#like that boy was carrying that mercenary band

[metaldragoon]

[conostra]

Sexual Abuse in the Golden Age

Berserk’s beginnings make me sad. From the very start, the series was incredible. Great art, a rich world, complex and interesting characters, terrific explorations of motivations and philosophies and relationships and everything you can think of. Even including, despite all the airs around the manga, the intricacies of sexual assault and abuse!

At least, against men.

Casca, Griffith, and Guts all have their lives irrevocably warped by both the threat and pursuance of sexual assault against them in the Golden Age. It goes on to define their various pathologies, influencing how they interact with the world around them. And this is handled with incredible nuance and care, up to and including events like Donovan’s assault on Guts, Griffith selling himself to the Governor, and Casca being sold off by her family to the noble in her town. These events are all pivotal to the development of the characters into those we know and love. But unfortunately, at least in the beginning, this is where the praise ceases. Allow me to expound:

Guts’ entire life, from his literal conception, is drenched in vulgarity and gore. Born and baptized in blood from his mother’s hanging corpse, and rescued by a band of lunatic roaming mercenaries, Guts is far from a stranger to the horrors of the world. Forced to carry a sword for his survival, trained under an uncaring brutal mercenary who gave flashes of approval to a boy desperate to please, who was only truly “fair” to him when paying him for his work of slicing down men twice, thrice or more his age in combat to the death, Guts’ perspective would be warped further still. 

And yet, no matter how warped his perspective could have been, it was not warped enough to handle what fate still had in store. One night, Guts is set upon in his tent, and viciously raped by a member of his own crew. A demon of a man named Donovan violates Guts’ autonomy to the highest order, proclaiming that this was allowed, as Guts’ very independence had been sold out by Gambino, the distorted version of what some would call the only thing resembling a father figure Guts had ever had. 

And this affected Guts in a way that became prominent through the story. He becomes incredibly reclusive and aggressive. Even the lightest of contact from even his hirers, offering extensive gold in exchange for his service on the battlefield, flashes him back to that time and place. Even the lightest allusion to operating under anything other than his own will (or, to some degree, blind allegiance to Gambino) is heresy, and a violation of his autonomy on par with spitting on his face and telling him to wipe it down. This is especially seen in his first interaction with Griffith, where he flat-out asks him upon hearing him speak: 

“Are you a homo?”

And even though he definitely is, it’s almost irrelevant to how Griffith is talking about him. Griffith objectifies Guts here, places him as an item of desire, to own, to wield, and to do as one wishes with. And Guts objects to that to his very core. There is no part of him that does not scream and rail against the very notion.

And in the beginning of his tenure with the Hawks, Pippin of all people is the salt that pours over Guts’ old wounds. While played somewhat casually, Guts still freaks out at Pippin’s casual disregard for his personhood. Whether or not that is Pippin’s goal is meaningless in the face of what it actually does to Guts and how it makes him feel.

Even later on, when Guts has his sexual encounter with Casca, the physicality of the intimacy they partake in flashes him back to that moment with Donovan. It takes him and Casca time to process everything that’s happened to him, for him to finally vent and take at least some of that pain off of himself alone, that allows him and her to finally love each other.

Griffith is not too far from this. Although this life was forced upon Guts, it feels only partially thrust upon Griffith by himself. From the very beginning, his sexuality was paramount to his mission. The fawning of common citizens and women and men and nobility all alike over his body, over his presence, was something he decided he had to exploit in order to do what he thought must be done for him to gain what he knew would one day be his. From his interactions with the Governor, to how he almost leads on Casca, to the entirety of his relationship and the strange power dynamics at play every time he and Guts are alone in a space spilling their guts to each other, everything Griffith plays at is tinged with a man who has, since a boy, been tainted with a nearly-religious worship by zealots of various degrees, including some who have no qualms over tainting the statue they kneel at and pronouncing it to the world as worship. This puts him at odds with Guts from the very beginning, the man he loves, violating his self-sanctity, as this is the way Griffith knows to attain what he desires. 

This plays out further with how he… interacts… with Charlotte after Guts leaves him, and how he treats Casca, uses Casca, throws her back in Guts’ face to get at him. Ownership, dominance, and usage are what Griffith knows. And he knows how Guts feels about Casca. So he tries to, from his perspective, ruin her. The same way Guts was ruined. Honestly, it’s incredible, and would be a great way to handle it- if it didn’t completely strip Casca of her character for the next 300 chapters.

Casca was affected by all these things too. Same as Guts, sold off, but by her actual family. Almost immediately, assaulted by the stranger who now owned her life. Then, a murderer. Then, over the course of the rest of her life, despite becoming one of the most prodigious warriors the very world had ever seen, she was often reduced to the butt of the joke- always laughed and jeered at, not taken seriously by Guts or unfavorably by Griffith. Always caught off guard, always caught weak, or tired, or on her period, always taken advantage of, always on the ground, threatened to be molested, stripped bare for the usage of whatever the army they’re fighting at the time is. Always having her sexuality used as a catalyst for other characters, always used as a damsel to allow another to save the day- her body is a resource pulled at by Miura to cash in on more grandiose moments for the narrative. 

Even in the road to the eclipse, there are at least two separate occasions where Casca is sexually taken advantage of, with soldiers slowly stripping her armor when Guts steps in and earns his title as the hundred-man slayer, and then the Apostle Wyald, leader of the Black Dog Knights, completely strips her bare and literally molests her, only not managing to penetrate because he is murdered by Guts in a stupendous rage.

And then the eclipse happens. There are so many things I can say about what occurred on the Eclipse, but ultimately, it is Casca’s humanity that makes the Eclipse so tragic. Scorned by her infatuation, unable to be saved by her lover, she is finally destroyed the way both of those mentioned prior have been. But this time, there is no growth from this. There is no development. There is no greater story to be told from this for Casca. As incredible as this moment and the development from it are for Guts, there is nothing gained from this for Casca. Her entire arc has simply been to be… what, torn apart for the sake of the boys around her masquerading as conquerors? To be used and abused, ultimately fridged for literal decades, kept around as important but unable to be anything more than arm candy? What happened to Casca is a tragedy, and is great writing as well in full admittance- but with two entire chapters devoted to her violation, a view of her complete degradation from the male gaze, and her complete loss of ability after the fact, it makes me view how she was treated before that with some amount of… anger? Frustration? 

Something. It makes some amount of sense, of course- but if this was her penultimate conclusion, at least for as long as she has remained in this state, I would have appreciated if the other attempts at violating her were treated with the sanctity of Griffith’s and Guts’ encounters, if not even the attempt made at her in her past. You can only have a female character as incredibly skilled & competent as Casca trip herself into a terrible situation and threaten to be raped by the big strong men around her so many times before the singular self-save against the leader of the Blue Whale Ultra Heavy Armored Fierce Assault Annihilation Knight Corp, General Adon Coborlwitz, loses a bit of its luster, no matter how many different variations of the reason you can find.

Ultimately, I’m glad that Miura has other very well written women in the series- after all, even Charlotte is given time to shine, shown as able to play her role and shoot for lofty goals even under the crushing weight of Griffith’s ambition later, and both Schierke and Farnese have great arcs. I just… I’m just glad Miura rectified this later on, all in all.

God damn it lmfao. It was handled so WELL for the boys! and then casca kinda got the "yo isn't this so crazy? she's not a character now btw"

[clintbartonswife]

rip off the band-aid

Pairings: Peter Parker x Wade Wilson Summary: wade carries patterned band-aids. peter is in love. Whumptober prompt #7 : alleyway / radio silence Notes: college!peter parker, descriptions of violence and injury, excessive bad language masterlist   || whumptober2023

Peter hissed as a stray bullet grazed his forearm, having successfully dodged the rest of the emptied magazine, the fabric of his suit tearing and allowing some of his blood to creep down his arm.

"Come on!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Okay, now you've annoyed me Mr. Robber. Do you know how hard it is for me to fix this thing?"

The bad guy seemed taken aback by the statement, hesitating as he reloaded. That was all the opportunity Peter needed, leaping forwards to deliver a punch square to his jaw, knocking him on his ass. As he scrambled to regain his footing, Peter webbed him to the spot.

"What the hell man, I've got places I need to be!"

"Shush - you tried to rob an old lady, you don't get to complain at me right now." He began backing out of the alleyway, only feeling slightly guilty at the robber's continued protests. Not too guilty though, he had shot him after all. "Stay there - the police will be here... soon. Like, within the hour definitely."

Extending his arm to release another web, he winced at the hot pain that radiated across his skin, willing his healing factor to kick in. Swinging back to his apartment was gonna suck.

Deciding to avoid that for as long as he could, he began to walk up the side of the building. Once at the top, he looked out over the row of flat roofs, smirking.

"Parkour" he whispered, beginning to run. As he leapt over the roofs, he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of freedom, wind rushing past him with a deafening roar.

He eventually made it to the last building, a large road separating this building from the next. Readying himself to swing, his ears picking up on pitchy singing coming from the building opposite.

"I know that voice..."

Already smiling, he swung up to the building, landing on the edge of the roof. Deadpool was facing away from him, bright pink headphones over his ears.

Under the mask, Peter raised an eyebrow, huffing a laugh as the merc continued his off-key singing, wiggling along to the beat. As he reached the chorus, he began to do the funky chicken, turning around slightly with each jump.

"P-p-p-poker face f-f-fuck her face, ca- OH god, webs!! Dont sneak up on me during my gaga time!"

Peter laughed at this, warm feeling in his chest. He had begun to associate the feeling with Wade. It was dangerous.

"Well maybe if you didnt have your volume up so high, you woulda heard me landing"

The mercenary gasped, placing a hand on his chest. "You don't listen to gaga on anything other than full volume, every monster knows that!"

"How many times do I have to tell you you're not a monster until you believe me?"

"Wh - Oh. You do care. As adorable as that is baby boy, I was using the fan name for all gaga stans."

"oh - right. I knew that."

Deadpool placed his hand on his forehead dramatically, "You make me feel old, Webs. You really do. Good thing you've got daddy issues or this would never work."

"Wade -!"

At this, the older man chuckled, moving closer to the spider. "I mean, really it's lucky that I -" He broke off, crowding closer to Peter. "Your arm -"

"'Tis but a flesh wound, it's really nothing, it's practically already healed-"

His voice gave out as gloves gently parted the rip in his suit, allowing Wade a better look. Peter could do nothing but watch with baited breath as the other man pulled out a small case from one of his many pockets, producing a hello kitty band-aid and carefully placing it on the cut. He then bent down to place a kiss on the area, the warm leather of his red mask against his skin sending chills up Peter's arm.

"There!" Wade grinned, seemingly unaware of the mental spiral he had sent Peter down, "All better!"

"Y- yeah. All better. Thanks, 'pool"

///

It had become a thing.

Wade seemed to have a never ending supply of band-aids in the pockets of his suit which he was always too happy to give out. At the end of patrols Peter usually had at least one band-aid stuck to him, even when it was very clear he didnt need it.

Just last night Wade had sent him home with 6 plasters on his back, themes ranging from paw patrol to spongebob. He hadnt noticed until he was getting changed, meaning that the merc had been putting them on him throughout the night without Peter realising.

He wasn't sure if that gap in his spidersense was something to be happy or concerned about.

He chose not to think about it instead.

Today, he was stood on the edge of the roof, waiting for Wade to come back with Chimichangas.

"Oi! Webhead!" Peter looked down, Wade holding up the takeout like a baby Simba at the base of the building. "Uppies?"

He snorted. "You're not a child, 'Pool."

"Don't make me take the stairs you cruel and beautiful bastard."

Peter rolled his eyes affectionately, making sure he was grounded with his footing before sending a web down to Wade and pulling him up. As he did so, Wade vocalised to the tune of 'When will my life begin' from Tangled.

"You're an idiot." Peter laughed, Wade placing the takeout safely on the edge of the roof before hauling himself up the rest of the way.

"I happen to be an idiot with food, so you might wanna rethink that attitude Petey Pie."

"You would starve me?"

Deadpool cocked his hip out defiantly. In response, Peter took his mask off and pouted.

"Ugh! No fair! You know I cant deny your cute little face of anything!"

Peter laughed, taking his share of the takeout with a cheer of success before sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "Pleasure doing business."

"Cold. Very cold." Wade chastised, though his smile was audible. With a hefty sigh, he joined Peter on the floor, pulling his mask up to his nose. "I grabbed you a fortune cookie on my way - I know you like those."

Peter blushed slightly, trying his best to hide his surprise. "Oh - thank you 'Pool."

He accepted the small package, ripping it open excitedly and letting out a small hiss as the plastic sliced into his finger.

"Nobody panic!" Wade yelled, dropping his burrito on to his lap and producing a plaster from his pocket in record time. "Daddy's got you covered!"

"Wade -"

"Shush." he chided, taking hold of his hand and applying the band-aid gently.

Peter rolled his eyes fondly, "Really? Isn't this a bit on the nose?"

"Branding is important for any self respecting merc-turned-hero. Plus, this way people know that if they hurt you I'll gut them with my katanas!"

"Hey! What have I said about the no killing thing?"

Wade dropped his head like a scolded schoolchild. "To not kill people. Which I will stick to... unless you are gravely injured."

"Is this your way of keeping me around?"

"Is it working?"

Peter just smiled, rubbing his thumb against the deadpool-themed band-aid before breaking open the fortune cookie.

'if we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives'

He swallowed heavily, glancing quickly up at Wade who was currently trying to fit as much as possible of his burrito in his mouth at once.

It would be so easy to say something right now - to, for the lack of a better phrase, rip off the band-aid.

Fear held him back, unable to even think of a world in which he didn't have Wade. Sure, the man made a lot of jokes about dating him, but they were never followed up in any way that would even suggest an inch of seriousness.

Peter refused to mess this up.

So instead he shoved the note down the neck of his suit, unwrapping his food and pushing his thoughts to the back of his head.

///

Over the next few months, Peter found himself thinking back to the fortune he had received. The note itself was pinned to his corkboard in his bedroom, meaning it was the first thing he saw every night as he left to and returned from his patrols.

Wade seemed blissfully unaware of the younger man's mental distress, still happily providing themed plasters for every little cut and scrape that he had gained during his endless hours protecting his city.

Peter made a mental note that the range in themes were steadily declining, the majority of them now boldly covered in deadpool's symbols. A small and slightly insane part of his brain convinced him that this was Wade's way of staking his claim, somehow akin to a wedding ring.

Today, he was on his way back from college, tracing his fingers over the band-aid on his forearm. The cut underneath it had been tiny, his enhanced healing definitely having erased it by now, but he couldn't bring himself to take it off.

"Help!"

Peter froze in his tracks, senses dialled to 11. The hairs on his arms rose as he kicked into gear, running to an empty alleyway and stripping his clothes as quickly as he could to reveal his suit, shoving them in his bag and exchanging them for his mask.

Between swings, he quickly typed out a message to deadpool for backup, the amount of police cars racing towards the area a good indicator of the level of threat he was about to face.

The sound of crumbling buildings heightened as he grew closer, sirens and screams building into a frantic cacophony, reaching its peak just as Peter arrived at the scene.

He took a moment to assess, sticking on to the side of a building as his eyes tracked through the chaos in search of the source. He figured it out pretty quickly.

What can only be described as a green goblin soared through the skies on top of a metal... thing, smashing buildings to pieces with his gloved hands.

With a deep breath, he leapt into action, using the momentum from his swing to hit the goblin square in the jaw.

"Queens is not your personal playground!" he yelled, sticking on to the side of a building as he gauged the situation, "Though I'm sure you'll love it in prison! Maybe we should go there now? Save me the trouble of dragging you there -"

He was cut off as a car was thrown in his direction, Peter preventing it from crashing into the building with some cleverly timed webs.

"Well. That was rude."

"No spider tells me what to do" The goblin spat, "You are all beneath me - imbeciles - and should be treated as such!"

At the end of his sentence, he once again launched a car, Peter dodging and catching it once again. "What do you have against cars, dude?"

The cars kept coming, Peter attempting to find a way to subdue the goblin man whilst still making sure that the cars didn't hit him or anyone still in the surrounding area.

He managed to send another SOS to Wade, nerves setting in as he saw the goblin down a glass of green liquid, the man's veins popping out as he let out a scream.

"You shall all fall at my feet!"

"Yeah... the average New Yorker is not into that. Not to kink shame or anything - I'm sure the people who do like it are really happy with their choices - that's the key! Consent and choices -"

His phone buzzed, distracting him for a moment, just long enough to miss the broken off piece of scaffolding flying towards him. It impacted his side, arm faltering mid swing.

He fell to the ground, swearing at the impact.

It took a few seconds before the pain began to register, blood running down his side like a macabre waterfall. Legs weakening, he retreated to the nearest alleyway, dipping behind a dumpster.

"Spiderman! Come out and face me you coward!"

Peter winced, the wound in his side bleeding more heavily than he was comfortable with, red liquid spilling on to the floor as he shifted his weight in an effort to better take cover behind the dumpster.

He could hear the echoing steps of the goblin approaching, but couldnt seem to find it in his muddled mind to move.

Where was Wade?

The footsteps halted at the entrance of the alleyway. Peter could hear the goblin's breathing, closing his eyes as he accepted his fate.

Instead of the pain he was sure was coming, the footsteps retreated, seemingly chasing after something. A few moments later, a cacophony of noise filled the area, followed by quiet.

"Webs?"

Relief rushed through him, Peter managing a weak shout. Wade rushed towards him, looking around for a few seconds before spotting his scrunched up figure.

Peter choked out a weak laugh, moving his hand to reveal the extent of the damage. "Think I could use some of your plasters around now, 'pool"

The merc was eerily quiet, unmoving as he looked at the injury.

"Fuck - 's that bad, huh?" Peter asked, coughing slightly as he curled back in on himself.

That seemed to break Deadpool from his stupor, the man kneeling at his side in an instant. "Fuck, baby boy - I - I dont know what to do."

Gloved hands hovered over his, before retracting back, Wade beginning to whack himself on the head. "How do I fix this. No - fuck, fuck, shitty fucking fuck!"

Peter frowned, fighting through the haze that had started to descend on him in order to pat Wade's shoulder comfortingly, "It's 'kay, I'm fine! See?" He moved his hand from his shoulder to his cheek and attempted a smile. "I'm okay."

"I don't - I don't know how to fix this, Webs. You need a doctor... I need -" He dug through his pockets, whipping out the bedazzled hello kitty flip-phone. "Matt knows a nurse - she's fixed him up before maybe -"

Peter blinked heavily, a high pitched ringing sound starting to deafen his hearing. Fear began to rise within him, sitting heavily on his chest. It was bad - that much he knew, if only from Wade's reaction.

'if we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives'

He nudged Wade's phone away from his ear, demanding his full attention. "I need you to know something."

