#just blows my mind the offensive things people would say directly to a minority's face thinking it's ok

[ckameley]

I'm still bothered by the fact that the white-looking 80 year old man down the street who knew little English drew me into a conversation and then basically said that I look like I'm from North Carolina based on my skin color

Racial prejudice truly has no (language) barriers

[7-wonders]

Hit and Run

Summary: The fallout of an unexpected tryst, and (Y/N)’s first official foray into the criminal underworld.

Word Count: 3055

A/N: Thanks for sticking around as I make empty promises, here’s Memento Mori chapter 4!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

The training gym remains silent as (Y/N) and Duncan feel the weight of what they’ve just done. Duncan has a content grin on his face as he stands, fixing himself until he looks like he hadn’t even been training, let alone fucking the woman who he’s blackmailing. The look of disgust on (Y/N)’s face makes him stifle a laugh as he holds out a hand for her to take. Instead, she just stares at him, slowly making herself look presentable without Duncan’s help.

“The look on your face directly contradicts the beautiful sounds you were making earlier,” Duncan teases.

(Y/N) can feel her face heating up as she stands, pushing Duncan to the side. “What we did was a mistake,” she says seriously.

“Really? Because I quite enjoyed it, and I think you did too.”

“Duncan, that can’t happen again.”

The smile falls off of his face, and he scowls. “And why is that?”

“Because I try not to make a habit of having sex with people that I can’t stand!”

“Aw, you can’t stand me?” Duncan sneers. “Is that why you were so eager for me to fuck your little cunt?”

“You say that like you’re not the one who kissed me first.” 

(Y/N) feels a sense of self-satisfaction when she sees how Duncan’s jaw clenches from her verbal barb. Enough of a silence commences that (Y/N) thinks she’s free to go, turning to leave and finally be free of the specter that is Duncan Shepherd. Duncan decides otherwise, grabbing her upper arm roughly and spinning her back around.

“Tomorrow night, you’re getting indoctrinated into my world. I have an arms sale that I’m overseeing at 10, and you’re going to be there with me.”

“Will I be free of my burden, then?” The second question goes unsaid, but it hangs in the air like a cloud: will I be free of you?

“That’s for me to decide,” Duncan spits, letting go of (Y/N)’s arm before she can shake herself out of his grasp. 

“Fuck you, Duncan.” (Y/N) grabs her belongings from where they were thrown on the floor before nearly running for the door.

Duncan manages to get one last jab in before the door swings shut behind you, shouting “you already did!”

(Y/N) groans angrily once she’s outside, the cool air doing little to calm her down. The sun’s just beginning to dip below the horizon, and she pulls her hands into the sleeves of her sweatshirt to keep warm while she walks. Her mind churns with all of the possible ways she could’ve verbally wounded him besides just saying “fuck you.” He’s so infuriating, so confounding, so--she’s yanked out of her thoughts (thankfully, since her thoughts were beginning to drift towards the sexual encounter she had just found herself in) by her phone ringing in her sweatshirt pocket.

Assuming that it’s Duncan calling to threaten her, she doesn’t even glance at the screen before answering with a harsh “what!”

“Whoa, was not expecting that from you.”

Her shoulders relax when she hears the honeyed voice on the other end. “Sorry Madison, I thought you were someone else.”

Madison Montgomery is not the type of person (Y/N) thought she would ever be friends with. A former child actress with enough stories of rehab stints to rival her IMDb filmography, their paths are not two that would normally ever cross. Madison’s “friend,” Zoe (no matter how many times the two insist they’re just friends, (Y/N) sees the longing glances and the soft touches the pair exchange when they believe she’s not looking), was one of (Y/N)’s first friends when she moved to D.C. After becoming close with the political science student following a few school events both were required to be at, befriending Madison came naturally.

“By the sound of your voice when you answered, I’m assuming you’re glad it’s me instead of whoever else you thought it might be.”

“I’m definitely glad to be hearing from you.” It’s not a lie; Madison has been distant lately, and it was starting to make (Y/N) worry that she had done something wrong. “You went off the grid for a bit.”

“I was in negotiations for a new project, and it was taking up most of my freetime.”

“Did you get it?”

“Hopefully. They said that I’ll hear back soon. Anyways, I’m in D.C. for a few days and was wondering if you could find time in your busy schedule to hang out with me and Zoe who, might I add, has already said she could,” Madison says like she isn’t solely in the city to see Zoe.

“Absolutely! Just let me know what dates and times work for you and I’ll work something out.”

“Tomorrow night? We could have a wine night at Zoe’s after she gets done with work at around 8.”

The initial excitement (Y/N) feels at the plans with her friends fades away when she realizes she has other obligations tomorrow night. “Shit, I can’t. Maybe the next day?”

“Do you have a date, (Y/N)?”

She scoffs. “I wish. I have to go to this boring study group for class.”

“Skip it.”

“I can’t, it’s for a class I’m already struggling enough in.” Fuck, she really hates having to lie to people she cares about.

“Boo, why do you have to care about your grades and your future career?” Madison sighs. “Alright, we’ll do something when you don’t have to study.”

“I’m sorry, Mads.”

“Hmm, you should be.” She doesn’t mean it, but it still stings a bit. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.”

“See you Wednesday.” Madison hangs up the phone before (Y/N) even finishes speaking; if it were anybody else doing that, she would think they were mad at her, but that’s just typical Madison behavior. 

Ducking back into the throng of people walking to and from their destinations, (Y/N) feels a pit of dread in her stomach as the knowledge of tomorrow begins to set in. Not only will she be seeing the man who she fucked and then proceeded to get into a fight with, but she’ll also be observing an extremely illegal arms deal taking place between mafia groups. She can only hope that she’ll make it out of tomorrow’s events unscathed, both physically and emotionally.

//

Duncan picks (Y/N) up outside of her apartment at precisely 9:00 p.m., citing a need to be early to the deal in some underhanded way to assert his family’s dominance. (Y/N) tries not to ogle at the car she’s currently riding, but that’s a task she’s failed at since the moment she saw the sleek black exterior parked on the side of the street. Duncan, of course, notices how desperately she tries to look unaffected by riding in a car that costs triple her college education.

“You look like you’re scared merely breathing will ruin the car,” Duncan teases, the first words either of them have said all night. 

“I kind of am. This is the nicest car that I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Well, thank you. It’s an--”

“Aston Martin One-77, I know.” (Y/N) ducks her head in embarrassment when Duncan looks at her with wide eyes, assuming she shouldn’t have interrupted him. “I’m sorry, I know that was rude, but I’ve always really liked cars and while I don’t know a lot about fixing them or their engines or such, I love seeing a car and being able to name the make and model.”

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just wasn’t aware that you liked cars.” He shoots her a sly glance, subtly revving the car to watch how her eyes light up. “If I had known, I would have picked you up in one of my cars a whole lot sooner.”

“Wait, you have more like this?”

“Of course. You’re not the only one who has an interest in cars.”

She’s thoroughly impressed now, a fact Duncan would know even if he wasn’t able to read people’s emotions like they’re the summary on the dust-jacket of a book. He had been worried that she was either going to blow up about what had happened yesterday or completely ignore him, so this was a welcome surprise. As long as she doesn’t feel like talking about the events of the previous day, Duncan certainly won’t bring it up.

The location of this covert sale is, much like every other mafia-based experience, disguised behind a plain exterior. This time, it’s a small grocery store just over the Potomac that serves as the facade for illicit activities. Duncan parks the car in a side street so as not to arouse suspicion, turning the silent engine off before handing (Y/N) a gun.

“Don’t you have bodyguards to keep you from dying?”

“Yes, but...things can tend to go sideways during these types of events. It’s already a liability bringing you along, and since you know how to handle yourself around a gun now, it does no harm to be over prepared.”

(Y/N) eyes it warily, taking the weapon and checking the safety before tucking it in the waistband of her jeans. Duncan waits for (Y/N) to get out of the car before leading her up the stairs and through a loading dock. Even if she wasn’t too scared to go to the cops and she tried to put the Shepherds in jail, she wouldn’t be able to lead them to the location of the deal in this maze of a basement.

There’s already a small crowd in the room that they end up in, and (Y/N) holds back a shudder when she sees Langdon lurking in the corner. It’s obvious that a 10:00 meeting means 9:30 for syndicated crime, and Duncan’s a fan of being fashionably late.

“Mr. Shepherd,” the assumed leader, a tall raven-haired man with a Scottish accent, greets. “Have a seat.”

“I think I’ll remain standing, thank you, Mr. McCown.”

The man just barely scowls before turning his eyes on (Y/N). “Who’s the girl? You said no backup.”

“She’s hardly backup,” Duncan chuckles, a statement that (Y/N) takes minor offense to. “We agreed on one man each. I have Langdon, and you have Collum. (Y/N), here, is simply collateral damage.”

“Hmph.” McCown doesn’t look too pleased, but relents. “Are we gonna do business, then, or not?”

Duncan motions for Langdon with his left hand, who carries two large duffel bags to the table. Unzipping them, he reveals a variety of automatic weapons. McCown leans over the table to study the weapons, doing a mental count before reaching for the bags.

“Not so fast.” Langdon snatches the guns away from McCown upon Duncan’s word. “The money?”

Pulling open his suit jacket, the opposing crime boss sets stacks of hundred dollar bills on the table. Duncan appraises each stack quickly, thumbing through the paper with a learned precision. Each man watches the other as they grab their respective earnings, neither willing to be the loser in this staring contest. 

“You know, I couldn’t help but to notice you were a thousand short of the agreed-upon total,” Duncan says coolly.

“It’s all there, I just saw you count it!”

“The tax? (Y/N)’s eyes flit between the men, Duncan’s jaw tightening in annoyance. “This is not your first time doing business with us, Frasier, surely you must know that there is a fee to bring your men into our territory.”

McCown smiles thinly, reluctantly pulling another wad of cash from his pocket. Duncan smugly takes it, and it’s when he’s counting the cash that everything goes awry.

