, which could be contributing to the beachings… Perhaps I’ll ask this Hydro Sovereign for his favor.”

On the days you were dispatched to Fontaine’s eastern beaches, you opted to sit by the Fountain of Lucine to wish for the Hydro Dragon’s help. It had become a tradition for you to do so ever since your conversation with Carole, for you swore that every time you prayed to his name, rain would grace the shores the next day.

During those research trips, your coworkers would invite you to attend trials at the Opera Epiclese, though you politely declined each time. You had no particular interest in the Opera and were much more inclined to spending your time outside and uninvolved with the court’s theatrics. Besides, you considered yourself to be a model citizen, so the proceedings of the court were beyond your worries.

Or so you thought.

~*~

The incident that led to your arrest was the violation of the order “no domestic pets shall be named after Furina”. Apparently the otter that paddled around the Harbor each morning was undignified of the title of “Focalotter”. You had thought the name quite clever and humorous—that is, until a horde of Gardes surrounded you during your shift one afternoon.

You were detained and led into the Opera immediately, which was where you currently found yourself. You frowned at the relatively large crowd—which, much to your dismay, included most of your coworkers—dispersed throughout the hall. Had they all come just to spectate your trial? Standing alone on the isolated balcony, you felt like an insect under a magnifying glass, an insignificant pest to be probed at for entertainment.

“And how do you plead?”

The deep, commanding voice above you wrenched you from your thoughts. Turning your eyes up, your (e/c) orbs were met with a penetrating gaze.

Pinning you with his lavender and silver eyes from atop his chair at the center of the court was none other than the Chief Justice of Fontaine, the Iudex himself, the face of the law in the Court. Monsieur Neuvillette.

This wasn’t your first interaction with the man.

Shortly your move to Fontaine, you had stumbled across his path. At first, it was just sightings from afar; he would be leaving the Opera, or purchasing a drink (Wait, is he paying for water?) from your favorite cafe. Your favorite flowers also began to appear at your doorstep, each time with a brief, cryptic note, usually something along the lines of To my little pearl —Sincerely, your guardian dragon. You didn’t think anything of it; if anything, it confirmed that your prayers to the Hydro Sovereign had been heard.

Then, however, Neuvillette began to periodically show up around your research stations, claiming to be investigating a court case. Even though the Iudex’s public appearances were supposedly rare, none of your coworkers, yourself included, thought to question his authority, answering his inquiries regarding the base’s activities to the best of your abilities.

You noticed that he tended to speak to you the most, even asking personal inquiries like your favorite drinks, foods, books, and hobbies, and about your marine photography especially. It must be part of the investigation, you rationalized. He was nothing but gentlemanly and always kept conversations curt and to the point, offering you a gentle smile as he departed.

If only you knew the true extent of his desires.

~*~

Naturally, he first caught wind of you from the Melusines. As his closest advisor, Carole regularly joined him for afternoon tea, and though he was not one for idle talk, the manner in which his friend spoke of you sparked his intrigue.

“And when those meanies were throwing rocks at me, (Y/n) was the only one who intervened! If it weren’t for her, I don’t know what would have happened…” Carole rubbed her head, as if remembering the sharp pain.

Neuvillette placed a hand over his heart. “I am eternally grateful for her presence. I cannot stand the thought of any harm befalling you.” The hydro dragon looked out the window of his study to the ocean, deep in thought. “Perhaps you could introduce me. It appears I have much to thank her for.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Carole raised a finger. “She mentioned lots of seal beachings recently, so I suggested that requesting rain from a certain dragon could assist her work!”

Neuvillette nodded, a slight smile pulling at his lips. “Ah, so that is why I’ve been hearing Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon echoing throughout my mind the past few weeks. You have quite the imagination, my friend.”

Carole shrugged playfully. “Hasn’t it been raining more often lately? Seems like her prayers worked!”

That they had, as Neuvillette could attest to.

The first time he heard your soft voice calling to him, he had sent rain the following morning—not for you, but for the seals. His position barred him from forming close relationships with humans, so the notion of attending to your inquiry face-to-face was eliminated immediately.

But when you returned again and again to implore for rain, he couldn’t deny his interest. The day after Carole informed him that his little supplicant and Carole’s hero were one in the same, he knew he had to meet you. He had actually left the Opera to see you for himself; whether he would actually converse with you was still uncertain, but your voice tickled an itch that he needed to scratched.

Neuvillette was an experienced and composed man, but setting his sights on you for the first time stole his breath. This, he thought, must be what it feels like to drown.

Your smile shone brighter than a Beryl conch, and your scent floated around him, sweeter than any marcotte. The light shimmering from the hydro vision on your hip reflected back in your eyes, giving them the appearance of twin pools of blue. You were sitting on a bench by the Fountain, a Kamera in hand as you gestured excitedly towards the screen. To your right was a Melusine he knew well, Kiara, who was clearly enraptured with the technology.

Though he knew of your kindness towards the Melusines—jumping in to save Carole alone was grounds for a medal of peace—seeing it before him sent the waters around his heart roiling. The Iudex was moved by the fact that, despite being a foreigner to Fontaine’s customs, you treated them with the utmost respect, going out of your way to befriend and include them in your daily life. Many citizens of Fontaine still harbored prejudice against the Melusines, but you… You even used she/her pronouns when referring to them, implementing the very law that he set forth.

“I use this for my research on seal behavior and conservation,” you explained to Kiara. “Having pictures of each individual helps us identify them in the future. We even give them silly names sometimes. See this one here? We call him Mr. Sealie, and this otter I like to call…”

When the pink Melusine started giggling over the nickname of your otter, a plan formed in his mind.

Whether attributable to his sense of justice or his draconic instincts, he knew one thing for certain. Like a shining pearl, you must be cherished and protected—and who better to serve than the Hydro Sovereign?

~*~

Those eyes will be my downfall.

Purple and silver locked with (e/c). Despite being newly appointed to the court, Neuvillette was the embodiment of both poise and intimidation. The very air around him seemed to shimmer with power and unyielding authority. His breathtaking eyes swirled with emotions—was that desire or disinterest?—you could not even begin to decipher in your current position.

Archons, help me.

You cleared your throat, hoping you didn’t appear too nervous in front of the judge. “Although I admit to using a version of the Hydro Archon’s name when referring to that otter, I was unaware of such a law against doing so. I’m not originally from Fontaine, so some of its, uh…lesser discussed laws are new to me.”

Neuvillette gazed around the courtroom as the crowd devoured the trial before them. It was baffling how naive humans could be sometimes; of course there was no rule against applying a silly nickname to a pet.

That is, until this morning when he had signed it into law.

Seeing you frightened and alone in the defendant’s box, however, was torture. It took all of his willpower to not to engulf you in his strong arms like waves around sand. But he had to maintain the facade of immovable judicator for a bit longer in order to mold you to his tide. Retaining his mask of composure, Neuvillette continued, “You do realize that previous defendants have been jailed for far less, correct?”

Frustration and fear flared within you. “But I—”

“Desecration of Lady Furina’s name is of the highest offense. Your behavior will not be excused, neither by myself nor the Oratrice.” Neuvillette raised the paper with your verdict, barely glancing over the words before he spoke. “The verdict stands: you, (Y/n) (L/n), are guilty.”

You clenched your fists heatedly. There was no arguing with the Iudex. Clearly, the polite and considerate version of Neuvillette that you had encountered earlier was an anomaly, for the figure looming above you was the complete opposite. Cold, calculating. Distant. A whirlpool cresting a bottomless sea.

Had this been his plan all along? Had you been the subject of his investigation? But why?

“However, because you are not from Fontaine, I will offer you a choice.”

You blinked up at the Justice, a knot of unease forming in your stomach. A choice? What choice did you truly have here? You pursed your lips warily but nodded for him to continue.

Neuvillete raised a gloved finger. “The first: you will serve a life sentence in the Fortress of Meropide.”

A wave of despair seared your insides like a brand. That was your fate? To be trapped beneath the region where you had always longed to live, never to feel the salty wind on your face or hear the calls of seals and gulls again? Surely, the second option was less cruel?

“Or, alternatively: you will dedicate your life to the court. You will abide by its laws without question and with unwavering commitment. You will relinquish your freedom; you will not be permitted to leave Fontaine and will be bound to this place for eternity.”

A choked sob escaped your lips. No matter what you chose, your life’s work and passion would be extinguished. You would be forced to either become an actress in the court’s performance or resign your soul to a watery grave.

Both option chained you to the Region of Hydro forever.

But one option at least granted you a semblance of freedom—a notion that you soon learned was as transitory as a bubble in water.

The crack of a cane against wood resounded through the Opera, quickly silencing the crowd’s mutterings over your sentence. “What is your decision?”

You could have heard a pin drop as the audience waited in rapt anticipation for your answer.

“I…I choose the latter,” you declared, tilting your chin up. You maintained direct eye contact with the Iudex all the while, holding onto your last bit of pride.

You could have sworn you saw Neuvillette release a breath of relief. “Very well. I hereby adjourn the court. Gardes, please escort the defendant to my office for further instruction.”

Two Gardes led you out of the Opera and onto an Aquabus to the city. They informed you that you would now be living in the Palais Mermonia and your duties would begin immediately. When you asked about retrieving your belongings and notifying your family, the Gardes exchanged glances.

“That won’t be necessary,” one said cryptically. “Monsieur Neuvillette will page your relatives and have your possessions seized.”

You frowned, wishing to object, but the Palais doors loomed before you like the entrance to a monster’s lair. You gulped but swallowed your fears, straightening your back pridefully as you were ushered inside and into the Chief Justice’s office. The bolting of the lock from the outside set alarm bells off immediately.

Neuvillette stood from his seat as you walked in. He coughed awkwardly, red dusting across his pale complexion. “Ah, Lady (Y/n). I do apologize for such a fast-paced series of events. You must be exhausted.” He motioned towards the sofa adjacent to his workspace. “Please, sit.”

You blinked at him in surprise. What happened to the unwavering judge from the court? Why was he suddenly treating you kindly? And why in the Archons’ names was he blushing of all things? Unsure how else to react, you obeyed and settled into your seat, with Neuvillette taking his own on the sofa across from you.

Neuvillette poured you a glass of what appeared to be plain water into an exquisitely ornamented cup. You took it wordlessly, noticing his eyes flare with a silver glow when your fingers brushed his own. Gripping his own cup, he raised the chalice towards you. “To a long and dedicated future together.”

You sketched a brow curiously but raised your glass in tandem to…whatever that was supposed to mean. “To not being in prison, I guess.”

“Indeed.” A breathy chuckle followed. “Now, I’m sure you’re wondering as to what this whole business regarding your sentence is.” Neuvillette took a long sip from his chalice. He frowned slightly when you simply placed yours on the coffee table separating the two of you. “Although you may have thought you’d be completing droll office work, your duties will be a tad unorthodox.”

At this, your brows furrowed. Wasn’t that what all those employees you had passed in the Palais foyer had been doing—pushing papers? You had cringed at the dark bags under many of their eyes, at how many were asleep at their desks, imagining how similar you’ll look once your sentence was completed. But based on Neuvillette’s words, it sounded like you would be doing something very different.

Oh, Archons. I’m fucked.

You braced yourself to speak, but Neuvillette beat you to it.

“You are to be my wife.”

You blinked once, twice, waiting for the punchline of the joke.

Neuvillette merely stared at you with his hands folded across his lap, waiting for your response.

After a pregnant pause, you couldn’t help the stunned scoff that escaped your lips. “You can’t be serious.”

“Quite, I’m afraid.”

You shook your head. “With all due respect, Monsieur—”

“Please, call me Neuvillette.”

Ignoring him, you continued, “I did not agree to be your wife.”

The Chief Justice leaned back against the posh blue cushions of the sofa. “Although that may be the case, you are in no position to refuse. In fact, your sentence mandates that you follow my orders.”

You stood abruptly, sending your goblet toppling over and spilling its contents across the table. “Marriage was not a part of that sentence.” Which was ridiculous to begin with, you added to yourself. I mean, a life sentence for a pet name? It’s almost like he wanted me arrested.

Neuvillette sighed and flicked his wrist, causing the chalice to right itself and the water to refill. “Marriage is the highest form of dedication, no? Is that not what you pledged to?”

“I dedicated my life to the court,” you clarified.

“My dear, I am the court.”

You emitted a low hiss, turning to the door. “I’m leaving.”

Before you could take more than a step, Neuvillette moved towards you faster than a crack of lightning across the sea. His large frame straddled yours, pinning you against the sofa. He grabbed your dominant wrist, a foreign bubbling under your skin erecting the hairs on your arms. Your mind reached out for your hydro powers to defend yourself, only to be crushed with the realization that your vision had been confiscated at the court.

Despite your struggles, you could only watch in terror as a glowing silver-blue mark in the shape of a dragon burned across the length of your arm. The leviathan’s scaly body twisted in ringlets up your forearm and bicep, ending in a slender head with twin horns that crested your shoulder.

As soon as Neuvillette loosed his grip, you shoved him away, panting heavily. The mark had already disappeared, but you could still feel the ghost of it under your skin.“What have you done?” you whispered breathlessly.

In total contrast to your own contorted expression, Neuvillette appeared completely calm. He smoothed out his robes and adjusted his jabot. “I have lived for centuries, and I have many centuries more. I’ve merely gifted some of them to you.”

Your body began to shake, from fear, sadness, or rage you did not know. “I don’t want them.”

“You do remember that you promised to serve the court for eternity, don’t you? How do you expect to persist by my side otherwise?”

Eyes locked on the exit, you tried for a different tactic. “Take me to the Fortress of Meropide.”

Neuvillette’s expression darkened, his patience clearly thinning. “I will not.”

Your eyes shifted back to his. Although Neuvillette intimidated you beyond belief, you’d be damned if you didn’t go down without fighting for your life’s hard work. “I want to change my sentence.”

He glanced down at your arm. “It’s a bit too late for that, my dear.” Taking your hand in his, he pulled you to his chest. His form towered over you, capable of resting his chin on the top of your head. “Please, understand. I mean to keep you from harm, even if it means being your jailor.”

“You’re insane,” you hissed, futility attempting to pull away. “Let go of me!”

Neuvillette’s grip was relentless. You stilled when you felt claws ghost up your back in a silent warning. “That is one thing I will never do.”

The fight in you slowly ebbed away—for now. Your resistance was clearly moot, like a gnat trying to down a dragon. You’d have to play the long game to learn how to get under his skin—and how to rid your own of this new mark. “I will find a way out of this,” was all you could promise, refusing to meet his eyes.

A deep sigh sounded above you. Neuvillette took a step back, looking at you with such longing you thought you’d combust on the spot. With one last stroke of your cheek, he strode towards the office’s exit and unlocked the door with a flick of his wrist. Looking over his shoulder, he fixed you with a forlorn gaze. “By the time you realize your place here, there will be nothing for you to escape to. Only I will remain.” He once more turned his back to you and stepped out of the room.

You suddenly paled, realizing the implication of his words. If his declaration was true and you were to live as long as him, then your family, your career, the world as you know it would be completely gone. Your only company, your only solace, the only one who would remember your name, would be him. “Wait, no, you can’t—!”

He closed the doors.

~*~

Neuvillette was many things, but a liar was not one of them.

True to his word, you remained locked almost exclusively in the Palais Mermonia. On the rare occasions he let you outside, the Iudex served as your only company, diligently making sure you were hidden. Your vision was permanently taken, supposedly to prevent danger to yourself. It didn’t go unnoticed when he would wear it on his hip at important or potentially volatile trials. When you finally asked—or growled at him, really—why he kept it on his person, he had merely frowned and replied, “I originally thought the idea of a fake vision preposterous, I admit. I have no need for one. Yet having it feels as if you are constantly by my side.”

The draconic tattoo he had branded onto your arm not only extended your lifespan but also gave you a minuscule drop of his abilities—though only when you were in his presence (and most definitely not against him—you had tried). That allowed the two of you to transport to and breath in the depths of Fontaine whenever you begged to go out. In his mind, it was perfect—not only was the sea his realm, but no one and nothing could touch you. You were his alone to hold, to see, to have.

Those trips were torture for you. Free, but trapped; floating, but tied down to the man who was supposed to be the symbol of justice.

You, on the other hand, had tried a variety of (fruitless) tactics to convince the judge to free you. Any attempt at conversation or advance in his part was met with either vitriol or indifference on your part. You had once tried to charm him into letting his guard down, hoping you could sneak away while he was preoccupied at the court. This plan epically backfired on you when he mistook your subtle touches as permission to devour you with kisses and love bites, covering you in bruises from his sharp teeth for the next week. You wouldn’t so much as let him tap your shoulder for the next month after—the spark of silver in his eyes while he kissed you foretold of a deep, overwhelming desire that far surpassed simple kisses. You feared what might occur if the composed Chief Justice were given the opportunity to release his more primal urges.

And so, each day was passed much in the same:

1) Wake up on the floor or couch of his suite in the Palais—like hell you’d be sharing a bed with him. Oh, how he had tried in the beginning to usher you into bed, into his arms. It was childish, yes, but at least your refusal have you some semblance of autonomy.

2) Ponder on how you would greet Neuvillette that day.

3) Choose between fury or pretending he didn’t exist, typically the latter.

4) Look for a way to escape after he left for the Opera. Fail.

5) Spend most of the day scouring court cases in his office for clues to overturn your cause. Fail again.

6) Look out the window pitifully at the water beyond the Court of Fontaine (were the levels rising?). You often thought of your family back in Mondstadt; what were they told of your imprisonment, if anything? How long had you been stuck with the Chief Justice? The days blurred like ink in water.

7) Immediately exit the office towards his attached suite the moment he returned—any other room was preferable to his suffocating presence.

Today, though, he had chosen to interrupt your musings out the window before you could make your exit.

“You know, I find the beauty of the bright sunlight is best appreciated from the indoors through a window.”

Turning your head from the glass pane, your attention was brought to the figure standing in the doorway. He was wearing nothing but a simple pair of dark blue slacks and a white tunic, his robes hooked over his arm. At the start of your captivity you had mused how strange it was to see him without his normal ornamentation; now his comparatively plain appearance was a daily sight for you.

You crossed your arms and leaned against the window, relishing the heat from the coastal sun against your back. It was nothing like the dark pits he practically dragged you to now that you could breathe underwater. “Personally, I prefer to enjoy it with the company of a cool breeze by the shoreline.”

The Chief Justice loosed a deep sigh as he approached you. He extended his palm, caressing your cheek gently. “If you desire it so, I will rearrange some meetings and escort you—”

Below the waves, where he clung to you like a Lumitoile to a rock? “No need. Present company would ruin the experience. I prefer to be above water.”

Neuvillette had the audacity to wince at your retort. “So you instead choose to wallow in your self-inflicted solitude?”

You wanted to laugh at the hurt edge to his voice. Self-inflicted your ass—every moment of your life now centered on him, depended on his permission. Solitude was a disguise for any reprieve you could get from his constant attempts to court you.

The ironic part was that, if he had approached you normally, you could have seen yourself falling for him. He brought and cooked your favorite foods and beverages, showered you with gifts and books on photography, and tried his utmost to make you comfortable.

But you knew it was as nothing but glitter in a gilded cage. Neuvillette had drowned your whole world. So no, you wouldn’t act like any of this is normal.

Resisting the urge to bite his bare hand, you glared at your captor. “You could simply, oh, I don’t know, let me go.”

Neuvillette’s jaw tightened. His patience might run deeper than the Trench of Elton, but it was not everlasting. “We’ve discussed this.”

At that, you shrugged his hand off. “Can I at least speak with my family? My friends?”

A pained look flickered across Neuvillette’s face. “That isn’t possible.”

Your lip curled in response to his expression. “Don’t act like you actually care.”

Pursing his lips, he settled onto the window seat next to you. Though you were twitching with the urge to escape, he placed a large hand on your thigh, a gentle warning. “(Y/n), there’s something we must discuss.”

You narrowed your eyes, though your heart rate spiked. By now, he recognized your silence as a sign to continue.

“Do you wish to walk around the Court of Fontaine with me?”

Blinking, your throat dried. You swore you heard him wrong. “I’m sorry?”

Neuvillette squeezed your leg in what he thought was a comforting manner. His eyes—fuck, you had to admit they were wickedly beautiful, silver and sharp as a sword—never left your own. “You have been justified in your anger with me. I have restricted you for far too long. I would like to extend an olive branch, if you will—an agreement that we will both retain civility. I will grant you freedoms, but you must adhere to your sentence. Any deviation will not be tolerated.”

Your head was spinning, so you didn’t even consider the implications of his words. He was letting you out. “Can we go now?”

Neuvillette smiled softly. “Of course.” Standing, he offered you a hand. You tentatively took it, more awestruck than anything as he unlocked the doors to the outside. You’d finally get to see your family, your colleagues, the sun—!

Fontaine was unrecognizable.

The last time you seen the square of the Statue of the Seven, the roads were cobblestone. Now, strange machines roamed the paved streets, clearly serving as sentinels. None of the shops or restaurants were familiar—your favorite coffee shop, where you had so many chats with Carole, was now boasting signs for upscale fashion. A Melusine hopped by, wearing a Garde’s uniform, something that you remembered as being rare due to the increased chances of them being targeted. Your heart rate spiked in worry when the Melusine approached a group of children and their parents, only for a stunned expression to hit you when the creature was hugged by a little girl, her parents cooing in delight.

“Where…what?” you stammered. Fontaine had seemingly changed overnight—at least in your experience of time. Dread pooled in your stomach.

You attempted to pull your arm away from him, but his grip on you was steadfast. That same pained look from before marred his handsome features. “I did not lie when I said you have nothing to return to.” The Chief Justice sounded melancholic—he wished it hadn’t come to this, but he had to eliminate any prompts for you to leave.

“No, no.” Your heart dropped. “What… What year is it?”

The silence that followed was all you needed to know.

“How many years has it been, Neuvillette?” you repeated, your voice cracking with a desperate tone.

For once, Neuvillette avoided eye contact with you. He simply gestured towards a bulletin board, where the latest issue of The Steambird (at least one thing was consistent) was posted. You tore it from its pin, choking back a sob as you read the date.

Hands shaking, the issue fell to the ground. It landed in a puddle, its edges slowing soaking and blurring the ink. A steady rain had started to fall, quickly turning into a torrential downpour.

It had been over four hundred years since Neuvillette had taken you.

If it weren’t for Neuvillete’s hand on your hip, you would have crumpled to your knees. “H-how?”

Neuvillete looked to the skies solemnly. “Time passes differently for us long-lived species.” You cringed at his use of us, and how he actually sounded remorseful. “But this is our opportunity for a fresh start.”

Silent tears streamed down your face. For what could you do? Everyone and everything you knew was gone. Lost to the sea of time forever. You had nothing.

He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, placing a delicate kiss on the top of your head. “Cry not, my little pearl. No matter how many centuries pass, you will always have me.”