"You can tell me when you're all better," Wade insisted, listing off their location to someone on the phone.

Peter frowned. "Wade. Please."

"I'm getting help, okay? Just let me get help -"

"I love you." Wade froze, hand tightening around the phone. At his lack of response, Peter continued. "I have loved you for months now. I love - I love your laugh, your smile... I love your voice. I love -"

He was interrupted by a cough, groaning as pain spread through his entire body, fresh blood splattered on his glove. Wade dropped the phone to the floor, applying pressure to his wound, panic clear in his voice.

"Peter -"

"I love your stupid band-aids. I love how they make me feel like I matter. Like you care -"

"I do care -"

"And if I die -"

"You're not going to die -"

"I need you to know how much you mean to me."

Wade's breath quickened, leaning over to yell 'hurry' into his phone. Peter's head felt light, the pain starting to feel more like weightlessness. Distantly, he noted that this was a bad thing.

Frowning, he pushed Wade's mask off, smiling as his eyes took in every crease and crevice of his face. He lifted his arm with great effort, faintly tracing over his cheekbone, down his jawline and finishing at his lips.

With his face bared, the spider could finally see the pure anguish worn on Wade's face.

"Don't be sad."

"Just - Stay with me Petey, you're going to be okay."

His eyes were so heavy, the lids closing against his will.

"I love you too!" Wade yelled, desperation seeping out of every pore. "Fucking goddamn to hell, I love you. Don't leave me -"

Peter couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, eyes fluttering as unconsciousness pulled him into oblivion.

"Over here! He's - help him!"

[oceanwrath]

OH! i was peeking back since i'd been away from tumblr for a hot second and i saw that ask from march.

i am intrigued by the change for corosa, and i'm very curious what else has changed among the cycle of shades cast in the last few years 👀 (if you're up to sharing)

OMG hi..... thanks for opening the gates on oceanwrath oc hours :3 I've probably changed pretty much everything from how the story was back then bc I'm eternally indecisive on what to do with this story but I am feeling good about the current iteration!

IT'S A MURDER MYSTERY NOW (?)

Corosa's a woman now but otherwise the same stonefaced bastard she's always been. A few years back a massive civilization-ending grade flood destroyed the northern coast and swept her home city away, leaving no known survivors until Corosa and her crew suddenly appear in farway inland Kharta  

Corosa herself is a widowed ex-mariner turned mercenary fisherman leading a band of insane freaks fishermen. Her party consists of Satero (last of Ankhar's berserkers, also an artist which is what he prefers leading with. and a fisherman), Retha (ex-priestess of an apocalyptic cult proven right. also a fisherman), Catsovi (Retha's extremely off-putting bodyguard, also ex-cult, also fisherman), and a Khartan guy I haven't named yet LOL but he was driven out of Kharta years back for his violent unpleasant manner (and for being too good at. fishing). They are all Fucked Up in some ominous manner that none of them will speak of really good at fishing.

They're looking for a contact of theirs named Khista, a contentiously beloved saint of a contentiously revered sect. He's particularly contentious right now because he's been calling for a full break from / challenging the legitimacy of the major city temples. He is also mega dead. He has recently suffered a terminal case of murder. He suffers it the morning of Corosa arriving in town

Khista's teenage son Komini arrives shortly afterwards to head up the investigation of his father's murder. Komini is a just and fair-minded young man who is going to carry out a full proper investigation and gather the facts, but even he is pretty certain that Suspect Number One is Bariyan, Komini's estranged uncle and Khista's extra-estranged younger brother. This is on account of two things:

A decade back Bariyan attempted a ritual of ascension, which was both very ambitious and 100% forbidden. The rite failed, ended in grievous bodily harm to Bariyan and the disappearance/presumed death of his accomplice Masarak. As soon as Bariyan woke up and had his injuries stabilized, Khista viciously disowned and excommunicated him from their family + faith in one fell swoop

Also ever since then Kharta has been increasingly haunted by horrible eldritch creepy-crawlies. Everyone blames Bariyan for that too. Including himself lol

Bariyan remains a free man for now but is effectively in hiding while he figures out how to unfuck his life and atone for his mistakes. He's shacked up with a bunch of priests who have been voted Kharta's Number One Shadiest Temple 30 Years Running and are totally not a front for a criminal syndicate

This includes Mukhari (shadyass doctor whose older brother was part of Corosa's crew before he up and vanished the same way he also up and vanished from Mukhari's childhood. hi ghost. bye ghost), Mukhari's cousin Samin (even more shadyass doctor), Soothe (the evilest little street urchin they could find), and their leader, Sahikar (another guy with major beef against Khista. He was also once part of Khista/Bariyan/Komini's sect but voluntarily left. I don't know what he looks like yet)

Finally the last guy who shows up is Our Boy Masarak, Bariyan's best friend and accomplice in his failed ascension who has been presumed dead this whole time. Sike he's alive and apparently just didn't bother to come home or like, tell anyone until now. When asked where he's been he's just like "[vague handwave] around"

But now that Bariyan's the center of increasingly hostile sentiment he's returned home to kick the shit out of anyone who gets too close to his boyfriend bff. Also Bariyan is going to kick the shit out of him for just letting everyone think he's been dead for ten years

So the question now is who among all these guys killed Khista and why was it 100% definitely totally Bariyan he did it he totally did it bye

[thettrpgtournament]

Why you should vote for each of them and full art below!

Lucy Amano (by @ficklepenguin for D&D)

Lucy Amano (they/she) is a just a normal human ranger with a pet bear, except they're actually an aasimar and have no idea. They figured out maybe something was up when their friend went down in combat and they exploded into searing light, which is not a normal thing humans do. Their bear is named Nita, and he's the goodest boy. They also have a boyfriend and a girlfriend, or they would, if the trio would ever figure their shit out. And they also just found out that their dad is from the moon, which they didn't even know people lived there.

(art by @everlastingrandom)

Felix Ambercreek (by @ghostbrawl for D&D)

felix is honestly just my beautiful boy. that's all i can say. unfortunately, players from his campaign will read this so i have to be brief. felix is a newly-paladined paladin of sarenrae who is taking to redemption, forgiveness, and virtuosity like a special interest, but carrying it out in practice incredibly badly. when felix felt sarenrae call him to work at a mercenary guild, he left home with full support of his (also religious) family and took advantage of not seeing his family for a while in order to totally reinvent himself - changing his name and swearing himself to always be veiled, even in combat, so that nobody could see who he is. even as a novice paladin, this has already started to cause him problems -- for example, a band of goblins tried to steal his armor to summon a metal eating monster, and took his veil along with it. out of fear and desparation, felix split from his party and chased the goblins alone, almost dying to the metal monster (and a particularly cruel goblin) and strangling and killing one of the goblins that tried to kill him out of anger and frustration, marring felix's relationship with his god. though he does get his veil (one with embroidery done by another party member) back, it is torn and dirty at the end :-(. maybe one day felix will truly "get" what being a paladin is about, but for now he's largely controlled by fear, rather than the drive to value and redeem others - and he ends up using his responsibility as an escape instead of a duty.

Levlith Craephin (by @the-web-of-iris for D&D)

Levlith is a tiefling Bloodhunter, a mother of two who originated in the town of Icehaven, A woman of wits and courage, yet her calloused hands hold endless kindness and love. She spent her time caring for her own children, and many other children and adults alike in her hometown, a pillar of her community and someone trusted with the protection of many. Married once to a Drow bard named Briza, the two are now separated (but not divorced. it's complicated) she now reserves herself and has little interest in romance in her middle age life. After a terrifying incident and a close dance with death she came into possession of her ragged sword, as well as her newfound blood-hunter abilities, and soon left her adult children to roam across the empire and beyond in her mission of hunting down dark blots within the world from the shadows. After entering the coast with the intention of making a deal with the leader of a mercenary guild, she begins to meet new people and make new friends, and comes to realise she is now working in the same environment as her once lover briza. Together, the Silverlinings guildmates will follow requests, find themselves in trouble, and explore the unknown. However, what is Levlith's motives? What is she truly looking for? What is she hiding from? |O|nly time will tell.

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Kiaaaaaaaa Happy Friday!!!! Can we get some Mage!Cullen with "sonder n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own"? :))))))))))

hiiiiiiiii thank you

This one seemed to fit well for some Cullen & Carver, so here's a mage!Cullen training a new recuit Carver :)

Cullen is in his own head a lot.

@dadrunkwriting

Kirkwall was perhaps the worst place to send any templar who had been through what Cullen had, and yet it was the best place for him specifically. The rigid order beyond what Greagoir had instilled in the Kinloch Circle was necessary for him, especially given the new talents he’d gained there.

Talents. More a curse, but talents were something he could hide from his fellows. If he let those skills languish, perhaps they would fade away entirely, and he could be himself again. A curse, well, a curse was forever, and this couldn’t be.

“You’re doing well, Recruit,” Cullen gave the young knight under his tutelage a wan smile. “You said you were a soldier before?”

“Yes, I joined the formers King’s army at Ostagar,” Carver Hawke held his neck and back straight, confident and full of fire, even as he sheathed his blade. A far step from how Cullen carried himself of late. “My sister and I joined a mercenary group when we reached Kirkwall, but- I feel my time in the army will be of more use to the Order than that.”

Cullen knew plenty of the Hawke siblings’ adventures in the city by now. The short stories about the down-on-her-luck noble to be with a heart of gold and a silver tongue were popular in the city, and having met the woman a few times in the year since his arrival in Kirkwall, Cullen was apt to believe they were true. Or, mostly true at any rate. The tales told of her prowess with a polearm, using her shorter stature as leverage to toss men full across courtyards and into the waiting greatsword of her younger brother sounded grand.

And Cullen had seen the aftermath of some of those battles himself. Particularly the harsh dents in armor that weren’t shaped with the spear or halberd she often carried.

But what right did he have to point out the obvious use of force magic, with what he hid? Celia Hawke was doubtless an apostate, yes, but she seems to be doing good for the city. If he kept an eye on her, if her brother kept an eye on her…

“Don’t underestimate the value of your mercenary work,” Cullen said, pressing his borderline heretical thoughts away. “Templars usually work in smaller cells more akin to your mercenary band. You’ll find any combat you encounter is likely to seem more like those skirmishes than fighting darkspawn.” Barring abominations, perhaps. Cullen couldn’t say how abominations, usually just one at a time outside of rare horrors like the Kinloch Circle, could truly stack up against darkspawn. “Now, take up your blade again. I’m going to show you how to deflect flames or acid from your face without a shield.”

“Understood, ser.” Carver drew his greatsword from his back once more, and Cullen found that particular training was unnecessary. Carver had trained to fight mages, it seemed, or perhaps he’d learned tricks all his own while sparring against his wily sister.

What must it have been like, sparring her and knowing he might one day have to kill her if she became an abomination?

He would be a good templar, and perhaps Cullen would put in a request for Carver to be added to his own unit once his training was done. The boy was soft yet, but he would do the right thing, especially if Cullen faltered.

[wing-ed-thing]

Retail Therapy (Kakuzu x Reader)

Synopsis: Deidara has a new partner for a combined effort with the Zombie Combo. However, something about you has Kakuzu heated.

Word Count: 2,123

Tags/Warnings: Violence, Threat of Violence, Probably Language, Gender Neutral Reader

Notes: Kakuzu content is probably some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. Right now I’m watching a video on fried milk. Ever hear of such a thing? Fascinating.

Kakuzu didn’t like being paired up with Hidan, let alone joint missions where he’d have to deal with even more people. Not to say that Kakuzu hated people, because he did, but he never thought that he’d hate anyone more than he absolutely hated you. He hadn’t even met you yet, but he knew at his very core that you would quickly become the bane of his entire existence.

“Shopping?” Kakuzu asked slowly, the word forming on his lips as if he had an aversion to even speaking it. Deidara leaned back on the large bounder that he settled on and stretched his arms up above his head. The blond nodded with a short groan before his hands came to rest behind his head.

“Yep,” he answered, “And for hours too, so I’d get comfortable.” Hidan plopped down on a patch of dirt below, his back and scythe against the side of the rock. Kakuzu glared down at his partner causing Hidan to shrug. To Hidan, if Deidara thought that the three of them would be waiting a while, he would take his word and make himself comfortable. Kakuzu’s attention turned back to Deidara.

“Hours? What possibly could someone be purchasing that takes them hours?” Hidan gazed up from his spot, head tilted back against the surface behind him.

“And we only came like five minutes late too. Who takes off like that?” Kakuzu almost nodded in agreement, but knowing his partner, Hidan would take any excuse to complain. Deidara shrugged, basking in the warmth of the sun and stayed lounging even as a rustling came from the woods. Hidan’s hand immediately reached up to grip the handle of his weapon and Kakuzu took a defensive stance. Deidara’s eyes remained closed.

“Oh hello, boys! I didn’t know you were here!” You sauntered out of the trees, bags hanging from both arms. They were pushed tightly in a line, every other patch of your skin strained by the handles of a different shopping bag. Even in your altered Akatsuki cloak, Kakuzu took a look at you and immediately decided that you were decorated far too ornately and that he’d like to kill you when he had the chance. You were objectively beautiful, but if Kakuzu had his way, Deidara would have to be assigned another partner soon. “You haven’t been waiting for too long, have you?”

“You shouldn’t have left us waiting at all,” Kakuzu glowered, although not any more than usual. Either you didn’t hear him or you ignored him as you walked up to your partner. You plucked a package from one of your more reachable bags.

“I got you something, Dei-dei!” You threw it up to Deidara weakly but he managed to catch it. He opened the small, folded, paper bag. Deidara glanced down at you with a nod of his head and a fold of his lips. He took the neat band in his hand while you looked at him expectantly. “Aren’t they nice? Hair ties. Silk from a small village in the Land of Water.” Deidara held them up to the sun.

“That’s some great quality you found. Thanks.” Your partner glanced down at you again. “Must’ve been one hell of a fight assuming that you got a good price for it.” Kakuzu looked on at your exchange, increasingly beginning to lose his temper.

“Believe me, I did. And I found a ton of other great finds too. I gotta show you—”

“Enough,” Kakuzu growled and you finally turned your attention his way. Hidan had since passed out against the boulder that Deidara sat on. “You’re wasting all our time. The sooner we start, the sooner we can part ways.” You gave Kakuzu a once over with your nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Well someone’s grumpy,” you mused. You rolled your eyes and pointed your nose upward. Huffing, you threw your shopping bags into the air and as they fell, you swiftly unfurled a scroll. Your new items disappeared one by one. You rolled the paper back up, scowling as you slipped the scroll into one of many slots that you wore strapped to your clothing. The pockets ran down the small of you back and you latched the bundle of paper in place with a flip of your nimble fingers. Kakuzu frowned back, tentatively wondering if all the scrolls you carried contained the same amount of shopping bags. You approached him with crossed arms. “Okay then, tough guy. Let’s get started.”

You sat down and summoned a map of the next village. It laid out in front of you and placed your hands on your knees in challenge. Kakuzu sat down on the other side of the map, eyes boring into you. You didn’t budge. And as you began to speak, it was hard to focus, at least for Deidara. Though he supposed he’s seen you this fired up before.

“It would be easier if we lure the jinchūriki outside of the village,” you said, gesturing to the small, unnamed village on the map. It wasn’t large, but just big enough to serve as a maze for your prize. At least you knew the woods better and a jinchūriki was bound to stand out among the trees.

“I can get up some traps,” Deidara added and you nodded.

“Back them into a corner and cage them into a small space—” You nodded again— “We can use some explosives around the area… maybe here?” You pointed to a section of the map outside of the village. You looked up at Deidara. “You’d be our last line of defense when the jinchūriki tries to run.” Deidara smirked and puffed out his chest.

“Leave it to me!”

“We’ll need someone to drive the jinchūriki out of the village,” Kakuzu cut in, not particularly liking how you dominated the strategizing. “I’ll go with Hidan.” While Kakuzu thought that he would stop at nothing to get away from the Jashinist, this had to be a regrettable first. Hidan napped a few feet away.

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed, “You and Hidan? Psh… might as well have Deidara set off fireworks in the sky that spell out ‘single, hot jinchūriki in your a—”

“I can do that!” Deidara cut in before immediately backing down at Kakuzu’s pointed glare, not that he’d show it. You locked eyes with Kakuzu, taking his fiery stare off of your partner.

“I’ll go. You’re too conspicuous and, really, have you seen Hidan? You two would be spotted a mile away.” Kakuzu almost snarled.

“And you wouldn’t?” You let out a short, bitter laugh. Your left arm supported your weight as your knees touched together on the right side of your body. Kakuzu scowled at your blatant lounging. Everything about you challenged him and he hated you for it. Your lids narrowed in a smug smile.

“I’m not the one—” who’s fuckin’ jacked — “ with big-ass black stitches across my whole body.”

“And four faces on his back…” Hidan called out, still half asleep. You turned back to Kakuzu.

“And four faces on his back,” you repeated, much to Kakuzu’s vexation. The sass in your blinks was lost on the older shinobi. He stood, causing you to stand too. Deidara took a hint and retreated. Kakuzu crossed his arms over his chest and he planted his feet on the ground about the same width apart as his broad shoulders. He pointed two fingers at you harshly.

“And you’re—” Gorgeous. — “a brat. I should just kill you right here.” You stood your ground, daring to slap Kakuzu’s hand out of your face.

“As much as I’d like to see you try, tough guy, I’d actually like to do some quality work and get the hell away from you as quickly as I can.” Kakuzu huffed, gritting his teeth underneath his mask.

“Nice to hear that we’re on the same page.”

And with neither of your partners wanting to deal with either of you pissed off, you and Kakuzu were paired together.

***

Deciding that your cloaks were too noticeable, you sealed yours away. Kakuzu kept his draped across his arm, distrust of you evident. You walked down the road together under the late afternoon, waiting for nightfall. You hoped that striking at night would give you not only the surprise advantage, but also minimize the number of clueless civilians that would no doubt wander in your way. But as soon as your eyes fell onto the market, Kakuzu quickly began to wonder if his stubbornness landed him with an even larger headache. But his usual, standoffish demeanor remained the same. Kakuzu’s eyes drifted to their corners as he scowled down at you.

“No.” That was all he said, as if you would actually listen to him and not immediately march in the direction of the market. He reluctantly followed, every reach to hold you back by your robes falling just a bit short each time. By the time you were stopped, too many people surrounded the two of you for him to pull you away without drawing attention. Normally, attention from others wasn’t anything that Kakuzu would be concerned with, but your two teams had their orders and Kakuzu would be damned if he had to spend anymore time with you.

You stood in front of a booth with your hand on your chin. Kakuzu stood next to you, following your gaze to a simple, but sturdy-looking sword. You gingerly picked it up, carefully studying it’s craftsmanship. The man behind the booth leaned over his table, motioning to the piece of merchandise in your hands.