(Y/N) doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The Scottish leader is zipping up the weapons bags and D.C.’s most notorious is tucking the money into his own jacket. She’s not sure what Langdon detects: a tic on someone’s face, the flinch of a hand, or even just the way a person breathes. Within a second, he’s got a handgun drawn and pointed at McCown’s right hand man, firing before the other man can even release the safety on his own gun.

Duncan ducks, pulling (Y/N) down under him as gunfire is exchanged. Her heart hammers in her chest, ears ringing from the harsh sounds above her as the shots start to taper off. She doesn’t even have time to process what just happened before Langdon’s yelling at them to go, Duncan hauling her up and throwing a duffel bag at her before dragging her out of the room. The clouds of gun smoke make it impossible to see who, or what, is damaged, and her eyes and lungs sting from the acrid scent as she runs up the stairs with Duncan.

Flinging herself into the car, she doesn’t even have time to put a seatbelt on before Duncan’s peeling out of the alley with the tires squealing. Instead of being frightened, Duncan actually looks excited as he checks behind his shoulder to make sure he’s not being followed. (Y/N), on the other hand, sits next to him in utter bewilderment.

“What the fuck was that?” (Y/N) exclaims, tossing the bag down at her feet when she realizes she’s still holding assault weapons.

“That was an attempted underhanded deal.” He clarifies upon her bemused shrug. “Frasier McCown and his gang thought that they would shoot me before taking the weapons and their money.”

“They were trying to kill you?”

“Probably not. They were most likely just trying to make sure I would go down before worrying about the repercussions later.”

“Langdon killed them, then?”

“I don’t know for sure, but he’s absolutely deadly with a gun. You’ve seen how skillfully he kills people.”

(Y/N) nods, remembering how the shot that killed the blue-haired Malakai seemed to come from nowhere. Looking out the window, the freeway passes by in a blur as Duncan drives towards downtown D.C. He’s trying to lose them, she realizes, on the off-chance that they are being followed.

Swinging into an empty parking lot off of 14th Street, the car lurches forward as Duncan abruptly parks. His hand gently brushes (Y/N)’s cheek, and she nearly bites his finger off until she feels the sting of a fresh cut on her face.

“You’re hurt,” Duncan notes with a frown.

“Oh, I probably just got scraped when we went to the ground. It’s fine, I think I’ll live.”

Duncan scoffs, rolling his eyes as he examines her to make sure there are no other wounds. Besides the battle wound on her cheek, she seems okay.

“What--” (Y/N) starts, clearing her throat, “are you hurt?”

“No,” he answers quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“(Y/N), you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been in these situations before, and I have no doubt that I’ll be in situations like that again. This was your first time being caught in a firefight, and you’re shaking, so I just want to make sure you’re not in shock.”

“I’m not…” (Y/N)’s about to argue until she looks down and sees that her hands are shaking. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Duncan mocks. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good.” She starts to lightly giggle before breaking out into full-on laughter, making Duncan worry that she actually is going into shock. “No, seriously! I’m fine, I just--that was kind of cool.”

Duncan looks at her incredulously. “You thought that was cool?”

“Yes! It felt like I was in a James Bond movie.”

Despite his attempts to be serious, Duncan finds himself smiling at her exuberant laughter. “Well, I’m glad you thought that was fun. Hopefully we won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”

Later, (Y/N) will swear it’s the adrenaline rush that makes her act so foolishly. But with the silence in the car, and the way that Duncan’s smiling at her, it feels like she’ll spontaneously combust if she doesn’t kiss him immediately. Before she can remind herself why this is a bad idea, she leans in and presses her lips to his.

Duncan, thankfully, doesn’t immediately push her off and question her sanity. His lips are just as soft as they were yesterday, one hand going to grip the back of her neck while the other brushes against her cheek. (Y/N)’s hands find purchase in his now-messy hair, fingers threading through the strands as Duncan licks at her bottom lip. This time there’s no resistance from (Y/N), her mouth opening to allow Duncan’s tongue entrance while they grab onto each other like they’ll be torn away otherwise.

Relishing in the breathy moans (Y/N)’s beginning to let out, Duncan reluctantly pulls himself away from her lips in order to trail kisses down her neck. Laving his tongue against her thrumming pulse, Duncan grins when (Y/N) whines as he blows air over the wet patch, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He begins to suck a bruise just below the spot he just marked, nipping just enough to make (Y/N) yelp before surging back up to her lips.

(Y/N)’s head is spinning, the mix of adrenaline and lust making her almost dizzy. When Duncan finally releases her from his grasp after minutes? hours? an undetermined amount of time, she lets out a whine that sounds almost pathetic. Duncan wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, lips swollen from the extended amounts of pressure as he suddenly and inexplicably starts to drive. (Y/N)’s about to question why he stopped when, like a flash of lightning, the situation hits her with striking clarity. Kissing Duncan Shepherd in an abandoned parking lot like a couple of horny teenagers directly goes against everything she told him after their “training” yesterday.

From the driver’s seat, Duncan smirks when she faces the window with her arms crossed over her chest, obviously realizing her little slip-up. “Another mistake?” He can’t help himself from taunting her, especially not when she looks so upset with herself.

(Y/N) sneers. “Shut up.” Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed by Duncan how she subtly clenches her thighs together in search of relief, giving him a self-righteous sense of satisfaction.

//

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[hereliesbitches--me]

Rules

Hello There! Well if you’re here, that means you’re probably interested in me and me cat girl here, and for that I thank you!

While I’m not too big on specific rules, I suppose it’s best to have some little stuff that may clear up some questions in the future.

 First off, Both Mun and Muse are of age. 18+ ,

Mature themes will be present on here, and some aspects of Rosie, her life, and her habits may be triggering. Such as mentions of physical and emotional abuse, manipulation, rape, suicidal thoughts and tendencies,  etc. I try not to get too detailed but if you’re squeamish about it, follow at your own risk.

I do my best to tag triggers with things such as

tw: (insert trigger), but im not perfect. If ya see something that bothers you, let me know so I know what to tag for future reference. I won’t bite your head off for anything, i’m pretty understanding as long as you approach politely. I myself have no triggers, but please tag nsfw stuff.

The basic roleplay etiquette applies here just as much as anywhere else. Most people already know- no godmodding, metagaming,  etc. It’s no fun like that, and we’re all here to have fun, right?

Im open to just about anyone, mutuals and non-mutuals. Canon or OC muses. Even if we don’t follow each other, im happy to roleplay anything if you have an idea. 

Please, feel free to shoot me a message in the inbox even just to say hello when you follow, if you’d like. If you want to interact, and you send me a message like “Wanna RP?” please have something to suggest. Even something completely vague can lead to more, because I myself can suck in coming up with something on the spot. I’ll likely ask you personal questions about your muse, like what draws you to them and such even if you have a bio page and all that, I just like to hear different thoughts. A well rounded character is great, and if it’s in development I don’t mind exploring subjects and aspects.

I would definitely appreciate basic literary knowledge.

I’m fine with small mistakes here and there, but I have to at least be able to make sense of it.  If English is not your first language, I ain’t gonna bash ya for it. I’ll make do- though unfortunately, I’m a loser that knows only English. That’s all I can write in. I am on mobile most of the time, so sometimes formatted responses may take me some time to look into because it doesn’t translate well into mobile. Won’t keep me from following if I like your writing, but I am a simple gal ^^

. When it comes to following, I may not always follow back. But that doesn’t always mean I don’t want to rp.

 Like with multimuse blogs, I may have a bit of difficulty because there’s so much to take in, but I do try sometimes!! Also, as nice as it is, im not a person that likes to get involved in social justice post, political post, or drama/callout posts. To each their own, and I respect your opinions and your passion, but personally I don’t have the mental strength to be drained in the involvement of such things. I don’t mind ooc posts because I do them myself, but if the subjects become too heavy and repetitive, I will have to unfollow. I rather leave that stuff on a personal blog, not an rp blog. If there is something I do that bothers you, you are free to unfollow as well, but just because I unfollow does not mean our interactions have to stop. You can also just approach me directly and we can discuss it so I don’t make you uncomfortable, I don’t mind compromising! I hope you can understand! I don’t condone the gross shit like actual racism, -phobias, etc if its a real issue- then call it out, but when it comes to material being written, I personally don’t believe that people should be policed in what they write if they are not actually harm anyone, and that everyone needs to stay in their own lane. Thank you. 

I like to write in para format, personally.

 I like to get in depth and put a lot into a scene and scenario, so one liners aren’t exactly something I enjoy- Lest it’s for crack and such. You’ll probably see me fooling around a lot, but actual rp is usually done in paragraphs. I sometimes do and I sometimes don’t use icons. I have to draw mine out, mostly, I also use Aoshika from Wolf Guy as a face claim for expressions as well, but the issue is being on Tumblr mobile about 80% of the time blows up the icons out of proportion. Im sure you understand how long drawing icons can take. I apologize now if it looks ugly on the dash. As a partner, I’m not too picky about having icons or not as long as the quality of writing is good. Do you my dudes!

Speaking of writing, I’m horribly slow with replies. 

I apologize in advance, as I am a student in college and I’m working, I find it hard to get inspired to actually sit down and write. But I take long because I will not give anyone a half-assed reply, I make sure there is always something to work with. And if for whatever reason something I wrote doesn’t make sense for your muse in a scenario, just let me know! Im always willing to edit and change something . Even if I’m not writing replies, I’m always open to ooc chats and ideas to throw around about future scenarios.

In regards to shipping, I am Multiship, but I do naturally have my preferred partners. 

 Don’t let that turn you away though! I ship based on chemistry, based on interesting dynamics, and the likes. If you have an idea and you wanna ship, please let me know. I may not always be into it at first but who knows, it can grow on me! Rosie is bisexual so she has potential with both male and female partners, however how her behavior is between the genders varies in a relationship. You will find that Rosie has more sexual interest with the same potential romantic interest in men, and is much more romantically inclined than sexually interest in women. While she is generally open about male relations, she’s even more picky about females because its based more on emotional attachment. But both are absolutely possible.