~*~

Neuvillette was many things.

And now, just as he dreamed since the moment he set his eyes on you, he was your everything.

And yet, you refused to drown.

As the years flowed like water through a stream, you began to learn the beat of Neuvillette’s dance. His emotions, his moods, his thoughts, all reflected themselves within the waltz of his life, and soon maneuvering around the steps became second nature to you. The balance of power laid within the count, and you were determined to be the one leading,

The dragon wanted to dance? So be it.

You’d give him the most challenging dance of his life.

#yandere #neuvillette #yandere neuvillette #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin x reader #neuvillette x reader #fontaine #ao3 fanfic

1K notes · View notes

vodika-vibes · 5 months

Note

a innocent, tiny sunshine reader being completely oblivious with alpha-17?

The Devil's Luck

Summary: You’re parents have always warned you that you were far too naive about the way the world works, they feared that you would have a bad ending. But you’ve never been worried. You’ve always had the devil’s own luck, after all.

Pairing: Alpha-17 x F!Reader

Word Count: 1018

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: This is another ask that's been sitting in my inbox since last year. I'm a little worried that I didn't quite get the vibe needed for the oblivious, sunshine reader since I wrote from the reader's POV rather than Alpha's. This is set in an AU where Alpha-17 somehow became Mandalore (I have a whole plot on how that happened, but it's largely unimportant to this.)

“How are you adapting to life in the North?” The currently Mandalore, Alpha-17, asks in a low rumble as he towers over you. “It is very different than life in Sundari.”

“Different, but not bad.” You agree as you favor the massive man with a brilliant smile, “I’m just glad that you aren’t going to try and force to fight for you.”

There’s a dry look on his heavily scarred, but handsome, face. “There are plenty of men here who are more than happy to fight, an unwilling soldier is more of a risk than an untrained one after all.”

You laugh, “I’ll take your word for it.”

He glances around your home, still filled with unpacked crates and boxes, and sparsely decorated. “And how are the others treating you? I would hate for you to inform the Duchess that you’re being mistreated.”

“I think you’re overestimating how much Lady Satine cares about what I have to say.” You open a box and peer into it, cooking utensils. Nice, you’ve been looking for these. “The Duchess has already determined what she thinks of you and yours, Mandalore.”

“And what does her grace think of us?”

“That you’re little more than rabid animals, I’m afraid.” You’re genuinely apologetic about telling him that, “I was warned, on more than one occasion, that I should expect to be treated as little more than chattel.”

Alpha raps his knuckles on your counter, annoyance clear on his face, “Is that right. And she sent you here anyway?”

“She didn’t.”

“Sorry?”

“Send me. I’ve been wanting to leave Sundari for ages so I jumped at the chance.” You grin at him, “My parents were horrified.”

He crosses his arms across his broad chest, “If you wanted to leave, why didn’t you move away before?”

“My parents.” You reply as you make a face.

“...you’re an adult.”

“Yeah, that argument only really works in theory.” You shrug, “They think that I’m naive and worried that leaving Sundari would have me accidentally joining a cult or something. Apparently I’m ‘easily influenced’.”

He quirks an eyebrow, “That is pretty concerning, if it’s true.”

“I’ve never been worried. I’m Lady Lucks favorite.”

He releases a quiet chuckle, “Sure you are.” His dark eyes scan you for a moment, and then he leans back against your counter, “I’m having a dinner tonight. Nothing big or overly fancy, just me and some of the ambassadors towards the other sects of Mandalorians.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Generally is.” He agrees, “I want you to come.”

��Me? Why?”

“Because you’re a New Mandalorian who not only moved from Sundari to Little Keldabe, but is also thriving.” Alpha replies honestly, “Because you’re short and cute and very non-threatening. Because I want you there to have someone interesting to talk to.” He shrugs, unconcerned, “Take your pick.”

“...you think I’m cute?”

He shoots you a look, “Is that really the important thing here?”

“Yes~”

“I think you’re cute, beautiful, stunning. All of those nice things that you’re supposed to say to a woman.” Alpha replies with a roll of his eyes.

You grin at him, “Thank you~”

“You’re welcome. So, do you want to come?”

“Mm...I don’t really have anything to wear to a nice dinner.” You admit, “And won’t people get angry about you inviting me and not them?”

“By people you mean my brothers? If they have a problem with it they can come and talk to me.” He pauses, “But knowing my brothers, the moment they hear the word politics they’re going to run for the hills.”

You laugh softly, “I don’t blame them, really.” You fall silent for a moment, tapping your lower lip with your knuckles, “Yeah, alright. I’ll come to dinner with you.”

“Good,” He lowers his arms and leans them against the edge of the counter, “And now, because you told me that you’re oblivious, I’m going to be much more clear.”

You tilt your head curiously.

“This is a date. I’m asking you to come on a date with me.” Alpha says, amusement clear in his voice, “My intention is for this to become something more.”

You stare at him, your lips parted for a moment, and then your face burns. “...oh.” You squeak out.

“Is this a problem?” Alpha asks.

“No! Uh...outside of the fact that I don’t think I’m ‘mandalore’s girlfriend’ material.” You say quickly as you press your hands against your burning cheeks and try to force the flush away.

“The only person who’s allowed to decide that is me. And if I say that you are, no one is going to question me on it.” Alpha stares at you for a long moment, “So, still interested?”

“Yes!” Your face burns when you realize just how excited you sound about it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you slide your hands over your face, “Um...I mean...yes. I am.”

You don’t see Alpha’s wide grin, and you don’t see him push away from your counter. You do, however, feel him wrap his hands around your wrists and tug them down away from your face, “There you are.” He murmurs his voice a low rumble that rolls through you pleasantly.

“...hi.” You whisper up to him.

“Hi yourself.” Effortlessly, he walks you backwards until your back bumps against the wall, “Is this too much?”

“No.” You reply immediately, “I think it might not be enough.”

He chuckles, and lowers his head so that his lips are hovering just over yours, “I think ‘Mandalore’s Girlfriend’ is a perfect title for you.” Alpha says, “What do you think, cyar’ika?”

“I think it sounds really good.” You agree.

“Good.” He closes the short distance between your lips and his, and you almost instantly respond, your hands sliding across his armor to find purchase between the plates so you’re able to cling to him.

He kisses you like he’s trying to replace the air in your lungs with himself, and you can’t be happier about it.

And, just before you lose yourself in him and his lips, you can’t help but think that you really do have the devil’s luck.

#star wars #tcw #alpha-17 x reader #star wars au #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #answered asks

90 notes · View notes

multific · 2 years

Text

Your Name Day

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Your name day was approaching and Aemond was yet to find the perfect gift for you.

He knew you deserved something special as this will be your first name day since you were wed to him.

Aemond wanted to prove himself to you, that he could be a caring and loving husband.

Even if your marriage was due to political reasons, both of you learned to respect and love the other.

And what better way to prove his love than a nice and meaningful gift?

Aemond thought of everything, even asked his mother and his sister for ideas. His mother said a gown, a gown to represent her House and possibly jewellery. But it was not good enough for Aemond.

And he probably shouldn't have asked his sister since her reply was something about spiders, and you hated spiders.

So, Aemond was clueless.

While a gown and jewellery was for sure not a bad idea, it was too generic, he wanted something more personal.

And so, he came up with an idea.

First, he excused himself from you for a couple days, saying he will be travelling for a political matter leaving you for a couple days.

Secretly, he went to your birthplace.

He thought a pretty flower which you can grow in your own garden would be a perfect idea. It was meaningful and nostalgic as you had to leave your home when you were wed to him.

Prince Aemond looked everywhere for a nice flower but found none.

Why was it this hard?

All he wanted to prove that he could be a capable and loving husband. He let out a sigh as he walked back to Vhagar, going through town, he passed the market when he saw a lady. Something about her intrigued the Prince as he walked over.

He noticed she had a kitten in her basket.

"Sir, would you be interested? My cat had a litter and I cannot afford to care for them, I am giving them away for free, she is the last one, 16 week old healthy little girl, Sir." The cat looked really nice, gorgeous white fur, blue eyes. "She is a Birman cat, Sir. Perhaps your wife would like her?" the old lady asked as Aemond looked at her. She took this as a sign. "They are good companions, lap cats as I call them, they are calm and good with children. Protective for their size, they do not wander and follow their owner everywhere, kind companions." the lady explained as Aemond looked back at the cat. The blue eyes of it captured him once more.

"How much?" is all Aemond asked.

"Oh, Sir, for free, all I wish is for her to have a good loving home." she smiled at the Prince.

"I'll take her, but not without payment."

Aemond even got the basket from the lady, she nearly cried when Aemond insisted on giving her payment. And he paid a good amount, well, good amount for her, barely anything for him.

And with the perfect gift, Aemond was heading home.

By the time he got back it was your name day. He found his home decorated in flowers of your choice as the castle was getting ready for the occasion.

He found you in your shared chambers alone.

"My Love." you turned to him with a smile, making a face at the basket he was holding.

"What-"

"I wish you a very happy name day, My Love. This is my gift for you but first I must give you a kiss, I have missed you." you smiled as he leaned down to kiss you.

"Can I look?" you asked, like a child asking for permission. Aemond put the basket down and opened it, you watched as a small creature emerged. "Aemond, where..." as you trailed off Aemond worried. Did you not like cats? You usually loved animals. Did he get the wrong gift? "She is gorgeous." you said as you picked her up, smiling at the kitten as it made small noises. "Where did you get her?"

"A lady was giving them away, she said hers had a litter. Apparently she is a Birman cat, she said they are good lap cats, whatever that might be. Do you like her?"

"Like? Oh, My Prince this is such a gorgeous gift, she is beautiful." you placed the cat down, letting her explore her new home. "I do not know what to name her."

"I’m sure you will think of something, My Love." he smiled as you went to hug him.

"How will I ever compete with this gift when your name day comes?" you asked as you watched your kitten explore.

"I already have you, what more can I ask for?"

"Cazimir." you suddenly said and Aemond looked at you with surprise. "I will name her Cazimir, Cazi for short."

"I like that, sounds royal, fits her."

"It means Destroyer of Peace as I believe she will cause some problems for us but it all will be worth it. And as for your gift, I'll be sure to find something other than myself." you laughed as he leaned in to kiss you once more.

You smiled but you already had a good idea.

Your husband had a dark ball for his eye, and you just knew a nice sapphire would be more fitting for a prince like him.

Now, you just needed to find someone to make it.

As for your name day. Everything was perfect as it was expected.

Dinner was simple yet royal, you didn't ask for anything grand and so it was to your liking.

You even had cake.

And when you retrieved back to your room, Cazi was sleeping in her little basket, the tiny little kitten looked too comfortable to care that Aemond's lips found your neck and shoulders as you both moved to the bed.

Best name day ever.

A/N: Not Aemond doing last minutes shopping...

Taglist: imreadinggoaway @fleursirvart @v-2buckyrec ehsebastiancrunch-time-sports @pxstelrainbow ablogbypeteparker liamssmilersmexylemony @greenarrowhead feelingsareharddd @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @avengers-r-us @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster celebsimagine @capsiclesdoll snoopy3000 @firstangeldragonranch @puknow @crazzyter @alwayshave-faith @soleil-dor @alex12948 scream-kiwi79 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @liveforkarljacobs @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @paola-carter @stunkbiggu @violet-19999 @praline357

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

540 notes · View notes

sopiao · 1 year

Note

hello! can i please request König with a femreader that’s just the embodiment of a cotton ball, a white bunny, a dandelion :))) like she dresses super coquette or semi lolita with cute ruffle skirts and bright colors, loves small critters and spring, gets distracted and excited super easily. and König is just so in love with her x)

don’t feel pressured to write this, ignore if it’s too much or if you’re too busy. make sure to drink water

-☁️

I LOVE LOVE LOVE DESCRIPTIVE REQS LIKE THIS OMG!!! dw bbgs i’ll write anything for y’all :3

ANYWAYS I HOPE I WROTE IT OUT GOOD T-T

I just know that König is one to spoil you, knowing what you like and what you’ve been wanting. And when he sees it, he’ll take no longer than half a second to make up his decision to buy it for you.

Coming back early from deployment he wanted to surprise you, he hadn’t told you that he got out yet. He knocks on the door, waiting for you to answer with a bouquet of your favorite combination of flowers and a gift behind his back.

Smiling at how you excitedly squeal and immediately just jump into his arms. Using both arms to hug and pick you up off your feet, feeling something soft and plush against your back, you step back as he holds up his gift for you.

It’s a huge Rilakkuma plushie that’s holding a small strawberry in it’s hands. Jumping up excitedly you engulf him and the plush animal in a tight hug. Showing both of your bears love.

—

It’s so funny to think about him letting you decorate the bedroom with your own little trinkets, plushies, posters and bedsheets. So every night he shuts off the pastel purple bed light and snuggles up into you under the white ruffled comforter with little cheesy accents on it.

—

Almost every three months you get a new interest into a new hobby. First it was with painting, he dedicated an empty room in the house just for you and your little studio. He picked out the biggest spare room with a big window for you to look at while you painted. König made sure to frame your favorite one in the living room and his favorite in his office.

Then it was sewing and tailoring you’re own clothes, which helped a lot with fitting König’s shirts since double xl shirts are long enough but too loose. And you got to make and tailor your own clothes for cute little dates, flowery sundresses with ruffles, adding a white lace trim to your clothes. (omg i’m rambling)

Which turned into embroidery, where you patched every little hole in you and König’s clothes and bedsheets with small flowers.

So when you trot up into his office and show him a picture of a crocheted bunny plush he’s more than happy to take you down to your favorite craft store and watch you pick out different colored yarns and different size hooks for other projects. His heart is just too soft for you to say no.

—

König loves taking you out to the city during events he knows you’ll love. Walking around with you, more like trying to keep track of you. You have the attention span of a goldfish so whenever you see something you like you drop everything and go look at it.

It won’t so far that he had ti tie a balloon to your wrist to make sure he won’t lose you. He just paid for a trinket you were so fascinated with. When he looked back you were already out if the store and into the busy streets, something catching you’re eye again.

It really was a sight to see a small lady wandering through the streets with such an adorable look and fashion with you’re 6’10 fiancé holding all your new things for you.

—

Now that he’s a colonel he’s more stern with when and how long he gets deployed for. So when spring rolls around, he’s sure that no one from work will bother him and his schedule is cleared. He knows how much you love the spring, how perfect the weather is, how it’s the perfect time for flowers.

König makes sure whatever you wanna do, it’ll happen right when you want it. His favorite thing to do with you is going apple picking, it’s when you have the most motivation to bake apple everything.

Cinnamon apple pie that has beautiful dough decorations, caramel apple cookies, apple cobbler, apple cider donuts, apple fritters, and apple cinnamon oatmeal cookies. König just loves seeing you covered in flower and frosting with your gingham blue apron wrapped around you.

He loves how he gains a little weight during this time of the year with how much you bake and feed him. It’s how you show your love. Either way you love the little bit of his chubbyness, who doesn’t?

—

The first time he let his comrades come over for dinner to meet you, it really was something to see their colonel just melt in your arms when he greets you at the door, introducing his team to you as they take in the warm and cozy atmosphere of your home.

The lighting was soft and comforting, accents and decorations that you picked out was littered all over the house. They didn’t even know he was engaged, let alone a home with you, they all thought he lived in an apartment by himself.

For as long as they’ve known him they would’ve never thought that his home would look like this or give off this type of feeling. They were amazed with how contrasted your and his personality was.

—

König believes that in every relationship everything should be 50/50. So, while you enjoy resting out new recipes for dinner tonight, or making something you saw on instagram, and just overall coating the house and his life in your own little charm.

He does the more controlled and routine stuff. Cleaning and dishes. And sometimes you two clean the house together and listen to music on the speakers. What he loves the most is the laundry.

He loves seeing the mix of his clothes with yours, his boxers getting mixed with your pair of white thigh length socks with a small bow and at the top. He loves separating and folding the clean laundry, folding your pleated blue skirt, and matching white and blue top. He always remembers what outfit you made with each piece of clothing.

215 notes · View notes

yiga-hellhole · 8 months

Text

TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING, CHAPTER 17

hello everyone i'm back!! sorry for the wait. i'm happy to bring you the next installment, slipping back into the Hyrule Warriors main plot: THE BATTLE OF THE TRIFORCE. Arms in hand, the Demon King's troops join to settle a conflict as old as time. Hyrule will not go down without a fight, but a fight is precisely what they've hungered for. This day, the Triforce will be bound to but one Chosen's palm - but whose?

this one is um... beefy... hope you enjoy!

CONTENT WARNINGS THIS CHAPTER: graphic depictions of violence, brainwashing/fatal possession, animal harm/death

ao3 mirror

It was a monster of such volume that the air whistled and soared as it moved. Trapped in the dungeons of Gerudo Palace, the newest asset to their already venerable menagerie of monsters was adjusting to its new home. Poorly, that is. The Molgera whined, contorted, and pressed its massive, fleshy face to each corner, as if enough rooting around would magically create an opening in solid stone. Spikes rattled against the metal cage as the heaving beast slithered in its confinement. Cacophonous, like a hundred prisoners banging their cups against the bars in begging. Ghirahim stood hands at his sides before the bars of this colossal cage, fighting back the urge to poke at the beast and agitate it some more. From the tension building behind him, though, it’d seem the most amusement was to be found on this side of the prison.

“Cooked up something nasty again, didn’t you, Zant?” Wizzro wheezed. His laughter was like that of a pneumonic man on his deathbed.

The necessary arrangements now logged into the massive volume hovering before him, the living heap of cloth and malice patted a decrepit, clawed hand far too affectionately on the end of one of the creature’s spikes. It recoiled nearly instantly. “I want partial credit for this one, you hear?” Wizzro sneered. The glowing eye at the center of his face squinted shut to morph into a grinning mouth. “If it weren't for me showing you through the Lady’s volumes, you’d still be nose-deep in the books by now!”

Zant stood aside, watching the wicked sorcerer’s machinations with his usual cold patience. “You will be duly acknowledged for your secretary duties, Wizzro, but the arcane achievements were my own.”

Wizzro clicked his tongue, shooting a nasty glare at his casual defiance. He seemed only mildly distracted by the gaping mouth now hovering wide open at the other end of the cage. A tendrilous tongue, one long bulb at its end, stuck out towards him. “Pah. Whatever. I’ll make sure this thing is appointed to the right trainer,” Wizzro dismissed with a wave of his hand, turning instead to the strange shape poking and prodding at him.

As if all sense abandoned him at once, the ring spirit seized the decoy organ with both his clawed hands with great interest. The Molgera let out another wicked screech, sending spittle to drizzle (almost) all three men from its maw, as it lunged forward. Its gummy jaws slammed against the bars, prompting nothing but a cackle from Wizzro. “It’s an interesting one, to say the least!”

Ghirahim opted to watch these events from a healthy twenty feet away, while Zant simply grumbled, wiping his helmet clean. “That it is. I’d advise you to keep it intact before we strike Hyrule Castle.”

The dejected Molgera, curling up listlessly in its cage, seemingly accepted its fate as its arrangements were scribbled down in their finality. Each temper fickle in their own way, the pair of dark wizards settled the last logistics of their monstrous stocks before their patience mutually wore thin.

It was Zant who attempted to draw their conversation to a close, but not without drawing a last bit of ire. “We will meet again at the siege, then. Our forces arrive from the north, and you-”

Wizzro snapped at him instantly, cutting past him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming from the South, anticipating their backup, and whatnot. You needn’t drill me on this, Warlock,” he gestured wildly as he spoke, slapping the massive logbook shut and dismissing it in a puff of smoke. “We got the correspondence! We had the briefing! It’s all in order. Other than delivering this beast to us, you have no business sticking your nose in our plans!”

Ghirahim felt a sudden boring of a bright red eye in his back. He’d been perfectly content before to linger at the sidelines, amusing himself with the bickering of the other men, but could not help a coy flourish when a jagged nail was pointed at him. Wizzro gestured at him with a mild frown. “Also. Why is he here?”

Zant’s helmet covered his face, but his smile carried in his voice. His helmet creaked a little as he turned to face his compatriot. “Any good King needs a chaperone, wouldn't you say?”

“Hiya-hah-hah!” Wizzro shrieked in laughter. “Again with the shticks! What I’d say is that the ‘King’ part is already doubtful, but ‘good’ is entirely off the table, you maniac!”

Clearly, this amusement was not mutual. The Twili had tolerated Wizzro’s ceaseless nonsense up until that point, but no longer. As if a candle had been snuffed, his temper snapped, and an enraged squeak echoed past his visor. He whipped back towards Wizzro, looming over him and balling his fists in his sleeves. “You wouldn't know a King if one’s fingers were shoved knuckle deep into your-”

“Gentlemen! I feel like we all have business to attend to,” Ghirahim interjected, blinking himself between the two men with a hand each, grazing their faces. “As much as you ripping each other to tatters would amuse me, Master Ganondorf would put me back in my box and throw me to the dragonets for letting any such shenanigans happen.”

Both of the robe-clad adversaries growled at the interruption as much as they did at each other, and so childishly exchanged a scowl in the line of sight that passed over Ghirahim’s head.

Zant dusted off the apron at his chest in an uncharacteristically pompous gesture. “Business we have, indeed. Let us depart at once, Ghirahim. Our time is better spent that way.”

Just as Ghirahim was about to turn and glare at him for yet another inciting remark, Wizzro made his immediate disinterest quite clear with a loud, hacking, drawn-out clear of the throat, and the turning of his back on his fellow commanders.

The pair of them chuffed out a simultaneous laugh at the display, before in equal coincidence reaching out for the other’s hand. Fingers bumped, ears tinged the slightest red, and their hands clasped. With a chime and rustling echo, Ghirahim and Zant disappeared together, leaving behind Wizzro to dark devices they’d prefer not to witness.

A nearly-collapsed outpost was to be their haven. Mere days before, this very fort had been raided by their forces. Their efforts tore down two of its three watchtowers and fashioned its gray brick walls with gaping holes. It would shelter their supplies and some of their men, but by far not all of them. Such a shoddy hideout was a statement; they had not a single intention of pulling back. Hyrule would fall at their feet today, and the Triforce was theirs for the taking.

Their formation gathered at the base of a nearby cliff, the platform itself elevated above Hylia River to the east. For the time being, they were sheltered from sight, but their advance had surely been sighted. Ghirahim could smell the pungent fear that lingered in the air. This quiet would not last long.

Ghirahim stood at the center of the formation, with Zant at the west-most end, and Yuga and his Master at his flanks. Though focused on the path ahead, he could not help an occasional glance to his left. He hadn’t yet seen Yuga on the battlefield proper and certainly wasn’t used to the sight of her in armor. Her curls spilled out from underneath a horned, brass helmet. Her armor was, in general, rather minimal, covering not more than her shoulders, her head, and her torso in a golden luster. Such was the outfitting of a spellcaster, he supposed.