“Ah, you have a good eye, mercenary.” You glanced up at him.

“Land of Earth? Lots of excellent craftsmanship comes from there, I’m not surprised.” You ran your thumb across the dull of the blade. “Antique too, but still hardy.” The merchant nodded pointing to a few spots across the weapon.

“Could get you out of a bind too. Reliable smithing comes from Tsuchi no Kuni.” Kakuzu looked on at the show in front of him. In stark contrast to earlier, you seemed poised and he found you knowledgeable. You appeared calm and competent enough to handle yourself and for a second, Kakuzu became lost in your analysis.

You stepped back, turning the sword around in your hand to feel out the balance. The blade whipped around your body with ease. The seller softly applauded your embellished practice. Kakuzu almost rolled his eyes, but took some comfort in the fact that you were looking to purchase something of quality and not just anything at the very least. You looked down at the weapon with a nod or two before asking the dreaded question.

“So what’s your price?” The merchant didn’t hesitate.

“A hundred thousand ryō.” Kakuzu almost left right there, but a dominant part of him wanted to know what you were going to do. His hands grasped his biceps, his cloak still hanging from his forearm. Kakuzu watched you closely. You shook your head.

“You’re going to give it to me for twenty-five thousand.” The merchant gaped at the outrageous price you named. He sputtered a few times.

“That price is far too low for this quality. You must be joking if you think I’d sell this fine piece of equipment for practically nothing.”

You did name a ridiculous price. Not even Kakuzu could see getting what you wanted for that price without a fair bit of violence and intimidation. But you ripped into that merchant. You ripped into this poor seller like nothing Kakuzu had ever seen before. He didn’t even know if he could call it bartering, but whatever it was, it was likely one of the most skillful things that Kakuzu had ever seen.

He folded his lips under his mask. You didn’t yell. Kakuzu didn’t even find your appearance intimidating in the slightest, yet every point and number the merchant brought up, you countered. And by the end of the intense conversation, if Kakuzu didn’t know any better and had less of a spine, he’d likely be handing the sword over too. The man had long since started sweating, tugging at his collar. If Kakuzu didn’t see it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it as you handed over exactly twenty-five thousand ryō. He almost overlooked the complete waste of money as he still stood stunned, though not outwardly showing any such emotion.

You nestled the sword by your hip and the seller let out a breath of relief by the time you walked away. Kakuzu followed wordlessly next to you as you strutted off in triumph.

Perhaps he misjudged you. He stared, not noticing as he did so.

Yes, you were going to save the organization a fortune.

Notes: “oH mY gOd KaKuzU sAiD hE wAs GoNna KiLl rEader! wHy wOuLd yOu wRiTe sOmEtHiNg sO tOxIc???”... They’re criminal terrorists, Susan.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

[antipodeanpineapplelump]

WIP Update

Shisui Uchiha and the Lost Treasure of Asura

I can't believe how long it's been since I shared any updates or snippets from this story! So anyway, in celebration of only having one more chapter, plus a little bit of art, to complete before I can finally start posting it (no... do not mention editing to me, I'm trying really hard not to think about that yet), I figured I'd share a sneak peek.

It's getting hard to find story excerpts that don't give away any of the plot, but this one has a short interaction between Madara (aka the "Mad Mercenary" and villain of this story) and Shisui.

Anyhow, hopefully I'll have this all finished in the not too distant future!

“Shisui… that distraction please?” Izumi prompts.

Shit.

“Sorry…” Rolling over to the edge of the platform, Shisui racks his brains. How exactly does one distract an insane madman hellbent on murder, whilst also providing no opportunity for that person to carry out the aforementioned homicide? By chance, his gaze settles on his hat, lying on the ground beside him where it fell in his mad scramble to flee Madara’s bullets. The brown felt is speckled with marble chip and dust, and he stares at it for a moment, thinking. Well, what the hell… when in doubt, improvise, right?

Closing his fingers around the brim, he waves it over the edge of the platform, yelling as loud as he can, “Hey! Hey! Imitation Bond villain? Can you stop shooting for a second please? I want to talk to you!”

It does take a moment, but after a brisk authoritative shout from Madara, the gunfire ceases, though the memory of it still echoes around the square. Taking it as a sign his request has been accepted, Shisui props himself up on his forearms, peering cautiously over the low railing.

Arms folded, Madara watches impatiently, flanked by his cardboard cut-out mercenary squad.

“Hurry up. I don’t have all night,” he snaps, mouth curling with a sneer.

There’s something about the Zetsus standing beside him that doesn’t quite seem real—with their matching clothes, pasty complexions and green buzz-cut hair. Even the way they stand looks alike, each of them holding their rifles at precisely the same angle. Exactly the same mannerisms and pose. Like they’re carbon copies. Struck by how weird it is, and for lack of anything close to a plan, Shisui points at them, blurting out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Do you all dress like a late 1990s boy band deliberately, or is it a coincidence? Because I’ve heard cargo pants are coming back into fashion, but you might want to ask for a refund on those shirts…”

Mouth ajar, Madara stares at him, nose crinkling in disbelief. With a snarl, he turns to the Zetsus. “Shoot him.”

[four-loose-screws]

FE8 Novelization Translation: Book 2 - Front Cover & Other Introductory Pages

Yup, you read that right! It’s time for book 2 already!

And here’s the big announcement - I recalculated the number of parts I’m going to split the chapters into, so I don’t have to take a break in-between books 1 and 2! Some chapters have more scene breaks than others, so it was an easy thing to do without compromising pacing at all.

Let’s get started!!

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Book 2

Written by TAKASE Mie

Illustrated by SUZUKI Rika

Published by Square Enix

(inside flap)

Author

TAKASE Mie

TAKASE Mie was born on July 31st in Tokyo. She graduated from Waseda University. Her recent hobby is the cello, which she was inspired to start learning after watching a certain sailing movie. Though she has dreams of one day being able to play Bach’s cello suites, she still has a hard time with even basic scales.

Cover and Obi Design: atelier THiRD

Princess Eirika vowed to rebuild her home country of Renais, gained the help of their ally nation Frelia, and started to fight back. As her army marches, she crosses paths with all sorts of people, and grows her group of allies. Finally, they make it to Renvall Castle, a critical strategic location for the Grado Army, and attack it. During the battle, she succeeds in reuniting with her elder twin brother Ephraim, who disappeared on the front lines. However, after having only a moment to confirm each other’s safety, Ephraim states that he will march to Grado Castle. Eirika volunteers to travel to the Theocracy of Rausten to support him, but then...

(inside flap)

Illustrator

SUZUKI Rika

SUZUKI Rika currently lives in Yokohama. She is a freelance illustrator who has contributed to titles such as the Monster Collection TCG (published by Fujimi Shobo) and Angels of Dawn (written by KAYATA Sunako and published by Chuokoron-Shinsha, Inc.). She also created the manga Tableau Gate - Volumes 1 & 2 (published by Kadokawa Shoten).

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

Book 1

Written by TAKASE Mie

Illustrated by SUZUKI Rika

Table of Contents

Chapter 11: Caer Pelyn                                                                                           

Chapter 12: The Wyvern Rider’s Wrath

Chapter 13: The Desert Palace

Chapter 14: Reunion

Chapter 15: The Day the Empire Fell

Chapter 16: Repatriation

Chapter 17: The Demon King’s Shadow

Chapter 18: Encroaching Trap

Chapter 19: Night in Rausten

Chapter 20: The Lord of the Darkling Woods

Chapter 21: The Continent’s Wrath

Character Introductions    

Eirika

The Princess of Renais. She is kind, and does not like war itself, but still dedicated herself to the current war without hesitation to retake her country, a goal entrusted to her by her father, the king.

Fado

The king of the Kingdom of Renais. In his youth, he was renowned for his military prowess, and he is adored by his people as an honest statesman.

Seth

Though he is the youngest of all Renais’ generals, his loyalty and superb skills in both combat and discernment make him the ideal image of a knight.

Franz

He may have just only become a full-fledged knight, but he has a very serious and earnest personality, and is skilled in combat as well, ensuring him a promising future.

Valter

A general of the Grado Empire also known as the Moonstone. He was discharged from the army for the crime of massacring ordinary citizens for fun. However...

Gilliam

A devoted knight of Frelia with a long history as a fearless soldier. He is a man of few words, but his power is known throughout the entire Frelian Army.

Tana

The princess of the Kingdom of Frelia. In contrast to her friendly personality that is beloved by all of her retainers and servants, she also has military experience, and is an active member of the pegasus knight unit.

Hayden

The king of the Kingdom of Frelia. His resourcefulness is unparalleled, and has earned him the title “The Wise King.” He is a long time friend of Fado’s and spares no effort in aiding Eirika and her allies.

Vanessa

An outstanding knight, even among the prided Frelian pegasus knights. She is very serious, but kind.

Moulder

A priest. Within his calm appearance lies a very intelligent mind. He can not only heal with staves, but is also knowledgeable in medicine.

Selena

A mage general of Grado, also known as the Fluorspar. One of the empire’s three generals. She has vowed her undying loyalty to Emperor Vigarde.

Ross

A boy living in Ide Village in Renais. He is saved by Eirika and her allies when his home is attacked by bandits.

Garcia

Ross’ father. A former troop commander in the Renais’ army known for his dauntless courage. When his wife passed away, he retired from the army to raise his son.

Neimi

A girl born in Lark Village in Renais. Her home was burned down by bandits. She cries easily, but undoubtedly inherited her grandfather’s famous skills with a bow.

Colm

Neimi’s childhood friend. They were the only two to survive the bandit attack on their hometown. He has sticky fingers, but is kind to Neimi.

Artur

He meets Eirika and the others while carrying out the orders given to him by his monastery to purge the lands of monsters. He has a deep love of learning and is a devoted monk.

Lute

Artur’s childhood friend. Though it is true that she is an exceptionally skilled mage, the words and actions she chooses as a result of her confidence in that fact are a bit detached from reality.

L’Arachel

A young woman with a strong sense of justice on a continuing journey to take out the monsters roaming the lands. She actually appears to be of noble standing based upon the way her companions talk to and act around her.

Dozla

A warrior traveling with L’Arachel. He cannot hide the fact that he is her loyal retainer, though perhaps it is more accurate to say that he is not really trying. He’s not one to sweat the small stuff.

Rennac

He is actually a master thief, and just under contract with L’Arachel, but all she does is drag him around everywhere.

Natasha

A cleric being pursued by the Grado Army because she was deemed a traitor. She asks to travel with Eirika so she can spread the word to other nations about the strange things occurring within the empire. 

Joshua

A skilled mercenary who loves to gamble above all else. He becomes Eirika’s ally after losing a bet with Natasha.

Ephraim

The prince of Renais and Eirika’s older twin brother. He is blessed with a strong sense of justice and decisiveness. He also excels in spearmanship, and his skills are highly respected by the cavalier unit.

Kyle

A loyal retainer who has served Ephraim ever since he joined the cavalier unit. An exceptional knight who’s skilled in serving as a guard.

Forde

Like Kyle, he serves Ephraim as both a guard and close confidant. He and Kyle have been rivals since they were young. He is also Franz’s older brother.

Orson

The commanding officer of the Renais cavalier unit. He is a devoted cavalier who has served the royal family for years, and that King Fado trusts deeply, however...

Innes

The prince of The Kingdom of Frelia. He always has a strong sense of duty towards his role as a member of the royal family. He is extremely confident in himself, and has the strength and abilities to back it up.

Myrrh

A girl who is neither human nor monster, but a member of the dragon tribe. She leaves The Darkling Woods to tell the humans about the abnormalities occurring across the continent.

Amelia

A girl who became a soldier because of her respect for General Duessel. However, she feels lost when she learns that he opposes the war.

Gerik

The brave leader of a band of mercenaries. He joins Eirika’s army because Prince Innes hired him as his guard.

Tethys

A dancer whose bewitching dances attract the soldiers around her and heighten their morale. Once she joined Gerik’s Mercenaries, she became an indispensable member of the group.

Marisa

A female mercenary is rare enough, but her beauty and skills make her even more of a diamond in the rough. She is registered in the guild as a member of the same mercenary group as Gerik.

Ewan

Tethys’ little brother. He aspires to become a mage, and convinced a renowned sage to become his teacher. He is at the age where he cannot help but want to be treated as his own person.

Saleh

The sage of Caer Pelyn, and the only person of this age to associate with those of the dragon tribe. His abilities are very widely known. He is also Ewan’s teacher.

Glen

A general of the Grado Empire who is also known as the Sunstone. One of the empire’s three generals. He also questions the current war…

Cormag

A dragon knight of Grado. Glen’s younger brother. He trusts and respects his brother completely, but after a certain event happens, he leaves the Grado Army.

Lyon

The prince of the Grado Empire. He has been a friend of Eirika and Ephraim’s for many  years. His research into dark magic has made him even more knowledgeable in magic than the palace mages.

Ismaire

The beautiful queen of the Kingdom of Jehanna, known as “The Queen of White Dunes.” She has gained the overwhelming support of the people for her accomplishments in running the country since her husband’s passing.

Duessel

A general of the Grado Empire with the title “Obsidian.” One of the Three Imperial Generals. Though he has been accused of being a traitor, he is working together with Ephraim to warn the emperor of the error of his ways.

Knoll

A palace mage of the Grado Empire who studied dark magic alongside Lyon. He is one of the few people who knows the reason why the emperor, once known for his virtue, changed so drastically.

Caellach

A general of Grado known as the “Tiger Eye.” He started out as a mere mercenary, and rose up to his current position, but he is an ambitious person who wishes to rise even higher.

Vigarde

The emperor of the Grado Empire. He is beloved for his virtuous ways, including opening up the national treasury to the people in times of disaster. However, ever since that fateful day, his personality has changed completely, and he began the invasion all of the countries across the continent of Magvel...

Syrene

The commander of Frelia’s third unit of pegasus knights. She is Vanessa’s elder sister by blood, but Tana also looks up to her like an elder sister.

Mansel

The Pontifex who rules over the Theocracy of Rausten. Known for being highly educated and devoted to his beliefs, he is worshiped by the deeply devoted people as the representative of the gods.

Riev

A mage general of the Grado Empire known as the “Blood Beryl.” Ever since he learned the reason for the emperor’s change, he has served the emperor to support his dark ambitions.

[aimoosh-blog]

BERSERK: A MASTERSTROKE IN VIOLENCE

Berserk is a series that is both influential and overlooked. This might sound pretentious to fans of the gory medieval anime, but hear me out. Despite having a long-running manga which was originally released back in the ‘90's, after two anime series, a trilogy of movies and various video game adaptations, Berserk still remains somewhat niche and obscure.

The series is known for its gruesome imagery and I would strongly advise that if you've experienced abuse or are easily affected by violent and distressing material, that this series simply isn't for you. However, it's this cycle of violence that makes Berserk so compelling. 

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and the Soulsborne series doesn't shy away from this. Hidetaka Miyazaki has openly discussed how Berserk inspired games like Dark Souls and Bloodborne and you don't have to look far to find Berserk's influence spread throughout the Souls series.

But when you think of your favourite hefty sword-wielding himbo, I'm sure Guts isn't the first to spring to mind. Before we get into the debate of who wore it better, let's talk about Berserk's creator.

The most distinct and memorable aspect of Berserk is the apparent pleasure the series takes with relishing visceral imagery which is brought to life by Kentaro Miura. Berserk's first volume was released in 1990 when Miura was twenty-two years old. At this point in his life, Miura was already experienced within the industry after having written his first manga at the age of ten and eventually self-publishing in 1982.

With his experience and indisputable style, Miura's abhorrent rendition of the numerous satanic beasts and mythological creatures that populate the bloodthirsty world of Berserk, are both horrifying and captivating. The series manages to succeed in simultaneously being horrendously violent and strikingly beautiful. This parallel is prominent throughout the story and feeds the reader/viewer with a morbid curiosity.

The first and most obvious juxtaposition can be found in Guts' and Griffith's appearance. If you put Berserk in front of a newbie, they would most likely assume that the androgynous Griffith was the series’ main hero.

With his petite frame, feminine features, and charismatic charm, he certainly looks the part of a typical anime protagonist. Especially when set side by side with Guts who's hulking physique, stoic disposition, and hardened exterior is a stark contrast to the Hawk of Light. But scratch the surface and you'd find something entirely different.

Once you pull back the curtain and look beyond his angelic façade, you'd uncover Griffith's selfish, almost sociopathic personality which is accompanied with an unyielding ambition to stop at nothing until he achieves his dream. In contrast, Guts’ intimidating appearance and seemingly aloof attitude are a front concealing a lonely and tormented individual.

Shrouded by death, Guts was born from the corpse of his executed mother and eventually discovered by a group of mercenaries, who find the infant beneath a hanging tree covered in blood and entrails. The baby is presumed to be dead until he begins to cry, to which prostitute Shisu immediately rushes to comfort the child and is permitted to keep the newborn by leader Gambino. The baby is given the name Guts after the gory manner in which he was found. However, many members of the group are unsettled by Guts’ arrival and consider it a bad omen. 

Shisu had been deemed mad following her miscarriage and quickly became attached to Guts as a result. The pair seemed destined to meet but their happiness is tragically short-lived as three years later, Guts’ adoptive mother contracts the plague and dies while Guts watches over her. Unfortunately Shisu’s death only strengthens rumors about Guts’ reputation as a source of bad luck.

Guts promptly begins practicing swordsmanship and joins Gambino on the battlefield in an effort to gain approval. However, one night while Guts is sleeping in his tent, fellow sellsword Donovan, sneaks in and forces himself on the young boy. Guts later lures his abuser away and forces his sword down Donovan’s throat, killing him. No longer feeling safe, Guts begins to sleep clutching his sword.

Guts’ relationship with Gambino rapidly deteriorates following Shisu’s death. Gambino resents Guts for the subsequent loss of his leg and fixates on the misfortune that seems to have followed the boy. Gambino soon begins to verbally and physically abuse Guts, and consequently makes an attempt on Guts’ life. It’s in this moment that Gambino confesses that he had sold Guts to Donovan for the night. 

Horrified by this revelation, Guts is forced to kill his paternal figure in an act of self-defence and is hunted down by Gambino's men. After narrowly escaping with his life and defending himself against a pack of wolves, Guts eventually falls unconscious. The cycle begins again as he is discovered and enlisted by a separate mercenary group where he becomes a child soldier.

After surviving battlefield to battlefield, Guts eventually crosses paths with the Band of the Hawk. Impressed by his skills, leader Griffith, openly expresses that he is eager for Guts to join the Band of the Hawk. Guts agrees to this proposal but only if Griffith defeats him in a duel. Much to Guts’ disgust, he is defeated and begrudgingly joins the new group of mercenaries. But soon finds himself at home among his companions within the Band of the Hawk and is swiftly promoted to Captain of the Raiders.