A side note about Rosie is that depending on the stage in which she is met, and in what verse, loving her is not always easy.

She is an unstable woman underneath with trauma which has created association that expression of emotion is bad. She won’t always be the most loving and affectionate person at times as she drowns herself in responsibility, and she is not very direct in expressing her love through words, but rather through actions. Can definitely be a rough ride, but if you’re willing to go on an emotional roller coaster, so am I. ♡ I am also always open to platonic ships, friendships, hateships and all that kind of good stuff. Variety gives me life and makes everything more interesting.  Rosie has been even prone to toxic relationships.

When it comes to writing smut, understandably I will not write it with minors.

 In general, it takes me a while to be fully comfortable enough with a partner to write it, but I’m not closed off to the idea once we build up a good bond ooc and between the muses. Anything smut related is tagged under nsfw. Rosie is has a sexual addiction in a way, so she may be highly suggestive if she’s interested. I’m absolutely okay with fading to black if that is your preference!

On the note of Rosie’s sexual addiction as a hypersexual, please understand that she can be quite sensitive to it being brought to light. Its a shame to have such intrusive thoughts. Her emotions and feeling towards people can vary drastically- she can be completely indifferent to sexual thoughts towards a person, and then at some other time she needs it like a junkie. She may joke around her flirtatious conquest with friends, but it is not something she likes to get into. Also suffering from bipolar depression, her moods can vary drastically when dealing with particular people.

I like plot driven threads very much.

I find on the whim threads rather hard to keep up, and slice of life moments are only a rare indulgence.  I can indulge in all kinds of subjects, from the nitty gritty to the fluffy, whatever my partner might be interested in as long as we can discuss it.

Rosie was made from an original world, but she is an absolutely malleable character to any sort of fandom story. You can jump to mine or I can jump to yours, even if I know nothing about it. I’m more than willing to do research, go off of what you might tell me, and we can go on a journey from there! I need new stuff in my life. Please show me a new world .

Note that I usually do not like fighting threads.

They can be difficult for me, because while my muse is powerful, she is more often than not incredibly passive. Your muse is free to taunt and push buttons, but know well that she is fully capable of biting back hard. There are consequences for actions, but I do not like going into battle threads unless it’s plotted. For the sake of her children, or keeping her secrets, she is not afraid to kill.

PLEEEAAASEE!! Please Please Please understand that my muse and I DO NOT share the same views on things.Muse does not equal mun. Especially if there is tension between a muse and Rosie, and she gets snippy and harsh. She can be impulsive and say mean and offensive shit because she’s defensive.. and the shit she does is not always alright. Please understand I will not always condone what she does.. She is her own fictional person.

AAAND THAT SHOULD BE IT! Thank you so very much for reading, and I look forward to threading with you all!

[theemightypen]

9, 40 and 41 for Éothíriel please :D

The rest are under the cut! :)

9) “There’s a leaf in your hair…” (Canon)

The King of Rohan is staring at her.

Lothiriel cannot fathom why he is; he is friends with her father, of course, and with her brothers, but they have exchanged perhaps five words at most. She is not a beauty, not in the high, otherworldly way of her new Queen, nor in the golden, fierce way of his fair sister, but she knows she is not unpleasant to look at. (Or, if she is, everyone has been very good at keeping it from her.)

And yet the king is staring at her, as if she has suddenly grown a second head.

It is…disconcerting, to say the least.

“You are blushing,” her sister-in-law murmurs, low enough for just Lothiriel’s sensitive ears. “Would you tell me why?”

“Aly, please,” she begs, dropping her gaze. “Don’t tease me so.”

Alycia frowns, but pats her hand under the table subtly enough. “Alright. For now.”

Lothiriel tries to eat her meal as gracefully as she can, but every time she looks up he is still staring. On one such time, she meets his sister’s eyes as well. The White Lady of Rohan had been intimidating at first–so fair! So brave!–but she has come to know her cousin’s betrothed very well, and likes her very much.

So of course, Eowyn reads the distress in her face, follows her embarrassed gaze to her brother. Who is promptly elbowed–rather viciously, from what Lothiriel can tell–in the side.

Finally, he seems to realize he’s been making her uncomfortable, grimacing into his wine glass as Eowyn whispers Valar-knows-what into his ear.

Still, she feels ill at ease. Why had he been giving her such scrutiny? She is not much like the other ladies of the court. Too soft-spoken, taking the most pleasure in small, intimate groups of those she already knows than the loud, raucous celebrations the end of the War dictates…Lothiriel rarely calls attention to herself.

Her father offers her a sympathetic smile when she slips from the table–Amrothos would usually call her out, or Elphir would join her, but both are absorbed in conversations with various members of the famous Fellowship.

The garden is a quiet relief after the loudness of the hall. Lothiriel could sit all night, alone, under the stars, and wish for nothing else in all the world.

But it is not to be.

The footfalls that announce someone’s presence are light, controlled. The walk of a soldier, she thinks, and turns to face them, expecting her one of her brothers, or even Faramir.

But no. It is the King of Rohan, once again.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, startling her. “I should not have stared at you so.”

Lothiriel gulps. He should not be frightening–he is a king, a friend to her family, remarkably tender with his sister, and prone to sincere smiles when talking with Merry and Pippin–and yet there is something about him that makes her face flush, her pulse race faster.

“I am not accustomed to such attention,” she admits in a quiet voice. “But you need not apologize.”

His small smile only makes her face heat further, and she is grateful for the relative darkness of the garden. “Will you let me explain, at least?”

She nods, rather curious herself.

He reaches out towards her and her breath nearly stops in surprise–what is he doing, does he not know how improper it is for a man to touch an unwed maiden’s hair–only to wince when something catches, tugs a few strands of her braid out of place.

“There was a leaf in your hair,” he says, holding the offending item up for inspection. “And as I have never seen you anything other than perfectly poised, I could not imagine how it came to be there.”

Flushing deeper still, she tucks the loose strands back behind her ear. “I am fond of the outdoors, my lord. Even we Gondorian princesses are permitted some imperfections.”

His laugh is perhaps the most charming thing about him, and she finds herself wanting to bottle the sound, to keep it for times when things are less easy, less happy.

“I am glad to hear it,” he says, and offers her his elbow.

Her fingers tremble, but she laces her arm through his all the same.

40) “You call that music?” (Canon)

“You call that music?”

Lothiriel startles, the harp tumbling noisily to the floor.

Eomer merely grins as his wife glares at him, crossing the room to sit on the carpet at her feet.

“I am trying to do something productive today,” she says. “Would that you would do the same.”

“I have been productive all morning, swete,” Eomer argues, holding the harp out of her reach. She’s such a little thing, his wife, and it is an easy thing to tease her like this, using his longer arms to his advantage.

She huffs, blowing a few strands of hair out of her face. “Please, Eomer. I have tried every instrument I can think of, and the harp is the only one that seems to not fail me.”

Eomer frowns, looking down that the stringed instrument in his hands. “I still do not see why you can’t just sing.”

A flush enters her cheeks–even after a year in the Riddermark, there are still parts of her that are so Gondorian–and she frowns at him. “It is not proper for a lady to share her voice with a large assembly.”

“In Gondor, perhaps,” he says. “But we are not in Gondor.”

“I am well aware,” she says with a roll of her eyes, but he knows she isn’t truly irritated by how she leans willingly into the touch of his hand on her cheek.

“And you have such a lovely voice, Lothiriel,” he wheedles. “Surely it is more…improper not to share it? Every Eorlingas would agree with me.”

Lothiriel blinks. “I…had not thought of it like that.”

Sensing victory, he rises to his knees, crowding her back against the chair. “I would be happy to help you practice.”

Her eyes are dark as always, but the pupils are blown-wide–he suspects his are, too. A week of marriage, a year of marriage; either way, she was as desirable as ever. “And how should we go about that, husband?”

She gives a shriek of surprise when he stands suddenly, tugging her into his arms.

“Vocal warm-ups,” he says, before dropping her onto their all-too-inviting bed.

Lothiriel laughs, bright and warm, and opens her arms up to him. “By all means, instruct away.”

Eomer does not need to be asked twice.

41) “Damn auto-correct….” (Modern AU)

Not for the first time, Lothiriel curses her brothers, vodka, and Friday nights all together.

“I think my head is going to split open,” comes Pippin’s voice, from somewhere in the vicinity of her couch.

“Mine’s already cracked,” says Merry, who Lothiriel can just make out sprawled across the sleeping bag left over from her one attempt at camping. “Remind me to never challenge Legolas to a drinking contest again.”

Lothiriel manages a snort, despite the pack of wargs currently pounding behind her temples. “Gimli could have told you that, Merry.”

There’s a knock at the door and they all groan. Eowyn’s amused face appears, with Faramir not far behind. “Good morning, you three.”

“The light, the light!” Cries Pippin dramatically. “Turn it off!”

“That ‘light’ is the sun,” Faramir says. “It lacks a switch, I’m afraid.”

Eowyn comes to sit beside Lothiriel and gives her hair a stroke. “On a scale of 1-10?”

“Oh, a 15 easy,” Lothiriel says. “Thanks for coming to pick us up.”

A sudden stillness falls over the room.

Something like panic creeps up Lothiriel spine. The headache suddenly seems minor, unimportant. “What?”

Wordlessly, her phone appears in view, presented by a clearly-struggling-with-laughter Faramir.

“What,” Lothiriel repeats again, “did I do?”

She looks at her phone, feeling on the verge of vomiting–and not from the hangover.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, no.”

In her phone, Eowyn’s name (which is accompanied by a horse, heart, and sword emoji) is directly next to Eomer’s name (which is accompanied by the much less flattering grouchy-faced emoji).

“Damn auto-correct!” She cries and then winces, as her head throbs in response.

“It might have been better that you did call Eomer instead, Lothiriel,” Pippin offers tentatively. “After all, I don’t think Eowyn could have carried you out of the bar after that last shot.”

Lothiriel groans, burying her face in the pillow. “Oh, Valar.”