His eyes then strayed to the right, lingering in momentary awe on the mighty form of his Master, before an unexpectedly bared face stared at him from further away. Zant had lifted the front of his helmet and waited for him to meet his gaze.

He looked at him with the same eyes he cast at him that morning. Small, squinted, and affectionate, peeking at him just past the thick fluff of his comforter.

“You stayed.”

Ghirahim, equally buried under the heap of blankets, blearily turned to him. Some distance had been put between them in all their tossing and turning, and he found something shifting under the covers. Zant’s hand was seeking to grasp onto him. He laid his hand in his trajectory, and thought his smile contagious when the Twili indeed found him, squeezing firmly.

Yet, Ghirahim teased him with a frown. “Of course I did. I’ve been staying over, watching you sleep those wasteful hours away, much before.”

Zant blinked. “Yes, but you were distant until recently,” he reasoned with a bit of a fluster, before burying his face further into the comforter and mumbling his next words. “I don't know. Perhaps it's silly.”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied, meeting his hesitant, embarrassed face with a fond smile.

And how infectious that fondness was! Zant giggled softly, scooting just a bit forward to have him within arm’s reach. Those ghostly fingers glided over his arms, to his face, and caressed him there. Zant touched him carefully, yet purposely, as if his very hands would gild him. Peering at him with such infatuation, something sadistically giddy lit up behind those amber eyes. Zant laced their fingers as he spoke, his smile cracking open the slits at the corners of his mouth. “... Watch me today, Ghirahim-ili.”

The warmth of their bed that morning may have been taken from them in the wind’s chill, but their connection did not falter for even a second. Zant turned away, folding his helmet back in place, but demanding he looked at him, either way. He’d entered the field empty-handed and announced that unarmed state’s end with the flexing of his fingers. When he brandished his weapon, he did not carelessly whip the two scimitars from his sleeves as he usually did. This time, he balled his fists before his chest, a crackling, fizzling orb of magenta light pouring from between his fingers. Its grip clutched in his hands, the Scimitar of Twilight appeared, glowing fiercely in red. Zant at once swung it over his shoulder, metal clanking heavily on metal.

Before the sight of him could make Ghirahim swell with pride all too much, the raising of King Ganondorf’s hand snapped him back to focus. A shudder down his back straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and guided his hand to his hip, where his sword sat sheathed.

Ganondorf marched to the front of his formation, bronze boots pounding on stone. He turned, his vibrant red hair whipping in the wind. A stern glare graced his features as he looked out over the troops, but standing so close to him, Ghirahim saw the corners of his lips tugging into a smirk behind his tusks. Master was confident – so he would be, too.

“Gerudo, Demons, Monstrous Tribes, and those that joined us from beyond the Veil of Death, hear me,” he shouted, his booming voice rattling through their skulls. “Across the Ages, my past lives have waged war against Hyrule, and all but once, we failed. We have been humiliated, banished, and eradicated from history, but no longer. Time is on our side now, my brethren. With the Triforce within our grasp, the Age of Demons is upon us.”

Ganondorf grinned, baring his tusks and wrinkling his fiery eyes. Sword raised to the sky, he thundered forth his promise. “Hyrule will fall!”

With this final rallying call, their forces pulled out. Cavalry scouts burst past their frontlines, hooting and hollering atop hogs and horses. Oh, how Ghirahim yearned to set out in the same way! Still, no longer could he chase simple carnage. Not only had he a reputation to uphold, but their formation had to be perfectly tight for this initial stretch. His battalion trailed tightly behind him, each unit led by demons and living armor – ever his favorite. Those that didn’t simply win his favor in skill just reminded him of home.

Zant, too, led his troops with remarkable poise. His soldiers rushed past him, but his towering height and flashy garbs continued to catch the eye. The soldiers rushing past him may as well have been see-through, for Ghirahim saw him clear as day, framed in zoetropic image.

He could see it all. His hands were firm on the hilt, his swings were smooth. He slid across the floor like that massive blade weighed nothing, with a stance no mere Hylian could topple. Each move was more calculated than the next, gliding from pose to pose almost mechanically. Zant was… Perfect, almost, theoretically. Such swordsmanship was a cold one, devoid of character beyond what could be conveyed in a manual. Zant was a puppet to his own knowledge, stern in what he’d learned. He showed nothing at all of the fierce, impassioned recklessness he unleashed when it was just the two of them.

This, too, was a message. Ghirahim hardly had time to think of its meaning when he himself was engaged in combat and drowned his fluster in bloodlust.

Bloodlust was not kept to him alone. As more and more Hyruleans forced past their frontlines, Zant grew overwhelmed. Bit by bit, that discipline chipped away.

The poor sods. They had no idea the Twilight King fought his best when unshackled.

Now content with his display, Zant ramped up his ferocity. With a single stomp, a deep black shock wave sent the four soldiers around him staggering, allowing him to pierce through the first of them unimpeded. His shoe planted on the standing corpse’s chest, he ripped the blade free and used its blood-streaked momentum to dismember the next in line. Projectiles from his sleeves, pulses from his feet, and the shadowy rays from his sword pieced together in a complex web of arcane and martial arts – not so different from how he’d fought before, but adding an elegance that was so sorely missed.

His lover wasn’t half bad, he grinned to himself, watching the man’s battalion split off and head up into the Rockface Hills to claim whatever awaited them there.

Three battalions remained in their cluster. Soon it would be two.

A whistling in his ear and an uncanny instinct of foreboding dread alerted him to something awry in the east. Before the first moblin behind him could cry out in alarm, Ghirahim had already identified the source of his concern, his core chiming and blinking on pure instinct.

For the first split second, it could have been mistaken as a flaming cloud, tearing through the air with the glare of the sun obscuring its flight. A volley of burning arrows nearly went unnoticed, had he not shouted for shields, and raised a barrier around himself and the captains at either of his sides.

The only commander he could see, and he hoped he’d heard his warning, was Yuga. A panicked wave of his scepter betrayed that he’d turned to the source of the noise just a touch too late. With a yelp, Yuga raised one of his portraits to shield himself, but his startle made him careless. The bolts thwacked into the ground at his feet, each missing its mark until a single one didn’t, and buried itself into his lower leg.

The earlier gasp of panic forced itself out of him with a horrid shriek, and a wobble of his stance. Kept upright only by the desperate support of his staff, he composed himself, but in body only. In an instant, Lorule’s finest sorcerer turned rotten in temper and was eager to let the world know.

“I would say you’d rue the day you crossed me, but when I’ve finished, you will be naught but ashes in the wind!” Yuga hissed. Yuga spat. His normally so dainty hands grasped the arrow in his leg firmly, before snapping off its length, leaving only a splintered stump lodged by his ankle.

It took one stumble for him to realize he could not walk with such an injury, but he refused to back down. Purple swirls of malice radiated off of him as Yuga began to hover above the floor, bracing his staff in a knuckle-whitening grip. Gnashing his teeth, he glared down the troops beyond the cliff and screeched his curses in all their brutality. “Foul wretches! Maggots beneath my boot! Return to the rotten flesh you crawled from, hideous things!”

His feet now off the ground, Yuga launched himself forward at breakneck speeds, his curls nearly uncoiling themselves in his haste. One swing of his staff and the portraits that circled him spun around him like a whirlwind, each spewing a hellfire of lightning into the swarm of men he forced himself through. That draconic trail scorched itself into the grass as he soared by, cleaving through whatever once stood in his way. The sorcerer disappeared into the crowd, the sounds of carnage overpowered only by the throat-rending cackle that roared free from the banshee of this battlefield.

Not a moment was wasted. Soon, red and scaled hides filled in the cracks weaving through the Hyrulean frontlines, as bokoblin and lizalfos alike rushed to seize this vital opening.

Distractions now out of the way, Ghirahim felt oddly relieved. Being the sole commander now at Ganondorf’s side caused the thrum of his pulse to soar. The Eastern Keep was drawing nearer, and conquering it would break them all into the wider Hyrule Field.

A blue-clad soldier closed in on him but was swiftly kicked out of the way for the crime of disrupting his thought process. With the onset of enemy soldiers pouring in through the gates, his once so-perfect formation was refusing its emulsion. Frontmen skewered each other on their pikes at both sides, a battle of endurance to see who could wrestle the clutches of death the longest. Their collapse meant the line of soldiers behind them breaking through, blending gold and silver in their raging strife. A wicked force tore through the minds and bodies of the warriors, and her name was Furore; a mass, blinding anger, of knowing that if either force failed, they would fail for good. Yet in her mantle she carried glee, the joy of battle, to motivate them with more than fear. For it was this fear that, were it to overpower their minds, would make them not more than beasts!

Ghirahim was no mere recipient of this force. He seized it, made it his own, and knowing that mayhem would soon reign, lit the embers within. His eyes flit to the side, burning pupils catching on a beloved target. Ganondorf, too, was entangled in battle, cutting down the few soldiers that dared to approach him. Such foolishness made for a fine warm-up, perhaps, but the smallfry was by far not worth the Gerudo King’s effort. They ought to breach into more challenging grounds!

Launching himself forward, Ghirahim bounded for the keep. A devastatingly easy prospect: break in; clear it out; take out their commander. It was an easier task than usual. Being the only entryway to the northern Hyrule Field, the Keep’s gates were swung wide open, spewing out platoon after platoon. He just had to worm his way through.

In such an enclosed space, controlling the crowd was child's play. Frankly, most thinking went into just what was the most amusing way to take care of this little problem. He stood perched atop the drawbridge, pondering his approach as the soldiers surged below him like a tidal wave. Stuffing a cork in that seemed like a prime first choice.

With a snap of his fingers, a barrier burst into view, putting an immediate stop to the Hyruleans’ advance. He hardly had to do a thing after, Ghirahim noted with amusement. Not expecting a sudden wall, the frontmost soldiers slammed face-first into the diamond-spangled forcefield. With some luck, some would have been stabbed or crushed purely on accident in the jostle… But he’d see that when he got there. Padding leisurely across the upper footbridge, he made his way to the keep’s balusters, where about a dozen archers waited for him.

Bolts plinked uselessly off his skin. With a leap, he bridged the distance between them, and let them taste the bloody merits of a melee fighter firsthand.

He’d hardly finished with the lot of them before the first of the soldiers he’d trapped down there came running up the stairs. Ghirahim grinned, relinquishing his grip on the larynx he’d just crushed and dropping the poor wretch to the ground. The Hyruleans funneled straight for him, barreling in a line as neat as angry men could manage. Ghirahim could taste their blood already.

Soon, he did. He drove his blade down the collar of the frontmost soldier, piercing the gap in her gorget, and kicked her down the stairs before she’d even finished dying. For a moment, the crowd stumbled, balance lost under the deadweight piled on top of them, but their haste won over their supposed respect for their deceased. The corpse was callously tossed to the side, plummeting into the crates and barrels below.

Such was how Ghirahim held the stream of warriors at bay. Even though the piles of bodies and half-alive things grew ever greater, every new batch of soldiers seemed to reach higher and higher steps near him. It wasn’t until one of them bore down on him, pushing to force him back, that he noticed just how many of them were teeming in the lower levels. Peeking past the railing, the keep seemed to be more crowded than it was when he’d started. Ghirahim shook himself free with a shout, stabbing through the offending soldier’s gut to throw him off the stairs, but found three more of them surrounding him.

He’d bitten off a little more than he could chew. Reinforcements were in order. Hand raised, he braced ready to snap his fingers and rid the entrance of its barrier…

… Until a sudden presence materialized in the center of the fort. A massive shockwave followed, deep dark and full of hatred, sending every single soldier that set foot in the Keep either out the gates or into the wall.

Zant, scimitar on his shoulder, stuck out his arm, pointing a pallid finger at a flashy-looking soldier that lay hunched over and dazed in the far corner.

“Found you.”

Suddenly forgetting all about the soldiers surrounding him, Ghirahim vaulted off his high ground and joined the Twili’s side.

“You don’t intend to steal my thunder, do you?” Ghirahim prodded, nudging his co-lieutenant on his bloodied sleeve.

Zant chuckled in response. “You looked like you could use some assistance. I’ll leave the final strike to you, but do not dawdle. More of them are coming.”

How dishonorable, to have to deliver the mercy strike on a dying man! He approached the opulent knight – a Caster himself, whose aura tied to the southern gates. The man panted, twilit runes festering on the bare skin of his palms as he reached for the Demon before him. Whether he pleaded for mercy or sought to ready some sort of spell, Ghirahim couldn’t quite tell. Nor did he really care.

Blood trickled down pearlescent armor as Ghirahim’s sword skewered through his throat. A last gasp sucked through the gaps around the blade, bubbling the blood that spurted free in an obscene rattle. The tip of his blade scraped past bone, picked at the cartilage. Such sounds alone, that carried from his sword into his core and truly made his body and weapon one, were almost enough to make him forget the outside world.

But it didn’t, for with the life of the Keep Captain, so too was the golden barrier extinguished. Finally, they could move for greener pastures, and he would see his Master truly in action.

Flanked by his two remaining commanders, the Demon King strode on, mocking the shining ostentation of the distant Hyrule Castle with his glory. Where any other royal would shelter behind the might of his army, Ganondorf broke past it, crowning his frontlines with his presence. Even with the oceanic vastness of the troops behind him, all eyes, all dread, were focused on the sight of him alone.

Truly, what a sight he was! The very air itself howled in pain as he swung those massive blades. Just one strike of darksteel sliced common armor to ribbons, its sheer size taking out a dozen men in the blink of an eye. Where Zant prevailed in wild strength, and Ghirahim mastered bloody precision, their King encapsulated these martial styles into one deadly whole.

The trampled grass of Central Hyrule Field now under their feet, the three men looked onward, their eyes on the nearest gate to Hyrule Castle grounds. With its gates firmly locked, spiked barricades littering the paths, and wooden shelterings strewn to hide soldiers unknown, this Keep would prove to be a tough nut to crack. Neither of his companions commented on it, but the occasional sheen of metal between the battlements clued Ghirahim in on archers at the ready, too.

“It seems their efforts are focused on guarding this keep, Master,” Zant proclaimed, bounding his way next to the Gerudo King’s side with a slither in his gait. “They can only guard the palace from so many angles. Surely, their Northern bridges are less fortified… It may cost us some time to travel ‘round, but it would give us better chances at overwhelming their defenses.”

Ganondorf grunted and furrowed his brow. “And do you volunteer to such a plan?”

Eagerly clutching the grip of his scimitar with both hands, Zant giggled, nodding strongly enough to bob his helmet. “Yes, Sire. My squadron and I can force such a measly gate in no time flat.”

With that answer, Ganondorf turned from him again, eyeing his surroundings carefully. Ever defiantly, his gaze fixed upon the fortified keep before them again. He never did take well to being told what to do, and that obstacle beckoned him with a challenge. “Then go. We will stay and secure more territory.”

The East Field Keep proved to be a challenge, indeed. There was no forcing those doors, they would have had to go around.

Nigh yanking a field scout off his horse, he hissed an order into the creature’s droopy ears to summon their raid captains there at once. Going up and around was going to require ladders, but with all that rubbish in the way, they’d never even reach the base of the wall. Whatever was hiding behind the barricades would have to be done away with.

Lizalfos attempting to clamber over the wooden barricades were run through by the soldiers hiding behind them, while those trying to skirt around them met the same fate. It was going to take a lot more heavy-handed work to clear the way, and Ghirahim delightfully volunteered. To serve as a meat-shield was far below him, but little pinpricks bothered him none. So long as he could sprint past just one gap and shake those fools up, their forces would soon follow.

A rain of splinters left in his wake. He made quick work of the barriers, bursting through them with his fists alone, and ripped whatever unfortunate soul he could get a grip on back through the opening with him. Soldiers bearing their own massive shields followed suit, with his very own Darknuts taking inspiration from his infernal technique. Bounding in rapidly from the North, the first of the raid captains arrived. Oil-drenched torches sailed through the air, setting the barricades aflame, and soon, the field was riddled with charcoal and ash. Their siege towers soon followed, tall, wooden things, sawed like the necks of dragons, and slammed nearly uncontested against the Keep walls. Shrieking and screeching bokoblins clambered their way up, and sowed chaos on their stronghold from above.

Ganondorf did not wait for the path to be fully cleared, and joined in on the carnage with great amusement. Taking advantage of the archers’ panic, he hacked and slashed his way through the remaining eyesores to run right for the looming gate. One sword sheathed at his hip, he balled his fist, his eyes clouding over with something truly malicious. Just a spark of that ancient terror was summoned, then, and for a moment, the tether that bound Ghirahim to his Master tightened, digging into him as if wreathed in thorns.

With a roar of a battle-cry, he reared back his fist, before his form disappeared behind a swirling black mist. The gargantuan shape of something terrible, an earth-shaking manifestation of Vengeance itself, shrouded the Demon King and braced to attack in the very same way.

Giant knuckles pounded into the gate like a battering ram. The impact was thunderous, clattering teeth and eardrums for miles to come. Wood charred and smoldered where Ganon’s fist struck it, and though the gate had, by some miracle, not flown open, it’d been knocked nigh entirely off its hinges. Screws and chains kept it standing in a flimsy wobble, like stringy tendons refusing to relinquish a limb. There wasn’t a point in it any longer – the first demonic forces were pouring into the Keep from above, and the gap their King had forced in the doors would fit their footsoldiers just fine.

Just as Ganondorf unleashed his victorious laugh, a series of explosions caught their attention.

Ghirahim turned to the source of the noise, only to find tall plumes of smoke rising from the Northwest Checkpoint. Pulling his sword from a fallen soldier’s chest, he gestured to the distance. “Master! To the North, Zant has broken through!”

Unsheathing his second sword again, Ganondorf growled. The bulking shadow that loomed over him slowly fizzled away and shrunk down to a mere wisp that slithered down into the folds of his cape. “Then I shall join him. You stay here and retain our frontline.”

Ghirahim nodded and turned. Just as he was searching for an allied banner to join forces with, his attention turned again to his Master who, a few paces further, had turned back around, his gaze fixed on the field across him.

Courage had been sorely missed on the battlefield up until that point. Now, a shining example of it, with sword drawn and eyes fierce, tore his way through Hyrule Field. Ghirahim scowled at the approaching Reincarnated Hero, but his attention soon split to his Master instead, who stood grinning. He decided to keep any mocking comments about their little foe to himself, for now.

Stepping up to stand beside him, he called to Ganondorf’s attention. “A simple distraction to keep us from moving north, without a doubt.”

“That matters not. I have a score to settle with the boy,” the Gerudo King replied, tusks still bared with his cruel smile. “It seems the Hyruleans seek to entertain me… If they wish to lose their greatest asset so early in the battle, then I will gladly oblige.”

Ghirahim knew better than to disturb an ancient rivalry, for he was there when it first came into being. Still, he gave one uneasy look back at the pillars of smoke. “What of Zant, Master? Shall I join him? Having him lead such a siege on his own would be a death sentence.”

Ganondorf scoffed, giving his concern not a moment’s notice. His sights were set on the Hero, and nothing else. “Is Wizzro not approaching from the south, still? The creature has always been drawn to his dark proclivities. If Zant wishes to be a King in his own right, that much assistance must suffice.”

The King’s dismissal pooled with strange dread in his gut, but Ghirahim banished anything that stood in the way of his loyalty. Sword over his chest, he bowed, baptizing himself again in the cold clarity of servitude. “As you wish, Master. Not a soul will intrude upon your duel, that I promise!”

Fending off anyone that went near, Ghirahim circled the duel in his lethal dance. He was quick, he was efficient – he drowned every instinct to flourish and impress, for if he were to distract his Master from this crucial battle, he’d sooner shatter than forgive himself. With the Keep nearby in shambles, he was almost fighting too leisurely. The battle was under control.

At least, until reinforcements came from the East. Marching through the Keep at the other end of the field, another wave of Hyruleans came their way. Ghirahim hissed, surveyed his surroundings, and came to a painful conclusion. There were by far not enough of their forces here to hold back the oncoming onslaught.

Driving his blade into an approaching knight’s shoulder, a sudden burst of inspiration struck him. He retracted his sword, indulgently lapping off its trail of blood, and shot a playful look at his defeated opponent. Sated by the piercing scowl of fear, Ghirahim pushed him over, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. He knew just how to handle this.

Picking out a target was almost too easy. The Commander at the front of the crowd stuck out like a sore thumb, bearing a gilded shield nearly as tall as himself and a bright plume on his helmet. Kicking up sods of grass, he broke into a sprint to head straight for this flashy figure. With pleasantly surprising dauntlessness, the commander did not flinch. Faced with an ancient demon barreling towards him, all he did was brace his shield and brandish his longsword, ready to strike.

The fool could raise his shield all he liked! All he had to do was make contact!

Ghirahim raced across the ground with the speed of Zephyr, his every step taunting the man to show him just a shred of fear, but to his maddening delight, he continued to find none. Such men were always his favorite. They could still break.

Mere seconds away from the oncoming battalion now, he used his momentum for three long, bounding steps, before bracing his knees and launching himself forward, arms outstretched. Alarmed cries rang out, but he heard them not much longer. The second his palm laid flat on that opulent shield, diamonds surrounded the pair of battlers, and in that shroud of diamonds, they left the scene.

With most forces sent out elsewhere on the battlefield, the bridge to the North-East felt like a quiet enough spot to conduct his schemes. Using the commander’s disoriented dazzle to his advantage, Ghirahim swiftly kicked his shield out of his hands, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

The racket seemed to shock the man back into focus, but before he could ready his stance, the demon was upon him, clutching him by the banner on his chest to yank him at eye level.

“Do you think your Princess cares, Captain?” Ghirahim hissed, pushing the man closer to the rockface wall. “A monarch that wants her people to thrive does not send them to battle unprepared. Here you are, facing against the Demon Lord, wielding an ordinary blade. You think you can hurt me with this?”

Once again swept away, drunk on his own power, Ghirahim pushed himself away from the man, leaving him dazed. The smell of fear was pungent, ambrosiac in the air, and yet, the soldier gripped his sword tighter. Ghirahim met those burning red eyes with a grin, his arms spread in a mocking invitation. When the man charged for him, he didn’t move a muscle – he did not even flinch, merely stood, daring him to strike.

And strike he did. A wicked slash of his greatsword, aimed at his chest, poised to kill. In the hands of such a towering man, bearing a sword of this caliber, such a blow would rend flesh down to the bone, hack through, and rend the lungs to shreds. Yet, when the edge of the blade reached Ghirahim, it tore nothing but the fabric of his cloak.

In an instant, Ghirahim was back on him, hands clutching the banner at his chest and driving him against the wall, his knee jammed between his armored legs.

“You see?” he whispered, leaning close to press his forehead against the wretch’s helmet, and peer into the whelk that hid inside. “You are powerless against me. Your precious Zelda has forsaken you.”