It is clear that Guts is conflicted in the first arc of the story. After years of coping with isolation and abuse, he is torn between carving his own path or sticking with the Band of the Hawk. It's safe to say that whether you read the manga or watch the anime, the series doesn't sugar-coat the trauma Guts is forced to endure. But despite everything, Guts still carries on and it’s his mental fortitude that makes him such a sympathetic character.

But after forming strong friendships and concealing an unrequited love, it's Guts' decision to leave the Band of the Hawk and break free of Griffith's control that ultimately leads to The Band of the Hawk's downfall.

Amidst this complicated bromance you have Casca. A seasoned warrior who commands the respect of The Band of the Hawk and is Griffiths right hand – that is until Guts steals the spotlight. This setup may sound like a clichéd love triangle but Casca plays a crucial role in Berserk. Without her, Guts would've likely given up following the aftermath of the eclipse. She is the driving force in the story, feeding Guts' lust for revenge.

If you're considering checking out Berserk, I can highly recommend the manga as the best way to consume the series, as you are able to see Miura hone his craft over the years and create some truly remarkable panels. Another benefit is that with over 300 chapters, you'll have more than enough content to keep you occupied. But if that's not your style you have a few options to choose from.

The Golden Age Arc Film Trilogy concisely summaries the first narrative arc, if you want to get up to speed quickly. The larger budget in the subsequent movies allows for less 3D animation and more stunning hand-drawn sequences. However, if you have the time and patience for it, the 1997 adaptation spares no details and has an alluring nostalgic 90's aesthetic, if you can forgive it being a little rough around the edges.

Whichever version you decide to pick if you still can't get enough, I would advise saving the 2016 Berserk anime for last. Not only because it takes place after the first arc and follows the aftermath of the eclipse, but fans of the series have openly criticised this version's cheap animation style that fails to do justice to Miura’s concepts.

As previously mentioned, Berserk is unashamed in its cruelty and some might say the series renowned violence is needlessly excessive. Although this may seem off-putting, Berserk also has it's softer moments. It's in these more subdued scenes that you're drawn deeper into the fascinating narrative.

If asked how best to describe the series, I would say that it's the love child of Japanese horror artist, Junji Ito and fantasy author, George R. R. Martin. The medieval-fantasy setting allows for breath-taking architecture and scenery which often resembles Salvador Dali's surrealist paintings, but inhabited with monsters from Hieronymus Bosch's famous works such as The Harrowing of Hell. It's this contrast that makes Berserk so bewitching, in the thick of all the violence, gore, and carnage, you have a tragic story bursting with drama, rivalry, betrayal, lost love, and most importantly, revenge.

But if The Last of Us Part 2 taught us anything about seeking revenge, it is that it comes at a high price. However, the story remains largely unfinished with the current hiatus and recent chapter having been released as far back as 2019, it's uncertain when we'll see how this revenge story will play out. Nevertheless much like the A Song of Fire and Ice series, having no ending has its positives...

[gerec]

Gerec’s Favorite Fics - 2020

A little early, but here’s a list of my favorite fics from this past year in no particular order. Hope you enjoy them as much I did! :D :D :D

Time the Preserver by MaxRobespierre

“Erik,” says the old man, looking directly at him, and, ah. Yes. That was why Erik stopped on his way back to the motel. His name, and the look in the old man’s eyes. He’s seen that look before, that depth of mourning. It’s not a look he likes to think about.

an empty hearth by Ireliss 

The nighttime city, shrouded in fog.

(Logan works for Shaw, guarding his pretty young boyfriend. They grow closer than they should.)

Self-acceptance as an act of survival by winter_hiems

Charles and Erik get temporarily swapped into each other’s bodies.

Charles seems to be handling it.

He isn’t.

Four Funerals & A Wedding by midrashic

Four people who mourned Erik Lehnsherr, and one who didn't.

The Last Love Song & Testament of Charles F. Xavier by midrashic

When Erik is accused of domestic terrorism, Charles has no choice but to marry him to keep him out of jail.

The Marriage Bargain by kianspo

Erik Lehnsherr had made a fortune manufacturing steel in Europe. When he wished to expand to the New World, he discovered that no one would do business with him unless he was affiliated with one of the First Families, the creme de la creme of the NW aristocracy. When Lord Marko holds an auction to give away his 14-year-old stepson's hand in marriage, Erik sees his chance and takes it. He has no interest in Charles himself, but now that he has him, can they make it work?

Carry Me Anew (Frost & Darkholme Remix) by kianspo

While working as a model for Raven and Emma's clothing line, Erik experiences a strong attraction to his shoot partner. These things happen, except Erik has a boyfriend, who does not take this at all well.

linger like a tattoo kiss by ikeracity 

Six months apart gives Erik a lot of time to think about what he really wants.

(Erik's POV from Carry Me Anew (Frost & Darkholme Remix) by kianspo)

Suddenly There'll Be a Blizzard (Let It Snow Remix) by kianspo

Charles was never at his best while jetlagged, but locking himself out in a snowstorm while barely dressed might be a new low. The last thing he expected was to be rescued by his high school nemesis, the man he hadn't seen in over ten years, who might have broken his heart for good once upon a time.

Once Upon a Time in the West by lachatblanche

Logan meets young, bright-eyed Francis in the run-down town of Charity while on the hunt for the notorious bank-robbers, the Xavier siblings, never for a moment dreaming that Charles Xavier is much nearer than he thinks ...

follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly by specficslut (homosociality)

Dr. Sebastian Shaw loves his job testing runaway omegas for fertility. Today, a boy named Erik is in the back of his medical van.

deeper than swords (the sun and stars remix) by specficslut (homosociality)

Erik has been traded to a foreign king for a chest of gold and a hundred bushels of grain. In Westchester, he must learn to start a new life... and navigate the roles that have been thrust upon him, whether concubine or courtesan, consort or slave.

The Shared Dream by TurtleTotem

Charles's cryo-pod malfunctions and wakes him up a century before everyone else. Will he spend the rest of his life alone on a ship full of sleepers? (A Passengers AU.)

Mr & Mr. Xavier-Lehnsherr by JackyJango

If you ask his late sister, she'd probably say that Charles had always had the hots for the bad boys.

Maybe it's true. Maybe that's how Charles had ended up willingly in their marriage bed. Maybe it's the ease with which Erik fights that had drawn Charles to him-- the confidence with which he uses his body to ensure maximum destruction, the fluidity with which he flares phasers as though they were an extension of his arm. Maybe Charles had been attracted to the grace with which Erik wielded his physical form in a way Charles would never be able to in his field of work. Maybe it's the aura that swirls around Erik for being the best mercenary on the planet. Or, maybe it’s just the roguishly handsome figure Erik cuts in a leather jacket and aviators with a cigarette caught loosely between his thin lips. The thing is, Charles doesn't know. And that's a tad antithetical coming from a man who had made knowing everything his job.

OR

A Mr & Mrs Smith AU in Space!

We'll Show Them All by kaydeefalls

Pacific Rim AU. Ten years later, the monsters are back, and newly-instated Marshall Charles Xavier needs to pull a team together to prepare for the coming war. That means finding his talented sister a Drift-compatible copilot -- even if that turns out to be his old flame Erik.

Just One More Question by BelgianReader2, g33kyclassic

Erik meets Charles at Pub Quiz League and it is hate at first sight. But, his team does need a new member and Moira is insistent that Charles is just what they need.

Erik is not happy about Charles, despite his trivia skill. Can time change his opinion? What about an unexpected revelation or two?

To the tune of our souls by hllfire

Erik, the drummer and one of the lead singers of the band known as The Brotherhood, writes a song after being inspired by the words of a university professor called Charles Xavier — another big name in the mutant community, much like Erik himself — and he wants Charles' speech to be in his song.

The only problem is that Charles Xavier doesn't seem to agree with Erik's idea.

A Tale of Two Captains by ClarkeStetler, Goosenik

Charles Xavier had wanted to be on the ocean as far back as he could remember. He could remember toddling toward the shipyards as an infant, being snatched away by scolding parents just before he could touch the gleaming vessels. As he grew older, his attention never wavered from the prospect of living life on the seas. At twenty-one years of age, Charles and his ship had its first run-in with pirates, and he saw fit to protect his title and vessel as fiercely as he knew how.

Aka: a one-shot of Erik the pirate trying to ransom Charles the captain, but finding that Charles is a little hard not to get attached to.

I'm a bullet by Isolee (WIP) Since mother - since the house - since Cain - He's adapted. He can do anything. Now he wants something, and he suspects he might even deserve it. Or - Charles is sort-of a sex addict, and Erik is his married-with-family supervisor at Uni.

I'll Take You Down (The Only Road I've Ever Been Down) by kianspo 

Tony and Emma are trying to help Charles get over a bad relationship. Many bad relationships, in fact, as Charles has the worst taste in men. They dare him to get 'cured' by sleeping with someone 'normal', having no idea that that normal guy just happens to be someone Charles has been crushing on for a while...

All We Are We Are by kianspo 

Charles's boyfriend breaks up with him days before the holidays. Not willing to ruin anyone else's festive mood, Charles hides this fact from his sister and his friends, and retreats into the family mansion, letting the world move on without him. He's flirting with depression when a one-time ex and a long-term friend surprises him. Long-kept secrets are revealed, and it turns out, Charles hasn't been paying attention to the right things.

[boneandfur]

Time After Time

Pairing: Ethan x MC // Rating: T for themes of war // notes: This was written as a secret Santa gift(yeahhh I know it's late). The next part will have a link to the NSFW part on ao3, should you so choose to read it. The fic can be read without it as well. // The poem on the mood board is Flanders Fields by John McCrae. The lyrics in the fic are from When This Lousy War Is Over, a World War 1 song. // Summary: It's New Year's Eve in 1915 and Nurse Helena Valentine is on leave for twelve hours. Will she be able to say what's in her heart when she runs into Dr Ethan Ramsay, her superior at the field hospital, or will they run out of time? Note: sorry folks the cut isn't working. Will be moving to ao3 sometime here

ONE

"Rookie." The rich Scottish brogue is rough as he catches Helena's arm in the darkness of a Flanders night. "What are you doing here?"

The snow is falling thickly, beyond the ring of torchlight from the town square. In the reflection of the inky water, Helena can see the twinkling of fairy lights in the dark sky, and she steels her spine, only a faint tremor in her hands betraying a hint of fatigue.

<!--more-->

Taking her grandfather's silver pocket watch out, she marks the time in her head:

(Twelve hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty four seconds.)

That's how much longer Helena has until she must walk back to the train station and meet the girls, and doesn't she have a warm room waiting for her, and a little fire, and some of that Flemish wine that Aurora was always going on and on about back at Smith? Yet here she is, on the very last day of the year in 1915, And I cannot seem to move an inch from it.

The strains of drunken soldiers singing makes her heart squeeze -- When this lousy war is over -- "I have official leave for the next twelve hours." I would give my eyeteeth for twelve hours of sleep, but I can't sleep. Time was, I would have given anything to sleep, back when I was studying to be a doctor, back in Boston.

When this war is over -- it feels like a lifetime before it began, just a little over a year ago.

I'll be back someday, when this war is over, Helena Valentine. And then I'll marry you, and we'll dance until Father Time forgets we are mortal.

(But he had never returned, and she went about with a band of black mourning ribbon on her upper arm, hidden under her sleeve: the bruise in her chest expanding until she felt nothing there any longer but silence, until she got on a ship bound for London Town...)

Helena feels the supple leather of Ramsey's gloves, butter soft, against her wet cheeks. She does not know if they are wet from tears, or from snow.

When this war is over/No more soldiering for me

There is a soft quality to Ethan Ramsey's blue eyes as he gazes down at her, brow troubled.

"You should be asleep behind the lines, Rookie." He ties the hood of her threadbare velvet cloak under her chin, as though Helena Valentine is still that pretty maid from Boston, the one who ran off to France to join her cousins in the war effort, three seasons past. "This isn't the place to spend your next twelve hours. You should be curled up in your cot with that book you always carry around in your apron pocket --"

"Sherlock Holmes." Helena lifts her chin a fraction of an inch, and pushes her spectacles to the bridge of her nose, meeting his gaze squarely. "He would have made a brilliant doctor, Dr Ramsey, sir."

"I am not disagreeing with you." Ramsey touches her elbow with his fingers, gesturing with his other hand towards the warmth and lights of the square. "But a bridge at nighttime, Rookie, even behind friendly lines, is not the wisest course of action."

(Twelve hours, seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds.)

The bridge begins to vibrate slightly, and Helena feels her whole body tense, a hot surge of liquid burning just behind her lashes. She sucks in a deep breath and turns her head, just -- the movement as jerky as a film reel at the pictures. His mouth moves, sound traveling as though they are underwater.

Rookie! Can you hear me, Rookie?

That's what Ramsey has always called her, ever since he found out she was a student of medicine, back in Boston. He brought her from the field hospital in Poperhinge with him, all the way to a makeshift hospital just behind the lines in Ypres. Brilliant surgeon Bryce Lahela had been there too, since gone at Loos, or perhaps not gone, but she has heard no more of him. Not even a whisper on the wind.

Helena tears her gaze from Ramsey's mouth, looking towards the eastern sky. The darkness evaporates, opening up in a brilliant reddish gold splendor of color, and Helena feels the warmth of Ramsey's grip on her shoulder all the way down to her frozen bones.

When this war is over,/No more soldiering for me./When I get my civvy clothes on,/Oh how happy I shall be.

Her debutante ball in Boston, the one her father had insisted upon, before the Titanic sank and took his life away with it -- there had been fireworks at that ball. The guests had oohed and ahhed and the bells had rung for the New Year of 1910, a lavish decade of glittering splendor laid out ahead of them -- and she had fought for her inheritance, so damnably hard -- Let me be a lady doctor, Mother, I beg you -- years upon years, gone in the blink of an eye, working with only the most wretched of immigrants in the squalid slums, and then back home to Beacon Hill, to play the debutante.

You must secure a good marriage, Helena, and put this silly dream aside...

The world rushes in with a thunderclap as the artillery barrage begins, and Ramsey pulls Helena to his chest, his hand against the back of her head, wound tightly into her dark curls. She can hear his heart beating in time to the band -- one two, one two, the steps to the waltz.

Eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes, thirteen seconds. The pocket watch ticks on. One two, one two. She pulls back from Ramsey's chest, embarrassed, and turns back to the direction of the Front.

It's hard to believe that only six hours ago I was in a field hospital just behind the front lines. She hasn't realized she's said it aloud until she feel his greatcoat settle over her shoulders. It smells like him, she realizes with a shuddering breath -- like him, without other men's gore staining him up to the elbows. Smoke, and peat, and whiskey.

Once, two months ago, she'd found herself alone in his office to fetch more morphine, and she'd taken the liberty of burying her nose in his extra uniform. She had lost track of how long she'd stood there, nose buried in wool, until a stretcher bearer had rapped on the door and startled her.

"Yes, and you're a dammed bloody fool of an American chit." Ramsey clears his throat. "The war won't be over any faster if you continue to stare at it like that, Rookie."

"Should just be another month." Helena tries, and fails, to sound chipper. "That's what Rafael says he heard from the Cordonians, who heard it from that fighter pilot, Jake Mackenzie, who heard it from the French Foreign Legion --"

And any minute now, out there in the distance, Rafael will come chugging up to Edenbrook Field Hospital in his rattletrap old ambulance, and out will swagger Captain Beaumont of the Cordonian Calvary, dog in his arms and patch over one eye, with a wink and a grin, as if to say, Well, I survived another match with the boys in gray -- as if they'd just had a football match in time for tea -- or it will be that Mexican mercenary from the French Foreign Legion, swearing a streak as blue as those tattoos on his skin, the indomitable Sargent Salazar, or, or --

"Come on, Rookie. Let's get you warmed up."

(Eleven hours, eleven minutes, eleven seconds.)

[guardianreadersofthegalaxy]

My 2020 film ranking

1.       The Personal History Of David Copperfield (AKA ‘The Life of Dev Patel III: Victorian Dev’) – This adaptation of the Dickens classic charts the changing fortunes of its eponymous hero, as well as those of the colourful characters he meets along the way. Armando Ianucci brings his signature naturalistic dialogue to the classic story, plus spot-on colour-blind casting and minus his usual unpleasantness. Particular praise goes to lead actor Dev Patel and to Christopher Willis’s gorgeous soundtrack. And, of course, Charles Dickens.

2.       1917 (AKA ‘George McKay Goes Forth’) – Two British soldiers in the First World War must face the dangers of No Man’s Land to stop a doomed attack and save the lives of sixteen hundred men. There’s nothing quite like an immersive experience. With the help of omnipotent cinematographer Roger Deakins, director Sam Mendes enters the Great Hollywood Long-Take Battle and beats Alfonso Cuaron and Alejandro G. Innaritu at their own game. Credit to Thomas Newman for the pulse-pounding score and Krysty Wilson-Cairns for a screenplay that develops character through action more than dialogue.

3.       Parasite (AKA ‘A Sweet, Collaborative Family Project’) – The working class Kim family will do whatever it takes to find lucrative employment with the wealthy Parks, even if it kills them. There’s something of a Shakespearean tragedy to this that I really like. Sympathetic antiheros, dark farcical comedy and a suitably bloody conclusion make this one of Bong Joon-ho’s more coherent pieces of social commentary.

4.       Atlantics (AKA ‘What Happens When You Don’t Pay Your Employees’) – Ada’s happiness if threatened when her lover, Souleiman attempts to flee Senegal by boat. This starts out as a slow-paced mood piece, then changes gear halfway through as it becomes a crime film with undertones of soft-horror. It looks gorgeous and sounds even better, with a haunting score and effective use of the natural sound of the sea, wind and other elements.

5.       His House (AKA ‘Walls… I Scream’) – A Sudanese couple seek refuge in the UK, but are unable to escape the horror they left behind. It’s a tried and tested horror formula: a strained family unit try to come to terms with shared trauma against the backdrop of an important social issue. But it’s really well executed. The understated tone left me unprepared for the brazenly nightmarish imagery.

6.       A Beautiful Day In The Neighbourhood (AKA ‘Man Feelings’) – A troubled journalist is asked to write a profile on wholesome children’s television presenter Fred Rogers. There’s not much to say about this one. A sweet, sometimes surreal, tearjerker about facing up to your trauma and dealing with your emotions. Very nice.

7.       Uncut Gems (AKA ‘Camera Enters Sandman’) – A New York jeweller and compulsive gambler takes a series of increasingly dangerous risks. This doesn’t build tension so much as it is tension, throughout. The only drawback is that Adam Sandler’s Howie is so unlikeable that I didn’t care what happened to him, unlike in the Safdie brother’s more morally ambiguous film Good Time. Still, a great ensemble cast and skilled sound mixing make this a uniquely gripping experience.