“And I don’t think you would have been waxing poetic about Eowyn’s biceps, either,” Merry says. “No offense, of course, ‘Wyn, but I think your brother has you beat.”

“None taken.”

“Kill me,” Lothiriel whines, grasping Faramir’s hand in desperation. “Please, if you love me at all, you’ll take this pillow and smother me with it.”

“I’m afraid he can’t,” Eowyn says, sounding horribly, awfully cheerful. “Because you have a date in approximately twenty minutes.”

Lothiriel shoots up, nearly knocking her forehead against Faramir’s. “I have a what.”

“With Eomer. At the coffeeshop on the corner. In twenty minutes,” Eowyn says. Her eyes narrow in a way that Lothiriel has long since learned tends to indicate a hidden death threat. “And since he was kind enough to bring you and these two drunken hooligans–”

“Hey!” Protests Pippin. “I prefer the term ‘wastrel’, thank you!”

“–home last night, I suggest you go. And explain yourself.”

She’s out of the door in under 15 minutes, the hangover still pounding dully behind her temples, but it’s less nauseating than the guilt and panic swirling under her breastbone. Of all the people to call–Eomer! Damn autocorrect! She must have been much, much drunker than she thought–she’d done so well up until now, to not let him (or anyone else, especially Eowyn) know she very much would not mind being pushed up against a door–or a table, or any available flat surface, really–and be kissed senseless by him.

Every nerve in her body is on-edge when she opens the door to the coffee shop. His arched eyebrow is as familiar–and attractive–as ever and she makes one last attempt to smooth down her likely horrible looking hair before settling into the seat across from him.

“So,” she says, “I’m…sorry?”

“For which part?” He asks. “Calling me at 2 in the morning? Singing with your head out the window of my car? Calling me a ‘grade A Rohirric beefcake’ in front of my sister and her fiance?”

Oh, Elbereth. “All of it?”

Eomer snorts. He fixes her with a look then, and this one’s. Oh. It’s…different, somehow, with a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes. “What about the part where you tried to kiss me?”

Lothiriel’s stomach drops to somewhere near to the depths of Moria. Or lower, maybe. “I. Um. Yes?”

That vulnerability shutters away, and Valar, she knows this look–irritation, anger, and yes, a little bit of hurt, too. She’s said entirely the wrong thing.

“Of course,” he says, bitterness in every tone, “of course you regret that–”

“Eomer,” she interrupts, drawing courage from Elbereth knows where to reach across the table and take one of his hands–warm and calloused and attractive, something must truly be wrong with her, to be so entranced by his hands–”I only regret that I was falling-down drunk when I. When I tried to kiss you. That’s not something I think would have been pleasant for either of us.”

His hand is stock still in hers for a moment and she cringes, tries to pull hers back–maybe she can tell him that she’s still drunk, or that this has been some kind of weird fever-dream–but then his fingers are laced through hers and he’s. Oh. He’s smiling. A real, honest-to-goodness Eomer Eomundson smile, complete with crinkled eyes and that one dimple she’s-never-noticed-not-once.

“Another time, then,” he says, voice pitched low, and Valar, if she doesn’t want to launch herself across the table to test the truth of his words. But this is a public place, and her head still hurts, and part of her isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t dreamt the entirety of the last hour up.

“Maybe breakfast first?” She asks.

Eomer nods, his hand still warm around hers.

“What do you like here?” She asks, suddenly curious.

The spark of mischief in his eyes is utterly, utterly terrifying. “I don’t know. I hear they have great grade A Rohirric–”

She flings her napkin at him and he laughs.

[allofthisnonsenseplease]

Nightrunner fic: The Light Prince

A/N: This is hugely self-indulgent and Seregi is ooc all the way through. To be fair, there’s a reason for that last, but still.

Fusion with The Light Princess by George MacDonald.

It got to be too weird having a finished fic unposted, but I can’t really say this is any good, so I’m going to compromise and not put it in the tags.

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are from Lynn Flewelling’s Nightrunner series and do not belong to me.

1. An Inauspicious Christening

Once upon a time, in a land so cluttered with kingdoms and queendoms that it was nearly impossible to throw a rock without hitting a palace, there lived a King and Queen in the country of Bôkthersa. They were as happy a couple as could be found, save for one thing. Although his dear wife, Queen Illia, had given him four daughters, King Korit yearned for a son. After years of trying, his wish was finally granted, but the cost was far higher than he had expected. His beloved wife died in childbirth, leaving him behind with their four daughters and a squalling infant son.

Stricken with grief and remorse, the King nevertheless meant to honor the customs of his people. In the midst of the month of mourning, he arranged for the christening of his son, whereupon the boy would be given his name. Invitations were sent out to kings and queens, princes and princesses in all corners of the land. In his sorrow, however, there was one person who he forgot to invite. In the normal course of events, such an oversight would be a minor embarrassment, but nothing terribly troubling. Unfortunately, in this case, the person the King had forgotten to invite was none other than Princess Phoria of Skala, a proud and cunning woman with little love for his people and a long memory for grudges.

When Phoria realized that she had been excluded, though her mother and both sisters and even her twin brother had been invited, she was incensed. No practitioner of the magical arts herself, she found a wizard willing to brew up a curse which she would then be able to activate with the simple application of a few herbs and a short incantation. Thus armed, she contrived to attend the christening, pretending that she had not noticed the slight, while the King remained unaware that he had even forgotten her.

In the milling confusion before the guests took their places for the ceremony, Phoria emptied into the font a packet of fine powder that had been mixed up for her by her wizard. Then, she had only to wait until the infant was sprinkled with the water and christened with his name. When she heard the King pronounce the name of his son—Seregil—she knew the moment was ripe and spoke the spell under her breath.

"Light of spirit, by my charms, Light of body, every part, Never weary human arms— Only crush thy father's heart!"

In an instant, the reverent silence was broken by a squeal of laughter from the infant Prince. The sound of it masked the gasp of Princess Adzriel, his oldest sister, who happened to be holding him. Although no one saw that anything was amiss as she clutched her brother tightly, in an instant, she had felt all the weight go out of his tiny body.

Prince Seregil's laughter continued unabated in shrills and gurgles of joy. Thinking that the magic she had purchased had failed, Phoria spent the remainder of the ceremony in an even worse temper than she had been in when she had initially been slighted. It was only toward the end of the evening that she noticed the first sign that all was not well. Adzriel was drawing the King away, speaking low and urgently to him and holding out his son to him.

When King Korit took the boy, his face betrayed his shock. He hefted the baby, but his grip must not have been sure. At the height of his lift, Seregil floated free, cooing happily, and came to rest against the ceiling. He hovered there quite contentedly and with no apparent inclination to drift back down, while gasps and cries of alarm came from the crowd below.

By all accounts a difficult woman to please, Phoria's lips pressed thin in a dissatisfied line as she watched and wondered if her revenge had truly been served.

2. The Gravity of the Situation

The curse—which must never have been properly explained to Phoria, as she would merely have scoffed at the idea and found a different wizard—robbed Prince Seregil of his gravity. Never again did the baby cry or wail. Instead, squeals and shrieks of laughter issued from him in response to any stimulus. And although such a cheerful baby was almost universally loved despite the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, his condition did give rise to certain unusual and awkward situations.

A nurse, bouncing the infant one day, let her grip relax too much and, before she knew it, Seregil was laughing his baby laugh while looking down at her from the ceiling. The same mistake was made by the King and two of the Prince's sisters. One evening as they sat at table, Seregil was accidentally let go up into the lofty ceiling of the dining hall. A ladder had to be sent for and placed carefully on the long table over the platter of venison. Even then, the servant sent to fetch the Prince down could not reach him. In the end, the baby had to be handed down after being snagged by a pair of tongs.

Special care had to be taken even when the Prince was laid in his cradle. A mishap one afternoon involving open windows and a mischievous breeze left the castle all in an uproar when it was discovered that Seregil had been whisked away out of the palace. He was eventually found in the garden, having been blown into a hedge of roses. His skin was scratched from the thorns, but no lasting harm was done, and from then on, it was always made certain that a dozen silk cords secured his clothing to the sides of his crib.

King Korit was devastated. His wish for a son had cost his queen her life, and had left him besides with a child that was in no way the boy he had wanted. Seregil was not a child he could teach to ride and hunt and fight as he had long dreamed of.

“Don't despair, Father,” Princess Adzriel said to him. “Perhaps he needs only to grow out of it.”

“Perhaps a cure will be found,” suggested Princess Mydri.

The Princesses Shala and Illina were of the mind that their brother ought to be sent away to someplace where he could be forgotten, so as not to bring further shame upon their family.

The King refused to send his son away, but the loss of his wife had stolen his ability to hope. His heart remained heavy as stone, as if it had taken on all the gravity that Seregil so sorely lacked.

Although the King lamented both his loss and his son's fate, Princess Adzriel doted on the child, and Prince Seregil was the darling of the servants. There was nothing they could do that didn't please the infant, and he was coddled and bounced and played with all the hours of the day. One of the games they loved best to play with him was ball, and Seregil enjoyed it no less for actually being the ball himself. Peals of laughter rang out as he was tossed from one pair of hands to another and, although they had to be careful not to toss him into a hearth or allow him to get tangled in a chandelier, at least there was no danger in dropping him.

As the years passed, Prince Seregil grew into as fine, handsome, and healthy a young man as anyone could have asked for. The only flaw in his constitution was his continuing lack of gravity. He had learned to make his way by taking up large rocks in either hand, and these had the effect of weighing him back down to earth between his bounding steps, but nothing worn on his person would do. Indeed, anything from his heavy winter cloaks to his fine golden crown would lose its own gravity as soon as he put it on. After one too many close calls where Seregil had accidentally dropped his ballast, King Korit finally decreed that he was not to be allowed out without an escort of half a dozen men holding lengths of silken cord tied to his clothes, along with as many mounted riders—just in case he should slip his leashes. Adzriel also insisted that he always carry on his person a small grappling hook on a length of rope in case of emergencies.