His victim shook his shoulders in an attempt to wrestle him off, but all it got him was punishment. Ghirahim slammed him back against the wall, helmet hitting stone with a resounding clunk. Leaning down into the dizzied man’s eye contact, the demon tilted his head. “Does it not anger you? All your years of training. They reflect in your strikes, boy. You are not mere cannon fodder. Thou art a warrior. You have your pride, and here you are, reduced to a meat shield for the inflated ego of a rotting royal family.”

Painted lips curled into a smile, Ghirahim crooned his temptation into the ears of a lost man. “History would find you blameless, were you to channel your rage now…”

His words were a poison, seeping from his flicking tongue to probe at the edges of the defenseless man’s psyche. Mortal minds were simply so fragile, so permeable, needing only the stroke of a pointed nail to tear a hole in its tender fabric. And how easily it tore, how quickly the man once struggling turned to putty in his hands.

“Your will may have been signed the moment you stepped into this battlefield, but destiny still has its branches for you, Captain. You will not find your greatness with Hyrule, but perhaps, were you to join us against it…”

The hands grasping his cloak weakened, a sword clattered to the ground. Ghirahim chuckled. It wouldn’t be long, now. The veil was torn, the soft gray meat of this flesh-born’s brain practically between his fingertips, its every shock and pulse struggling to get past his dark enchantment. And when the man began to gurgle, that tell-tale death rattle of the mind, Ghirahim keened with glee. Ichor poured from the soldier’s tear ducts, his nostrils, and, were they in view, he’d see it dribbling from his ears, too.

Ghirahim, too, had a little puppet now. Soon, he’d have many more.

“Pick up your blade and run along, human. We have work to do.”

The man stumbled off, his shambling gait slowly righting itself. It was a dirty little trick, for certain, but one he thought would please his Master dearly. The ichor that dripped from the man was a sign of contagion. The second he was to mingle with his fellow men again, his curse would spread, and tempt every man that joined him in this same betrayal. A vice to most, but to a demon, such pride was a delicacy.

Moments later, Ghirahim perched atop the rock outcropping, overseeing his handiwork. To his glee, it appeared that not only had his little trick indeed turned the reinforcements back where they came from, his Master had enjoyed similar success! His blue scarf tainted red, Hyrule’s Hero turned tail and headed back for the castle, leaving King Dragmire to tear down the crowd in pursuit.

Such a well-oiled plan almost left him a little bored. Still, such a large group managing to somehow sneak past where Yuga was supposedly stationed, worried him. Leaping down from his vantage point, he flagged down whichever raid captains he could find on the way, and headed for the Keep that bridged Hylia River.

Such a small, thoroughfare keep was apparently a low priority in the Hyrulean defenses. Very few soldiers were stationed here, which took mere minutes to be cleared out, whether fled or felled. Dirty little chores like these were unbecoming of a demon lord, Ghirahim bemoaned to himself, perching himself on of the battlements of newly conquered territory.

He hardly had time to assess the view beyond the Keep before a shrill voice interrupted him from below.

“Lord Ghirahim,” exclaimed Yuga, hovering down by the bridge. He floated up to him soundlessly and sat on the balustrade beside him. Turning to look up at him, he addressed him pleasantly. “A sight for sore eyes. And how sore they are, indeed! Chaos reigns in the East. They’re killing each other out there!”

Ghirahim looked down at the Sorcerer and found him worse for wear. His banners were rendered to tatters, his armor dented and smudged, not to speak of the sweat and grime that tainted his skin. His mortality reared its ugly head, certainly, in the way he sat there hunched and panting. Nevertheless, it felt like a bad idea to tell him of all people that his appearance was anything less than perfect. A bit of small talk seemed like a much better option. “Oh, so you’ve noticed. Some of my finer work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such mass hysteria was your doing? Why, I’m impressed,” Yuga chimed, looking at the distant crowd with newfound interest. Perhaps his little trick had worked a little too well – it looked like those flies were dropping faster than the contagion could properly spread. Before he could lament this setback any further, Yuga kept him engaged. “I suppose all is well on the central front? Otherwise, I haven’t the faintest idea as to why you’d be busying yourself with my turf.”

Ghirahim laughed, preening his hair. “All is well, indeed. Just before I arrived, I witnessed Master forcing that eyesore of a Hero to go running on back to his little home.”

“Oh, splendid. How I wish I could have seen it,” Yuga languished, resting his chin on his palm with a sigh. “I suppose I should be glad enough for this sorry affair to be over soon. With that worm out of the way, the tides are surely turning in our favor.”

Something about those words jabbed their way into his ire. For a battle that he had yearned for from the moment he’s been summoned, to be dubbed a ‘sorry affair’, picked at the stitches of an old wound the sorcerer inflicted on him. Was this the man his Master favored over him? Perhaps his injuries made Yuga’s whiny side surface, but he hadn’t reconciled with him quite enough yet to give him the benefit of the doubt. Deigning to respond, Ghirahim stood atop the fort looking for a fight to join, but he ended up finding something else.

Hiding in the sun’s glare, a shadow approached and spread its wings. An exasperatingly familiar dragon came into view, the beat of his wings whipping the two men’s luxurious hair in the wind. The membranes of his clawed wings billowed like sails in the catching air, the thin cracks in those black expanses spilling the sun’s radiance between. Volga landed on the bridge with heavy thumps that caused the bridge to whine under his weight. He looked a little more dull than usual – his fiery mane was reduced to a flicker, and his scales lacked their red sheen.

Volga craned his face up to look at the pair, baring his fangs as he spoke. “The Zora Princess has arrived, riding tides summoned by a noble I do not recognize. They douse my flames too quickly. I alone am no match for them.”

The earlier drab from before faded in an instant, a sparkle igniting in the sorcerer’s eyes where a foggy haze had just been. “Oh, how I’ve longed to meet with that adorable siren princess once more,” Yuga proclaimed, pushing himself off his seat to float gently to the ground. “I shall join you. Gladly!”

Ghirahim raised a brow, his eyes flitting between the two men below. How quickly that prissy figure managed to turn his mood around, all with the promise of a pretty girl! Still, he feared his recklessness, for if there was anything Yuga would risk his hide for, it was the promise of beauty. His eye on the hastily-treated arrow wound on his lower leg, Ghirahim sighed. He could only hope his concern wasn’t taken as an effort of friendly reconciliation.

Quickly masking his uncouth state, Ghirahim hopped from the battlements to stand beside his co-lieutenant and address him with a light scold. “Yuga, you’re injured. I’ll not encourage cowardice in the slightest, but Master will not forgive you if you act rashly.”

“Some nerve you have! You needn’t worry about me, Blade. I’ll see to the eradication of these fools… With the utmost elegance,” he waxed with a voice like a dream, his arms raised in a flourish.

Yet, when Yuga shot forward to head to this promised reunion, his supposed companion did not follow. The sorcerer turned to find Volga hesitating, his head lowered and his scaled back raised. Draconic Warrior Volga was cowering.

“What ails you, beast?” Yuga questioned, his scowl wrinkling his bloodied brow bone. “One little setback and your claws lose their edge? Join me!”

A growl resonant enough to shake the drawbridge chains vibrated the wood beneath their feet. Volga slinked away, spines bristling and mane sputtering with flame, and hissed as he spoke. “The Demon King cares not! He sends us to our deaths,” he spat. “I will no longer fight as a pawn in his name.”

Ghirahim’s fangs bared involuntarily. Such insolence was unacceptable. Maddening! His fingers curled fiercely around the grip of his sword, and his gaze zoned in on a vague, pink mark behind the dragon’s shoulder, left there once by his Master’s trident. But before he could drive himself into the tender flesh of Volga’s weak spot, Yuga gripped him by the horns and shook him, forcing their eyes to lock.

“Know your place, cave-dwelling reptile!” Shouted Yuga, face contorted into a snarl. “You dare let your loyalty stray now? You turn against our Master, in his greatest hour?”

Volga struggled against him, bearing a strong endeavor to win, but the handle those twiggy arms had on him was unfathomably relentless. Any attempt to shake him off seemed futile – Volga’s muscular neck writhed, its tension tightening his body enough to flare out his plating. Veins bulged on the Lorian’s temples as his rage built. It was fire against fire, bull against fighter. Their scuffle lit a new spark in Volga’s sputtering flames, but before he could use it against his captor, the back of Yuga’s boot slammed his glowing maw back shut.

That treacherous attack only served to make Yuga angrier. He now fully yanked at his horns, dragging him with him to solid ground. Even after all this berating, Volga still refused, digging his claws into the soil. Yuga looked down at the grooves in the ground and cried out in disgust. “Sickening! Pathetic! Shame upon you, for daring to call yourself a dragon! Have some sense! It seems I must knock it into you.”

Steeling his grip, Yuga lifted himself higher in the air, dragging the dragon’s head with him. His arms raised, his eyes spat fire, hovering fearlessly before the snarling maw mere inches from his feet. With one shrill cry of exertion, he swung his arms downward and threw the Dragon to the ground.

Volga hit the ground chin-first, hissing in pain and rage as the ground cracked beneath his plating. Before he could gather his bearings, Yuga bore on him again, his uninjured foot stomping down on his snout. “You wish to be respected? You want to be treated as more than a pawn, as you say? Then show us! Show yourself as more worthy than the beating I will unleash upon you, should you refuse!”

For his last sneer, Yuga leaned in close, hissing his venom through clenched teeth. “Now you cough up whatever sickly bile allows you to spray your flame, Lieutenant, and you better do it soon, before I reduce that bulky form of yours to oil pastels!”

At the threat of his staff, Volga bounded away, his tail lashing with a vicious temper. He gave the pair one more skeptical look, before chuffing out an agonized, wretched burst of flame, and turning back to the distant battle. Taking off into a gallop, he climbed the air with beating wings, and announced his return to the masses below with a guttural roar.

Left behind, the Sword Spirit looked up at the wild beast’s ascent with an air of calm, while Yuga stood panting next to him, his flushed face slowly returning to its usual corpsely gray. Such a performance deserved a bit of accolade.

“My. I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Ghirahim said, bringing a hand to his face in idle amusement.

Yuga paused, swallowing to gather his breath, before chuckling in response. “Spare me the cajolery, Ghirahim. I have a royal visitation to attend.”

Just like that, the Sorcerer lifted himself off the floor once more with a wave of his staff, and along with the breeze, he was off.

This side of the battlefield now thoroughly occupied, Ghirahim skirted along its edges, the rush of the river below carrying him on its roaring winds. As Volga relayed to them, the Zora were advancing rapidly from here, but on his own, he wasn’t keen on drawing their attention. As tempting as the thought of sticking it to the Lorian was by stealing his kills, the Zora often bore enchanted weapons. The Demon Lord wouldn’t risk his pristine state for mere petty gestures!

Racing down the path to the south, Ghirahim had the quiet hope of running into his Master. Something akin to worry tugged at his strings when he saw the gates to Hyrule Castle nearly untouched. A mass of soldiers kept any invading forces at bay – which meant that Ganondorf was being held up by the bridge, for whatever reason. He had to cut through the crowd somehow.

A remedy (or, a minor poultice at most), to his predicament, appeared in the shape of raid squads by the crags, who stood gathered around a cavalier scout relaying her rapport.

Desperate for any news at all about the sudden delay of the advance, Ghirahim hurried on over, urging the scout to tell her tale.

The Gerudo woman tightened the reins on her antsy steed and addressed him with a bow of her head. “There was an ambush from the Eastern Central Keep, My Lord. King Dragmire was impeded, and now, Commander Link has fled to the Castle. We are sending reserve troops to clear the path.”

Ghirahim’s eyes narrowed. The disgust in the air around him was palpable, enough to further panic the scout’s horse. “Then I shall go with you.”

The cavalry was fast but not much faster than he. The gaps in the crowd the scout cleared for herself closed up quickly before him, and with every soldier he cut down, his disdain grew. So soft. So weak. What tricks could these ants possibly have gotten up their sleeves to give his Master this much trouble?

With every pace, the mass of soldiers grew ever-denser. The red plume of hair that was once his guide was soon no longer dependable. Overwhelmed by their adversaries, the Gerudo’s horse let out a hellish shriek when run through by steel, and soon, slumped to the ground, its rider perishing with it.

Yet, he no longer needed her. The bridge was in view, and soon he would reunite to assist his Ruler, his Master, his –

Cyan, bluer than blue, sped back down the bridge like an arrow. Towering stature, white hair, and red eyes that left glowing streaks as she moved. Ghirahim knew now what had delayed them so. To think a General as renowned as her would retreat so soon, hardly even injured!

Just as he intended to ignore this display of cowardice and let her run her merry way, a sudden force yanked his head to keep his eyes on her.

“She aims for the Temple,” hissed a sudden voice in his mind. “Should the Hyruleans get the Great Fairy’s assistance, we will surely regret it!”

“Zant!” Ghirahim whispered in retort, “you have the nerve to get into my head?”

“Do not distract yourself with technicalities,” Zant growled. “Go!”

Biting back his ire, Ghirahim hissed through his teeth. How could he allow for such a vulnerability in his own mind? Had a tether been planted there, without him noticing? If so, then when?

All such questions had to wait for later. A blade like him would only take commands from his master, but he took the liberty of taking Zant’s words as a friendly suggestion. He had been waiting for a proper face-off with the Sheikah general, to test if this one was a more exciting opponent than the previous. His feet took off below him without a second thought.

The thrill of slaughtering hundreds was fair enough a way to sate him, indeed. But nothing fulfilled him, nothing made him feel like he was truly fighting, like an impassioned one-on-one with a worthy warrior who wanted him dead for more reasons than simple victory.

Tracking the scent of her blood alone, Ghirahim burst after her with speed that would strike envy in a lightning bolt. Though the prospect of giving chase for the sport of it was plenty attractive, he knew better than to let his amusement get ahead of him. No, for now, he merely wanted to get a better look at the Temple and see where he could best ambush her. He could afford no distractions, so his path had to be clear. Yanking the raid captains he’d run into earlier with him, he set forth to the temple stairs, and waited for the right moment to rear its head.

Ever-so-politely, the Commander did not keep him waiting long. Ghirahim lavishly draped himself atop one of the few pillars still standing above the Temple’s crumbling staircase, strewn as it was with holes from beast claws and long-gone explosives. Somehow, this barren place still held onto its sanctity. He wondered how much further they would have to ruin it for that persistent, divine itch to stop.

That idle thought could only ever be that, though. His target burst from the crowd, and in her near-blinded fury, almost completely overlooked his presence. Carelessness was one thing, but plain rude was another! With a scoff, Ghirahim jumped down from his perch and landed himself square in her path. In an instant, she staggered back and drew her blade.

“Again you cross my path, Impa, and how your numbers have dwindled. You were a mighty people once, a veritable threat,” Ghirahim purred, circling the commander. This alone stopped her advance and drew her weapon, for she was healthily wary of turning her back to him. “And now, you can hardly even be called a tribe. Once you served the Goddess, now merely Her diluted blood, who with each thinning drop tore down your numbers, your dignity… Are you truly content with this?”

If she was ever at the edge of being compelled, Ghirahim certainly didn’t notice it. Impa thrust her greatsword toward him just as he took a step closer. “When the lands we stand on were still called the Surface, there was your kin, mercilessly slaughtering mine. You dare speak of our tribe in solidarity now? Spare me your poisoned words, Demon. I will not be manipulated by the likes of you!”

“Oh, well,” Ghirahim cackled, ducking from the second strike from her blade with his hands childishly clasped behind his back. “It was worth a try, I suppose.”

The giant slab of steel came for him again, slamming into the ground where he once stood with her full weight behind it. Yet the Sheikah was nimble, and thus, frightfully strong, in how she twirled and slid around him and dragged the heaving weapon along with her. He had to take his every step with extreme care.

Her attacks did not go uncontested. Ghirahim drew his sword in retaliation and threw himself upon her in a flurry of blows. There was something familiar about the way she fought – reminiscent of the so-called Hero, perhaps. But in those brazen arms hid decades of discipline and ferocity. What she lacked in holy power, Impa made up for with expert technique.

In other words, he was in for an incredibly enjoyable battle.

Though his sword was smaller, more nimble than hers, she managed to deflect nigh every strike and dodge away from others. He was certain he at least nicked her fingers once or twice, but either she simply didn’t care, or some form of enchantment had been cast on her.

This suspicion was confirmed when, with a sudden wince in her expression, she left herself wide open for just a split second, and he thrust for her chest. Though her armor here was bare, the tip of his sword still bounced clean off, a golden flicker rippling where he’d struck. Had Hyrule’s Princess so graciously cast the same protection over a mere servant, that she’d bestowed upon her divine Hero? How delightfully sentimental.

It did not matter. A barrier simply meant he had to hit harder, as he did last time. Lacking the privileges of Zant’s magic from his previous attempt, he just had to make do with his own. With her next strike, he jumped back far further than he needed to and deftly escaped her range. He had to be quick, but the slight limp in the Sheikah’s step assured him he’d have just enough time for his little party trick, if not with ten milliseconds to spare. With no further hesitation, he held his rapier out before him, and with a flick of his wrist, twisted it in his grip, and buried it into his own chest with a decisive thrust.

Shock. He just won another second!

His core ran hot. Burning, searing metal to its melting point, enough to pulse an aura of sickly purple from his chest to his entire body. Grass was charred beneath his feet as the heat coursed through his every inch, but by far stronger was the sheer darkness. Whatever life once carried in the ashes below was promptly snuffed, its soil scorched and poisoned. He gritted his teeth, not in pain but in exertion, as the searing flame in his chest grew ever brighter. His magic was doing its work; his will was next. For every blade forged needed a purpose, a name. And what was this one? Once, it was to be his simple favorite, light and easy to wield. But over the years he had accumulated many more just like it, and its value had diminished to that of mere nostalgia. Such a loyal friend needed something more potent.

What did he want for it? It needed to strike true, to be wicked in every edge yet sharp enough to cut through mountains unharmed. It had not to be graceful, but to simply bring death.

And when he pulled it from him, glowing bright red from the hellfire he’d retrieved it from, it became a jagged thing. The picture of a grimace, of metal that in itself bore rage and scowled at its foe.

Yes. I shall call you Annihilation.

Impa closed in on him bearing her scabbard as a shield. Her feet ground tracks into the soil as she slid at him with enough speed to knock him off his feet. And it would have, had he not braced himself the last second, meeting the firm wood of the scabbard with a ram of his elbow, cracking its polished blue surface. The impact loosened the greatsword in its hold and she took full advantage of this. Impa kicked the scabbard fiercely, sending it swiveling around to sit at her back, and unsheathed her blade in its momentum, seeking to cut him down in one broad sweep.

This was his new pet’s time to shine. Instead of the traditional parry, he swung the cursing black blade downward. Sharp edges stuck together until the sharpness of his own prevailed and slid down, dragging an ear-grating screech out of the Sheikah greatsword. A strike so wretched it taught steel to feel pain! Ghirahim chuckled as the two swords buried their tips in the dirt between them, but was smart enough not to linger long.

Before her heart could finish another beat, Impa swung her blade back up, sharp edge upturned. Glittering specks of hair scattered in the wind as Impa cleaved through the tips of his bangs. In an instant, his vision went red, a crimson hue that pooled from the General’s eyes and washed over all of his vision. Such rage emboldened him as much as it weakened him, for the second he spent gritting his teeth and indulgently spying for a weak spot to torture, Impa punished him.

Blade outstretched, she dove beneath his arms and swung. A deep line carved into his gut, carving through his false skin and splintering a groove in his surface.

They were petty injuries to his body and standing, but enough to send him into rage. One hand fiercely gripping her shoulder, he pushed himself forward, driving his knee into her gut. Impa staggered back with a groan, shaken but unharmed, and kept herself standing with her sword as a crutch. With this new distance wedged between them, he once more pulled his cleaver and lunged for her.

She parried him once, twice, that massive eyesore of a blade serving far too well as a shield until it didn’t, and he struck the gap between her arms and armor.

Annihilation slipped through, obsidian steel hungering for bloodshed, and tore a gaping hole into the magic that protected her. A fountain of golden sparks followed her in an arc as Impa fell to the ground. She hit the floor with a heavy thud, her scabbard cracking further beneath her bulk.

Ghirahim hopped back with whimsy, tongue darting between his lips and sword at the ready, as she jumped back upright with a swing of her legs. Even without her divine protection, she seemed just as hellbent on striking him down. But no matter. His next strike would not miss.

For just a second, her scarlet eyes parted from their contesting gazes and flitted to the Temple behind her. Impa’s feet braced in the soil, her knees bent, and she shot for her goal.

Ghirahim didn’t let her set more than even a step. Those signs of her escape were subtle, and anyone even a smidge less analytical than he would have missed them. But Ghirahim drove a dagger into her hip before she could even think of which foot to put where, and nearly sent her tumbling.

Yet Impa kept going, shielding herself with her scabbard as she advanced further up the temple stairs walking backward. If she thought getting the high ground would put her at an advantage, she was dead wrong! Ghirahim hurried after her in pursuit, lunging for her legs as swift and deadly as a viper. Her balance was wobblier now that she’d been injured, but her fury had not depleted even in the slightest bit. He saw it clear as day in her eyes – either she would get to that Temple, or she would die trying. If only all Hyruleans saw the beauty of such dedication. Perhaps, then, some of these battles wouldn’t have been so dull!

To Ghirahim, it was a test of mettle, or rather, the indulgent act of poking a sleeping bear with a stick, while Impa treated his ceaseless meddling as the annoyance that it was. Hoping to finally throw him off her trail, she swung down, the embers in her eyes bursting into wildfires.

Ghirahim raised his blade in defense, edge catching on edge once more.

With a single flick of his wrist, the greatsword slotted into the jagged shapes of his masterpiece and became trapped there. This blade was not a mere extension of his body – it was him, a piece of his very soul, granted physical form. It held onto Impa’s weapon without as much as a shiver, clasped with the same deft ease as he would have pinched it between his fingers. Their eyes locked, dog meeting wolf dangerously outmatched, and Ghirahim flashed a smile.

The muscles of his arms tensed. Impa couldn’t escape, so instead she attempted to push through. Out of pure curiosity, he let her try. He gazed up into the blade, and oh, how beautifully polished, clean of any grime or corruption. Their eyes stayed locked until he met his own in the sword’s reflection, and his lips curled into a grin. He was immaculate still, the assault on his haircut aside, while she stood panting, scowling, and shaking above him, her teeth grinding audibly with every bit of force she pushed into the blade. Falling apart like this was a shame of such a good swordswoman. He wouldn’t bear to look at it, if he didn’t delight so much in being the cause.

So, he put an end to it. With his only warning being a yell of exertion, he used her strength against her, and with a swing ripped the blade clean out of her hands. The greatsword careened down the stairs, cracking the stone bricks beneath it in its rancorous descent. Before she could think to dive after it, Ghirahim reared back again, and hacked her clean in the shoulder.