8.       Marriage Story (AKA ‘Divorce Me, You Meaty Oak Tree!’) – A couple fight an increasingly hostile custody battle for their child during their divorce proceedings. This would be an amazing play. Acting and writing are all spot on, evoking the relatable nuances of a fraught relationship as well as illuminating the farcical process of divorce. But the potential that film offers as a medium is underused, besides some nice colour grading.

9.       Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (AKA ‘I Miss Theatres’) – A 1920’s Chicago blues band embark on a tumultuous recording session. This has all the strengths and weaknesses of a play. The spectacle of cinema is done away with in order to spotlight the many dialogues and monologues in a way that feels unnatural for a film. But the source material is excellent and the cast definitely do it justice.

10.   Tenet (AKA ‘Taco Cat’) – A mercenary known only as ‘The Protagonist’ gets caught up with time travel, a Russian oligarch and the threat of Armageddon when he joins the mysterious ‘Tenet’ organisation. This is way too long and the endless, inaudible exposition gets dull very quickly but the inventive and heart-racing action sequences more or less make up for that. The male actors all play their roles with charisma while Elizabeth Debicki is left to do the emotional heavy lifting.

11.   Dolemite Is My Name (‘AKA And F***ing Up Motherf***ers Is My Game’) – Standup comedian Rudy Ray Moore crafts his comic persona, Dolemite. Though this is a little formulaic in its adherence to the standard biopic structure, it surpasses the likes of ‘Nowhere Boy’, ‘Walk The Line’ or ‘Good Vibrations’ by having a protagonist who isn’t a total arsehole. And if you’re going to recreate the aesthetic of a film genre, Blaxploitation is at least at lot of fun.

12.   Jojo Rabbit (AKA ‘Moonreich Kingdom) – An enthusiastic Hitler Youth member reconsiders his beliefs when he discovers a Jewish girl living in his house. If you go into this expecting to see the film that will single-handedly end global fascism, prepare for disappointment. What you really get is a sweet and funny coming of age story in a mildly controversial setting.

13.   Saint Maud (AKA ‘I’m Walking On Thumb Tacks Oh-oh’) – A hospice nurse and recent Christian convert, believes she must save the soul of her terminally ill patient. I never say this, but Saint Maud could have been longer. The first seventy minutes go for slow building tension but that leaves the last half hour with not enough time to bring things to a head. The creepy atmosphere is carried by the music and visuals more than the understated performance of the two leads.

14.   Uncorked (AKA ‘Billy Sommeliot’) – A young man from Memphis dreams of leaving his parents’ barbeque restaurant to become a sommelier. This just kinda follows the formula of ‘young working class guy wants to do something his parents don’t approve of’. It’s competently made but not really imaginative and wastes the opportunity for some great food porn.

15.   Eurovision Song Contest – The Story Of Fire Saga (AKA ‘I Went And Watched ‘Atlantics’ Instead’) – An Icelandic singing duo realise their lifelong dream of competing in the Eurovision Song Contest. If I were a professional critic I would never review a film that I’d stopped watching after 30 minutes. But I’m not, so here it is in last place.

[notoriousjae]

Love is a Little Box (For Home to Lay Inside) || Edeleth Fanfic (3/?)

Chapter Title: A Cloak

Pairing: Byleth Eisner (F)/ Edelgard von Hresvelg

Rating: M

Chapter Description:

Hmm...most curious. You can feel it, can you not? You can feel it coming.        You can feel the change of time--    We felt this, before--        We felt this. With Jeralt.

Chapter 1 | AO3 | Tumblr |

Chapter 2 | AO3 | Tumblr |

Chapter 3 (Current) | AO3 | Below | :

**I’m catching up posting these on Tumblr***

  Horsebow Moon, 1188.

The black of a cloak draws tighter around Byleth’s shoulders, chill from the sea air dancing down her spine like that false Goddess might--light and carefree. It’s...not quite cold, but the feeling of it bothers her more than it used to--or maybe just now, a world where skin can feel warm without a constant chill beneath its thin ice.

The small bundle of bones--full of husks and tree trunks and wood--that comprised the little Ashen Demon was as tall as the Bladebreaker’s knees when a cloak was first wrapped around shoulders.

After he stopped picking her up from the mud, Byleth would grow cold, so far from Jeralt’s side. He had laughed to her, once, voice full of bright sunlight and whiskey as it recalled a small little squirrel of a girl shivering in the middle of a barren tent despite the fire roaring outside. Far away from the rest.

  You were always such a loner, kid--

So Jeralt found her a cloak and stitched the tears in it himself from the thin fiber of a cactus plant from Morfis he bought from a trader whose eyes were always sunken and hair was always up and who they saw frequently because she always gave the best deals to Jeralt, though Byleth, then, hadn't understood why. Similar to how she never understood why the peddler always unbuttoned two rings on her blouse before Jeralt came to her shop.

  It’s more utilitarian that way--

The merchant woman would coo everytime a band of mercenaries scrambled about her cart--whatever that meant, utilitarian--bunching up Byleth’s unruly matts of blue in fussy palms in a vain attempt to tie it upwards, large, gussed lips barely tugging downwards, themselves, in a scowl.

But mostly it just looks better. You want boys to see your eyes, don't you?

The tie would always fall out, and Byleth never bothered putting it up, herself. She preferred not bothering--it seemed more useful to always be able to be ready to enter battle, no matter the state of something as pointless as hair. One day, when she was nearly as tall as Jeralt’s flask her hand shot out calmly--precisely--to curve unyielding fingers about the merchant’s wrist high above her, cloak tied around shoulders and a box safely tucked inside.

She hadn’t worn it like a coat, then, but as a bag.

  'Stop.'

Byleth ordered--even and calm, fingers curled about a quick pulse--and the woman’s eyes widened a little in fear, like most people’s did. Byleth’s head had barely tipped to the side at the reaction. Curious.

Children shouldn’t be like that, Jeralt , the merchant trembled and hissed and quivered, then, and Byleth doesn’t think she ever saw the woman, again.

She didn't see Jeralt much, either.

But she didn’t need either of them when she had her cloak.

The cloak’s arms were too wide and the black fabric hung too low and it dragged when she walked, but Byleth learned to wash it from Matias, who also taught her how to use it like a bag, tied about her back, so that she could carry many things for herself. More things than she could ever carry in her arms, which would get tired, sometimes, even though she never thought to voice the complaint.

So...somewhere along the way in time, she lost the fussy woman and lost Matias and lost Jeralt but kept a box and kept a cloak and kept seeds close to her chest.

Abner looked at her one day, cuts lining the pale moon of shoulders as she guided them back to camp at the front, Jeralt long gone and the wind howling through unbound hair.

She led them, while Jeralt was gone.

  Wear it like us--like we’re a shield on your back, kid. You don't need shields, when you've got us.

There’s...an emotion at the memory. Maybe she’ll write to Edelgard and ask her what it is. What all of it is. But in the meantime, eyes close as the wind curves beneath the cloak, tail billowing beneath it.

"Professor--"

It's a week before it comes, South of Kleiman.

The letter is tattered by the time it reaches the encampment from a weary messenger, whose knees quake from the cold, Emperor’s red Eagle clawing from the ashes of its red wax stamped to seal the envelope, blood hue dully gleaming in the light of their battered fire, wearily thrown together by exhausted soldiers who haven’t slept well in weeks, if not months.

Byleth’s fingers ache, cut and scabbed, as she opens the flap with her nail.

The bandit assaults on Kleiman have been worse than expected and it’s become clear that they’re not truly bandits, at all, even though that part was expected.

Byleth has a stack of letters from former students--Ingrid in Nuvelle, sitting on the coast East of Brigid and South of Albinea and Morfis’ Northern territory; Leonie, now, outside of Mateus, pushing towards the mountains; Sylvain in Gautier, bordering Sreng--the list goes on of all of her students embedded in territories on the border of neighboring factions and countries. All of them facing volatile conditions from bandits--all of them thinly escaping or bolstering their forces thanks to an inexplicable rolling fog that’s taken over Fódlan--and all of them slowly overcome with the plague.

The plague had started near Hrym in the Adrestrian Empire before spreading upwards towards Ordelia in what used to be known as Leicester, both towns bordering the coast where the southern territory of Morfis sits. Its symptoms came mild, at first, if startling.

A cough--a sneeze--each limb contracting one by one until the sweats gave way to a startling paralysis. The paralysis started in the shoulders first (unusual, stated Manuela, who recounted countless plagues that started in the hands and feet, appendages far away from people’s regularly beating hearts), but this one started in the shoulders before spreading to the elbows...the knees. The ankles. The wrists. The neck, where swallowing became difficult.

Then the chest, but the heart always remained pattering away, frantic--elevated. Frightened .

  ‘If it’s blood, why is it starting in the joints?’ Linhardt, circles buried deep beneath eyes far darker than usual, scratches at his chin.

‘Autopsy them.’ Edelgard’s voice held no waver, ‘If we cannot find the solution with magic --’

  ‘Autopsies were...forbidden by the church--’ Manuela tries to explain, the thought seemingly startling. Unnerving.  

‘I mean this with the most respect, Manuela, but then I’ll find someone capable of doing them. Of which I know you are, so I’m uncertain why you hesitate.’ Edelgard tossed down the papers on the table containing the list of crest-bearers. ‘These are not just nobles, these are war-decorated men and women with experience. Society might have put them in favorable positions unjustly, but they were in them all the same. Targeting those with crests not only undermines our goals, it takes away our very valuable allies and our most decorated and experienced soldiers.’  

  ‘I agree, Lady Edelgard.’ Hubert, paler than usual, pushes fingers through dark hair, sweaty strands clinging to his forehead and neck, a little longer, now, than it had been months prior. ‘We must see the larger picture of the fallout from this insidious attack.’ Shoulders before sliding up gloves. Neither Edelgard or Hubert like showing their hands, literally or metaphorically.

  ‘Hubert--’ Surprisingly, it’s Linhardt who speaks, shifting upwards, ‘You should be resting after your trip to Arundel. We’re still not sure whether what afflicted you was--’

  ‘I’m fine. We’re well aware that the plague is not airborne and that I have no crest--’  

  ‘But exhaustion is contagious, and it’s real exhausting looking at you, man. Why don’t you rest?’ Caspar steps around the small table and Byleth steps next to him, ignoring the concern thick in the room, hand barely skirting over his shoulder.  

  Hubert, tellingly, does not shy or glower from the touch.

  ‘Your insight is invaluable, Hubert.’ Edelgard quiets from the helm of the room, ‘But your recovery even more so.’  

  Byleth is well aware of what the look the Emperor sends her means, however fleeting, and she becomes the shadow of a shadow, just for a moment.  

  He bows deeply before calmly striding outside of the room and Byleth just as calmly catches him before he can stumble outside of the door of the chamber, holding him up against the stone before wrapping his weak, stiff arm about her shoulder. It seems like all great, boisterous things, he could only bluff quite so long on his battlefield.

  ‘You’re...always so rebellious, Professor.’ It’s a huff through nostrils, exhaustion seeming to settle upon him like a sack of rocks as she carries him towards her room, not his own. She would rather not amble him up dozens of steps, for both their sakes. ‘You’re not supposed to be so close.’  

  A shrug. “This isn’t the first time you’ve called me rebellious.”  

  A slim smile is her reward, staying in the shadows within the shining grass of the church grounds.  

  ‘I suppose so.’

  'Have I ever listened?'

  'Not that I can recall. And your...preposterous disposition is infecting Lady Edelgard like this plague.'

  Byleth is certain Lady Edelgard would say that’s a victory.

  It’s not long until he's settled in her bed with little remark or protest, which weighs more than anything else might.

  ‘You don’t want me to tell Ferdinand?’ Byleth has never felt quite so tall as she does now, towering over this unusually hunched form and she leans down, a gleam of green warming her palm as it settles on his forehead, the smallest calm she can offer.

  Hubert is quiet for a long moment, eyes closing before he mumbles, ‘The fool wouldn’t be able to concentrate. He seems to think...our friendship is more important...than...--"

  A chill runs up his curved spine, shoulders stiff.

  So Byleth covers him with the scratchy, blue blanket in the corner before closing the door, but doesn't leave. And hesitates, only for a moment, before laying the black of a cloak upon him, as well, settling wordlessly on the floor and splaying out a well worn map upon its stone, slowly charting a path.

  It’s an hour before the door creaks open.

  'He wouldn't want me to see him like this. It feels...selfish to rob him of his pride.' Edelgard's voice is quiet, feet bare as she comes into the room, boots settled familiarly by the open archway. Her walk is quieter than it had been when Byleth first started teaching her.

  'He did the same to you a few weeks ago when you arrived from Arundel.'  

  'He's done the same to me since we were children.' She sits upon the bed, hand hovering over his shoulder. 'I don't know what I'll do without my shadow.'

  'Perhaps…' Hubert's voice scratches, eyes slivered open, no small amount of fondness in the serious depths. And no small amount of exhaustion. There must be, if he's letting Edelgard see him like this willingly. 'You'll adapt to the light.'

  'Or perhaps this will only be momentary--perhaps we'll cure you.'

  'Do not...waste your attention on me, Lady Edelgard.'  

  'That's easier said than done, Hubert.' Edelgard runs a thumb over his wrist where a surgical incision rests, sighing at its pale shimmer like a fishline barely seen in the light. The remnants of a symbol burn against his white skin. It’s telling he allows Edelgard’s thumb to remain. 'Easier said than done. Sleep. Consider that a command if it will force you to do so.' That weak hand slackens in hers despite visible effort, disappearing into a rumbled pile of blue blanket and black cloak.

  When he's asleep long enough that they're certain he won't wake, the taller of the two left standing steps closer.

  'Manuela will do the autopsies.' Byleth’s hands gently curve over shoulders, guiding Edelgard back against her. ‘And Hanneman will handle this.’

  ‘I wish he had told me.’ Edelgard hasn’t looked from Hubert’s prone form, ‘He always attempts to strike from the shadows, even if I’m not aware of it.’

  ‘It makes him a poor vassal, but a good friend, El.’ Byleth reminds, feeling the way Edelgard barely shakes against her.  

  'He would call anyone else but himself a fool for doing this.'

  Byleth nods, Edelgard's chin dipping barely up and over her shoulder to search drawn features.  

  ‘Does Hanneman still believe that your blood--’

Byleth looks up at the faint rustle from the tent nearby, drawn from wayward thoughts and one line of elegant cursive, in particular, by a grumbling gruff of a normally smooth voice.

"Edelgard did not send me a second missive." Ferdinand's lips purse and Dorothea seems to have taken a lesson from Hapi, because her sigh might summon demonic beasts it's so great and heavy before it disappears into the cold, still air.

"Ferdie," Byleth is reminded by what Dorothea’s stated, once, about nobles and balls, her tone cloyingly sweet as fingers tent in front of her stomach, a flicker of a smile twitching up Byleth’s lips as she slips the letter into a small pocket surrounding the sharp tip of a knife. It rests upon many there, collected and cherished. Maybe Byleth’s muscles are made of chiseled wood, these days, "You're hopeless."

“I don’t understand--”

“I know you don’t, Ferdinand. Why don’t we all go into the war tent and have some more tea? You can pout about not having a second letter from Edelgard, there.” She shoos his shoulders forward with a stolen look to Byleth the moment Ferdinand von Aegir’s back is turned, and the teacher’s smile returns.

Gentler.

The wind brushes through Byleth’s hair as they disappear behind the white tent flap stained with soot and blood and war from these past months. She’s not particularly good at counting time, but the calendar Dorothea keeps track of, coupled with Edelgard’s letters, inform her that it’s been nearly six full moons since a dagger was slipped into her palm and light caught the glint of red hanging about the Emperor’s neck, vial safely against her heart.

  'Experimenting like this...does this make us any better than those we fight, My Teacher?' Familiar features have drawn further and further in on themselves in the moonlight like a taut bowstring ready to snap along thin lips.

  'No, Edelgard.' Byleth decides, honest, 'It doesn't. But…' A beat, chin tipping upwards as she thinks, 'We're different in one important way.'

  'What is that, Professor?' Edelgard clings to her hand like a girl might wrap fingers in the things that bind her to a table.

  They both look at Hubert, his shoulders stiff and body curled in the dwarfing sheets of a scratchy blue blanket, a box tipped open by his head, contents barely visible underneath the night’s glow.

  Byleth turns her nose into Edelgard's jaw and feels that taut string snap in a tremble beneath her.

  'Choice.'

Byleth’s palm presses idly at her chest before following behind the pair, watching the sun high above the rickety guard tower, its wood weakened by salt and ocean and fire, sieges relentless.

For a moment she imagines Sothis--how her lips might dance like the wind and fingertips might curl beneath a jaw.

  Hmm...most curious. You can feel it, can you not? You can feel it coming.

Her hand flattens over the flap, brows knitting as her other palm raises to roll against her chest--over her heart, like trying to rub a spot away--no Edelgard to keep her from bruising it.

As if drawn there, eyes settle upon the near shoreline, that furrow of her brow only deepening. Drawn there. Like...eyes don’t want to tear from it. Like the feeling she used to get when she was shorter and frailer and less full of rhythmic, distracting drums in her chest--that feeling of something watching her from the shadows. Like eyes might track her, and her hands would curl around the knife by her hip when Jeralt was no longer there to ease white knuckles from their grip.

Now they only rest over her heart.

  You can feel the change of time--

The lake that feeds into the ocean is visible from their outpost, and in the distance rolls a great fog off of the water, brought from the cold air meeting the heat from the West. The wind dances along the pond, pushing it out towards the fog that’s coming in, heading their way.

Something about it--

Byleth frowns, looking down at the sand beneath her feet and the horizon, once more, before pushing aside the flap and nodding towards Ferdinand’s steady hand and the cup contained within it. She shakes off a clump of sand from her boot.

  We felt this, before--

Byleth’s head tips up to the side, expecting to see a flash of green, just for--

  We felt this. With Jeralt.

“Are you alright, Professor?” Dorothea’s paused mid-sip, concern twisting brows as Ferdinand lowers his cup.

Just the wind follows Byleth into the tent as the flap closes behind her.

She shakes her head.

Everything is...fine.

  --

Guardian Moon, 1187.

The din of the ball is muffled by the large double doors leading into one of Enbarr’s great hallways.

Where the halls of Garreg Mach are vast and full of stone, their stoic browns are natural and reminiscent of the great valleys of mountains on which the proud building stands tall. Enbarr, however, is reminiscent of steel. It’s full of dark stone and the red fires that temper it, long windows surrounded by curtains soaked in the blood the empire had lost throughout the millenia it had stood proud.