Outings with Seregil were always merry, as the Prince laughed at everything, and took no offense when his strange gait encouraged laughter in others. One step would send him up into the air, feet moving as if he could still propel himself forward, while his direction was at the mercy of any breeze that chose to blow past. His ballast would see him brought back down to earth until another step kicked him off again and then up he would go.

Inspired by these foreshortened flights, Seregil had on more than one occasion confided in fits of giggles that he should like nothing more than to be tied to a very, very long cord and flown like a kite. If his father's heart had not long since been broken, that particular bit of silliness might have been the final blow to it.

Given his unusual method of locomotion, it was hardly uncommon for him to be blown off course and into one of the courtiers or servants that surrounded him constantly. In fact, Seregil had claimed his first kiss in just such a manner. Rushing to greet his sister Adzriel one day, an ill-timed puff of air had caught him mid-stride—that is, a few feet off the ground as he began his descent—and sent him directly into the path of a young man not much older than he named Ilar. Lips already puckered to kiss his sister's cheek, Seregil collided head on with Ilar, who was only too happy about the misplaced affection. His happiness did not last overlong, however. Although Ilar fancied the Prince, Seregil could not take him seriously at all, and the laughter that remained the constant response to Ilar's overtures in all their future exchanges eventually changed his infatuation to bitterness. Seregil didn't even notice when Ilar left the court to return to his own home.

Seregil's treatment of Ilar was but one example of how his comportment remained as unaltered by time as his exemption to the natural law of gravity. Nothing could be said to him that he would not laugh at, and nothing could happen that he did not find humorous. There was, however, a strange quality to the Prince's laughter, a sort of lack or hollowness at the center. At times, his laugh could sound quite brittle, but it went on all the same. It was his sister, Adzriel, who loved him best of all, who noticed that although her brother might be easily set off into fits of laughter, it did not reach his eyes. He rarely smiled.

He never cried, not even a single tear of mirth.

3. Try Everything—Something's Got To Work

Adzriel never gave up hope that the curse on her brother could be broken. She wrote to wizards, magicians, fortune tellers, oracles, physicians, and philosophers. She invited them all to Bôkthersa to examine Seregil, and visited those who could not or would not come. She was inundated with suggestions, both solicited and freely offered, and found that she discarded more of these potential cures than she tried, as many of them were ridiculous at best and dangerous at worst.

Thero í Procepios, a wizard of Orëska House, believed that something had gone wrong with the soul inhabiting her brother's body.

“Two souls, seeking out their appropriate habitations, must have somehow met, rebounded off each other, and lodged in the wrong bodies. It is no wonder the Prince is not subject to any natural influence—his soul belongs to another sphere. He must therefore be grounded in this world. Fill him with its history of every variety: animal, vegetable, mineral, social, moral, political, scientific, literary, artistic, musical, magical, and metaphysical. Fill him with the weight of the world he must dwell in.”

Adzriel had her doubts about the efficacy of this cure, but reasoned that knowledge never hurt anyone and saw to it that her beloved brother had the finest tutors.

Charis Yhakobin, an alchemist from Plenimar, paid a visit and proposed a more physical solution.

“It is his heart that's the problem. I believe that somehow the motion of it has been entirely reversed, drawing the blood in where it should be forced out, and forcing the blood out where it should be drawn in. In this manner, blood suffuses the body through his veins and returns through the arteries. With such an extraordinary reversal at work, it's really no wonder that other natural forces do not affect him as they would a normal person.”

It was at that point that he outlined his plan to correct the problem, a plan that involved draining the Prince's blood until he was at death's door, then re-setting the flow of new blood through his body through the use of ligatures around the left ankle and right wrist, and air-pumps over the right ankle and left wrist.

The alchemist was thanked politely for his time and expertise, and sent away without his experiment being carried out.

Another Plenimaran, a necromancer by the name of Vargûl Ashnazai, hypothesized that the Prince needed to be properly grounded, and should be buried alive for three years. Adzriel shuddered and burned his letter.

One of the ideas put forth time and again from various sources was that the Prince's gravity would be restored if he could be made to cry. To this end, Seregil was told that his favorite uncle had died (though in fact, he had not), was presented with the sorriest tale of woe from the kingdom's most unfortunate beggar, was made to listen to the most heart-rending ballads ever composed, and was even whipped quite soundly. Nothing had the desired effect, although his laughter during that last measure sounded unsettlingly close to screams.

It was even suggested at one point that perhaps the best thing for the Prince would be for him to fall in love...though how that would occur in a heart so strangely untouched by the larger spectrum of human emotion was a mystery.

Adzriel continued her efforts on her brother's behalf, refusing to lose hope despite the growing number of failed, nonsensical, and impossible cures she was presented with.

4. A Refreshing Dip in the Lake

As it turned out, there was one thing, discovered quite by accident, that mitigated the effects of the curse. The palace was located on the shore of a beautiful, deep, blue lake. One lovely summer day, as the court enjoyed itself on a fleet of small pleasure boats, Seregil took it into his head that he wished to visit with his friend, Kheeta, who was in one of the other boats. Given Seregil's unique nature, it would be easy enough to arrange the transfer. As the boats passed each other, Adzriel lifted up her weightless brother, laughing along with him, and went to toss him into Kheeta's arms. However, it so happened that a mischievous wave upset the motion of the boat just as the Princess stepped forward, causing her to trip. She let go of her brother as she went down, but her momentum had carried over to him, and down he went as well, past the railing and directly into the water where he promptly sank out of sight.

There was a general outcry. Accustomed as they were to their Prince's wayward habits of movement, none of them had ever seen him propelled downward in such a way. He had never sunk. Kheeta was into the lake in a flash, followed by several other members of the boating party. They searched frantically for Seregil, until a whoop and a splash drew their attention clear across the lake to where the Prince had surfaced. The entire party set out to retrieve him, but no entreaty would draw him out of the water. He stayed in until darkness fell, and returned at first light the next day.

Seregil dove and swam as if born to the water, quick and lively as an otter, and from then on, there was nothing and no one in the world that he loved so much as the lake. He spent most of his days swimming, even into winter, although he could not stay in quite so long once the water grew cold enough for ice to form on its surface. The water of the lake was the very same that had filled the font at his christening, been dosed with the magical powder, and sprinkled upon him. Whether through some flaw in the curse or by some other mechanism, it was within that water that Seregil regained something of what had been lost to him ever since that day.

So it was that Seregil grew to be a young man of seventeen, flighty and lighthearted, beloved by those who surrounded him at all times on land, but happiest when he could slip away alone into the lake.

5. Falling In

It happened one late spring day that a young woodsman named Alec made his way into the thick woods that skirted the mountains north of Bôkthersa and shaded one side of the lake. Unaware that he had stumbled into the royal forest, Alec explored the woods, captivated by the serenity and emerald beauty, by the lushness of the forest and the ready game it provided.

Eventually, on a warm evening when the moon was rising full and bright, he came to the shore of the lake. It captured the moon's brilliance in a million silvered wavelets, making it seems as if the stars had fallen to dance upon the earth. The scene was drenched in evening blue, and every branch, every leaf, every blade of grass was limned in silver. The air was cool and sweet, and fireflies winked on and off in the shadows. To his right, the land rose sharply into a small cliff crowned by trees and overhanging the deepest part of the lake. To his left, a sandy bank curved around the wide edge of the water toward the palace which was now just visible by its twinkling lights far in the distance. Realizing for the first time that his presence might be considered trespassing, he was about to turn around and leave the way he'd come when a sudden sound halted him in his tracks.

He thought he'd heard a shriek, though there was something odd about the sound. After a moment, he most certainly heard a splash. Looking out over the water, he spotted a pale form floundering not too far from where he stood. Thinking that it must be someone in need of aid, he waded in and swam to the rescue. There was some struggling, some panic, some considerable effort put into keeping both their heads above water, but Alec made it back to shore with the man he'd ostensibly saved, only to be treated to an enormous shock as the weight in his arms vanished as soon as he was lifted from the water.

Not knowing any better, Alec hefted his spluttering burden without making sure to hold on. The result was that Seregil found himself not only dragged out of his beloved lake, but heaved unceremoniously up into the air.

“You little scoundrel!” He shouted. “You villain! How dare you pull me down out of the water and throw me to the bottom of the air!” Never before had anything succeeded in putting Seregil into a passion, but then, no one had ever dragged him without warning out of the water.

“I beg your pardon?”

Heedless of the squelching of his waterlogged boots, Alec hurried after him as he drifted toward the trees. So amazed was he by the sight of the young man floating up into the air, that he only belatedly noticed the rather complete lack of clothing upon his airborne person. Blushing hotly, but finding it hard to look away, he watched in bewilderment as the floating man snatched desperately at a branch as he passed, pulling himself close enough to grab the one below it, then the one below that, hauling himself toward the ground as if climbing a ladder upside down.

“Well?” Seregil demanded once he was more or less righted. With no stones to hand, he relied on his grip on the lowest tree branch to be sure the wind didn't carry him off again. “What's your excuse for pulling me from my lake, boy?”

“I pulled you out because I thought you were drowning.” Being somewhat more concerned with modesty than the man whose life he had just tried to save, Alec very carefully kept his eyes averted.

“Drowning?” Seregil fell over laughing at the idea, rolling around in midair. “How could I possibly drown, you silly boy? If I could have my way I would become a merman and live in that lake!”

“You seem more bird than fish to me. How is it that you can fly?”

“I can't.” He laughed again at the suggestion, realized that he was drifting off like a bit of dandelion fluff, and caught at another tree. “Everyone says that I lack gravity. But do you know what? Sometimes I feel as if I am the only one in the whole world with any sense!” Delighted by his own revelation, Seregil was off again in a fit of laughter.

Alec followed along after him as he floated deeper into the trees, borne up by the wind. “Aren't you afraid that you'll float away?”

“All the time!” Seregil called back, and though he laughed as if this was the funniest thing of all, still it was true. Deep down, he had a fear of the air much like many people had a fear of heights. But while most people could avoid heights, it was impossible, without remaining always cooped up indoors, to avoid any sudden breeze that might whip up and carry him off.