Impa fell to her knees with a guttural cry, for a moment, finally looking defeated. She glared daggers at him when his heel planted in her chest. With the cadence of a butcher missing the right tendon, he ripped his sword back out, beholding the blood seeping down its sawtooth edge. What a beautiful, loyal thing, yet one even he hesitated to lap clean after witnessing the damage it did.

In his distraction, the General made her escape, staggering further up the stairs. They were both thinking the same thing: could she make it to the temple, before the gnarly wound on her shoulder sapped her off her strength, and sent her to Death’s door? Her arm dangling uselessly at her side, and her blade buried far beyond where she could escape from him to retrieve it, Impa shot him a foul look.

His confidence was getting ahead of him! From her upturned palm, a bright blue light surged, its specks of luster dazzling him before they struck him like a thousand darts. Yet this magic did not pierce, it did not scratch. Rather, it stuck to him in droplets, merging in ever greater globs in less than a second. His vision blurred, his hearing grew distorted and whined, and before he knew it, his head was encased in a churning sphere of water.

The thought that she attempted to drown him amused him. An airless laugh bubbled forth from his lips and echoed through his abyssal scold’s bridle in crystalline chimes. But this amusement did not last long. A kick to his chest sent him tumbling to the ground, and icy daggers pinned his cloak to the ground in an attempt to keep him down. Distraction, after distraction, after distraction, all in the feeble hope to cross that field and plead the Fairy Queen for her aid.

The poor thing hadn’t the slightest clue he didn’t need to see her to strike her. The dagger in her hip betraying her location, he raised his hand, fingers tense, like drawing taut the string of a bow. A snap. Cold steel flew, whistling through the air as it followed the trail to its brethren, and struck flesh.

Impa cried out, stumbled, and at last, fell forward onto the steps.

Ghirahim strutted on over, sword at rest but not yet sheathed, to stand over his once-opponent. A little river of crimson poured free from her, dripping down the stairs and staining its pure white marble in the stench of near death. Yet, listening carefully, it appeared she still breathed.

He nudged her carelessly with his foot. “Lady Impa, I must say, I’m impressed. You and I make for such an excellent pair of duelists when you don’t insist on making every turn of my life into complete misery.”

With her last shreds of wakefulness, Impa turned to gaze at him. Her complexion withered, but her eyes had not yet glazed over. She was angrier than he’d ever seen her. “You… Vile…” She hissed through blood-stained teeth. “Wretched thing, a traitor, a dishonor to the world, for your own selfish needs, you…”

The corner of his lip twitched in annoyance at this name-calling. Ever the high-and-mighty, righteous woman, perhaps even more of a bore than her predecessor. He was almost glad that the blood loss seemed to be taking her ability to speak from her, but then a sudden pulse of energy alerted him that some other force was at play.

Golden specks of light rose from the General. She, too, took notice of them, a sparkle of bitter hope lit in her expression. A weak laugh was all he heard from her, until the light flooded her body, and she was gone.

With the Sheikah Chief defeated, Hyrule’s army devolved into further chaos. If they had been betting on reaching that Fairy to ensure their victory, then the sudden outpour of soldiers could only have been their last-ditch effort. Ghirahim rose, his cape tearing to tatters under the daggers as he shed it. Standing atop the temple stairs, he ran a hand through his hair, shedding the water from his vision to survey the battlefield.

It was a deluge of blue and silver. Were they winning before, then the Hyrulean swarm that broke out from the now-opened gate to Castle intended to change that. All matters of banners, people from every corner of the country, dashed forth from the palace and the foothills.

The princess was nowhere to be seen. Unmistakable to his analytical eye, however, a corridor, narrow as it was, cleaved through the masses. A certain someone else was making his way through the field again. Mounted on horseback, Link, his palm ablaze with golden light, shot through the field like an arrow.

Zant, Yuga, Wizzro, Volga, his Master, anyone, they were nowhere to be seen. As far as Ghirahim was aware, there was nobody else to stop the Knight that galloped straight for their base. Somewhere, a hunger for that old dynamic between hero and thrall awakened in him again, turning from an urge to a fiery prey drive within a split second. He was no stranger to chasing around little blond holy men. By all means, this was his calling.

And so, shattering the stone steps beneath his heels, Ghirahim bounded down the Temple stairs and threw himself into the mass of soldiers at the foot of the hill.

Yet, he could find no opening. The crowd was forcing him back out every step of the way, as if they could sense the string that tied him to the boy, and feared what would come of it, were the two ends of it to meet.

It was thoroughly amusing. No matter how sheer the numbers, these forces could only ever slow him, not stop him. Though even distraction would prove to be dire, the further those hoofbeats strayed from him. He had to be in pursuit and had to do it fast, but the dense formation barring his way left not a single opening. Such an advantage would have to be gained the old-fashioned way.

Shields raised before him as soldiers pointed their spears at him, rancorously barking commands for him to keep his distance, or to surrender, or to keel over and die already, and other such nonsense. It was starting to get annoying, really. Again, the gleaming metal pointed at him was of a mundane sort. He peered down at the spearheads in disdain. The jumble of sticks and steel wobbled, pointed insistently at him, and swayed all too tantalizingly.

Before the oafs had a sliver of an idea, he swiped a handful of them into his hand, crushing the bouquet to splinters in an instant. Taking advantage of the knuckle guard on his rapier, he twirled the blade around his hand and changed his grip to that of a cutthroat. He was upon them in a flash, breaking through the first line of shields with a single kick, and carved through armor and flesh alike with the full weight of his momentum behind him.

But the cavity he’d cut into the formation would only hold so long. Hundreds of the shouting sacks of skin seemed hellbent on stopping him all at once, hounding him with everything they had. Shields bashed into him, swords and spears clattered and bounced off his skin but tore his clothing to tatters. It wasn’t long before their desperation made them forfeit their weaponry altogether, settling for trying to kick him over, or yanking at his arms, if only to stall his advance for another second. Eyes darting dangerously, he cut down whoever he could focus on long enough to kill.

Ghirahim trudged on, heaving, stained in blood, mud, and whatever else. It was slow, it was humiliating, but it was progress, and he could bear this nigh endless assault, if only for the carnal, berserker’s satisfaction the blood on his blades brought him.

At least, until he heard something unmistakable. One of these dogs had the gall to laugh.

There stood Ghirahim, his beloved cloak tattered, trampled and abandoned, his clothing hanging from him in ribbons, his skin cracked with glittering black and his hair tousled from far too many gloves yanking at it. They didn’t simply want to impede him, they fully intended to humiliate him.

Enough!

He wasn’t sure if he simply thought it, or shouted it to the heavens, but within an instant, his brute endurance changed to a rush of bloodlust. With a cry, he raised his arms and summoned a glittering red, impenetrable barrier.

The small crowd bunched in there with him seemed to realize that it was merely their own numbers they could trust awfully quick.

Ghirahim greeted the dawning fear that would soon suffocate his playpen with a cheek-splitting grin, baring every pearly white tooth he had.

Where the density of the crowd was once their greatest strength, it was now the soldiers’ downfall. There simply wasn’t enough space for any of them to join in proper formation, much less extend their sword. It was by design, of course. Ghirahim burst out in laughter, as gleeful as he was sadistic, as he began to tear away at the soldiers around him. Oh, how quickly they donned that veil of valiance again, so desperate to fall in honor after throwing themselves at him like animals! They certainly weren’t holding their fairest warriors as reserves. Even the blood tasted vile on these ones. The crowd thinned rapidly with the fury of his blade, which, to his amusement, made enough space for some of these fools to try and fight him again. It turned to a delightful routine – parry, perhaps a second clash of swords, then a jab at the shoulder, and a stab to the gut. Around them, the barrier had turned from red and gold to a flat crimson, obscuring his private arena from the outside world in a curtain of blood. And what a carnage it had been! Only five of them were left – ah, forgive his enthusiasm. Four, now – Three, tearing limbs out their sockets, crunching their jaws under his fists – two –

And then there were none.

Ghirahim stood upright, surveying his handiwork with renewed clarity. Cloth, skin, chainmail, plating, and shields alike accumulated on the floor in a scrapyard amalgam, groaning wetly under the force of his footsteps. A rhythmic pounding of pommels against his barrier thrilled like a landslide in the air, but he was confident the masses would not break through. He stroked a hand through his hair, only to notice black talons peeking through his gloves, and begrudgingly smiled.

His power was getting away from him again. Looking around the death gathered at his feet, he knew just the way to righten this new burst of energy. Unencumbered by his now-deceased assailants, he stretched himself with a laugh, cracking his shoulders to spread his hands to either side. Dancing forward across the heap of bodies he’s left, he swayed his arms in fluid motions, like plucking the strings to a harp. With each twitch of his fingers, he felt the power surge from the fading life beneath his feet, up his legs, and to his core – an eerie feeling, yet unrivaled in its profoundness, that chilled as much as it burned.

With two snaps of his fingers, spectral servants surrounded him. He’d wasted enough time; he had to catch up with that boy, and fast. Of all the strings that tugged on him, the one tied to the Hero’s Incarnation pulled the hardest. His barrier now dismissed, he sent the specters forward to clear his path, only to find the battlefield had changed in his absence. Drawn to the scent of blood, he’d imagine, Bokoblins had poured into the cracks of the Hyruleans’ defenses to draw ever nearer to the palace. Finally, some more backup than the measly groups he’d summoned!

He ran, he cut down anyone in his way, and he swerved through any opening he could. His feet pounded across the bridge, wind soaring in his ears. Moreso with kicks and elbows than with his swords, he broke past groups of soldiers, only to find an iconic presence tower above it all, glaring at the setting sun.

“Master,” Ghirahim cried out, and launched himself to his side to run beside him.

Ganondorf looked down at him over his shoulder. Past the blood and grime that others had splattered on him, he was as immaculate as he’d been when he first arrived. “The boy fled before I could engage. The Hyruleans are planning something, and I have no intention to-”

Golden beams of light had the audacity to interrupt his magnificent words and rip their attention to the north.

“The bridge keep… They have it out for our bases,” Ganondorf growled, stroking a hand across his black steel blade to charge it with wicked thunder. “Keep me no longer, Sword. I must be swift.”

Were it any other time, burdened as he was with the despair of judgment and abandonment of his Master, Ghirahim would have hung his head and accepted his departure. But this grave turn in destiny, where finally, the Demon King would get his hands on the Triforce, invigorated him to boldness never seen before. He lunged for the departing Gerudo and clutched his arm.

“If he’s going for our bases, Master, there is but one place he can go. I’ll take us there,” he shouted over the noise of battle, never shying from his gaze, even as he scowled at his sudden forwardness.

Yet Ganondorf’s expression softened, if one could ever call such a vicious grin ‘soft’. To Ghirahim, it was the most reassuring sight he could see.

Ganondorf turned to face the golden light once more, and spoke with narrowly restrained eagerness. “Then get on with it.”

Ghirahim gripped his arm with more vigor than he’d ever held anything. Diamond magic gathered at their feet, enveloping the both of them in a maelstrom that rippled the grass and billowed fabric in its intensity. Enveloping the Demon King in his own power sent his core into overdrive. Steam burst from his gritted teeth with a single pant, the sheer exertion threatening to melt him down. The golden light inside that man was simply so grand, so all-encompassing, that to wrap around it with the fickle fibers of his own seemed insurmountable. Yet he, the Demon King’s blade, his servant not only by design but by fierce desire, would not falter.

When they tore through the fabric of reality and landed at the foot of their base, the sheer vertigo of the transportation was enough to bring Ghirahim to his knees. He clutched the pommel of his Master’s sword, panting, and craned his head to look up at him. Ganondorf looked down at him past his pauldron and nodded at him, a smirk pulling at his features. He’d intrigued him – perhaps even impressed him!

Invigorated by the urge to have those eyes on him again, he wobbled back on his feet, as if born again, to trail after the Demon King as he marched onward.

Ganondorf turned his attention to a second rain of light pelting from the sky, steeling his grip on his crackling blades. “Hyrule’s Hero intends to drive us out of their turf. How fortunate that we can meet him halfway.”

This corner of the battlefield was still under their command, but their influence was slipping. Anything past Hylia River seemed to have been reclaimed by blue and silver, and their sickening radiance grew ever closer. It was a battle of endurance now, where the Demon forces had to resist being driven back, lest their goal slip through their fingers.

It was dire, yet it was not. Were he among Volga and Yuga, whose fire and thunder lit up the skies behind him, he might have despaired. Were he still trapped in that humiliating clash he’d ripped free from, he might have faltered. But sheltering the mighty back of his Master, whose shoulders squared exuding nothing but power and confidence, he knew victory was mere inches away.

That inch was announced with the skidding of hooves and the blowing and snorting of a startled equine. Link forced his horse to a halt, blue eyes shooting a piercing gaze at the two of them as they caught him off guard.

“Oh, come now,” Ghirahim chimed, collecting himself with a whip of his hair. “Don’t be shy! You’ve come this far, surely you didn’t think we’d let you claim our territory unchallenged?”

Ghirahim laughed, his arms outstretched in invitation as he waltzed his way over to the knight. The young man was worse for wear – his green garb was dirtied from his earlier battle, and though he’d been run through the infirmary, his heaving stance betrayed painful injuries. Yet, that furious, noble glare was unmistakable. He’d dragged himself here with willpower alone, and that very force would carry him ‘till his heart gave out.

Which, frankly, sounded like a fun little exercise.

Another smoky laugh escaped him when Link spurred his horse again, setting out for him with full intent to smack his head clean off his shoulders. Ghirahim looked back, inviting his Master to mock their adversary, and found him permitting his whims with a squint of his eyes.

Just before the advancing horseman could strike him, he disappeared with a flash and zipped back into view a ways behind. The horse bucked and staggered, aggravated not only by startle but the instinctual ferocity of demonic presence.

Ghirahim watched on in amusement as Link struggled to pacify his mount, finding it the perfect moment to prod at him some more. “Quit bullying that poor animal and face us properly, boy! You’re not slipping past us again!”

Eyes flitting between his two foes, Link grew antsy atop his panicked steed. He dismounted her with a sweep of his leg, setting her to run free, and once again brandished his sword. Both feet now firmly on the ground, his earlier discombobulation was nowhere to be seen. When Ghirahim prowled toward him, tongue darting between his lips, Link scowled at him with nothing but a righteous sense of duty.

How annoying!

“Ghirahim,” Ganondorf warned him. “Step aside.”

Snapped out of his bloodlust, the sword spirit straightened himself, his free hand before his chest. “As you wish, Master,” he stated, retreating with a bow to let Ganondorf take his place. “Same arrangement as before?”

The Demon King shook the sparks on his swords awake. “Let not a soul through.”

“As you wish.”

And so, Ghirahim braced himself again, darting forth to clear the King a proper arena. Those with seconds to spare would soon be dragged on the periphery with him, riddling the edges with hulking monsters. Two separate worlds were unfolding on this battlefield, that of the raging war of the masses, and the private duel guarded so tightly at its borders. In the natural order of things, those spheres would never have met, not until one of them ended, but a twist of fate broke their edge.

Just behind him, Ghirahim noticed a Dinolfos seize one of the Hyrulean captains in its gauntlet and lift them off the ground, inspecting them with nostrils twitching and teeth bared. With a furious hiss, it tossed the soldier to the ground, sending them skidding into private grounds.

Ghirahim would have torn the wretch apart for disturbing their King’s space, did he not notice just who was thrown to his Master’s attention. With scarlet hair, golden armor, and richly patterned clothing, the identity of this soldier was clear. Even more damning was the blue-and-silver banner hung from her waist.

The distraction allowed Link an opening. Ganondorf grunted as a gash was hacked into his thigh, but his first wound only served to invigorate him. “What is the meaning of this?” He snarled, tusks bared. The strikes he delivered upon Link’s shield caused the boy to buckle through his knees, and be thrown to the ground with the next. “You dare poison my own people against me? To think Hyrule calls me wicked. You would have Sisters slay each other.”

Link and his fairy stayed silent. He threw himself back on his feet and lunged for the Demon King once more.

If the battlefield was in dissonance, then the fatal clash behind him was a symphony. There was no desperation in it – the drive to see each other dead was pure and true, and Ghirahim would give his life to protect it. The bodies he left in his wake were his offerings, gifts for his Master, to keep that music safe and undisturbed.

Yet, even with this passion, in his strife to keep the raid squads at bay, an ominous glow in the skies distracted him. At once, the familiar comfort of servitude was shattered. Ghirahim kicked the burly Hylian before him to the ground and skewered him in place, if only to allow himself a few seconds unimpeded to keep an eye on that strange sight. The glow was met by a smoldering darkness from below, that formed a murky yellow globe just beyond the fortifications in the East. From that same faux-sunspot, light rained down from the sky, pelting down on the barrier in ground-shaking ferocity. But this attack was different; rather than the golden rays invoked by the descendant Hero, this one was a pure, blinding white, taking the shape of thousands of arrows. Zant had anticipated it! How nostalgic it must have been, for light and darkness to clash once more!

Then, the unthinkable happened. Not in that it was impossible – really, it was the only logical outcome – but in that he’d never want to imagine it. The Twilit barrier shattered to bits.

Ghirahim froze in place, eyes glued to the shining barrage from the heavens.

Even through the ringing in his ears, Ganondorf’s voice rang through clear as glass. “Princess Zelda is growing desperate. If she’s felled Zant, she will make her way here shortly.”

Felled?

“Do not let her reunite with her Knight, Blade!”

His feet moved on their own. Were there any soldiers impeding his way, he must have taken them out in sheer automation, for he didn’t notice them. All he had eyes for was the deluge of radiant arrows that turned the condense in the dark clouds above into a glittering expanse of stars. The heavens rejoiced and cheered for their princess as she took away what mattered to him so.

Ghirahim ran, too numbed by shock and steered by command only. What would he do, were he to round that corner and find her there? If he found something else he wouldn’t want to see? Would he be able to look away long enough to take her down?

The swarm of Hyruleans thickened around him as their demonic forces dwindled. Their keeps were being cleared out and invaded swiftly, leaving their most competent generals struggling to retain their ground. Yet, every one of them that saw his advance, rallied to clear his path. They could not win this war with numbers alone – everything rested on defeating the bearers of the Triforce.

The northern gates were in sight now, their doors blown to scrap and splinters, and the surrounding ground scarred with blight. He sprinted through them, rattling the bridge’s chains with his pounding footfall as he rushed to get to this final stand, only to skid to a halt.

In the distance, he saw a clash between beast and man still unfolding, as if the world had not ended here moments before. Approaching in eerie silence was an armored Bullbo, growling in strain against the many arrows that pierced its hide, but more notably, carrying an unbelievable shape on its back.

Zant slowed his steed with a pull on its reins and sidled up next to Ghirahim. Now witnessing him from the side, a second passenger came into view. A bloodied bronze gauntlet on thin, serene arms, and a curtain of vibrant, straw-blonde hair, draped past The Twilight King’s lap.

Retracting the visor of his helmet, Zant bared his smile. “Hail, Ghirahim-ili. I see you have stopped General Impa, as I advised. Well done,” he said, looking to the skies to find golden light still raining there. “What of the boy, Link?”

“... I… He’s… Master is, ah…” Ghirahim stammered, his throat suddenly feeling too tight to speak. “Link is weakened, and we stopped his advance. Master… Will prevail. Zant, how-”

“Excellent,” Zant interjected sharply. “Our victory is at hand, Ghirahim, but I am too weakened to escort the Princess on my own. Wizzro can only keep the forces behind me at bay for so long, thus, I must make haste,” Zant seemed to soliloquy for a moment, before looking down upon him from his mount again, grinning his teeth bare. “Will you join me for this grand finale?”

Ghirahim was too paralyzed to refuse or accept. Zant took his silence as confirmation anyway. He took off in a gallop. Feeling the strain at his collar, Ghirahim followed.

Hyrule field was in a greater state of chaos than Ghirahim had left it mere moments before. Enervated by the battle, the remaining demonic forces grew ever fiercer. Were it not for the bounty they carried with them, the sides would have seemed equally matched. Ghirahim wordlessly fluttered around Zant like a moth contemplating the light of a lantern, striking down anyone that came close. And those numbers gained, indeed, as they drew ever deeper into the conflict. Zant had drawn his blade, but from atop his porcine steed could only do so much.

The sight of the Princess splaying across the saddle eased their burden as much as it increased it. Hyrulean soldiers grew panicked and enraged, bearing down on them in droves, while their monstrous captains saw it as their cue to join their entourage.

As the eye of the storm formed around them, Zant addressed him. “You saw it. That golden light, decimating all in its wake. A magnificent power, isn’t it, Ghirahim?”

“It is,” Ghirahim replied. And you defeated her, he thought to himself. Against all logic, Zant came out victorious. At this point, asking him ‘how’ would only have resulted in a lackluster answer. Nor would knowing just ‘who’ this figure was sate him. The desire for questions was beginning to wane.

Ghirahim knew power when he saw it.

Zant chuckled behind his helmet. Tiring of this pace, he sent his mount into a gallop, and forced his way into the crowd. The Bullbo shrieked, tossed its head, and sent men tumbling, and grew ever-fiercer as more and more blades drove into it. With a sweep of his adamantine sword, Zant poked holes into the line of Hyruleans for their own troops to flood into.

He shrieked with laughter, yet held the princess fast to his saddle with care, as he turned his steed to face his co-lieutenant with masked glee. “All of it will be ours, very soon. Hold fast, Yima gradiegra. Master awaits.”

His Dagger.

Yes, he could do that.

With the sounds of combat mingling with the thunderous laugh and shouts of the Demon King, Zant deemed them close enough to dismount his beast. Sword sheathed at his back, he hopped down almost leisurely, as if the fate of the world wasn’t perched upon that very saddle. He turned, reached up for her, and let the limp frame of the defeated Princess Zelda collapse into his arms.

He lifted her carefully. Her head drooped against his shoulder guard and her arms laid over her stomach, as if she were naught but asleep. With her face now visible, Ghirahim could hazard a guess as to how she’d been defeated. The same pale gray of the hands that cradled her spread to her own skin, besmirching her features with runic pestilence. She breathed still, but there was no telling for how long.

As they drew closer to the fated strife that awaited them, Ghirahim felt like every step hollowed him out deeper. It was an odd feeling, acute in its onset, that gnawed at him without apparent cause. The leash that bound him to his duty tugged on him ever stronger, but as he drew to its source, he felt the urge to dig in his heels and resist.

Something wasn’t right. Wasn’t there more he had to do? More he had wanted? Thousands of years he had dedicated to this goal: deliver the Triforce unto his Master’s hands, so He may claim the Surface as His. It was right before him now, on the cusp of being completed, but it felt wrong. Unfulfilling.

It was just as he’d felt before, but now, he realized just how time had gotten away from him. Never did he expect his wish to dodge out of reach so quickly. With each pace of feet that shouldn’t be, his melancholy grew. His purpose was about to conclude, without him where he belonged. The Demon Blade was firmly in his scabbard and refused by his Master’s hand. In such a crucial moment, he never got to be his sword.