Whereas Garreg Mach might resemble the mountain carved by the hand of the Goddess, Enbarr resembles the steel carved by her Children. Swords and axes and spears held proud and tall .

It’s not as cold as the halls of Garreg Mach, the great rooms here warmed by several hearths throughout, no air streaming through the windows, and the heat of the building does an admirable job of keeping the snow outside from entering. It’s not sterile like a blade, either, though Edelgard frequently recalled it being that way.

‘ But perhaps it was just the company I was with in my youth.’ El dryly hums, arms crossed as Arundel settled next to her shoulder with a tall, unwavering stance. Calm and regal, himself, as his black cloak blended with the shadows cast from the fire that lightens Edelgard’s chin in flickers of ember.  

  ‘Ah, yes, I suppose you didn’t spend much time in our great capital, did you, Edelgard? What a shame. I find its presence quite...’ A devilish hum, ‘Familiar and soothing. But I suppose it runs in the family. I don’t think your mother spent much time here, either.’  

  Byleth leans forward to untuck the crystal glass white gloves curl so tightly around, regardless of the calm, pressed lips of the Emperor between them, replacing it with her full glass.  

  ‘How dutiful.’ Arundel drawls.  

  ‘Uncle, would you please get the Professor more wine? It seems her glass has run dry. We wouldn't want to be rude to our esteemed guest.'  

Arundel’s calm smile twitches a little at the edge before he bows , a little too deep, disappearing into the crowd and Edelgard hands back the swishing glass of wine.

  ‘I don’t like being...inebriated.’ Violet follows him into the crowd and Byleth’s fingers, just for a moment, curl around Edelgard’s wrist as she once more retrieves her glass, ‘Not around him.’  

  After a long moment of thought, the Tactician looks around the room before leaning over and pouring a bit into the plant behind them and handing the glass back up towards gloved fingers, drink significantly depleted, but not quite gone.

‘Is that how you got all the plants to grow in the Greenhouse?’ There’s a hint of amusement curling the Emperor's lips, but no denying that look she gives her, ever-confident as gloved fingers curve about the stem.  

  Byleth shrugs. Serious: ‘I did tell you that a Mercenary with a beard down to his knees taught me how to garden, didn’t I?’  

  Edelgard, for all of her composure and political forte, doesn’t hide her laugh.

  And Byleth, not nearly as worried about all the eyes that turn upon them, Arundel’s included, simply smiles.

“Are you enjoying the wedding?” The question is humming in Byleth’s ear, only a sip gone from a wine glass as Edelgard slides up next to her amidst the thrumming crowd of dancing nobles. They’re all polite--it’s hardly like any of the weddings Byleth’s been to in villages, where ale ran into the river and dancing livened up the valleys, the sort of detached thing Byleth could appreciate--and while all of them are still drunk, they’re far more…

What was the word Dorothea had used, once, grumbling behind Ferdinand as she took a long, long sip of her own cup?

Snobby about it. Kind of jerks.

(Dorothea has slyly insinuated many times that if she hadn't known how to work a room full of snobby jerks, she wouldn't have succeeded in the opera and Byleth has come to believe her).

The dancing is a show--elegant and regal --people poised despite inebriation as they clasp hands and spin about the room, and Byleth’s head tilts to the side, brows knit.

“Is anyone here?” It’s a genuine question, looking from forced smile to forced smile, and the line of men Edelgard’s been strong-armed into dancing with for political relations across the hall, all of which look sorely displeased that the Emperor has slipped away to speak to her Advisor.

“No.” Edelgard hums, “But events aren’t for enjoyment according to nobles, they’re for status . These are masqueraded business affairs--women being married off to the highest bidder and kingdom, usually.” And Edelgard leans just a little closer before she seems to pause and straighten, putting the smallest amount of distance between them.

It feels a little colder, despite the large hearth behind them. Byleth turns downwards and watches the way the fire curves about Edelgard’s sighing chin.

“When I’m...married,” Edelgard says it so calmly, watching the groups of nobles spin about the floor, not looking up towards Byleth, at all, who finds it far more interesting to watch Edelgard. “It’s not going to be like this.”

“Okay.” It’s a simple statement, finally turning to take in the elegant, swaying dancers on the large marble floor.

“I know I’ve stated I’ll have two weddings, but I only want one --a true...honest one, with real dancing and laughter and people I actually know . The whole continent can celebrate, but I think it’s time I set a precedent.”

"And what is that?" Byleth nods, watching Petra move elegantly about the floor and Dorothea laugh amidst a group of charmed men. "Your precedent?"

"That marriage doesn't have to be about status or convenience--that a partnership should be with someone you trust and respect. And because of that," Arundel turns away for a moment from watching them and Edelgard hands Byleth her glass, who dutifully immediately takes a much larger sip than the Emperor had, nearly downing the contents before handing it back. Alcohol doesn't particularly affect her. Though this is…nice wine. It would go even better if they'd finally serve dinner. The dinner would be nicer. Byleth doesn’t miss Dorothea’s hiked eyebrow across the path as she hands back the glass, though Edelgard doesn’t miss a beat, “It should be fun ."

A thoughtful look.

“You could always have it in the woods.” Byleth offers.

“Oh, the rustic solution. Tell me more, Professor.”

“There's always fun in the woods. I know a group of mercenaries that would be happy to dance with you.”

Edelgard leans closer, their shoulders brushing, “There’s only one mercenary I see the point in dancing with."

“Leonie’s going to be hurt.” Byleth frowns but a hint of a smile might break through at the unamused look on Edelgard’s face...and the small twinkle in her eyes.

“Clearly she was the one I was speaking of, originally. So there’s no reason for her to feel dismayed." Edelgard’s lips twitch upwards. In this, she does miss a beat before continuing, “...Byleth, would you care to d--”

“Lady Edelgard,” The conversation is interrupted abruptly by the smooth voice of a man who’s spent his whole life hearing the sound of it, bowing deeply before them. “Pardon me for interrupting, but I could not help but become...opportunistic when the sight of you without an escort struck. Would you care to dance?”

The magical tattoo emblazoned into his flexing bicep, dipped deeply in front of them, is the symbol of the City of Illusion. Not too far away, Arundel smiles, and Byleth knowingly reaches over to hold Edelgard’s drink.

It's no surprise the Prince has been sent after Edelgard's glass has finished.

“Ah, it would be my absolute pleasure , Lord Anri.” That guarded tone, lips curling upwards in pleasant civility as Edelgard takes a bowed hand. The only suitor that’s dared to interrupt them, although Edelgard has been dancing with them all night. “If you’ll excuse me, Professor?”

Byleth, calm, simply nods and watches the tense way Edelgard’s shoulders roll backwards into ivory skin--the way her head barely dips before it straightens. The way she enters onto a battlefield Byleth cannot follow, but Byleth isn't about to leave Edelgard alone upon it, sighing down at two empty drinks.

This feeling is...new.

And that’s how she seems to spend the next five dances, alternating between watching Edelgard dance, tense, and staring at the empty shine of crystal in her palm.

"If you're about to make wine appear in those glasses, I should have paid more attention in your Reasoning lectures, Professor." That voice is calm and teasing--perfectly lilted at the edge. Charming.

But Dorothea always is.

"You can't transmogrify something that doesn't already exist in the environment." Byleth replies, chin tipping upwards to take in that light tip of lips, shoulders of a dress dipped down below biceps. "Unless you believe it's there."

"Ah, so are you going to Seraphim wine into the glass?" Dorothea's coy, but there's a genuine curiosity there as she leans towards her Professor.

Byleth's chin dips as she stares at the small crystal, turning it in her thumb curiously. She no longer has great powers over time, but she could turn it backwards to when she never drank the wine, at all, once. Does that mean the wine is there, in some form? Waiting for Byleth to pull it from the air it's trapped in?

Could she create something out of air, if the air had been something else, before?

Is that all time is--the space where things had been, and the places they no longer are?

Does it really matter? She's not Linhardt and only has a passing curiosity for academic pursuits, not a passion researching them.

A long hum. Serious, knit brows furrowing as she takes in the sight of her once-student.

"...why would I do that when I can just get another glass?"

"So that someone like myself doesn’t have to go through the trouble of refilling it in order to appear polite?" Dorothea teases, "I would hate not to be polite."

"Edelgard says that's why we have Arundel." Byleth finishes El's glass before setting it to the side.

"And...what does Edie say about dancing with all of these strapping, mindless men who are throwing themselves about our Emperor's feet?"

Byleth has picked up her glass, as well, thumb running along the edge of it, watching Edelgard twirl around the room.

"She says she doesn't want her wedding to be like this."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I think she's having it in the woods."

"Oh, there’s a thought. I think Edie is getting as fed up with pompous affairs as the rest of us. Does," Dorothea's smile curves around the edge of her glass, "Edie talk about her dream wedding with you often, Professor?"

"Often, I guess."

"You guess?"

"How often do you talk about weddings?" A curious question and Dorothea shifts. "I don't have anything to compare it to."

"Often enough for a girl needing to marry."

"I don't think you need to marry, Dorothea." Byleth shakes her head, "Edelgard wants to change nobility."

"...she already has." Dorothea sounds fond and...awed and a little small.

"Then you don't need to marry someone you don't love. Both you and Ingrid have made names of your own in the Empire. Ingrid has finally become a knight, why do you still want to marry?"

"I...am a little taken off guard because I didn't expect this subject to turn on me." Dorothea bashfully admits, tucking up her own glass of wine. "I thought I was going to tease you over Edelgard."

"Why would you tease me over Edelgard?"

"Because you've been watching her dance with wedding suitors all night when you should be dancing with her, instead."

There's something about the statement that makes Byleth pause. That makes her brows knit and deepen and her chest...ache. That makes her look up at Edelgard, smiling falsely and charmingly, and...frown.

"...I don't know how to dance." Byleth admits.

"Is that all? I can show you. You can dance with me, and then Edie. And then we can all stop talking about who she might choose she's going to marry."

"She knows who she's going to marry." Byleth mindlessly supplies, still watching her swirl about, their eyes meeting. And Edelgard visibly hesitates. There must be something about the look on Byleth's face. About the way her thumb curls around the glass and her breath catches painfully in her throat and her--

Byleth idly reaches up to rub her palm against her chest, above that thumping thing. A little annoyed.

She wants it to stop. Sometimes these feelings are...distracting.

"What?" Dorothea might blink or gasp. "Who is she going to mar--Professor?"

"I'm sorry Dorothea, I don't...I actually don't feel well." And she doesn't.

"Professor, you always feel well, are you alright? I didn't…" And Dorothea is quietly sincere, coyness falling aside, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I mean...bring up--I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But I can't just sit by."

"I'll be fine. It's the wine." It's not the wine. "...It's not the wine."

"Oh, of course it’s not the wine.” It’s sighed with what must be a suffocating swell of air into her lungs, brows knitting in sympathy like she’s in a very, very tragic opera, “It's your emotions. Are you repressing them?"

"What?"

"Oh, Goddess, Professor. So...you're just...you're going to let her?"

"Let her what?" Byleth's features contort with confusion, distracted, rubbing at that burning chest like she's been punched above her breast. Idly, she’s regretting not suggesting they just imprison a large dragon instead of slaying it--the repercussions are annoying. "What are you talking about, Dorothea?"

"Marry."

"Why wouldn't I let Edelgard marry?"

" What ?"

"Whether or not Edelgard marries isn't my choice. It's no one's but Edelgard's."

"What is my choice?"

Edelgard seems to appear through the crowd like she’s been summoned--or maybe, for once, Byleth has simply been too distracted to watch her.

"Edie!" Dorothea blanches, just a little. "Just--"

"Whether you marry." Byleth supplies, palm pressing a little harder, rubbing at her chest, brows still knit.

"Oh.” Edelgard looks between them both--fittingly pointed for both of them--before settling on Byleth. “That’s not exactly what I expected but, I’m glad you both agree that I have some agency in my-- Byleth .” And her voice lowers a little--dusts like a stone skipping over the top of a lake. "What are you doing?"

Byleth looks up, still distracted, to see she has Edelgard’s full attention, nothing short of concern pressing lips thin. Her hand pauses its rubbing, looking down with curious eyes to see white fingertips wrapped around her wrist, stilling it.

Byleth lingers on the sight of it, feeling the hidden press of a ring above her heartbeat.

It doesn't do much to calm her, but it does make an effort.

“Are you alright?” El’s voice has dropped to a whisper--sincere and quiet despite the dance floating around them, idle chatter and forced laughter, and Dorothea, who watches with baited breath every second that ticks by.

“I’m...fine, I think.” Byleth turns away from her, not sure why that feeling... spikes at the sight of concern so deep in eyes. "Maybe it’s the wine." She tries for a second time and then frowns. Immediately shaking her head, "No, no, it's not the wine."

"Are you sure you’re--" Dorothea sounds gentler now and both of her once students do a valiant job of covering Byleth from the crowd around them, features contorted and hand curling above an aching chest.

"I'm fine."

“You’ve never given me cause to doubt you.” But Edelgard is looking like she’s doubting her, now, thumb barely smoothing along Byleth’s quick pulse in a way that makes her mouth feel...dry.

Fingers flex tightly underneath Edelgard’s hand, muscles taut and wound so thoroughly that the Emperor can undoubtedly feel it flex in her wrist.

“I...think the Professor just drank too quickly. That's why she sounds so...confused. About whether she drank quickly.” Dorothea swoops between them, hand reaching up to settle on a cloaked bicep, gently tugging Byleth away from Edelgard’s grounding touch and she’s...startled to feel a hint of relief .

This only causes the confusion to burrow deeper.

She never feels relief, being away from Edelgard.

All of them know wine doesn’t affect her, but when Byleth doesn’t protest, instead looking curiously down at the palm that had refused to rub her emotions away, Edelgard looks down towards feet and nods.

“Yes, of course. Why don’t you get some air with Dorothea, My Teacher? It might help.” And there’s something in the way Edelgard smiles, a little slim at the edges, that makes that feeling worsen before El turns on her heel and moves back towards the noble she’d left, those shoulders tight and gait purposeful.

Dorothea fortunately doesn’t leave Byleth with much time to think on it, twining their arms before she’s tugging her out onto the grounds, winter air hitting cheeks with a refreshing, brisk rush.

“Thanks.” Byleth offers when they’ve managed to make it outside onto the bridge that connects the Great Hall with the Great Entrance. All of these buildings are so large that Byleth thinks she might get lost in the stone and never see sunlight, again, at times. She doesn’t fit in a...Church grounds or an Academy or a Kingdom Palace.

She’s a woman whose reflection only fits in the still waters of a lake, fishing lure bobbing beneath the shortest length of her brown boots. Who fits in the reflection of a golden sword that no longer gleams, lost to shadows and night that she had cut herself out of years ago. Who was maybe built for a tomb before she was ever born and her heart was crafted inside it.

Byleth doesn’t fit anywhere, at all.

“It’s the least I can do for the Professor who’s literally saved my life at least a dozen times. Figuratively, perhaps more. I can handle a little bit of uncharacteristic emotional crisis.” Dorothea settles next to her, shivering from the cold, and Byleth thoughtlessly shrugs off her cloak, wrapping it around shoulders. “You know, Professor, you look...very lovely tonight. If I were younger and still in your class, I might swoon.”

“Oh.” Byleth looks down at the change of outfit. Edelgard had insisted, smoothing fingers along fabric with a fond, scheming hum. The cloak had stayed, but the rest of the outfit, she’s certain, was something Edelgard had already imagined for her. Not the outfit, but being free of the clothes she fights in every day, for a change.

It does feet like a second skin--flowing and dark silks, a pink sash tucked around hips.

It...reminds her of Sothis, and the thought makes her smile.

“Thank you, Dorothea. You look beautiful.” And Dorothea does. Dorothea always does. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed you, either.”

The compliment, sincere, tinges Dorothea’s cheeks pink from something far more than the cold, shifting closer to Byleth until the heat from her shoulders seems to radiate a little outwards.

They’re quiet on the bridge for a long time--long enough that the din inside dies, just a little, lost to the quiet of the night, and their breath turns into smoke quicker than it had, before, and that...feeling in Byleth’s chest seems to turn into steam along with it, rising up into the air, dull and forgotten. Mist usually was.

“...would you really let Edie marry someone else?”

Byleth knows the question is something she could answer--that Dorothea is misled--but she truly thinks on it, for a moment, fingers curling around the railing of a stone bridge she’s not particularly familiar of, but that a young Edelgard might have known very well, once.

Was Edelgard like one of those children who reached up towards the stone spires like a tree? Did she reach with stubby little fingers towards the top of a railing she could never reach?

No. Byleth is certain that Edelgard climbed the railing to the top of it and then was probably promptly rescued by some poor wayward knight who had to pull the Princess away from the bridge’s edge, another adventure to seek and challenge to thwart. Edelgard wasn’t reckless, but she was certainly brash.

Edelgard would have been a beautifully stubborn, impossibly adult child in a small body.

Wasn't Byleth?

That impossible child whose life was laid out for them, a land full of swamps to fall up into her hips in with no one to offer a hand to help her out--

“...Yes.” Byleth realizes, quiet and serious, looking out towards the grounds with a new certainty and a dull ache deep within. Dorothea’s eyes wet and Byleth doesn’t ask why, when she turns towards her, feeling her...own emotion well up within her, strangling her throat. “If it made her happy. Or...even if it didn’t, yes I would let Edelgard marry someone else.”

“Why, Professor? Surely...surely you know--”

Byleth shakes her head. “Because I told you, Dorothea, it’s her choice.”

“But--” For once, Dorothea’s words seem to fail her, brows knitting and knitting as she tugs Byleth’s cloak further around her shoulders and Byleth wonders if there’s more to this question just than close friends. Dorothea’s jaw trembles and Byleth carefully--cautiously--raises up her hand to swipe a thumb beneath her eye.

“When…” Byleth’s lips part, trying to think through her words, voice measured and calm, “I was as tall as Jeralt’s chest, a man in our battalion taught me how to garden. Matias.”

Dorothea looks hopefully up towards her, leaning, just a little, into her hand. “He...he did?”

Byleth nods.

“I thought I knew what was best for plants. I needed water, so I watered them as much as I drank. And I thought they needed food because I ate, so I buried a piece of grizzled deer in the soil.”

Dorothea chuckles a little at the image.

“And I didn’t think plants felt anything at all, because I didn’t.”

The chuckle quiets and Byleth continues, serious.

“I killed a lot of plants. And Matias told me something I still remember. He told me that the plant knows what it wants for itself… and it will tell you if you listen. When the soil looks thin, you help nurture it. And when the leaves droop...you water it. And do you know what happens when you sing and talk to a plant?”

“What?” Dorothea swallows, leaning fully into Byleth’s hand, smiling a little up at her through the tremble of her lips.