The wind changed direction in the woods, driving up against the hill and pushing Seregil along before it as he was too weak with laughter to keep hold of any branch for long. Alec followed after him, amazed and curious and more than a little embarrassed by the unavoidable glimpses of certain bits of personal anatomy, until they neared the top of the cliff.

“You're running out of trees,” he warned. Then, remembering the scolding he'd gotten earlier, he asked: “Do you need any help?”

“What's your name?”

“Alec. And yours?”

“Seregil.” He reached out a hand, and Alec clasped it, reeling him in away from the empty air that threatened over the very top of the cliff. Seregil wrapped his arms around Alec's neck, pleased by the way the boy's deep blue eyes widened in surprise at his weightlessness, as well as by the charming blush dark enough to be apparent in the moonlight.

“Alec. As it so happens, I do need help. As you were the one who took me out of my lake, I want you to put me back in.”

“Easy enough.” Seregil was no burden at all, and the walk back down was a short one. As he turned however, he was interrupted by a laughing protest.

“Where are you going, silly boy? The lake is that way.” Seregil pointed to the top of the cliff, and Alec frowned at him.

“I'm sixteen. I've been on my own for almost a year now. I'm not a boy.”

“But you are silly, going the wrong way like that.”

Hesitantly, Alec walked them up to the top of the cliff, stopping a few steps back from the edge. “Look, I can't put you in the lake from up here. What if the wind catches you and blows you away again?”

Alec's hands were shaking, though not from holding Seregil up, as his weightlessness prevented strain. The cause was emotional, rather than physical. Just that very moment, he had discovered a rather powerful fear of heights. As he started to take a step back, Seregil jerked suddenly forward for a better look. Weightless he might be, but his grip around Alec's shoulders was sure, and suddenly Alec found himself off balance and stumbling forward. His foot came down on the very edge of the cliff, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought he was safe. Then, the ground crumbled out from beneath him. His own wholly natural relationship with gravity took over and he found himself falling.

It was lucky for them both that the cliff face was concave so that there was nothing solid between them and the water. Still, the fall was terrifying for Alec, and he screamed and clutched at Seregil. Having never experienced anything quite like it before, Seregil gave one great shout of exhilaration before they plunged beneath the surface.

Alec shot back up in a moment, gasping and feeling as if his heart was about to beat right out of his chest. He spun, looking for Seregil, but it was several long seconds before he surfaced some yards distant. They swam toward each other, Seregil wide-eyed with wonder and Alec just as mad as the Prince had been when he'd pulled him from the lake.

“You idiot!” Alec shouted, whipping his hand through the water to splash Seregil. “You made us fall in!”

“That was falling in?” He ignored the angry splashing aside from raising one arm in halfhearted self-defense. “How wonderful! I've never fallen in before! Let's do it again!”

“Not on your life!”

“Everyone else obliges me.”

“Well, let everyone else dunk you in your damned lake, then.” Alec struck out toward shore, but Seregil followed him.

“No! This is my place! They follow me everywhere else, but not here. I want to fall in with you.”

“Absolutely not,” muttered Alec, whose heartbeat had still not returned to normal.

Seregil easily outpaced him in the water, swimming around to block his way and catch his hands. “At least come swim with me for a while.” He was amused by Alec, who treated him so differently from everyone else.

“No. I need to get out and dry off. I've got to get moving tomorrow.”

“Why?” Seregil played with him, letting Alec slip around to the side in order to get past, then diving so that he could surface in front of him once more. Slowly, slowly, he herded him away from the near shore.

“Because I don't think I'm supposed to be here. I wandered in by mistake.”

“Do you like our forest?”

For the first time, Alec paused, simply treading water to remain afloat. “I do. These woods are beautiful.”

“I can grant you permission to stay a while. If you'll agree to fall in with me each evening.”

Alec stared at him. “To do that, you'd have to be....” His eyes widened. Hadn't he overheard some talk a few weeks back? He'd gone into a village to trade for a few supplies, and heard the most ridiculous story about a prince who had to be tethered to his retainers lest he float away.

Seregil grinned at him. “Do we have a deal?”

The shock faded quickly, and Alec turned himself around in the water, scanning the shoreline of the lake. “Only if we can find someplace a bit less high up to jump from.”

6. What a Silly Thing to Be!

From the tail end of spring and on into the maw of a fiercely hot summer, Alec remained living in the woods near the lake. By day, he hunted and set his snares, skinned his catches and stretched out hides to dry, trimmed and fletched arrows, and occasionally ventured into the market to trade for bread or cheese or supplies he couldn't make himself. By night, he swam with Seregil: holding the Prince in his arms and jumping off rocks that stood the height of a man above the lake's surface, diving and splashing, racing through the water, or floating serenely upon the surface to count the stars and talk.

One of Alec's favorite things was when they swam down, down into the depths until they could look up and see the moon shining huge upon the surface, broken only by the occasional blue ripple, then they would shoot up through the water, bursting through that bright reflection, and stare up, gasping for air as the moon shone in the blue night as if from the bottom of the vast pool of the heavens. The breathtaking sight sometimes left Alec feeling dizzy, and he always knew when he looked particularly dazed because Seregil never failed to tease him about it.

Seregil teased him about a great many things.

On the second night that they met, Alec sat upon the bank, waiting for the last of the boating party that had accompanied the Prince in the waters near the castle to row back to shore. As the stars came out and the courtiers returned to the palace, he began to sing softly to himself. It was a simple hymn to Dalna the Maker, one of the few songs he knew, but presently, he heard a soft splashing and saw that Seregil had come into the shallows to sit only half-submerged, listening.

“You have a passable voice,” the Prince said when Alec fell silent. Pent up laughter made his voice thick, and in the next moment, he was doubled over with it, shoulders shaking, as he forced out: “I should have guessed you were a Dalnan! What a silly thing to be!”

“Why is that silly?”

“Why did you blush so prettily yesterday?”

Remembering Seregil's state of undress and supposing it would certainly be the same tonight, Alec felt heat rise to color his cheeks. “I'm not used to seeing others naked,” he muttered.

“Not used to seeing your own skin, either, if the way you smelled last night was anything to go by. Does Dalnan modesty prohibit disrobing for bathing, as well?”

Face burning, Alec stood up to leave. He paused only to scowl as Seregil started laughing again.

“Oh, come now, don't be like that! Why must everyone always be so serious?”

“I would suppose it's in our nature,” Alec said stiffly, wondering what had caused such an odd lack in Seregil's.

“If you're just going to be as tiresome as the rest, then I won't bother speaking with you.”

He turned away and swam off without a look back, leaving Alec, who had spent the entire day roaming the royal forest with Seregil's conditional permission, feeling increasingly guilty over not holding up his end of the bargain. It didn't seem as if that had been Seregil's intention, or that the Prince was playing coy. As far as Alec could tell, Seregil truly no longer had any interest in him. He sat back down on the bank, watching the play of silver light on the surface of the lake and tracking Seregil's movements, though he lost him for long moments whenever the Prince would dive beneath the surface.

Presently, Alec began to sing again. When that failed to get Seregil's attention, he got up and stripped down to his tunic, then walked the edge of the lake until he came to the cluster of rocks he had found that would do for jumping into the water. He climbed up onto them, then waited for Seregil to swim past.

“Would you like to jump in with me?” Alec called to him. “Or do I still stink?”

“A good swim will fix that!” Seregil called back, now hurrying eagerly toward him.

If he'd had any hard feelings over their earlier exchange, Alec couldn't tell. It would be a while longer yet before he would start to wonder if Seregil was even capable of such feelings.

That evening set the pattern for their meetings. Seregil would search him out once all the others had gone in, and Alec would spend time lifting his new friend out of the water and holding Seregil in his arms to jump back in, over and over again. It was always Alec who tired of falling in first, but Seregil never complained too strenuously about remaining in the water. They spent hours every night swimming together, talking, racing, competing to see who could dive deepest.

Seregil seemed to know at least a little bit about every subject in the world. His knowledge astonished Alec, who hadn't taken him for an attentive pupil. Alec's mistake was in supposing that the inability to take anything seriously meant that Seregil had no interest. On the contrary, everything was of interest to him, if only for how absurd it appeared from his point of view. Seregil had an excellent memory for details, and Alec found himself soaking up knowledge secondhand with a powerful thirst as Seregil's endless chatter covered all possible topics, from politics and history to fashion and gossip.

Aside from being intelligent, Seregil easily won all of their contests. Rather than being put off by the fact that he was slower in the water, Alec pushed himself to keep up until he was just as quick and could dive just as far and hold his breath just as long. Seregil barely seemed to notice. Win, lose, or draw, he only ever laughed at the end of their contests.

He did tease, however, quite mercilessly, although there was no malice in him. Once Alec had grown more accustomed to his friend's ways, he took no more offense than he would over a spot of inclement weather. And, despite the fact that Seregil laughed about everything—which was not, as Alec soon realized, the same as being happy about everything—he felt that maybe Seregil was just a little extra fond of him. He couldn't help but hope so, at any rate. Sometimes his friend would even say something that would nearly be enough for Alec to believe that.

“Perhaps I like you so much because your eyes look almost as blue as the depths of my lake,” Seregil told him one warm night in early summer.

He'd been very close, enough that their legs brushed beneath the surface while treading water. Alec hadn't known what to make of the words, not when Seregil looked almost serious as he said them, and not when he was comparing Alec to the one thing he could truly be said to love. Alec felt his face heat up under the scrutiny of those unusually serene gray eyes, and the awareness of the blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks only made him all the more embarrassed. The moment was shattered quite suddenly as Seregil laughed. Before Alec could think up a response, the Prince had spun and disappeared beneath the surface, off to enjoy himself alone. Left treading water by himself, the words suddenly felt like a joke, and Alec's heart sank.

He wasn't entirely sure what the warm, anxious feeling was that filled him up whenever he saw Seregil, but he worried quietly that he might be falling in love.