With that pit in his core, he watched on as the masses split by his blade and the duel carried on. Even as war raged on for hours, Ganondorf retained his poise. His stance was like that of a mountain, never to crumble, only to erupt. The flats of his enormous swords acted as shields against the fury of Link’s attacks, while their edges bore down on the boy like a butcher’s knife. His Master wielded those blades forged in the sword spirit’s shape, but empty of him, to strike down the reincarnation of his foil, almost in mockery. Ganondorf realized the picture he was meant to fulfill, certainly. He was the image of Demise, but as proven time and time again, he was his own man. With such pride came its own tools, resigning Ghirahim to symbolics only, to be by his side as an object of veneration.

But looking upon Zant, carrying the Hylian Princess in his bloodied hands, his world went still. Even he had fulfilled that part of their mission, the Twilight Scimitar as his implement. If Ghirahim didn’t know that sword to be empty, he would have taken its twilit glow to be an insult, a triumphant laugh to have stolen the King of Shadows from him. Ghirahim taught those very hands to grace that hilt, and now that they were wrapped around foreign steel, an entirely new feeling chilled him; sharpened his gaze. It was an emerald, serpentine envy.

All that time he spent training him to wield this very blade, and now, the fruits of his labor went to that wretched thing. As he had once intended, indeed, but now that his goal was attained, he felt not a shred of satisfaction. He felt robbed, instead. The one to feel the maiden’s blood coursing down his blade should have been him. It was only logical - it was just!

The surrounding armed forces were split into a perfect crowd. Some were frozen in place, looking on in horror as the bloodied dove that was their Princess hung cradled there in her defeat. Others threw themselves at the Twilight King in almost bestial rage, swords outstretched, had they remembered to wield them in their fury, to strike down the wicked foe that carried her. Yet, none could manage to reach him, being bounced off by a shadowed shield, or ran through by the Demon Lord’s blade, who stood to defend him without even thinking to do so.

In an odd tranquility, Zant padded over to Ganondorf, the bottom half of his face bared and his lips a mirthless smile.

But even with the approach of his defeated compatriot, Link did not relent. He took one look at Zelda and his face tightened into a wide-eyed snarl, before throwing himself back at Ganondorf with furious abandon. His adversary merely laughed. Whatever respect he had for his foe was no longer visible on his face. Ganondorf braced his swords, turning them in his hands with flowing sweeps like they weighed no more than paper, to deflect the Master Sword’s glowing strikes. Steel sang and thrummed under the relentless flurry of blows, but all was drowned out by the thunderous laughter from beyond the wall of metal.

Link was fierce, unrelenting. Red stains spread under his tunic where the King did not strike, but where old wounds tore open under sheer strain. Sweat coursed down his face, mingling with the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His stumble betrayed a pain untold. Yet, none of it stopped him, even as Zant drew closer, the Princess in his arms.

Tiring of the boy’s meddling, Ganondorf glared at him past his massive blade, before whacking the holy sword right out from his hand with one mighty strike.

Ghirahim knew that alarmed chime better than anyone. He taunted her with a cheerful tone of his own.

Now disarmed, Link seemed undeterred. He wasted not a second before diving back for his blade. He could not get far before Ganondorf’s golden gauntlet clasped around his left wrist. Hyrule’s beloved Hero was lifted into the air kicking and screaming, at the horror of every bystander – all but two. The Gerudo King’s metal-clad fist drove into his ribs, shattering through a glimmering golden barrier and striking chainmail with a sickening crunch. Just like that, Link was silenced, gasping for air that would not enter him, and eyes bulging in their sockets.

And so, with his two servants standing before him in adoration, Ganondorf held his foil in his hand like a hunting trophy, and extended his other, palm turned up, to receive his next piece of destiny.

Zant stepped forward once more. He craned his head to the side, looking at Princess Zelda almost wistfully. All was silent, save nothing but the shifting of fabric, the clanking and jingling of bangles and armor, and the Princess’ strained breathing, as Zant held her out to his King in shaking arms.

Ganondorf snatched her from him without a second thought. Hoisted in the air by her wrist, Zelda still did not stir, dangling limply before her fated companion. That green-clad companion now only had eyes for her. Link stared at her pleading as though worrying enough for her might wake her.

Whatever sentimentality was about to unfold, The Demon King put a swift stop to it. A pulse of energy burst from him with the clench of his fists around their arms. All troops were forced into silence, with two lieutenants brought to a kneel. Something thrummed in the air, like the warning signs of a thunderstorm, carrying a heavy pressure that stoked the breath. Where the sun had once cast the battlefield in a pale gold, darkness now crept in past the hills, summoned from far and wide to swirl at Ganondorf’s feet.

The bearers of Courage and Wisdom recoiled, writhing and contorting in agony as a golden glow was forced from them. Their captor paid their anguished cries no mind. The light poured from them ever stronger, almost blindingly so. Their magic had a mind of its own, knowing that to be parted from their vessels would be an unprecedented act of wrongness, and kept itself lodged firmly where it sat. It shrieked, struggling to keep itself contained, until at last, it could fight against pure power no longer.

That same golden glow ripped from them in an instant, and Ganondorf seized up, his head craned to the skies. Wide-set eyes pierced the heavens, their gaze alone boring a hole in the dark clouds that gathered there. A resonant thrum caused the debris on the ground to skip about like grasshoppers, an image so playful yet foreboding.

That humming grew louder, deeper, until it shook the crowd so deeply all were deafened by the shaking of their own bones, and it burst into a climax. More radiant than ever before, a bright red light flared from the Demon King as if the sun itself stood in their midst. Fierce energy whipped around him like a maelstrom before it shot into the sky, lighting the beacon to signal the beginning of the end. Above it all, Ganondorf laughed.

Drained of their worth, two Hylians were relinquished, and dropped to the ground.

#tftk #ghirazant #zant #ghirahim #ganondorf #yuga #wizzro #volga #hyrule warriors #the legend of zelda #bearwrites #beararts #impa #link #<- decided to tag those goody two shoes anyways

64 notes · View notes

captainremmington-13 · 7 months

Text

A Lady Made of Snow

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own The Hunger Games franchise, the images above, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, or any of the characters in this fic other than Bellova.

SUMMARY: Bellova begins to notice how dedicated Coriolanus is to helping his tribute, which greatly displeases her. But her anger at the young Snow is temporarily forgotten about when one of her classmates dies in her arms. (i’m using a combination of the movie and book version of the events that occur in this chapter)

Warnings: spoilers for TBOSAS, death, mentions of violent urges, mentions of blood, crying, one swear word

Bellova sighed inwardly, drawing a rose with a fountain pen on her notebook where she was supposed to be writing down Dean Highbottom’s words. The lecture was pointless in her opinion. She knew everything the dean was talking about by heart, and she was alive when the events being discussed were occurring.

She would never admit it to him, but she wished Coriolanus hadn’t skipped class to accompany his tribute. It was unusual for him, the star student, to miss a lecture, even one of Highbottom’s. The competition between them made the dean’s nonsensical ramblings almost bearable.

Then, as if on cue, a breathless and sweaty Coriolanus burst into the lecture hall. All eyes turned to him, shocked at his disheveled appearance.

“Your little excursion was in violation of about five different Academy rules, Mr. Snow. Chief amongst them, endangering a Capitol student,” Dean Highbottom said, not looking up from his papers.

“What?” Coriolanus said, baffled. “Who?”

“You.” Highbottom’s response made Bellova roll her eyes. He was constantly looking for reasons to target the young Snow. “I’m moving for the Gamemakers to disqualify you as mentor immediately.”

“You said we had to get our tributes to perform, not that we had to stay away,” Coriolanus argued, standing at his seat next to Bellova but not sitting down.

“I’ll add insubordination as well,” the dean said smugly.

“Holding her hand, Coryo? Introducing her to people?” Arachne said, clearly disgusted. “You make it look as if we’re one and the same as those animals.”

Bellova couldn’t help but agree silently with her. She hated that Coriolanus had done so much to promote Lucy Gray, even going so far as to touch her. Had he forgotten that he was of the purest Capitol blood, only fit to associate with those who also held that status?

“Coriolanus didn’t show those people anything they didn’t already know.”

Bellova had to grip her textbook to refrain from throwing something at the young Plinth. He was being foolish, saying such things in the presence of the dean and the other mentors.

“I don’t need your help, Sejanus,” Coriolanus snapped.

“That the tributes are human beings. Just like us,” Sejanus continued. “That’s why nobody wants to watch the Games. It’s because people know deep down that winning a war ten years ago doesn’t justify starving people’s children, taking away their freedoms, their rights.”

“Shut up, Sejanus, please,” Bellova murmured through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, Dr. Gaul appeared, startling many of the mentors. Bellova looked at her, setting down her fountain pen.

“Snow fell down in the cage,” she began, smiling crookedly. “It fell down in the cage but it landed…”

“On stage,” Coriolanus finished.

The doctor grinned with delight. “You’re good at games. Maybe one day, you’ll be a Gamemaker like me.”

“If the Games continue at all,” Highbottom added.

“Oh, they’ll continue. With performances like young Mr. Snow’s in that zoo. And I came here to ask your star mentor a question: what are The Hunger Games for?”

This sparked an argument between Dr. Gaul, Highbottom, Coriolanus, and Sejanus. Bellova listened, intrigued. This was the most interesting thing that had happened during one of Highbottom’s lectures since the time Persephone and Arachne almost ripped each other’s heads off over a petty dispute.

Coriolanus then proposed an idea, about making the games more “personal” for Capitol citizens.

“We need them to invest,” he said. “And if we bend a few Capitol laws, we could even have them place bets. Look, I know Lucy Gray may not win in the arena. But if you give her a chance, I would bet the Plinth Prize that she can win people’s attention.”

Dr. Gaul looked at him. “I’d like you to write up a proposal of these thoughts tonight, Mr. Snow.”

“Wait,” Clemensia Dovecote spoke up. “You mean you might actually use his ideas?”

“If it’ll help the ratings, why not?” Dr. Gaul responded.

“Coriolanus and I are class partners, Dr. Gaul,” Clemensia said hastily. “We do all of our assignments together.”

‘Someone’s desperate for approval,’ Bellova thought, giving Clemensia a brief look of annoyance.

Dr. Gaul laughed, sending a visible chill through many of the mentors. “It’ll be an interesting test.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the lecture ended, the mentors went straight to the cafeteria. They were buzzing with excitement at the idea that Dr. Gaul may listen to their suggestions. Having an idea approved by her could do wonders for their future careers.

Bellova stood in line holding a tray, eyeing the mint chocolate fudge in the dessert section. She loved mint. It reminded her of wintertime, her favorite season.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Coriolanus tapping her on the shoulder.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Coriolanus scoffed. “Your perfect manners never cease to amaze me.”

Bellova sneered. “Funny. Now get to the point.”

“I’m going to sneak some food out of here and give it to Lucy Gray at the Zoo. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me. You haven’t met your tribute yet, after all.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, putting a few slices of bread on her plate. “Breaking the rules again? After Highbottom just threatened to write you up for insubordination?”

“You were the one who told me to do anything it takes to succeed.”

“Fair enough,” she sighed. “Fine, I’ll come with you. I’ll give my tribute some bread while we’re there.”

Coriolanus smirked. “Who’s breaking rules now?”

Bellova gave him a look. “I’ll see you at the Zoo, Coryo.” With that, she grabbed a stack of mint chocolate fudge slices and walked off to join her friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that afternoon, Coriolanus, Bellova, and a handful of the other mentors met up at the Capitol Zoo. They immediately made their way to the monkey exhibit, where the tributes were being held. Nodding at the Peacekeepers surrounding the area, they stood inches away from the bars keeping them separated from the district children.

Bellova scanned the exhibit and eventually spotted her tribute in the corner. “Velvereen!” she called. The girl made her way over to the bars, looking at Bellova warily.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m your mentor, Bellova. Here, I brought some bread for you.” She held out the napkin to Velvereen, who took it instantly. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit earlier. I have a busy schedule.”

Velvereen said nothing, focusing on wolfing down the bread.

“So,” Bellova continued. “Have you talked to any of the other tributes?”

“Not besides Facet,” she said, pointing to the male District 1 tribute. “Oh, and the singer girl. The one with the strange dress.”

Bellova glanced over at Lucy Gray, who was talking very intimately with Coriolanus. She fought back a look of irritation. Lucy Gray was certainly a spectacle, but she was clearly deranged. She couldn’t understand why Coriolanus was so fascinated with her, other than her extremely strange behavior.

“I see,” Bellova said. “Well, I promise to visit more often if I can. My advice to you is to make allies. The more that you have, the better your chance of survival is.”

Velvereen nods. “I know. That’s what my father told me.”

Bellova gave her a small smile. “It’s good to know that you have a basic understanding of strategy.”

She looked to her left, and saw Arachne taunting her tribute with a glass bottle. “Arachne!“ she hissed. “What the hell are you doing?“

“Shut up, Bellova!” Arachne snapped. “Mind your own business.”

“Fine!” Bellova snapped back. She and Velvereen continued discussing the Games. She was thankful that her tribute was willing to converse, unlike several, who refused to interact with their mentors. But as much as she tried to focus on her tribute, she felt her eyes wander to Coriolanus and Lucy Gray, who seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. It seemed as if her odd charms were beginning to rub off on the young Snow as well. If she hadn’t been surrounded by so many Capitol citizens, she would’ve been tempted to grab Lucy Gray by the hair and slam her head against the metal bars of the enclosure.

Her violent fantasy was abruptly halted by a chorus of screams.

Brandy, Arachne’s tribute, had grabbed her mentor by the neck and snatched the bottle from her. “Help!” Arachne shrieked, trying desperately to escape her grasp. Before anyone could do anything, Brandy smashed the bottle against the metal bars of the cage, and used the serrated edge to stab her in the neck.

“No, no, no!” Coriolanus screamed, rushing towards Arachne, who lay on the ground, convulsing in pain as the crowd screamed frantically around them. He gathered the girl in his arms, putting his hand to her throat, trying to stop the blood flow. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Hold on. Hold on!”

Arachne gasped for air, blood oozing from her neck. Bellova crouched down at her side, turning her head to face her. “Hey, look at me. Hey, hold on! It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ll get help, I promise.”

“Somebody help us, please!” Coriolanus yelled at the crowd.

Chaos erupted, making the whole scene a blur. Brandy was shot by Peacekeepers, falling to the ground with a thud. The other tributes were screaming wildly, ducking away to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

Coriolanus and Bellova were eventually dragged away from Arachne, who was lifted onto a stretcher. They were escorted by Peacekeepers out of the Zoo and back onto Academy grounds. Once inside a quiet hallway, they collapsed onto the ground side by side, finally able to process what had just happened.

Bellova, who almost never showed any emotion besides smugness, anger, or contempt in Coriolanus’s presence, began to cry. Her head swam with terror and disgust, the sight of Arachne’s slit throat burned into her mind. She was never close to the girl, she found her to be shallow and hated her whining. But they had grown up together. She was part of the Capitol’s finest, meaning they had attended several events together over the years and visited each other’s homes regularly. And now, she was gone.

“I should’ve done more to stop her,” she said, voice trembling uncontrollably. “She was being stupid, and I just let her keep doing it! Her blood is on my fucking hands! It’s all my fault!”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Coriolanus spoke up. “Blame the district girl. She was the one who did it.”

“I know, I know,” Bellova cried, black mascara running down her face, ruining her perfect face of makeup. “But she’s dead too. I can’t even avenge Arachne by killing her. There’s nothing I can do.”

Coriolanus, who had finally stopped shaking, pulled Bellova into his side gently. He put his arm around her, rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder. “You’re safe now. This won’t ever happen again, the Capitol will tighten security tenfold.”

Without thinking, Bellova leaned into Coriolanus’s grasp. He patiently let her cry into his shoulder, while he tried to help steady her breathing. The two young students clung to each other, forgetting all of their past grievances in that moment.

When they finally pulled away, they looked at each other, as if they were stunned at their own actions. Neither of them were affectionate towards each other, or affectionate people in general. Yet here they were, sitting on the cold marble floor of the Academy, comforting each other.

Bellova cleared her throat. “We should probably get out of here. Let the administrators know that we’re going home early.”

Coriolanus nodded, standing up and holding out his hand to help her up. Bellova took it, smiling ever-so slightly.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Of course,” Coriolanus replied.

They informed the staff that they’d be departing early. Nobody tried to stop them, understanding that they’d just been through a traumatic event. They walked down the steps of the Academy’s main building, standing near the curb.

Finally, Bellova broke the silence. “Let me take you back to your apartment. My driver will be here any minute.” Before Coriolanus could protest, she said, “You’re in no condition to walk that far. I know you always say you walk to and from school to clear your mind, but just let me do this for you. Please?”

“Fine,” Coriolanus said reluctantly.

As they sat in the back of Bellova’s chauffeur’s car, neither of them said a word to each other. The death of Arachne had clearly rattled them both to the core, but they couldn’t bring themselves to talk about it. It still all felt like a nightmare.

Bellova took a small compact and handkerchief out of her bag, using the cloth to wipe away the black stains her tears had left behind. She pressed some foundation over it, erasing any evidence of a breakdown.

Coriolanus watched her, realizing that he’d likely never see her this vulnerable again. He was still surprised that she didn’t slap him for embracing her. They certainly had a unique relationship. Often times they were at each other’s throats, occasionally they exchanged words of advice and encouragement. But nevertheless, he didn’t want to see her so hurt. She was…a friend? A companion? Something other than a stranger, for sure.

They pulled up outside of Coriolanus’s apartment complex, and Bellova’s driver opened the door for him.

Coriolanus turned to Bellova, who was staring down at her hands. “Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bellova said, looking up to give him a small smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Coryo.”

“See you tomorrow, Bellova.”

And with one last nod, Coriolanus shut the door behind him, returning to his run-down apartment where Tigris and Grandma’am were waiting.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

TAGLIST: @daenerysqueenofhearts, @squidscottjeans, @euphemiaamillais, @gracieroxzy

Author’s Note: This chapter was a lot longer than the last one lolll I really liked writing this part because things become a lot more intense. Let me know in the comments what you think and if you’d like to be tagged!

#coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow x oc #original character #thg prequel #the hunger games #arachne crane #clemensia dovecote #dean highbottom #the capitol #coriolanus snow x reader #lucy gray baird

58 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year

Note

lady and the tramp spaghetti kiss but with deuce’s mom and lilia 🫣

I'm yoinking this idea for the unofficial blog event 🤡

(Quick clarification: Mrs. Spade being an ex-delinquent is a headcanon! I just thought it’d be an interesting concept, so I incorporated it into her character.)

Curiouser and Curiouser...

When Lilia mentions to his son that he's planning on cooking for the "lady friend" he's seeing, Silver steps in to stop his dad from poisoning the poor woman. "You should try a restaurant, get to know one another better before volunteering to share your... talent with her," Silver advises as lightly as he can. Thankfully for him (and for his dad's date), Lilia relents.

He decides to take his date to Tony's, a laid-back family friendly pizza and pasta joint in town. Lilia brings along his own candle—blessed with Malleus’s almost apocalyptic green fire (imagine that, a horned fairy godmother in pitch black robes)—to decorate their table, as well as a crystal vase with a single red rose (provided from the Heartslabyul Gardens by Cater, wanting to support his fellow Light Music Club member. “Knock’m dead with your charm, Lils!”)

Kalim had wanted to contribute something to Lilia’s date night, but unfortunately a huge parade of animals, while impressive, wouldn’t squeeze into Tony’s. Instead, Kalim went shopping with Lilia to help him get all dripped out for the occasion! “I’ll pay for whatever you want, so have at it!” (It was Jamil who had to limit Lilia’s spending and stopped him from buying medieval battle armor. “Why would you wear this to a date?! Are you trying to kill them? Just wear something practical and casual!”)

Lilia thought he’d be the first at the venue, but he's actually been beaten to the punch. She's easy to spot because of her hair--a bob, striped blonde and dark blue--and her spade earring. Lips painted, eyes done up. Her leather jacket is open to reveal a cute white rabbit logo (most likely a freebie T-shirt from work), paired with jeans (ripped at the knees) and ankle boots.

"You're early, Dylla," he remarks, slipping into the seat across from her and placing the candle and vase on the table. She smiles and says, "I'd never be late for a very important date."

Lilia asks if Dylla was waiting for long. According to her, she was at the restaurant over 15 minutes ago but "not to worry" because she was just talking to her son over the phone to pass the time. Dylla mentions that her son can be such a worrywart sometimes. "He was reminding me to stay safe and to let you know that he'll be on your ass if you make me sad," Dylla says with a laugh. "Oh my, I'd better not let your smile waver then," Lilia replies easily.

While they're looking over the menus, Lilia mentions his own "prodigious" cooking. (According to him, his son Silver just can't get enough of it!! Once, Silver took one bite and immediately passed out from how "good" it was.) "It's a required skill for single parents," Dylla agrees. "I can cook myself, but mainly simple dishes. My Deuce enjoys eggs, so I usually make things with those. It helps that they're cheap and keep for a long time too." (She says that she'd love to try his food, and in return she'll make something for him too! They make a promise to get to it someday.)

They settle on ordering the same item: Starry Night Spaghetti, a plate of spaghetti with meatballs. (There’s a story that two dogs once had the same dish under the stars, and became closer than ever as a result!) “A shame we aren’t eating outside—then we’d be bonded just like the canine couple,” Lilia says.

During the wait for their food, they exchange crazy stories about their lives. Lilia shocks Dylla with tales of his travels and of his past as a war veteran (although he's a little vague about the details), and Dylla tells him all about her days as an ex-delinquent and biker chick. "Kufufu, looks can be quite deceiving," Lilia chuckles. "No one would dare suspect such sweet-faced people like us to be so troublesome~"

Of course, they also share stories about their sons! Who can forget when Deuce used to wear all those rabbit-themed clothes as a kid? How about the time Silver fought a family of bears and came out of the battle with three new friends?

Lilia scootches his seat closer so he can show off some pictures of him and Silver on his phone! Dylla's shoulder presses against Lilia’s as she leans in to look, squishing the two into their own personal bubble, seemingly putting them in a world far away from the noisy pizzeria.

They decide to take pics together to commemorate the date! Dylla learns a lot of things from Lilia (like flipping the camera lenses to take better selfies, how to use the timing feature, and what filters do). They take a normal picture, then one with silly faces (Lilia’s suggestion) and a third with silly poses (also Lilia’s suggestion).

He busts out his bagpipes at some point to romance her with a romantic (?) serenade. Lilia does a little jig with it—something he threw together on the spot with knowledge of different styles of dancing from various cultures. The other customers mistake him for a paid performer and start clapping along and cheering—and Dylla joins in, clapping and cheering the loudest of them all.