“Matias told me it would smile. I didn’t think I would be a good teacher, but I knew I was a good gardener. So I listened--I listened to all of you.” Her thumb carefully swipes underneath Dorothea’s eye.

“You are...a very unnervingly good listener.”

The smile on Byleth’s lips is slim.

“I can’t make your choices for you. So much of your lives have been made by other people--so many of your choices. If Edelgard wanted to marry someone else, I would let her, because it’s not my choice to make.”

“Can’t...you give her the choice you want her to choose?”

Byleth laughs--a quiet, surprising noise, and her features turn soft. Just a little soft around the edges.

“Edelgard has that choice, too.”

Dorothea doesn’t look satisfied with that answer, immediately opening lips before Byleth shakes her head.

“If I wanted to marry someone else, Edelgard would let me, as well. I’m certain of it.” It’s said with an unwavering certainty. A nod. “If you care for something, you need to let it grow, Dorothea. You can't keep a seed in a box forever, eventually it needs to be planted. And it needs to grow in its own way."

Dorothea shakes her head. “I just wish...I wish happiness was more like an opera. Well, without the tragic death or...occasional regicide.”

Byleth hums. “I don’t think marriage is what makes happiness. I think…” What was it Edelgard had said earlier? A hint of wistfulness tucks up lips, “Partnership is about trust and respect. And regardless of marriage, I’ll be by Edelgard’s side until the end.” Byleth looks at Dorothea knowingly , lowering her hand from her cheek to her chin to give a small smile. “Won’t you?”

“I suppose when you put it that way...that’s true, Professor.”

“I think you have strong loyalties with all those you care for, Dorothea. I don’t think marriage is as important as the promise behind it. Petra, Edelgard, myself--”

Dorothea’s eyes close and Byleth tucks up her chin, just a little--bold in a way Edelgard’s taught her to be--rewarded with the swimming of dark eyes below her. Dorothea’s smile cracks at the edge.

“We’ll all be there for you until the end, too.”

“That’s something I can certainly agree with.” Edelgard’s voice is as smooth as the sound of clicking heels within her boots, cold air sending a shiver down her spine as Byleth looks up to smile not just at Edelgard, but--

“That is something I am very much agreeing with, as well.” Petra smiles, hair slightly messy from its intricate braid, sweat shining along her forehead from a night spent dancing, smile easy and stretched as she bows in an elegant Brigid dip. “Dorothea, I was looking to dance with you but could not find you. Are you...being well?”

Dorothea laughs a little and twists, miraculously without tears the moment she does, offering a beaming smile as she moves to take off the cloak.

“Keep it for now, it’s cold.” Byleth squeezes shoulders before patting her on the back, Dorothea clearing her throat as she shifts closer to Petra. Eyes lingering, for a moment, on Edelgard.

“I had told Petra that you both had gotten hot inside, so we came to find you,” El hums, taking up Dorothea’s place on the balcony, both of them watching as Dorothea nods at the bow, taking Petra’s hand.

“I would love a dance, Petra.”

Petra beams before nodding up towards her Professor and Emperor, disappearing not into the crowd, but further down the bridge.

“That’s not towards the--” Edelgard hums, Byleth's back easing as Edelgard’s glove skims along the lower curve of it, humming as realization dons, “Did you know they were staying out here? Is that why you let her keep your cloak?"

"She was cold." Byleth shrugs.

"And you know your fish, even when you're not fishing." It's a tease, "I'm starting to see just how much you see of all of us, My Teacher. It's...fascinating and unnerving, how well you know us.”

"You know them just as well."

“I suppose." Adding, "I do know Dorothea’s clueless about Petra.” Edelgard’s hand smooths upwards to bare shoulders and Byleth’s brows knit when suddenly her own shoulders are covered with the Emperor’s red coat, curiously looking down at puffed shoulders.

“I think Dorothea’s scared, not clueless.” Byleth shrugs and raises eyebrows when she sees one of the poofs raise up and up and up out of the corner of her eye. How does Edelgard not get distracted while fighting in--

Byleth sighs when lips brush her own, suddenly pulled away from all other distractions into this singular one, kiss warm and soft and lingering, feeling Edelgard’s eyelashes flutter against her cheek.

“You would truly let me marry someone else?”

“You were standing there for a while.”

“We both were. We didn’t want to interrupt.”

“And you both like eavesdropping.” Byleth’s lips barely twitch upwards. "I classed Petra as an assassin for a reason."

But Edelgard is too serious to tease, fingers pushing upwards to cup both of Byleth’s cheeks, making their eyes meet.

“I don’t want to marry anyone else.”

“I know.” And Byleth does.

“But you would still give me the choice?” And there’s a hint of moisture in those familiar eyes--enough that Byleth knows this is important.

“I will always give you a choice, Edelgard. You’ve always given me one.”

“Neither one of us had many of those in life, did we?”

“...no.”

El tucks lips behind teeth, eyes bright through that shine.

“Then I’d like to get married in a forest. Or at least not... here. You can choose where, and I just happen to choose   not here. ”

Byleth smiles. “Okay.” But she sucks in a quiet breath and looks towards where Dorothea and Petra disappeared, down the cobble path.

“I did come out here to check on you. You felt something earlier, didn’t you?”

Byleth’s head hangs for a moment before she nods and Edelgard lowers a gloved hand to the spot above Byleth’s chest that’s nearly as red as the coat now safely shrugged on shoulders, where she’d rubbed and rubbed and rubbed at it.

“It wasn’t a good feeling, was it?”

“...no. I don’t think it was.”

“Why don’t we walk, my teacher? Everyone else is in the party, I’m sure we won’t be missed for a few hours.” Edelgard boldly twines their fingers, left going in Byleth’s right. “Or be seen, if we walk now while they’re in it.”

“...okay.”

So they walk, Edelgard’s jacket eventually slung over both of their arms due to the heat of the halls, quietly talking through what happened earlier, trying to pin down a name for a feeling too large for either of them, fingers twined beneath red.

Eventually, they come to the hall outside of the royal quarters, no one stationed there due to the festivities...and the fact that their Emperor is supposedly taking part in them, at the moment.

And Byleth recalls the way Edelgard glided so beautifully about the dancefloor--elegant; a fluttering, graceful bird--and scowls, for only a moment, when she recounts watching Anri with her.

And suddenly Edelgard stills her walk with a hand on her shoulder, squeezing their twined fingers. And kisses her, long and slow and lingering.

“Professor…” Edelgard’s voice curls upwards at the edge like a pleased cat whose tail flicks, amusement and warmth filling its edges slowly until it brims over onto Byleth’s sighing lips. Edelgard’s hands hesitantly skim down her biceps and her elbows and her forearms, growing a little bolder with each second that they touch--she always does--and when Byleth turns on her heel, the smile gently tucking up familiar lips makes her breath catch.

It’s...an interesting feeling. Warm. Good , she thinks.

“Are you jealous?” Edelgard is teasing , fingers skimming further down to tangle with Byleth’s, both of them wordlessly pressing back from the main stairs nearby into a corner, out-of-sight. It might as well be the welcome brush of a battlefield, hiding them from enemy’s eyes, and Edelgard is a little bolder in the shadows of it, arms raising up to crane around Byleth’s neck.

Her head tips to the side. “ Jealous ?” The repeat curls on her tongue, lips barely pursing as she tastes it and thinks on the definition. “That would mean...that I want something someone else has.”

Edelgard’s eyebrow quirks, still teasing, and Byleth’s not sure why she’s both warmed and mildly... annoyed at the knowing glint in her eyes. Is she annoyed? Or just... fond . It’s so rare to see El joking, she might take a thousand annoyances for one sly smile. “ Do you?”

“I already have you,” Byleth points out, knowing what she’s getting at, pressing Edelgard further up into the corner in a way that makes her gasp, their bodies flush together and...oh it's warmer, now. Byleth is certain they’ve never pressed so close in dresses. Then again, they’ve also pressed together in far less , even while sparring, but there’s something...different about this. Pleasing. Like maybe Byleth might be able to dance, after all. Gloved fingers tighten their hold on the base of her neck, all of Edelgard tensing before she arches upwards into her, fingers burying themselves in hair. "And you're not a possession."

“It could...be an experience you desire, not just a possession.” Edelgard’s voice is full of breath, humming as her nose skims over Byleth’s ear, smiling in a way she can feel as a shiver trails down her spine. “Do you wish you were dancing with me, my teacher? Hmm, I still can’t make you blush , can I?”

“No. I’m not blushing.” It’s Byleth’s turn to smile, that fond warmth swelling in her chest, back arching as Edelgard’s lips boldy skirt over her earlobe, gently sucking on it before Byleth’s knee slides between legs, pressing her up against cool stone in a rock that makes causes a gasp to spill from bare lips. “But there is an experience I desire.” She decides, feeling El arch up into her with a moaning breath and curling fingers so tangled in hair, smiling as those same hands move down to hips and push beneath the black fabric around Byleth’s stomach, the open sash of the dress, all of it bunching about white gloves. Just to touch her. Just to slide along her skin. A shiver--an ache-- “We’ll be caught if we do this here.”

It's a slim chance, the Emperor's quarters are on their own wing, isolated, not even a vassal's room nearby, and someone would have to drunkenly walk up an entire spire of stairs to get to this very hall. But if Arundel noticed Edelgard was missing--

“Then let us be caught ,” Edelgard lets out an annoyed huff as she pulls out her hands and then forcibly tugs off gloves before replacing them back up fabric, nails raking up skin so lightly Byleth is surprised at how branded she feels. Her stomach clenches beneath them--her breath stutters as all the air in the room sucks into her lungs as fingers curve up--up-- “I’m so tired of all of these noble rules. If there were ever a clearer reason to destroy the nobility, it would be this.”

Byleth laughs, a dark, warm noise full of heat and desire, against El’s parted lips before the noise is swallowed by them in a deep, slow kiss, fabric bunching as ungloved hands chart a warm, knowing path upwards to breasts--smooth thumbs and palms until Byleth moans against her. Quiet and full of need, the fabric bunching around wrists as Edelgard pushes a winning campaign up the charting path of Byleth's breasts, high enough to expose her to the stone and dark, violet eyes as she breaks the kiss, removing her hands with such deadly precision that Byleth suddenly thinks Enbarr is far colder than Garreg Mach, after all, without a Crimson Emperor to heat her.

Edelgard seems to have rethought her approach, fingers snapping upwards to tug down the large neckline of Byleth's dress until breasts are free, violet eyes dark and devouringly hungry, but Byleth feels no shyness in this corner. Not when warm lips eagerly follow the same trail hands had a moment before. The dress falls down to Byleth’s hips, dark puddles of blank and purple and pink lost between them, shoulders suddenly the only thing cold in this warm hall.

Edelgard's mouth is searing in its heat.

Lips wrap around her nipple and--

“ El --” She breathes , surprised and suddenly aching. A pant, breath heavy. Warm. Hot. A sharp, desperate bolt of pleasure from her chest to her stomach to far, far lower. Deeper. Tugging down the thin line of underwear around Edelgard’s waist, hips already rocking up into her wrist. They've gotten far better at this. “I forget you think rules were meant to be broken.” It’s husked, voice low as Edelgard’s pleased smile kisses towards her other breast, looking up towards Byleth for approval and something else as her tongue rolls around puckered, hardened skin, lit by the flickering hues of a torch nearby casting shadows and highlights along them both.

El's hand smooth down Byleth's back--her hips--curve down over her thighs as she realizes it with a confident, pleased, eager pop.

And oh, this feeling is more than just desire. Byleth cups her cheek and tugs her upwards before she can be so thoroughly distracted, again.

“Just the senseless, oppressive ones.”

“And which rule would you like broken now, Edelgard?” It's breath in Edelgard's ear, stepping closer until her Emperor is flat against the wall, now, breath stilted and heavier, breasts pressing against the lace of a regal dress, red cloak long since discared on the floor in a puddle beneath the torch. Byleth happily takes the upper hand.

“The one that’s…” El trembles as Byleth slides the underwear further down thighs--down knees--trembles from pressing up against her, knee replacing a palm until something slick greets her. “Keeping you from--”

Edelgard arches.

“From what?”

“Oh.” Bare hands snap down to bare shoulders and Byleth's rare smile curves over her earlobe.

“From what, Edelgard?”

“ Ravishing me.”

“Ravishing you?”

“I--oh, don't repeat it. It sounds like a poorly written romance novel. I need you, my Empress. You weren’t...the only one jealous, tonight.”

Byleth pulls away just enough to see the way El bites her lip, fingers curling into shoulders and holding her tighter --

“Tell me what you wanted.” It's softer.

“I wanted...to dance with you--” Edelgard's fingers trace her lips, “And kiss you--” Breath hitching as Byleth presses her knee upwards. She's learned Edelgard, now--she knows Edelgard, every inch. Every breath. She's spent moon after moon watching her unravel and build nations out of taut muscles. “And stand next to you without worry of--of something as...simple as holding your hand, my love--” It's softer, El leaning upwards to rest their foreheads together. “I wanted everyone to know...you’re my wife--”

“That’s what I wanted too, Edelgard.” Byleth kisses her. Realizing, “I think I was jealous.”

Or maybe many, many things. All the things Edelgard has made her.

Byleth knows what jealousy is. It's the thing that burns fire in the thin strands of relationships she's never had--it ruins all things, in comparison--and Byleth…

Byleth still doesn't understand jealousy--why she feels like she needs everything she's never had, with Edelgard. Why Edelgard makes her want more from life than she's ever thought to know, let alone want.

But she understands what El wants, right now.

“Byleth--” El husks and Byleth raises one of her free hands to cover her mouth to muffle the noise in such a way that seemingly only encourages Edelgard to moan louder , trapped beneath her Empress' skin, a breathy, desperate sound that covers the pumps of Byleth’s fingers and the slick, wonderful music of them disappearing between Edelgard’s legs.

Sinking deep inside of her as she tastes her panting breath, replacing the hand that quiets her with her mouth, pressing El so vulgarly up against a wall in the middle of a dimly lit hallway of some nameless noble's wedding. Feeling the wetness coat down to her wrist--feeling the way knees tremble as they ache to spread--spread--as one leg hikes up so high around Byleth's waist that all she can feel is skin, the jostle of friction and thrusting and rolling and rocking and panting causing the rest of the dress about Byleth's hips to fall to the stone floor below. Is this improper? Does it matter? It doesn't matter to Edelgard, Byleth knows.

The feeling of Edelgard breaking away to breathe--biting Byleth's shoulder to keep herself from making any noise--hand snapping outwards to desperately find purchase in this dark alcove of her falsely warm childhood home where there is none, slipping and sliding along stone until Edelgard desperately grips a now-bare hip, instead--makes Byleth feel like nothing else matters, in the world.

--

  Horsebow Moon, 1188.

The campfire crackles, popping in the night as smoke fills lungs with an earthy hint to complement this taste of sea in the air, here. A battle of cool and warm along her tongue, thumbs smoothing down the wrinkles of her last letter.

They've moved their encampment a little South of the fortress, glad for the fog to hide the smoke from the fire. They'd spent the day routing forces to the West but every once in a while, Byleth's eyes had lingered on the horizon, though now they're lingering on a far different horizon in front of her.

Her thumb traces the curling swirl of a name.

“So I can’t help but notice that that letter of Edie’s is twice as long as the formal one. That’s an awful lot of in formality, isn’t it?” Dorothea’s smile is more dangerous than a bear trap as she steps up behind her professor and Byleth sighs. It's only them, for the time being, everyone else scouting or getting some well deserved rest, Ferdinand included. They were all exhausted from the nonstop barrage of fights pressing on Kleiman and Byleth wonders why they keep throwing men at them like fodder.

She can't figure it out. What lure are they using--what are they trying to catch?

"Oh, I’m only teasing , Professor. We all know you and Edie are close. Very close. How...close is it, now, exactly?”

“Dorothea--”

“Look, I’m just saying, we’ve been in the middle of a war for ages . It’s grueling, and if you put off telling someone how you feel until after it, you might regret it. And I care for you, Professor. I don’t want you and Edie to waste what time we might have. Even…if we're momentarily stuck here.”

“Have you told Petra how you feel?” Byleth doesn’t see the point beating around the bush, turning around to face Dorothea’s surprised eyes, widening, breath catching against the base of her throat.

It reminds her that Dorothea has had to deal with nobles for far too long, outside of Byleth--most people have probably been too coy to outright say it.

“Petra--” Dorothea stumbles and then huffs through her nose, looking a little annoyed and refreshed all at once, and whatever she was going to say visibly dies on her lips as shoulders slump in front of one of her closest confidants, an honor Byleth doesn’t take lightly. “...is about to assume the role of Queen of Brigid.”

“And Edelgard is the Emperor of Fódlan.” Byleth points out, head tilting to the side.

“But that’s different , you and Edie have--” Dorothea looks a little uncharacteristically small as her hands wring in front of her lap, a woman who’s normally larger than life, itself, withering without the bravado that usually lifts her shoulders. “Edelgard has loved you for years .”

“I know.” Byleth says simply and Dorothea looks up, a little angry , now.

“If you know how she feels, then why haven’t you--what do you feel, Professor?” It’s the first time someone outside of Edelgard has ever asked her that question, and it’s the first time it’s been so... angry . A little... protective , those fingers twining so tightly in Dorothea’s lap. Byleth’s head calmly tips to the side.

It’s admirable, how offended Dorothea is on Edelgard’s behalf. It’s the sort of thing that might make El’s lips twist up at the edges--her head duck before bolstering shoulders.

“I love her.” Byleth says this simply, as well. Byleth doesn’t smile, but there’s no shortage of sincerity.

Dorothea blinks, clearly not expecting the blunt response.

“Then--” It’s stumbled, still blinking, huffing , “Then why haven’t you told her?!”

“Why do you think I haven’t?” Byleth lowers the letter, turning to face Dorothea completely, now. The question is gentle, not accusing, and she watches her student’s face turn a little white as she blinks, owlishly . Warmth spreads through Byleth’s chest.

“What?”

“Edelgard knows how I feel.” Byleth nods, “And she’s still the Emperor of Fódlan, and Petra will still be the Queen of Brigid. Maybe you can’t be together the way you’d like until after the Secret war.” Byleth agrees, pointed as she steps closer to Dorothea, not taking her hand like she might Edelgard, but offering a small, knowing smile, all the same, “Maybe you can’t be with Petra the way both of you would like until long after the war, too. But if you tell Petra how you feel, then you’ll both have something to fight for.”

“You…” Dorothea sucks in a quiet, rattling breath, her own hand shaking a little before it wraps around Byleth’s wrist, reaching out for her. “You always know the exact thing to say, Professor. I’m--” She offers an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry for assuming the worst about you and Edie.”

“That’s alright, Dorothea.” And it is. It's not like they've dissuaded the rumors. If anything, they've let Hubert feed them. “You love her, too. Just in a different way. Like how I feel about both you and Petra,” She frowns, realization following: “I’d like for you to be happy.”