7. A Leak in the Lake

Summer drew slowly to a close, hot days lingering into autumn even as the evenings pulled chilling winds across the lake and made Alec all the more reluctant to leave the water each night. He and Seregil were playing around, tussling near the shore: tackling each other into the water, squirming free, and swimming back around to counterattack. Alec had by this time grown accustomed to Seregil's preference for swimming au naturale. Seregil had yanked Alec down under the water, then darted away grinning. Intent on revenge, Alec had come up behind him where he'd surfaced, treading water near the boulders they so often used as a jumping off point. Something about the set of Seregil's shoulders gave him pause, however. Rather than dunking his friend, Alec moved to get a better look at his face. Lit only by pale moonlight, Seregil looked pensive, an expression so enormously unlike him that a shiver of dread coursed through Alec's body.

“Seregil?”

The Prince didn't respond, only stared a moment longer at the rock beneath his hand. Then, without a word, without even a glance at Alec, he shot off through the water. Alec trailed him, watching Seregil flit from point to point along the shores of the lake, looking at something only he could see, and growing visibly more troubled as he went. No matter how many times Alec called his name, his concentration never wavered. Finally, as Seregil swam back around to the shadowed pool beneath the balcony to his bedroom, Alec caught his arm.

“Seregil, what's wrong?” He had never seen his friend like this, and was nearly in a panic himself.

Though Seregil's eyes met his, his gaze was troubled and unfocused. “I need to go,” he murmured. “Give me a boost.”

“Tell me what's going on,” Alec demanded.

Seregil only shook his head. With a sigh, Alec lifted him free of the water and heaved him gently upward. He watched his friend rise through the air until he could catch hold of the railing of his balcony and pull himself inside. Immediately, Seregil drew the curtains.

With a heavy heart, Alec started on his way back across the lake. From the onset of his confusing feelings for Seregil, he had tried to remind himself that anything more than friendly affection wouldn't be returned. Seregil's curse made it impossible. Hope was not so easy to kill, however, and it had insinuated itself a little deeper into the nooks and crannies of Alec's heart with every evening they had spent together. Now, suspecting that Seregil had noticed something wrong with the lake, Alec was left deflated by the painful reminder that his friend harbored no special feelings for him. Far from it.

Before leaving the water that evening, he examined all the same places that Seregil had looked at earlier, trying to fix their appearance in his mind's eye. Maybe whatever his friend had noticed would turn out to be nothing after all. If not, Alec wanted to be able to offer whatever help he could.

The very next morning, Seregil was out at the lake at first light. He swam completely around it, studying the water level in certain places and ordering that marks be painted at each one. His unheard of seriousness had stunned the servants that followed him, and it didn't help anyone's state of mind when he voluntarily left the lake as soon as he was done and shut himself up in his room.

Alec had slept through the entire spectacle, but he was awake when Seregil returned just before sunset to make another inspection of the lake. With a retinue trailing his friend, Alec stayed out of sight in the woods, but even from a distance, he saw Seregil's distress. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest as he watched Seregil abandon the lake after one swim around its edge, and he waited impatiently for everyone to leave before shedding his boots and breeches and wading in.

It took Alec no time at all to spot the marks painted that morning. Seeing them two handspans above the surface, the same dread certainly that affected Seregil now occurred to him.

The lake was sinking.

For the next several nights, Alec checked the marks regularly, but there was no denying the fact that the water level was dropping inexplicably quickly. The grasses and reeds growing along its shore began to dry up, and rock formations formerly hidden by depth were becoming visible just beneath the surface. After a few days, there was no longer any need to actually swim the circumference of the lake to tell that it was shrinking—the difference was plain to see from any vantage point.

To make matters worse, Seregil was more than simply upset by the discovery. Whatever power the water held over him was tied more strongly than anyone could have guessed. As the lake shrank, dying by inches, Seregil's strength began to fade. He kept to his room with the curtains drawn against the sight of the dwindling lake. He spoke less and less. His laughter died away to silence.

Even so, he still never cried.

Fearing for her brother's life, Adzriel redoubled her efforts to find someone who might be of use in restoring the lake. No one had any solution to offer, and no one could account for the sudden change. Day by day, the water continued to disappear, and Seregil's condition continued to worsen.

Forgotten, and terribly afraid for his friend, Alec felt alone and helpless, and grew increasingly more frustrated.

The only person to rejoice at the news was Princess Phoria. Having heard what joy Seregil took in his lake and how it eased the hearts of those who loved him, she had summoned the wizard who had first created the curse, and demanded that something be done to assure her revenge was not subverted. This time, the wizard went himself to see to the casting, the spell not being something that he could prepare in advance and leave to an ordinary person to cast.

Hidden on the steepest slope of the tallest mountain that cradled the palace of Bôkthersa was a narrow opening only just barely big enough for a slender man to squeeze through. The wizard made his way to that crevice and crept along it in darkness until he came to the very heart of the mountain. Here, the walls fell back to create a small cave with an ancient, iron-banded oak door locked fast opposite the entrance.

The wizard called up light, then a wooden tub, then water to fill the tub. He pulled a bit of dried snakeskin from his robes, and tossed it into the water. Adding a magical powder, he stirred the water with his arm until a snake as white as new-fallen snow lifted its head from the tub to regard him with its milky eyes. The wizard allowed the snake to drape its coils along his arm and around his shoulders, then pulled out an iron ring that held a hundred iron keys. Taking the first key in hand, he opened the wooden door, stepped through, and locked it behind him. A few stone steps led him down, then he encountered a second door. He unlocked this with the second key, stepped through, locked it back behind himself, and went a few more steps down to the third door. So he continued, unlocking and locking, progressing a few steps, and pausing at another door until he had gotten through all one hundred doors leading down into the bowels of the earth.

A vast chamber lay beyond the hundredth door, with stone pillars as big as trees holding up the ceiling. The wizard lifted his hand, and the snake uncoiled, stretching up toward the ceiling of the cavern, head swaying from side to side as if seeking a scent on the rock. Muttering spells, the wizard walked a circuit around the cavern, gradually spiraling inwards as he went around and around until he reached the very center. There, the snake suddenly lunged, sinking its fangs into the stone.

For three days and three nights, the wizard sat and spoke the words of his spell. After the third night, the snake shriveled away once more. All was still for a long moment, then a drop of water condensed where the serpent had worked at the stone, grew fat and heavy, and fell to the floor of the chamber with an echoing splash.

With all haste, the wizard fled the cavern, unlocking each of the hundred stout doors and locking them back behind himself as he fled. As he went, the sound of rushing water gradually rose to fill the passageway.

The very last thing the wizard did before leaving Bôkthersa to report back to Princess Phoria was to walk the land surrounding the lake. At every river and waterfall he encountered, he threw in a pinch of his magic powder. Every source of water dried up. Not a spring, creek, or rill remained to replenish the lake. In time, it would go completely dry, and the task set him by the Princess would be complete.

8. There is Always a Price to be Paid

The dwindling lake left the residents of the palace beside themselves with worry. Adzriel continued to follow every path of inquiry opened to her. Mydri spent much of her time at Seregil's bedside, nursing him and trying to coax him to eat, though he would take no nourishment but lake water. His condition continued to deteriorate so that there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he wouldn't survive the death of his beloved lake. King Korit took the news gravely, retreating into the heartache that had never quite left him after his wife's death.

The palace fell into a mourning quiet, made all the more apparent by the fact that for the first time in seventeen years, Seregil's laughter did not ring through the halls. Outside, the lake steadily drained away, leaving bare, glistening banks strewn with all manner of refuse and dead creatures. The muck baked in the sun and stank of rot, and still the waters receded. Alec retreated further into the forest during the day to escape the stench, but he still returned to the lake shore every evening with the dwindling hope of seeing his friend. He sang his Dalnan hymns and racked his brain for anything he could do that might be of use.

The lake was almost completely dry before a solution presented itself.

One day, a group of children scavenging along the lakebed came upon a golden shield. Inscribed upon it was a simple verse that no one could make heads or tails of.

"Death alone from death can save. Love is death, and so is brave— Love can fill the deepest grave. Love loves on beneath the wave."

The shield was brought to the temple of the Ruhi'auros in the hopes that one of them could make sense of it. Soon enough, the mystics came back with an answer.

There was but one way to restore the lake and save the life of the dying Prince Seregil. The hole through which the water was draining away must be found and plugged, but it could not simply be stopped up by normal means. A willing sacrifice must agree to block the hole, giving up their life as the lake filled in over their head. This was the price for restoring the lake and the rivers that nourished the valley, and for saving the Prince in the process.

Shaken by such a revelation, Adzriel still wasted no time in issuing a proclamation. Word of the curse and the cure was spread throughout the city and the surrounding villages, but no one stepped forward to volunteer. Days passed as the lake grew dangerously dry. Adzriel was considering taking on the burden herself, and leaving one of her sisters to become their father's heir in her stead, when Alec, having finally left the woods long enough to hear the proclamation, announced himself at the palace gates.

One mention of needing to speak with Princess Adzriel about volunteering to plug the hole in the lake was enough to grant Alec an audience with the royal family. Having only ever met Seregil, and never when the Prince was clothed, Alec felt small and grubby standing before the finely dressed King and his four daughters. He had asked only for Princess Adzriel, having gathered from listening to Seregil that she loved him best out of all his family, and had therefore not been prepared for such an audience. Reminding himself that he was doing this to save his friend, Alec stood straight and spoke with more confidence than he felt.

“I'm here to restore the lake.”

King Korit looked him over with tired, old eyes, then gestured toward the door. “Put him in,” he said, and guards started forward.

“Wait!” The guards paid him no attention, and Alec shouted desperately as they took hold of him. “I have a request!”

It was Adzriel who stayed the guards. She stood and stepped away from her throne, coming forward to speak with Alec on equal footing, affording him that respect as a show of thanks on her brother's behalf.

“What is your request?” she asked him kindly.