Lilia starts to ask if they’d like an encore, if and so, which instrument? Mandolin or accordion? He can play them all! A member of the wait staff comes over to gently ask that Lilia put away his instruments, so then Lilia tries to sing without any musical accompaniment: “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, thaaat’s amoreeeeee 🎵”

He gets shut down a second time because, “Sir, your screeching is making the children at the next table over cry.” (Dylla gets a real kick out of Lilia’s enthusiasm though! “I can’t remember the last time a man was passionate enough to sing his heart out, consequences be damned!”)

When the food finally arrives, they realize that the chef must have made a mistake—there’s one plate of spaghetti, as though both of their orders were combined onto a single massive serving. But hey, Lilia’s willing to roll with it and just eat off the same plate. “What do you know, it’s family style!” he jokes. “In the Land of Crimson Long, it’s common for restaurants to serve food this way. You just pick out the portion you want to serve yourself.”

So that’s just what they do—stabbing their forks into the spaghetti at opposite ends and eating from that. Lilia’s appetite is healthy (he’s getting sauce on his mouth and is sucking up the noodles with such speed that a stray one slaps him in the face), but Dylla's got something on her mind.

She keeps winding her spaghetti around and around on her fork, lost in thought and doubts. Dylla wonders about a great deal of things. When is the right time to introduce this man to Deuce? How would he take it, especially when he’s gone without a father for his whole life? Was she even deserving of another husband, and someone as wonderful as Lilia?

Dylla absentmindedly brings the noodles to her mouth. There’s a slight tug at the other end (a stubborn clump, maybe?) but she pays it no mind, far too fixated on her thoughts. She doesn’t realize what’s happening until she feels something on her lips—and finds Lilia’s wide-eyed stare trained on her.

They hurriedly pull back from one another, and from the spaghetti-stained kiss. Dylla's slightly panicked and profusely apologetic, but Lilia reassures her that it’s fine, neither of them were anticipating it—and if anything, the guilt is split 50-50! “Guess we’ll both have to be sentenced for our grave crime!”

“… Oh, one moment. You have something here.” Lilia runs a thumb along the margins of Dylla's lower lip. It’s just some stray spaghetti sauce and lipstick smudges, but the gesture, however small, feels very tender and intimate, even moreso than the kiss. His hand lingers for maybe a second longer than it should have, but he, at last, retreats with a playful grin. “There you are, good as new.”

They fistfight to be the first one to the bill (their reasoning being, “it must be hard for you as a fellow single parent, let ME foot the full thing!”). Being fae, Lilia has the advantage with superior strength and speed, but Dylla gives him a good run for his money. They fight ends with Lilia headlocking his date and seizing the check in his mouth, puncturing the paper with his fangs.

Before any wallets can be opened, their (deeply exasperated) waiter asks them to “please just leave”, not even caring if they pay or not. (He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with shenanigans like this 💦)

They exit Tony’s and enter the night. There’s a full moon out to illuminate their way as they walk to Dylla's waiting magical wheel. As she produces her keys, Lilia tucks the red rose that had been with them at heir dining table behind her left ear. “May the Night guide you,” he says cryptically. Dylla isn’t sure what it means, but it makes the heat rise to her cheeks anyway. He sure knows how to sweet talk, his way into someone’s heart.

She asks Lilia where his ride is and he nonchalantly says that he “flew in”, which just leaves her slack jawed (until he cracks yet another classic Dad Joke with, “and boy, are my arms tired!”). “Well, if you’re up for it, I’d love to give you a lift home,” Dylla offers. “There’s plenty of room for another person.”

“If you could take me to Silver’s dorm, that would be great—but how scandalous! We disturb the public peace, don’t pay for our meal, then make a quick getaway on a motor vehicle?” Lilia climbs aboard, looping his arms around his date. “I think we’re shaping up to be quite the criminal couple.”

Dylla revs up her magical wheel, which lets out a monstrous groan. They peel off and merge into the road, racing the stars and sky that housed them, their peals of laughter filling the night. It was definitely one to remember.

162 notes · View notes

karouvas · 1 month

Note

40 + each Gangsey member

40. Favorite book

but I found actually assigning each of them a favorite book too hard so instead I wrote up headcanons about their general tastes, maybe a couple things they would like and what I would recommend for them to read!

. Blue — well we know that she and Maura would read separate books together side by side at night and I have my headcanon based on that little mermaid line about Persephone reading fairy tales to her in their original forms. In my head I think Blue generally likes reading nonfiction about ecology and other things related to her interests, but also likes reading collections of short stories and poems (she has that poem she copied to the ceiling of her room but we never learn which one it is but based on that saying she likes poetry). I think she reads novels less because they’re less suited to her attention span (I see her as the type of person who likes reading but wouldn’t call herself *a reader* if asked because she feels she isn’t traditionally smart enough or quick enough with it and it takes a lot for her to buy into a story in a way if it’s a novel whereas with nonfiction books and articles she knows it’s about something specific that she likes such as nature or animals) than short form like stories or articles, and it’s rarer for her to find ones she really likes but like the few novels that she truly loves would be really impactful to her. Oh and the short stories and novels she is very into would be fantasy, she’d be like I’ll read total nonfiction or total fantasy anything in between is useless to me.

If I was giving her recommendations I’d want her to read Wild Beauty by Anna-Marie Mclemore in terms of novels but really generally her books, and The Lady of the House of Love by Angela Carter for a short story. And I’d rec her some Maya Angelou and Fatimah Asghar poems but come to think of it maybe Where The Caged Bird Sings would be her favorite book I could see it..

Adam — also reads a lot of nonfiction compared to fiction, but fiction he does read I think is probably either mysteries or classics. There might be an occasional thing he likes that’s ostensibly a tad too whimsical to be *Adam-like* as he would define it (since he often is drawn into those things and people despite himself) but in general realism over fantasy. I see a younger Adam, in what little time he has outside of working and managing school and his parents and all that entails, spending as much time as possible in the library since it means peace and quiet and escape and also knowledge which he is hungry for independently. I like to think he read like, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew in terms of books for his age range but also probably some like adult psychological thrillers.

Obviously if I got to recommend any book to him I’d pick Mr. Ripley just to clown on him, I don’t think he’d love it though I think he’d have a lot of ambivalent feelings about it and maybe say that he hated it but think about passages all the time afterwards. For a book he’d actually enjoy in the typical sense… maybe Gone Girl, I feel like it hits a sweet spot in being a mysery and a revenge fantasy that are not too on the nose / have several degrees of separation from his life but still has enough elements that he could enjoy the catharsis of said revenge fantasy. I almost said we have always lived in the castle for similar reasons but then I thought that Adam might find the ending horrifying not because Mericatt kills her family that he would enjoy, but because she traps and isolate herself at the end and that’s her happy ending so he wouldn’t find be able to find that a victory if he related to her a bit, seeing as to him a victory needs to involve being accepted by society.

Gansey — obviously he reads a lot of history and also I think a lot of mythology, primarily Welsh but I think he’d go on pipelines to read about other things a lot when they relate because so much mythology and folklore intersects. He and Blue once they get together probably read these together all the time and her background knowledge of certain things from 300 fox way probably impressive and turns him on a lot… also he and Adam probably read these together a lot and Adam was probably attempting a perfect balancing act between making sure he got to point things out to Gansey and seem smart so he would respect him and orchestrating moments for Gansey to read to him / lecture him in That Voice … anyway. But aside from that I also do think he reads a lot of different types of fiction, in every genre really but fantasy historical and classics would be his favorites I think. He’d love things like The Night Circus, I like the idea of him reading a lot of Emily Dickinson when he was 14 and recreating his death all the time, Tolkein obviously, probably some Sanderson I have mixed feelings there but do think Gansey would be a fan. I try very hard not to be too projection-y with chars in these types of hc things because that can be unfun, but I do think his favorite Jane Austen book is my favorite Jane Austen book which is Emma (I do have an idea for an au where Gansey is Emma and Blue is Knightley and Adam is Harriet but also maybe some of their roles interchange or intersperse with each other anyway..). For books he probably wouldn’t have read that I would recommend to him … I think reading some more low brow stuff might be good for him in a sense, maybe I’d put together a Shadowhunter books reading list for him. I do think if he read TID and TDA back to back it could help him figure out he’s bi and polyamorous.

Ronan — well in this case I think it’s basically canonical his favorite book is Alice in Wonderland. I think Ronan’s taste in books is probably like he almost never reads but when he does he’s a huge snob about it, both ends of the spectrum. So I think like he loved Frankenstein obviously, and The Iliad. Thus if I was given the opportunity I’d rec him paranormal things he probably hates as a concept but I think he could get obsessed with if given the opportunity, maybe The Demon’s Lexicon by Sarah Rees Brennan or the Mara Dyer trilogy. The former he’d definitely project onto a lot since the first book is about brothers who aren’t dissimilar from him and Ronan, and then he’d be betrayed when the 2nd and 3rd books are about women. The latter he would say he hated but I know that man would devour them don’t ask me how I just do.

Henry — going to confess that I haven’t actually read A Separate Piece but I read a fic once where it was his favorite book and that feels so correct I took it as canon from then on. I would recommend him The Dead Queens Club by Hannah Capin.

Noah — I think would mostly like graphic novels, and I follow one series of graphic novels that I don’t think he would like much (Monstress by Marjorie Liu). Of the other comics I’ve attempted into the other one that I liked enough that I want to continue with at some point was Wicked + the Divine so maybe that.. I think him getting Ronan into it could lead to interesting results too.

Ty!

#asks #anons #trc #the raven cycle #tdt #birdverse #the gangsey #blue sargent #adam parrish #richard gansey #gansey #ronan lynch #noah czerny #henry cheng #s speaks #my headcanons #sorry that I have less detail for Henry and Noah but I like to extrapolate off canon a lot for hcs and there is less for them

21 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 9 months

Text

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

Note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @writtenonreceipts! I hope you like this- I tried so hard to give it TOG vibes AND to incorporate nessian and feysand because you said you love them (and I in turn love you).

@acotargiftexchange

Major thanks to @velidewrites and @wilde-knight for the moodboard + beta-ing this fic when I was laying face down in a puddle of my own tears.

Read On AO3 | Chapter 1

In recent memory, Lucien couldn’t remember ever feeling fouler than he did that day, standing in the throne room between his parents to greet a personalized list of women his mother hoped might one day be her future daughter-in-law. Lucien had tried in the beginning, offering a smile as he kissed gloveless hands. He’d filed away names for later, trying to paste them against genuinely lovely faces.

He’d expected to meet five women—maybe ten. But this had been going on for hours and he’d lost count of how many women he’d been shown. Fifty? With more that had arrived that his mother deemed otherwise unacceptable and therefore weren’t worth his time or attention. They’d be looking for him, too. Lucien felt like a piece of meat dangled before a wild animal gnashing its teeth hungrily.

“Mother,” he said when the doors closed, catching his parents before they could beckon for another. “Surely this is too much. Please.”

“It’s good for you to meet your future court,” his father said, drumming long fingers against an ivory carved throne. Gold crowned both his fathers dark head of hair as well as the back of the chair, making it seem as if the King of the West radiated pure sunlight. His mother was a vision just beside, draped in a cream dress and a threaded crown of gold woven through her vivid auburn hair.

“Isn’t that what all the activities are for? I feel…” he couldn’t say it, couldn’t force those spoiled words from his lips. “I need some air.”

He could see their frustration etched over their features. Was this truly the life laid before him? Would he one day be sitting in his fathers chair beside a woman his mother arranged for him, their son between them? The thought made Lucien want to gag. He hadn’t asked to be a prince, after all and right then, resentment burned hotly through him.

“Take a breath, son—”

“I won’t,” Lucien interrupted, fingers curling to fists. It wasn’t the first time he and his father had disagreed, though it was the first time that his mother would witness it. “This is too much.”

“This is duty, Lucien. Or did you imagine it was all dress up and sword fighting with your friends? We are on the precipice of war and every man has converged on our home to demonstrate their loyalty to our family. You repay them poorly by scowling and acting like a tantruming child,” his father cautioned, gold eyes narrowed in warning.

“They’re delusional if they think I’ll marry one of their daughters and elevate them far above their stations!” Lucien snapped, stepping from the dais to the swirling gold and gray patterned floor. “There are simply too many women and not enough time—”

“You will choose one of them,” his father said again, harsher this time.

“Let’s not fight,” his mother interjected quickly, also rising to her feet. Biting her bottom lip, those russet eyes were swimming with apprehension. “Surely there is a compromise to be found.”

“Amera,” Helion chided, his tone softer than before.

“If you want to pick a wife, I won’t stop you. Any available woman in this city can be yours…so long as you choose one before the end of the summer.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I will choose for you, based on your mothers recommendations,” his father snapped impatiently, crossing one powerful leg over the other. “There will be no more scheming or whoring, Lucien.”

“I know you were hurt when Lady Jes—”

“Don’t,” Lucien whispered, unable to hear his mother speak her name. “Please, mother. My heart can’t bear it.”

“There will be another, my sweet boy,” his mother murmured, reaching up to cup his face in her soft hands. Lucien pulled himself from her grasp, heart thudding in his chest. He hadn’t dared to ask if she was coming, too. He didn’t want to see proof that she could be happy with someone else. That she’d made the right choice in leaving and she’d been right—they didn’t belong together. “Any woman?”

His father pinched the bridge of his nose, recognizing Lucien’s intent but his mother was sincere. “So long as she is of southern birth, yes. Any woman.”

“Fine. I will bring you a daughter to dote on by the end of the summer if you free me from the obligation of choosing one specifically from your list.”

“You better take this seriously, Lucien,” his father warned, leaning forward to look at his only son. “Or it will be me who chooses.”

Lucien had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. His father would do whatever his mother told him to, and his mother would look out for Lucien’s happiness as best as she could. It wouldn’t be love, but it would be tolerable.

How delicious, he thought, to pick some commoner from the city. A woman who knew how to clean her own laundry, something Lucien had never been tasked to do. With the added bonus of keeping him out of the palace and the madhouse of his mothers machinations.

“I accept this arrangement. I won’t let you down,” he added to his mother, guilt pricking at his conscience. His father understood this was malicious compliance based on the hard set of his mouth but his mother’s eyes were shining with hope and Lucien so hated to disappoint her.

Perhaps his father was banking on his sons better nature because he waved him off. “Go get your air. I expect you at dinner tonight. Sober,” he added, guessing Lucien’s plans.

Lucien exhaled a breath, slipping down a corridor and away from the madness that had befallen the palace. Jurian wasn’t hard to find, leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest as he stared out toward the gardens.

“Washed hair?” Lucien began teasing his friend with a bump to the shoulder, “That must mean Lady Vassa has arrived.”

“She has,” he admitted, dark eyes nodding toward a mass of bouncy copper hair half hidden amongst the foliage. She was with a friend, back turned so Lucien only saw the long, thick tumble of loose golden brown curls and a lavender dress clinging to a slight frame. “Playing her favorite game, of course.”

“The one where she pretends you don’t exist? Has it occurred to you that perhaps she doesn’t like you?” Lucien asked, poking Jurian in his bare arm. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”

“That would show her, wouldn’t it?” Jurian muttered.

“Here,” Lucien said, stepping from the veranda onto the stone laid path that wound through his mothers rather impressive garden. “I’ll say hello for us both. You can stand beside me silently brooding. I’m certain that will win her affection.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

Lucien only grinned, swaggering as he made his way toward the pair of giggling women. There was no possibility either of them didn’t know Jurian was approaching, though Vassa was the first to look at Lucien. Beautiful as always, with her full mouth, her pert nose, and those big, cerulean eyes brimming with mischief. He liked her, if only because she was so unafraid and unimpressed by him. Lucien imagined if he asked Vassa what she thought of him, she’d tell him frankly and without an ounce of flattery.

Lucien opened his mouth to tell her she was looking lovely. “You look…” The words died on his lips as her friend turned at last, looking up at him with the biggest set of brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. The tumble of her hair, the slope of her neck, the way her mouth was shaped…Lucien’s palms began to sweat.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. How had he never met her before? Who was she?

“Stunning? Perfect? Like the woman of your dreams?” Vassa’s voice cut through the buzzing in Lucien’s ears. He couldn’t take his eyes off her friend long enough to even respond to Vassa. Instead, he found himself sweeping into a deep bow, all the while holding her gaze.

Her cheeks flushed but when she tried to curtsey back, Lucien was quick to catch her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. She smelled like jasmine and honey. She looked like a daydream. Perhaps the heat had finally gotten to him and this was an angel coming to usher him into the afterlife.

“This is my sister,” Vassa told Lucien, her amusement burning. Beside him, Jurian coughed pointedly, a mere blur to Lucien. “Elain.”

“Elain,” Lucien replied before Vassa’s words settled. “Since when do you have a sister?”

“Since always,” Vassa retorted, arms crossed over her verdant dress. “Sorry you’re so unobservant you never noticed.”

“I would remember you,” Lucien insisted, memorizing the shape of her face. “Where have you been hiding?”

Cheeks flaming, Elain’s eyes slid to her feet. “I ah…”

“She doesn’t come to court precisely for this reason, my lord,” Vassa interrupted, unaware Lucien was moments from throttling her. “Vultures, the lot of you. Men are so obsessed with finding wives they can’t allow a lady even a moment of peace in the garden.”

Jurian barked out a laugh, causing Elain to jump back just a little. “I prefer the quiet of the countryside,” she said, her voice somehow more beautiful than her face. Lucien wanted to bathe in it, wanted to close his eyes and listen to her speak. And it was becoming increasingly clear she did not want to be anywhere near him based on the way she looked as though she might bolt at any second.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said, releasing her hand with great reluctance. “That both of you made it.”

“Oh, I’m certain you’re so delighted to see me,” Vassa chided playfully, thrusting out her own hand so Lucien could give her a similar kiss. He did, grinning like an idiot while watching her companion from the corner of his eye. Let her see he wasn’t a threat—that he was charming, and funny too when he wasn’t struck dumb.

“If you knew the day I’d had, you’d know just how grateful and relieved I am to see you.”

“Do you need me to check your ego, prince? You’re not that handsome, you know.”

Lucien tipped his head back to laugh, genuinely delighted for the first time all day. He needed to hear that and perhaps wanted Elain to see that he could laugh at his own expense. He was a prince, sure, but also the kind of man she could tease a little.

But when he looked back, Elain was still watching with a carefully guarded expression.

“And how have you been, Captain?” Vassa asked, finally turning to look at Jurian.

“I count the minutes you’re away,” Jurian replied dryly. Lucien swore Vassa’s cheeks flushed and a touch of shyness slid over her features. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Jurian to catch too. Her father would never allow this match—Lucien knew for a fact Lord Koshington was looking for someone for his daughter. Perhaps them both. Lucien could ask for either woman if he wanted but Jurian would never be able to convince a lord of Koschington’s merit for the hand of his only daughter and heir. Whatever man Vassa married would be entrusted with the estate and Jurian, for all his accomplishments, was simply not the sort of man Koschington envisioned for her.

Lucien suspected Vassa would do her duty and marry as she was told to while carrying on an affair with Jurian as so many other ladies at court did. That was an open secret no one did much about so long as there were no disputes over it. Occasionally some errant husband would become enraged and kill another noble, giving them all something to gossip over while Lucien’s father dealt with the headache.

If Vassa asked him, though, he could have interceded on her behalf. Perhaps he could make Jurian nobility if he went to his father shamefaced and apologetic and agreed to be a better son. Lucien’s gaze cut to Elain. She was a lady, wasn’t she? Southern born, which was the only true criteria his mother had laid down. Perhaps, he reasoned, he could use his marriage as a bargaining chip for both Vassa and Jurian.

He’d elevate one daughter to a princess and in exchange, Koschington would allow the other to marry his Captain, now Lord of some tract of land further north. Of course, that all hinged on Lady Elain even wanting him and as they stood now, things looked bleak for Lucien. Not to mention if he had such a visceral reaction to this woman, perhaps he would to others that were more agreeable.

Still. It was a thought he wasn’t willing to wholly discard. Not yet.

“I’m sure you two are incredibly busy,” Vassa said, still looking at Jurian. “We should—”

“Will you be at dinner tonight?” Lucien blurted out, once again looking—and speaking—to Elain. Her eyes widened, glancing over at Vassa to answer for her.

“Only if you promise us a good table.”

“Consider it done,” Lucien said, sweeping into another bow. It was an instinct that told him when true danger was approaching. Some call in his blood, a pull that turned his usual heat to ice.

Eris was near.

He could feel the prickling on the back of his neck, the awareness that he was being watched much the way prey must feel when a predator was near. He didn’t want to be caught here by Eris—didn’t want this showdown to happen in front of a woman he might want to court.

“Until this evening, then.”

Vassa merely waved him off, looping her arm through Elain’s to guide them further into the foliage while he and Jurian watched, both enamored. Just until the rounded a corner and Lucien could shake off whatever spell Elain had unwittingly cast.

It was like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.

“Eris is near,” he said, his voice slipping into a growl. Jurian cast one last love-lorn look in Vassa’s direction before setting his jaw.

“Well. Let’s give him a southern welcome.”

Lucien grinned. “After you.”

The moment Elain and Vassa were out of earshot, Vassa immediately burst into laughter.

“Stop it,” Elain chided, bewildered and a little embarrassed. The prince—the actual prince—had been gaping at her like he’d never seen a woman in his life. Elain hadn’t expected to meet him so close. He was handsome, just as Vassa had promised, though she’d undersold how attractive he was. Even with the trio of brutal scars raking down one of his russet colored eyes, gouged so deep into his cheeks they still seemed fresh, Lucien was easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Beautiful in a dangerous sort of way.

Beautiful and he knew it, had been told so his entire life. Something about that annoyed her. She didn’t want to be another fawning woman, delighted he’d paid her a moment of interest.

Exhaling, Elain rounded on her friend. ��You couldn’t say one nice thing to Jurian?”

“No,” Vassa replied quickly, some of her amusement fading. “I wouldn’t know how.”

“He’s handsome.”

“As handsome as the prince—”

“That’s enough,” Elain interrupted primly. “The prince is not hurting for beautiful company. I doubt he will be thinking of me come this time next week.”

“And if he is?”

“Then I shall disabuse him of the notion,” Elain replied, biting her bottom lip. “I have no interest in being an amusement and later discarded when he grows tired of whatever country charm he imagines I possess.”

“Oh, but how fun to watch him run himself ragged for your affection. You’re better off just letting him trail after you for a few days—the longer you resist, the more he will imagine you as his great love.”

“You’ve read too many novels,” Elain complained, reaching for a pretty pink rose. The petals were satin against her fingers, the scent of it sweeter than she remembered. Perhaps there was magic in Rhodes that didn’t exist in the country.

Or perhaps she, too, had let romantic notions cloud her senses.

“Maybe. If I…” biting her bottom lip, Vassa faced Elain fully. “If I told you something, would you swear yourself to secrecy no matter what you heard? No matter how much trouble it would cause for you?”

“Of course,” Elain swore, standing upright again. “Anything you need, consider it done.”

“Father is never going to let me leave the city unmarried. He hopes, distantly, the prince might finally show some interest in me beyond friendship but realistically he intends to shop me around to other lords who are suitable enough. I’m being allowed a small taste of freedom but by the time the summer wanes, he’ll have me married and he’ll be looking at you, too.

“It will take time and he’ll need the kings blessing. As long as the Sun King is preoccupied with his son, he’ll move slowly on everyone else. If I had a mother, perhaps she might appeal to the queen… and I need to take advantage of it.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

Vassa shot Elain a confident smile that didn’t meet her eyes. She was scared. “It is my hope that Jurian will make an offer of marriage. And if he does…I intend to accept. To marry him in secret and ruin myself before father ever learns. There is nothing you can do to help me, nor could you stop me. I just…wanted you to know that I brought you here because I wanted us to have one last summer together. And perhaps I was hoping you might find someone and I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty leaving you behind.”

Elain flung her arms around Vassa, burying her face in her friend's neck. “Don’t worry a jot about me. I’ll be fine. And your secret is safe with me—if anyone asks if I knew, I’ll lie so convincingly it’ll make the gods weep.”

Vassa hugged her back, exhaling a warm breath against the skin of Elain’s newly exposed neck. “I knew I could count on you. Let's speak no more about it—Jurian hasn’t asked and maybe he won’t. For now, let's discuss what we’ll wear to dinner tonight. Something that will ruin Prince Lucien’s evening.”

“You’re a menace. Do you know that?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon giggling through the garden, all talk of Jurian and Lucien banished from conversation. In truth, Elain forgot about the prince entirely by the time she reached their shared chamber to wash away the sweat of the day and to change. The clothes she’d brought with her had been neatly hung in a nearby closet along with a row of new gowns likely purchased on her behalf by some harried servant. Elain laid a few out on the bed before deciding it was far worse to be the only person out of fashion in a room filled with worldly ladies than it was to worry so much about modesty.

Besides, the gowns hid everything—they merely lacked so many of the stiff layers she was accustomed to. Elain wouldn’t pretend she didn’t like the ability to button herself rather than needing two servants to help get her into her layers and tie everything up, even if she did feel a tad exposed in the silken jade gown she found herself in. Wishing she’d paid more attention to how everyone else was dressed, Elain elected to leave half her hair down with pins in her little wristlet, just in case she had to quickly pull it up.

Vassa was waiting in the wide, marble lain halls in a gown of violet that looked utterly stunning against the golden brown of her skin. If Elain was terribly out of fashion, her friend surely would have said something, but instead she looped her arm through Elains and began walking her through the palace.

Vassa had been before enough times to know the layout, allowing the pair to dawdle as Vassa pointed out paintings she thought Elain would enjoy and or explained what marble bust belonged to what long-dead king. There was something deeply thrilling about seeing the history of her home up close and personal—something that made her feel strangely proud to live there.

A feeling that slid into anxiety the moment she and Vassa walked into the grand hall. Reproposed for a banquet, at least a hundred little tables dotted the expansive room, all facing the long, high table where the royal family would sit. The king was already there, a golden goblet dangling between his fingers as he surveyed guests pouring in.

Was it her imagination, or was he looking at her? Definitely her imagination, Elain decided. She wasn’t nobility, and Vassa’s family was minor nobility at that. Still…those golden eyes, set against warm, dark brown skin, seemed to stare right through her, seeing everything she was and everything she had ever been.

Someone she didn’t recognize approached the king, drawing his attention—which had never been on her—far, far away.

“We’re probably back here,” Vassa murmured, clasping Elain’s between her own. “If we get seated quickly, we can eat before anyone else.”

“I am starving,” Elain admitted with a breathless laugh. The entire thing was exhilarating, so decadent that Elain felt utterly alone in that room as she drank in the gilded walls, the high, arching ceilings and the glass windows that rose up to meet them. Beyond them, Elain could see the placid sea, brighter than any blue diamond and clearer than any sky.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Prince Lucien appeared from seemingly nowhere, eyes bright. He looked…well. He was absurd in his beauty, so lovely in his gold trimmed blue jacket that

Elain’s teeth were set on edge. He’d braided the top half of his head, pulling it back with a leather strap that somehow made his cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw more defined. The rest of his hair curled loosely about his shoulders, longer than Vassa’s when her friend wore it unbound, though not half as curly.

He was looking at her again and Vassa knew it.

“You’re much more accommodating this time than you were the last time I was here.”

“Give it time,” Lucien replied with genuine amusement. “When father begins one of his terrible speeches it will be nice to have someone nearby to rescue me.”

“You tease me,” Elain complained. As if she could rescue a prince from his wordy father.

Lucien placed a large, ringed hand against his heart. “Lady Elain, I would never.”

Elain doubted that given the twinkle in his russet eyes. Still, though, it was kind of nice to be the object of his interest, however short-lived she suspected it would be. Warmth flooded through Elain’s face, impossible to hide given how fair her skin was.

Lucien’s smile was laced with pleasure. “This way, ladies.”

Vassa merely rolled her eyes, bouncy curls blowing in a nearby breeze. Elain kept her eyes down, well aware everyone in the vicinity was looking at her. Oh, how she wished they weren’t—not like this, at any rate. It wasn’t that she hated being the subject of their attention, but she would have preferred it be because she was stunning in some new dress and not because the prince’s fingers were grazing her elbow.

The table wasn’t just close—it was the first one before the high table—a seat reserved for people far more important than Elain and Vassa. They weren’t alone—Lord Koschington was already there flanked on either side by men at least a decade older than him. All three rose from their seats to bow to the prince before returning to their conversation, leaving Elain and Vassa awkwardly staring Lucien down.

“Well,” Elain finally said when she couldn’t stand it a moment later. “This was generous of you.”

“You’ll find I can be very generous, Lady Elain.”

“Just Elain is fine,” she promised, embarrassed all over again.

“Well, just Elain, my generosity comes with strings, if that helps to put your mind at ease.”

“Oh? What strings are those?”

“Lunch with me? And if it goes well, a turn around the garden.”

Elain nearly said no. The urge was automatic. Something stopped her—the notion that if Lucien spent a few hours alone with her, he’d realize how woefully plain she was, how inept her social graces in comparison to other women. His interest would wane and she wouldn’t have to be firm with him at all. That was, truthfully, a best case scenario.

So Elain nodded, lowering her eyes demurely. “That would be lovely.” Lucien’s delight radiated like pure light just beneath his skin. “You’ve given me something to look forward to.” And then he was gone, leaving Lord Koschington watching with curiosity and Ealin even more embarrassed than before.

“I’m not surprised he likes you,” Vassa began, but Elain wasn’t having it.

“Sit down,” she demanded.

Vassa only laughed. “Bossy. You’ll make an excellent princess.”

Rhodes.

Curling his upper lip, Eris glanced at the dirty streets beneath his gleaming boots. How he loathed the Southern Empire. The city itself was too self-satisfied with itself, certain they were the gods favored people. A blessed empire, having risen from the ashes of centuries of subjugation by the north. The scars for the people weren’t healed—it had been King Helion’s grandfather who’d shaken those chains and thirty years of bloody fighting just to establish a true home with recognized borders. Recognized, Eris thought bitterly, by his father and the late King of the Spine.

Helion had ended that conflict, invading the north's once impenetrable capitol and genuinely terrifying the realm with the might of his military. If he could break down those walls and get inside, he could potentially cross the spine to the east or the desert to the west. He could have the whole of the continent if he wanted it.

Of course, Helion’s reign hadn’t come without its scandals. His victory cost a princess her life and Archeron his wife. It had also cost the west their queen when he’d stolen her away in the dead of night, declared her marriage to Beron Vanserra completed under duress, and married her himself.

North and west had a reason to hate the south. Eris had never forgiven Helion for losing his mother and Nesta Archeron, heir apparent to the Northern throne, had never forgiven Helion for the loss of her mother and her younger sister. Eris had heard rumors of her fury.

But meeting her was another thing entirely. He’d made her no promises, of course…but he knew she was thinking the same thing he was—if they married, they could unite their kingdoms and turn their eyes to the south. They could eradicate Helion and take it, too, if they wished. And oh, how Eris wished.

The prospect of asking for Nesta Archeron was the only reason he’d accepted the invitation to the south. Might as well look around for himself. Helion would be looking for peace and his mother absolution, but Eris was looking for exploitable weaknesses.

Something he could offer up to Nesta Archeron so she had no recourse but to tell him yes. It wouldn’t be love, but Eris didn’t require that. Didn’t want that. His would be a marriage of political convenience and if he needed genuine companionship, he could always take a mistress.

So there he stood, soaked in sweat and angrier than he’d ever been as he stared up at the monstrosity that was the palace. His half brother was being fussed over—a golden prince Eris would keep alive as a political prisoner in his court, forcing Lucien to do his bidding with the threat of a sword hanging over his head.

It was Eris’s favorite daydream. The destruction of Helion’s court, the ruination of his empire, and his son and wife forced to live in Eris’s home under Eris’s rule. Despite himself, he smiled, ignoring the butler who wanted to give him a tour as he strode into the palace. He knew it well enough and didn’t want the royal family to know where he was until he was ready to make a grand entrance.

Helion’s kingdom was said to house an impressive collection of knowledge and the rarest (and items stolen he didn’t want found) were housed within his personal collection within his palace. Eris had never been interested before, annoyed by the philosophers and scholars that inhabited these spaces. Old men obsessed with the sound of their own voices who had never been told their ideas weren’t interesting.

But today was pure chaos and if the Sun Palace was anything like his home, everyone would be congregated wherever the wine was, neglecting their responsibilities under the deluded belief no one would find out. Eris took the stairs two at a time, eyes darting around him to be sure no one was watching.

Though if they were—and if he was caught—he’d simply feign ignorance. No one stopped him, allowing him to climb higher and higher, walking down halls with his hands jammed in the pockets of his cream colored pants. He opened bedroom doors like they belonged to him, ran his oily fingers over windows and paintings, and kicked over a potted plant just because it amused him to do so.

And when he reached the room he’d come all this way to see—Helion’s famed library—Eris found it delightfully abandoned, just as he’d expected it to be. There were three more towering floors, attached to what he supposed was the highest tower of the palace. Spiraling stairs led to rows and rows of books unreachable even by the rather tall ladders. Desks and chairs on the first level were, he supposed, for scholarly pursuits that seemed to vanish once one reached that second level.

The third was entirely off limits to anyone but Helion’s most trusted. And they were gone, Eris thought, stepping through the arch way. The room itself could be hidden behind wooden ivory double doors carved with some brightly painted fresco of a heroic battle long faded from memory.

Eris made it two steps before a woman materialized from a too-bright golden sunbeam pouring into the room. One moment he’d been walking toward items hidden from everyone else in the realm and the next a curved blade was pressed against his neck and his back was slammed against a wall. A slim knee slid between his legs, pressed threateningly against his manhood while a pair of vivid green eyes stared him down cooly.

“I’ll need to see your pass before you take another step,” she said. Eris blinked, taking in the shape of this woman. Thick waves of blonde hair cascaded down her back, tumbling against her shoulders and framing what was, objectively, a beautiful face. Her bronzed skin seemed to shimmer in the light as though dusted in sunlgiht and those eyes of hers—green and flecked with gold—were lightly lined in black kohl.

“I don’t need a pass—” he began, utilizing the haughtiest voice he could muster given the position he found himself in. In any other circumstances, overpowering her would have been a simple thing.

But Eris wasn’t willing to risk his throat, nevermind his cock and balls.

“You do,” she replied, both her knee and her blade pressing just a little rougher.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he demanded.

“Why don’t you tell me?” she challenged, one eyebrow raised as though it wouldn’t matter. He was going to see her personally punished for this, he decided.

“Prince Eris—”

“Oh, a prince,” she interrupted, her voice dripping with disdain. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Do you have a pass?”

Eris was rarely speechless. But right then, looking down at a woman that was primed to kill him over a book, Eris found himself at a loss for words.

“No,” he spat, outraged that some nobody was preventing him from snooping. And no one, in his life, had ever dared such defiance. This woman did, though. She didn’t care he was a prince or the queens eldest son. She merely saw an intruder and felt empowered to spill his blood against her feet if need be.

“I’m glad we agree. If I remove my knife from your throat, are you going to leave peacefully?” she asked, her tone dripping with condescension. Had they been home, Eris could have thrown her in a cell for that hateful look on her face alone, not mentioning the way in which she addressed him.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Eris promised, his lip curling with disdain. To her credit, the woman stepped back, removing herself entirely from his body, though that knife remained between them. “I’ll see you punished for this.”

She smiled, smoothing one hand over the yellow of her dress. “Of course, your majesty.”

“You think I won’t?” Eris hissed, unsure why he hadn’t stormed out. Just leave. Fuck the last word.

“Oh, I’m certain you will,” was her reply, eyes burning with amusement. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and the king will allow me the privilege of hearing your explanation as to why a future foreign king was skulking about a room filled with state secrets. Surely you must have known, but maybe they educated you poorly back home and you can’t read?”

Bitch.

“I can be wherever I like—”

“Wrong, majesty. You know, we hear rumors about you here. Of your…ambitions. I’m sure your impending marriage to a northern princess is mere gossip hardly worth the rags it's printed on, of course, and this little trip was merely an accident.”

Eris’s lips parted, an insult on the tip of his tongue. Who was this woman? Eris wanted her family name more than he’d ever wanted anything, if only so he could burn it from the face of the world. When he came marching into Rhodes with an army, she could be the first person to meet his sword.

“Some people would think it was unwise, insulting a future king.”

Her eyes flicked to the knife in her hand. “I think some people might thank me for protecting my home. In fact, I think a parade might be held in my honor if you took another step toward me and fell on my knife.”

“Is that a threat?” he demanded.

She smiled. “I’m glad you noticed. I was starting to think these subtleties were flying right over your poor, illiterate head. Yes, your lordship. This is a threat. A wiser man would recognize he’d been caught and leave, but I can see you’re not wise and so perhaps I ought to spell it in simple terms you’ll understand: your mere presence in this room could be considered an act of war. Remove yourself, or I shall do it for you.”

Fuck her.

“This isn’t over.”

She followed behind as he turned on his heel, burning with an anger so hot it would have manifested as flame against his skin had he any magical ability. Eris could feel its heat shimmering off him, fingers curling and uncurling with the urge to teach her a lesson she’d never forget. She was no one, some lowly peasant made to feel important and elevated by a bastard king.

Eris expected one last quip—turned around to face her. She flashed him a smile, those eyes still sparkling with amusement.

And then slammed the double doors in his face. On the other end, he swore he heard soft laughter though maybe he imagined it. Eris exhaled, overwhelmed and frustrated and furious all at once.

It wasn’t over between them.

Eris would have the last laugh.

Ellesmere was easily the worst city Cassian had ever visited in his life. Velaris was the best, of course, and Rhodes was nice if a little hot for his taste. He’d seen Allfeld once which personally was enough given how much pollen seemed to be in the air, though it had been autumn at the time and he’d quite liked the glittering jewel-top trees that dotted the sloping hillsides.

Ellesmere had no charm whatsoever. Only fog and a constant misting of rain that left Cassian damp beneath the leathered armor he wore.

He’d put on wool socks to keep his feet dry that day, tucked into boots that were supposed to be waterproof and hoped for the best. Rhys was supposed to be out charming the nobles and who the fuck knew where Azriel had gone. By the time Cassian dragged his ass out of bed, Azriel was nowhere to be found and Rhys was agonizing over a lock of hair that wouldn’t lay just right.

Cassian was grateful no one expected perfection out of him. He’d shaved his face—though the dark stubble would be back before noon—and pulled the thick, dark waves that cascaded to his shoulders into a half messy bun. Good enough.

Dumb brute, remember?

As if he could ever forget. At home, Cassian was a hero. People cared about the words that came out of his mouth, respected him as someone of great intelligence. But out here, he knew what they saw. The other kingdoms must employ idiots to lead their armies, or something particular about Cassian gave off the impression he liked the taste of blood. And Cassian had never once tried to correct that notion given he did like a little blood smeared across his mouth.

But it irked him at times, chafing against him like rough material against soft skin.

He had a job—only one, at least, while he was trapped in this gloomy hellscape, which was to get a sense and scope of the military power Ellesmere commanded. How did they fight, how many of them remained, their tactics, their training. Anything Cassian could weaponize against them. Cassian needed them to believe he was one of them.

Less than, even. That he couldn’t take even a day off from swinging his swords when truthfully, were he back home, Cassian would have been parked at Ritas waiting for a massive plate of eggs and bacon. Ah, well. There would be more of that later, though he couldn’t help but feel like he was wasting the best weather Velaris had to offer to the rain.

And breakfast wasn’t horrible, at least. He’d been allowed to eat alone given there was no expectation he would eat with the royals. Cassian picked through one of his books, wasting time hoping the weather would clear and the sun would come out, even if it didn’t warm the air. When it became clear he wasn’t going to get his wish, Cassian sighed, armed himself, and made his way toward the training yard housed within the palace walls. He’d seen barracks on his way in, tucked off in the distance, when he’d first come into the city. That was where Cassian really wanted to be.

If Rhys did his job well, Cassian would be invited to watch them train and possibly train alongside him. It was ego the way so many cities assumed they had something to teach him. There was a reason Velaris hadn’t been invaded, though Cassian knew everyone loved to chalk it up to The Spine. The mountains were passable, their coast relatively undefended. There was little need, though they did have a Navy.

Cassian was always waiting, sword in hand.

Today, though, was just about seeing the best of the best. They’d be looking to impress him, knowing full well Cassian would tell Rhys. All in good time. Cassian liked to think he was clever enough to keep his mouth shut with a face that always seemed pleased right up until his sword was pressed against someones throat.

They expected that from Azriel. Maybe they expected that knife in the back from Rhys. But despite his titles, no one ever expected that from Cassian, though he was always the quickest to jump to bloodshed.

Eloquence was Rhys’s domain.

Cassian shuddered when he stepped outside, shaking out his hands to try and keep himself together. This period of time in his life would pass until he forgot it entirely. There was no way in hell he’d ever agree to return here and was grateful Rhys wasn’t actually interested in any of the princesses on offer.

Cassian wished he could say the same. He’d half forgotten Nesta Archeron—could have forgotten her completely for the majority of the day, even—had she not been walking toward him in a well-fitted violet coat dress, the hood pulled over her face and lined with immaculate white fur.

Her fair cheeks were flushed from the chill or exertion, making those silvery eyes of her brighter by comparison. The scowl on her face couldn’t diminish the beauty that radiated from her and just like it had the day before, Cassian felt struck by her. Nesta’s whole person was its own blade at his throat, threatening to spill him open at any moment.

She halted when she saw him, hands jammed into her pockets. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, he wondered if she’d speak to him. It was only after a moment of staring that Cassian remembered he probably ought to bow. That felt strange—Rhys had never required that and Helion was so casual it was cause for teasing if Cassian were to try. Something about Nesta demanded it, though, and so Cassian felt himself bending at the waist, one hand on his stomach.

“You mock me?” she asked, unaware of the sincerity of his pounding heartbeat.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cassian heard himself say, his every word laced with amusement rather than the reverence he felt. And though he was so much taller than her, Cassian felt small as Nesta approached, her spine ramrod straight. He wished he could convince her to come to Velaris and teach his soldiers that sort of posture.

Hell, maybe she could teach him, too.

“Where are you going?”

Straight to hell, he thought privately as he tried not to imagine what she was like when she liked a man. Jealousy gnawed at him knowing Rhys was here to court her, swallowed quickly before Cassian was consumed. Glancing at one of the hilts peeking over his shoulder, Cassian offered her another quick smile. “To train with your guards.”

She scoffed. “I should think one sword would be more than sufficient.”

“Oh? Something you want to tell me, princess?”

He hadn’t meant for his words to sound suggestive. Cassian was genuinely asking her—were they not capable of fighting off a warrior holding a weapon in each hand? But something about her made everything he said sultry and Nesta’s cheeks burned with heat.

She was sweet. Cassian wanted to taste her.

“Just…they’re more…” Nesta was flustered. He knew if he came any closer she’d take off like a skittish baby deer, fortifying herself for their next interaction. Put her at ease, a voice whispered in his head—it sounded suspiciously like Mor. So Cassian relaxed his posture, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He was, afterall, just a man.

And he wasn’t a threat to her. Everyone else, perhaps—and one day she’d hate him for the part he was playing to keep her father from starting another war—but not her.

“They’re mostly decorative,” Nesta finally said, coming back to her senses. “And I suspect you are the opposite.”

“Shrewd of you,” Cassian praised, taking in this information. “I would think the palace guards were the best your kingdom had to offer.”

She rolled her eyes. “If that were true, Feyre would be easier contained within its walls.”

Cassian filed that away, too. Where did the little princess run off to, he wondered? And why was Nesta telling him this? She didn’t strike him as the uncareful type. No, Nesta was giving him little crumbs he was certain were leading somewhere. The expression on her face was too well guarded for anything else.

“And you?” he guessed.

Nesta only shrugged. “Where would I go beyond the palace walls, General?”

Cassian’s body went tight all at once. Fuck, but that voice… “Anywhere you like, I hope. Unless this is a cry for help and you’ve actually been held hostage?”

The faintest whisper of a smile spread over her features. Pretty thing. Cassian wanted to touch her and thought that was the quickest way to lose a hand.

“My life is one of endless wonder,” she assured him, her voice dry and laced with sarcasm. “I am incandescently happy.”

“My apologies, my lady,” Cassian murmured, needing to get some air before he did something monumentally stupid. “Far be it from to cast aspersions on you and your life. But…if you find yourself wishing you knew how to wield a blade so you could…I don’t know…move more effectively in the world…you know where to find me.”

And then he kept walking, refusing to touch her as he passed though it was hell not to even brush a wisp of hair from her cheek.

“Why would you do that?” Nesta asked when they were shoulder to shoulder, staring straight ahead. Cassian watched her from the corner of his eye.

“You’ll need to know if you’re going to marry Rhys,” he replied, the words ash on his tongue. Nesta didn’t move.

“That’s it?”

“Maybe I want a reason to see you again.”

Her breath curled around her face like a shadow, vanishing in the gloomy morning light. “I’ll think about it.”

There was nothing Cassian could say that wouldn’t make him sound insane. So he nodded, clenching his jaw to keep his words leashed before he took off walking again. There was no reason to arm that woman—and every possibility she would take everything she learned and turn around and use it against them.

And yet the thought of Nesta pressing a blade against his throat was so erotic that Cassian had to lap around the garden twice before making his way to the training yard, later than he’d meant to be.

And still—it was worth it.

#elucien #nessian #eris being the worst #all the usual shenanigans #tragically as i wrap up chapter 5 i think i need 5 more chapters #I will keep clackity clacking away

62 notes · View notes