“I want....” He licked his lips, nervous and afraid, but committed. “I believe that it might take a long time for the lake to fill up. Sere— Prince Seregil and I are.... We've swum together in the lake. And talked. I'd like for him to stay with me. If I get hungry, or need someone to talk to, then I'd like for him to be there to keep me company.”

Adzriel smiled sadly, having no trouble seeing the love that Alec felt for her brother. She touched his cheek, brushing back a thick lock of his blond hair.

“That is not an unreasonable request.” Looking back over her shoulder, she addressed the King. “Father?”

“So be it.” King Korit seemed to care no more about this than he had when Alec had first volunteered. “Adzriel, have everything arranged.”

9. Love Loves On

Within the hour, Alec had been brought to the hole in the lakebed. There was only a small puddle around it now, the last of the water in the lake. Seregil was borne to his side aboard a small boat. He lay as if dead among cushions beneath a silk awning, but Alec saw with relief that his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

“It's been a while,” Alec said quietly, once the others had left them alone. “You look awful.”

Seregil's eyes fluttered open just long enough to catch a glimpse of him. “They told me someone had volunteered to save my lake.”

“Yes. Everything will be back to normal soon.”

“It's very kind of you,” Seregil murmured.

“I'd have hated to watch you die.”

Seregil said nothing in response, and Alec soon realized that he had fallen asleep. There was nothing else for it but to go ahead and get it all over with.

The hole in the lake was a small, triangular opening. It took Alec a few minutes to work out that the only way to cover it completely was to sit down with his legs through the opening, then lean forward to cover the rest with his hands. It was an uncomfortable position, and the sun beat down mercilessly upon him. With Seregil asleep and nothing much else he could do, he sang quietly, beginning with the first hymn Seregil had ever heard from him.

Presently, a small wave flowed over the stone, lapping against Alec's knees. Encouraged, he continued singing, praying that the water would rise quickly before his fear could undo his resolve. Perhaps an hour passed before he heard Seregil stir, and his heart lifted. Craning his neck to peer into the boat, he thought he could see a bit more color in his friend's cheeks. He sang one more song, but his throat was growing painfully dry, and a numbing cold was creeping up his limbs, leeching away his strength. He fell silent when the hymn came to an end, and did not begin another.

“Keep singing, if you would,” Seregil murmured. “It's so very boring just lying here.”

“My throat is too dry. Give me a sip of water.”

Seregil sat up, his movements sluggish and hesitant. “They left me with chilled wine, rather than water,” he said.

“Some of that, then. Please.”

Looking as if he would rather have lain back down, Seregil shrugged and poured some wine into a goblet. He offered it over the side to Alec.

“You'll have to hold the goblet.” He nodded toward the muddy pool around them. “I can't move my hands.”

“Oh.” Seregil stretched forward, carefully tipping the goblet to allow Alec to drink. A few sips were all he could manage.

As Seregil sat back, Alec fancied that there was a hint of concern in his expression. He comforted himself with the thought that his friend's heart wasn't entirely closed to him, despite the curse, and settled into the silence that wrapped around them. Alec was no stranger to silence, and often welcomed it. He held his peace as Seregil dozed. An hour passed. Two, then three. It was only when he realized that he was in danger of nodding off that Alec thought to call out. Even as he spoke Seregil's name, however, his friend was coming awake, sitting up to look over the side of his small boat.

“I'm afloat!” the Prince cried.

Sure enough, the water had risen high enough to lift the small boat out of the muck. Beaming, Seregil looked up to meet Alec's eyes.

“Look, Alec! Soon we'll be able to go swimming together again! You must fall in with me just as soon as the water is deep enough.”

Alec managed a smile for him, although he was beginning to feel quite lightheaded. The water had risen over his stomach.

“I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else to fall in with.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. I'd forgotten.”

Seregil stared at the water once more, but the joy was gone from his expression, leaving only a small, troubled frown behind. He met Alec's eyes again quickly.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Just a bit.”

Although he wasn't actually hungry, he was feeling faint. It wouldn't do to pass out before he had completed his task. Seregil pulled a honeyed oatcake from the basket packed in beside him. He broke off bits and fed them slowly to Alec.

“Your lips are chapped.” He drew a thumb across Alec's lower lip, then pulled his hand away. A moment later, and he was offering a goblet of wine. As before, a few sips were all Alec could manage before he turned his head away.

“Talk to me,” Alec said.

“What would you have me talk about?”

“Anything. Just make sure I stay awake.”

“All right, then.”

Seregil settled back amongst the pillows, but he made sure this time to prop himself up so that he could see Alec. He talked haltingly at first, flitting from subject to subject, but soon was sounding more like his old self. Alec listened as the sun disappeared below the horizon and the water rose and the numbness turned to a painfully icy chill that crept in toward his heart. He didn't notice at first when Seregil stopped talking, and jumped as fingers brushed his cheek.

“You don't look very well at all,” Seregil said. His gray eyes were inches away from Alec's own.

“You didn't look so well either, this morning.”

“Alec...are you sure you don't mind this?” The warmth of his palm and the tenderness in his voice were Alec's undoing.

“I don't mind except for one thing. I'd hate to die without....” He was sure he must be blushing, although he could barely feel it. “Seregil, will you kiss me?”

“Certainly.”

He leaned just a bit further over the side of the boat, setting it rocking upon the water that had risen up to Alec's neck. His lips were soft and warm. Alec's eyes had slid shut reflexively, and he hesitated to open them after Seregil pulled away.

“Thank you.”

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He tried to blink them away, and looked around at the surface of the rising lake, silvered by the low-hanging moon. It truly was a beautiful place. He was glad to think that Seregil would be happy in it once again, even if Alec wouldn't be around to enjoy it with him.

Seregil offered him more of the oatcakes, but Alec couldn't stand the thought of food. He could barely manage the smallest sip of wine. The lake rose to his chin, but Seregil, instead of regaining his old levity, seemed only to become more agitated.

“Alec, surely there's someone else who could do this.”

“No one else volunteered, and it was made clear that no one could be forced.”

“But...I want to fall in with you again.”

“Someone else—”

“I don't want to fall in with someone else!”

Words were becoming a struggle. Alec smiled, and reached for what little strength he had left.

“You'll be all right. Your lake—”

“Yes, but...!”

“It's okay, Seregil.” I love you, so it's okay.

Neither spoke for some time. Alec let his eyes fall shut. It was only Seregil who watched the water as it rose to wet his bottom lip, as wavelets splashed at the seam of his mouth, as Alec tilted his head back, breathing raggedly, shallowly through his nose. Seregil's heart was racing in his chest as he watched Alec die by inches. The lake was his life, his love, the only place he was whole. He watched as it rose high enough to close over Alec's face. Bubbles drifted to the surface: his friend's last breath. They dispersed and popped and were gone, and something in Seregil broke. With a shout, he leapt over the side of the boat into the water.

Frantically, he tugged at Alec's legs where they were wedged into the hole. Although he had gained back some of his strength as the lake slowly filled, he was still weak. His breath ran out before he succeeded in pulling Alec free, and he surfaced, gasping for breath and wild with panic for his friend. He dove again, yanking and pulling, until at last one of Alec's legs came free, and then the other. Seregil heaved him out of the water and into the small boat and crawled in after him. He set off rowing toward the shore, hauling on the oars and hollering for help.

A crowd was waiting for him on the dock, helping hands reaching to to lift him from the boat and pull up Alec's limp form after him.

“A doctor! Get him a doctor!” Seregil shouted.

“But Your Highness! What about the lake?”

“Go drown yourself in it!” Seregil snapped, and it was good for the speaker that Seregil hadn't identified him in the crowd, for he certainly would have punched the man.

Adzriel stepped to the fore and swiftly imposed order. Alec and Seregil both were brought up to the Prince's room where Alec was laid out on the bed. Mydri took charge of him, and Seregil collapsed by the bedside with one of Alec's hands held tight in his. The Princess worked through the night to pump the water from Alec's lungs and draw the chill of death from his body. She feared that it would be too late after all, but just as she was preparing to give up, the sun crested the horizon, and Alec sucked in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

Still kneeling next to him, Seregil grabbed Alec's face, kissed him roughly, then burst into tears.

10. A Fine And Proper Happy Ending

Seregil wept for hours, loosing all the pent up tears of his life in one torrential flood. He refused to be separated from Alec, and climbed into bed to sit against the bolster and hold him close as he cried. For his part, having died for his love and been returned to life, Alec wasn't interested in being parted from Seregil, either. Shivering beneath the blanket Adzriel had wrapped around their shoulders, he stroked Seregil's hair and helped him drink the water Mydri ordered for him to replace that of the tears he was shedding.

Outside, an unseasonably heavy rain was falling, restoring the dried up rivers and streams, refilling the lake, and even flooding the underground cavern. The rain kept up long after Seregil's tears had finally dried, and the sound of it outside was as comforting as the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the overjoyed smiles of his sisters and the warmth of Alec held snugly in his arms.

“I feel so heavy,” Seregil marveled.

“You've got your gravity back,” Adzriel said, blinking back tears of joy. She had needed to help Seregil stand up and climb into bed, for he hadn't been able to manage it by himself, not having ever had weight before. A thought occurred to her and she laughed. “You'll have to learn to walk all over again!”

“Alec can teach me,” Seregil declared. He kissed the top of Alec's hair, and chuckled to see him blush. “I promise to learn quickly. The sooner I come to terms with this gravity I've been missing, the sooner we can be married.”

Alec gaped at him, and Seregil lost himself for a moment in his eyes. He wondered how he could ever have compared their blue to that of the lake and found Alec wanting.

“You mean it?” Alec asked.

Seregil watched the shock on his face change to delight, and found that he couldn't resist the urge to kiss him once more. New sensations flooded him head to toe as he melted into the kiss. Oh, yes. He had a great deal to learn, all of it with Alec at his side. Joy too pure for laughter swelled within his heart as fresh tears welled in his eyes. Wondering if Alec felt the same, he broke the kiss to meet his eyes and saw love shining there, clear for all the world to see. For the first time in his life, Seregil felt that he was truly happy.