Dorothea’s gaze softens and her grip tightens a little on Byleth’s hand. Her eyes look a little wet but unlike Edelgard, she doesn’t shy away from the emotion, instead raising her free fingers to dap away underneath them. “Do...do you really think she’ll love me back?”

“I don’t know. In my experience, I guess...it’s always been easier for me to know other people’s emotions before my own and you’ve been around Petra more than me, lately. So...what do you think?”

“I think...she loves me.” The realization seems to dawn on Dorothea, then, eyes widening a little and those fingers hold a little tighter, still, to Byleth’s hand. “Oh, Goddess, what if she does love me?”

Byleth shrugs because she’s still figuring that one out. She’s good at teaching tactics , not emotions.

And then she blinks at Dorothea’s hand twisting in her own, catching it by the wrist--when did she get that fast? Is she practicing?--twining their fingers like a snake wrapping around its prey and not letting go.

A faint feeling of unnerved trepidation fills her stomach.

Byleth is not the only one who can go fishing.

“Wait a second, when did you tell Edie? How long has this been going on? Who told who first? Oh, I can’t believe you both let me ramble on like a fool-- ”

Dorothea proceeds to say a lot of things very, very quickly, and Byleth hears maybe half of it before she raises her hand.

“Dorothea.” It’s firm and, surprisingly, Dorothea stops mid-sentence. “How about after the Slithers are gone, you, Edelgard, and I will sit down over tea and you can ask her all of this?” Maybe Byleth should feel a little guilt at setting Edelgard up for this, but they did say they will tackle everything together. And...Dorothea might need four sets of hands to handle. Adding, because devious plans have never been her forte: “And you don’t mention this to anyone else until then.”

Dorothea’s lips purse, “Oh, you tease . Fine, I can keep a scandalous secret.” A long, long sigh, but she’s smiling beneath it, and has a bit of a skip to her step as she wraps her arm underneath her Professor’s, tugging her close by the elbow as they start walking to camp. “But only if you tell me how you told her you loved her. You know I love a good romance, Professor. Something to tide me over through the end of this war.”

“I told her I loved her, there isn’t much of a story, Dorothea.” Brows knit and there’s that sigh, again. Now she hopes she's been taking lessons from Hapi.

Maybe then a beast will get her out of the walk back to camp with a bubbling, excitable Gremory.

At least Dorothea doesn’t look so sad , anymore. It makes Byleth feel a little...lighter.

She can imagine Edelgard softly smiling by her shoulder, looking a little fond, herself, watching Dorothea gush .

It almost makes the walk back, full of endless, peppered questions that Byleth has to figure out how to field without giving away too much information (for once, she sorely misses Hubert) worth it.

“Alright.” Dorothea bolts upright an hour later from where she had started to sleep by Byleth’s side, a look of determination settling on features along with a hesitant, uncharacteristically nervous smile. The Dorothea behind the facade--it’s a concept, knowing Edelgard so well, Byleth is familiar with. “When I go back to Brigid, I’m going to tell Petra how I feel. It...might not be as romantic as I’d like--there’s so little time to plan anything, but--”

“She’ll just be happy to hear it, Dorothea.” Byleth shakes her head, “You don’t need anything other than that.”

Dorothea hesitantly nods before laying back down.

That is what makes it all worth it, Byleth decides, dipping a pen tip in ink to write her response back to El, writing taking up a quarter of a page compared to the pages tucked safely in her bag by her hip.

  El,

  We’re going to have to go to tea with Dorothea when we get back.

  I’m sorry.

  Love,

  Byleth

--

Guardian Moon, 1187.

“Well…” Edelgard clears her throat, eyes still dark and smile wry as she slowly lowers her leg, moaning at the feeling of Byleth shifting inside of her. “That was unexpected. But, hmm...not unwelcome.”

Byleth kisses her and kisses her until both of them smile and pull away, Edelgard giggling beneath her mouth as she hopelessly moves to fix their appearances.

“El.”

“Hmm?” Edelgard pauses in fixing her braid to fix Byleth’s dress, pulling it once more down breasts regretfully. Blushing, like her mouth had not just been upon them minutes before.

“You tried to make me blush, earlier.” She reminds and Edelgard gives her a patient look--quizzical--slipping a clip back into her braid to hold it upwards, disappearing into white waves. “That’s not the first time you’ve tried. Do you remember what you asked me in the Goddess Tower?” Byleth cups her cheek in this little corner, taking in the way the light from the nearby torches highlights her flushed complexion, thoroughly disheveled and beautiful .

Edelgard seems to think on it for a moment before that flush turns to color, once more, "Who your first love was?" Byleth hums in assent.

"Ask me, again."

Edelgard’s smile turns gentle before it spreads, this seeming to take her attention off her own appearance as she lovingly tucks that red jacket around Byleth’s shoulders once her dress is once more properly aligned. “Will it make you blush?” The tease is quiet and, oh, that smile is beautiful.

Byleth’s thumb smooths over a bruised lower lip before kissing her, again--softer.

“No.” She admits, “But it will make me happy .”

“Who is your first love, Byleth?”

“You. Now ask me," Byleth watches the emotion shift in Edelgard's eyes, curious--fascinated. Slightly in awe of it. "Who...my last love will be."

Edelgard's hands fall to flatten over the red skin over Byleth's heart. "Who is your last love, Byleth?"

"You. And someday,” Byleth smiles--quiet; gentle, beneath Edelgard’s doting hands, “We’ll be able to tell everyone else in that hall. I realized before how much it bothers you.” Lips thin, serious and quiet, "I...didn't know it bothered me, too."

“Someday we shall, my love.” El agrees, that smile radiant in its simplicity-- happy ; content; satiated--before kissing her, again. Soft and lingering and full of so much tender love Byleth’s chest tightens. “Until then I’ll conveniently move all of the guards away from darkly lit corners in their patrols.”

Byleth’s brows knit, sounding for a moment like a professor, years ago, despite a hint of amusement lingering on her tongue, “Your insatiable desires are going to get us assassinated, Edelgard.”

“Hmm...and what a way to die, don’t you think?” A beat, far more serious: “...you don’t think anyone heard us, do you?”

Byleth chuckles and hums, face mostly impassive save for the faint twinkle in her eye.

“I guess we’ll find out.” She pulls back, head tilting to the side as she takes in the very rumpled sight of Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg's dress. “It’s a better story to overhear in a tavern than you beheading someone, isn’t it?”

“Byleth .”

--

  Horsebow Moon, 1188.

  My Empress,

  Please excuse the necessity of a second letter. If you have not received it, yet, a far more proper greeting awaits you from the messenger with impressive, performative words one might expect from our titles in the morning. It's stuffed to the brim of business and is as short as Hubert has urged me to be. Perhaps I should have left it at that, as we both know Hubert has a valid point. For if this letter fell into the deadly shadows, we might tip our hand and they might see how much you truly mean to me, let alone how much I value you.  

  It’s not something I want, as much as we fear to anticipate it.

  Yet, here I am. I suppose I couldn't help myself for the same reason I consistently let you sneak me from my desk towards the gardens to eat sweets underneath the stars. I've ignored Hubert's guidance all of those times--I see no point to start listening to it, now.

  Those are the moments I find myself clinging to all too often when the sun has set and I find myself staring at the coolest side of my bedroll, regardless of the fact that we have never shared it. I feel this journey would be far easier with you by my side, but I suppose everything always is.

  Hubert sustained a wound last week that we had to cover, lest our troops see how quickly it knit before their eyes and my hope is...treacherous. I feel so light perhaps I might be a beacon in the fog, but that feels naive, doesn't it? Perhaps reckless, I know you think so.

  I have dispatched from Enbarr to Hrym some two weeks ago and expect to arrive within the week. The plague has ravaged the land and I foresee trying times ahead for all of us. Perhaps that's why I'm writing this. I don't know when I'll next be able to write and...fine, I suppose I'm worried for you, since I'm not there at your back at the front lines. I'll let my second missive handle exactly what has transpired in your absence on a more strategic level, as we do need your guidance, so let this one serve as those sweets under the stars:

  You made a promise to me, my love. As a woman of your word, I expect you intend to keep it.

  The sun is far brighter when you're near. Be safe.

  Always,

  Your El

--

Guardian Moon, 1187.

"I had a feeling you would be here, Professor." A cloak hangs up between them, Dorothea's bright features hidden behind it outside of the Emperor's chambers. Surprisingly, Dorothea doesn't pry as she smiles, leaning a little against the door jam. A little...giddy.

"Things went well with Petra?"

"We danced."

"Good." Byleth's lips turn a little upwards, taking back her coat.

"I just came to return your coat…"

"And catch me in Edelgard's room?"

"...well. Yes. But mostly return your coat."

"..."

"Oh, don't look at me like that. Really . It wouldn't be right seeing you without it."

As if summoned by sly comments, Edelgard materializes next to Byleth's arm, both of them having long since changed from dresses to more comfortable attire.

"Goodnight, Dorothea."

"Oh, Edie, what a surprise."

"Yes, I'm sure you were very surprised to see me in my room in the middle of the night." A hum, "I take it things went well with Petra?"

Dorothea's smile spreads just a hair from beaming to practically incandescent, far overshadowing the torches lit behind.

She looks...smitten.

"We danced."

After tipping her head, Byleth drapes the returned coat over El's shoulders, knowing she's likely cold in the hall.

Dorothea's beam turns coy.

"And how are you t --"

"We've just been up talking, Dorothea."

"...I'm worried you're both serious."

"Why wouldn't we be serious?" Byleth's head tilts a little further, "We're strategizing for next week's mission."

"Of course you are. I think it's also worth mentioning that there's a wedding downstairs in case either of you would enjoy some relaxation."

"Goodnight, Dorothea." But there's a hint of a fond smile on Edelgard's lips, now, turning to move back into the too large room and too large bed that they find they both sink into the middle of like quicksand and the map splayed in the corner with both of their notes scribbled over the past hour of routes and strategies.

"I was wrong." Dorothea whispers, apparently having leaned in close, lips twitching upwards. Byleth wonders when she got so close. "That coat looks lovely on Edelgard. Goodnight, Professor."

A sigh, shaking her head...and pauses at this still new warmth.

Byleth reaches up to her own lips to trace the still-foreign thing that cracks the still waters of her lips and wonders if she's been smiling all night, watching her leave. Chuckling to the empty hall, no guards to be seen:

"Goodnight, Dorothea."

She listens to Dorothea's steps slowly fade down the isolated spire in the lonely Emperor's wing before closing the door, moving back over to the map.

Edelgard matches her smile.

--

  Horsebow Moon, 1188.

  Byleth--

  Byleth--

  --Get up!

Brows knit as she shifts along the cot, tumbling and rattling like restless leaves beneath wind, eventually sitting upright and sighing when she sees Dorothea sleeping on the cot next to her, sheets tucked around shoulders.

A sigh, quiet not to wake her as she slips out into the slim twilight of night, staring up at the skies. Body sore and cut and bruised. It makes no sense, all of these onslaughts. They haven't cut off the supply line to Kleiman, or even attempted it. They've simply continuously arrived on the fortress' doorstep with vicious tenacity and a startlingly growing body count.

There’s been no attempt to assassinate them while they were sleeping--no attempt to route them when they’ve arched out to proactively thin the bandits’ numbers--nothing but a constant press against them.

It...bothers Byleth in a way she still can’t place, unsure of their motive . Ferdinand had suggested they were aiming to tire them, but Byleth--

It makes no sense.

A sigh, palm idly rubbing at her chest as she slips out the letter from its pouch, dim light from their fire lighting Edelgard’s familiar, beautiful scrawl.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Ferdinand’s voice is calming--familiar--as his boots sink into the sand of the lake’s shore. The exhaustion clings to his voice like a strangling vine, easy for anyone to see no matter how much it might blend in with a tree, and Byleth gently folds up the letter, slipping it into her pocket with little haste. “It reminds me of Garreg Mach. Do you know it’s been nearly a year since I’ve been? I find it...quite hard to stomach, myself.”

A thoughtful hum, that wind rushing through Byleth’s hair--through her cloak and her fingertips, letter barely rustling before it’s finally safely stowed inside.

The wind does remind her of Garreg Mach--of the day she’d taught Edelgard to fish, the thought lingering on her with as much warmth as a cloak might offer, smiling as she looks out towards the lake nearby.

Towards the fog and the wind and the distant shore of North Morfis she can no longer see.

Her eyes keep drawing here, to this point. To this fog.

  What do you see--

She’d asked Edelgard then--

Brows knit. What does she see in this pond?

The wind rushes towards the fog that pushes against it--fog that’s been steadily growing for weeks. Months.

Fog that’s heading towards them, despite how the wind has constantly--

That feeling that’s been haunting Byleth feels sudden, now, and suffocating .

Do the fish know --Edelgard had wondered over the dinner they'd made that night, quiet and musing and a little sad in the way the weight of the world had taught her how to be-- Why they run? Do you think they know when they’re about to be caught, or do they just feel it?

“Ferdinand.” Byleth's voice wastes no time, immediately pushing forward to snap open the tent she'd left behind. He stands immediately at the urgency in her voice, tired general always ready at her command. “The fog--”

“What about the fog, Professor? Do you see enemies in the--” Ferdinand immediately snaps up his lance, on the ready to spot fire in the distance. But there is no fire.

Only light glimmering faintly, catching off the surface of the water and absorbing into the fog.

It’s impossible for magic to exist in a place where it wasn’t there, before--impossible to change elements that hadn’t been there, once. Sometimes they need to build and regress and grow--

“Dorothea.” It’s calm and firm and the mage immediately shifts upwards in a way only a near decade of war might condition, long hair tangled and matted from sleep.

“P-professor, what--”

“The fog isn’t natural." She bends down to a clump of sand Ferdinand unknowingly kicked into the tent with his haste, trying to break it beneath her rolling fingertips. Thick. Saturated. "And they’re not trying to exhaust us, Ferdinand--” Byleth holds open the flap for Dorothea, who immediately shifts off of the cot. None of them sleep in anything but war clothes, now, but her feet are bare and Byleth knows they don’t have time for her to wrap a cloak around bare, shivering shoulders.

It will be a cruel night to Dorothea, she thinks, but wonders why the notion weighs so heavily on her chest.

“We tested the fog. You think it’s magic that’s creating the--” Dorothea, a student who’s excelled , turns towards the fog in front of them, gasp barely masked by fingers raising up to lips. “Oh, Goddess. Are you sure, Professor?”

“I don’t understand--” Ferdinand is calm and tired and Byleth moves towards their horses, reigns hooked on a tree nearby.

“They’re trying to keep us here . They’re trying to keep us busy and distracted.”

All of those letters from her students have mentioned fog, rolling and thick and oddly persistent. How they’d been using it to hide their locations--how it was convenient. How it was a blessing. How--

"They're going to kill all of us before we even know it." Byleth's voice is calm and factual, tossing Ferdinand his reign.

“Goddess.” Ferdinand pales beneath the fire, “Should we sound a retreat?"

The wind rushes through Byleth’s hair, standing it upwards, swirling around them and it happens suddenly: she feels them in the fog, surrounding the encampment--the rallying cry of soldiers in the dark from across the sea of salt.

An entire army teleports into the clumped sand, shrouded in black, their eyes glowing with--

"Their...their eyes--" Dorothea gasps and Byleth catches the scent of magic in the air as everyone in the encampment up the path scrambles to sound their horns, assassin's bows deadly in their strike, cutting off most cries before they can even sound.

"Ferdinand--Dorothea, Defend--"

Their backs all press together as a horse neighs, frighted by the sudden crack of air above them, like lightning as it fills night sea air.

"Dorothea, meteor a signal past our line towards the fortress--Corps--!"

Byleth shouts for her battalion--an immediate Northern push towards the fort, but a swirl of red envelops the land in front of them, cutting off the three from the many, their lone tent unsinged by fire.

Did they know that the Black Eagles had moved South to scout, suddenly in the thick of their forces?

Dorothea has barely managed a burst of magic upwards when suddenly the rest of their enemies appear from the fog, surrounding them.

It's quick, after that. Battle always is. It's the wars that are long.

Their backs stay pressed together, prepared. Surrounded by a sea of men, eyes glowing red through the fog.

The spear of Assal pierces first through an assassin's neck like a bandit had so many years ago; a second meteor is vaulted into the flank of mages starting their casts above them, pushing down fire from the heat as Byleth bends knees, shifting the air from above to the ground, earth erupting in Ragnarok in a swift circle around them. It cuts them off in flames, but that's easier to traverse than swords, the roar of its height flickering off of the steel of Byleth's sword and Ferdinand's lance as they raise, ready.

Two more fall to a lance--a stomach of someone emerging through the fire in a vicious, grueling shriek, almost inhuman; another, their side, catching the hilt of an axe before Ferdinand uses his weight to break it away into the fire, kicking the dead weight off and away--four more, at least, to another meteor cast off past their enclosed coliseum, towards the fortress--four, in swift succession, to a blade whose hole showcases the flames about them like a portrait.

The flames grow unhinged underneath the magic in the clouds, pulling from it--feeding from it--great columns of fire towering up higher than their man-made scout tower that tumbles and crashes to the ground with a great, clattering boom as they pass it, pushing towards the Fortress and their screaming men, fortress of fire following with them.

"Dorothea, we need to open a path West to cut off the flank towards the Garrison."

The singer's feet must burn on the embers crackling on the ground, but she nods.

"Ferdinand, mount and--"

Byleth’s head snaps upwards to catch a man in a cloak, bow trained on Ferdinand, who has no defense with his spear and she tugs him down from the horse before shielding him with her back.

The pain is sharp. Immediate.

It slices through her with a sickening efficiency, an arrow piercing through her shoulder.

Idiot. Fool. Sothis might say.

All Byleth hears is the roaring of fire and wind and fog and screams.

Ferdinand's javelin swiftly launches into the dark abyss of the cloak and the archer crumbles before the flames, but Ferdinand is not faster than two arrows knocked from the assassin's bow, felling two nearby corps who barely had time to scream. Byleth's grunt of pain is lost as Ferdinand pulls her behind a nearby tree, the smell of smoke and blood filling her lungs as Dorothea swiftly closes their gap with more fire, the pillars buying them precious time.

That assassin killed those two men with such quick shots, why did Byleth have the chance to--

“Professor--” Ferdinand's voice curves upwards, frantic--

“Professor, let me heal--” Dorothea immediately shifts before her and Byleth struggles to stand before closing her eyes and breaking off the end, tossing it into the fire. It pierced straight through and while it's not the first time she's been pierced by an arrow, it's the first time she feels bile rise in her throat. It feels...different, somehow.

Her heart aches like a war drum.

“We don’t...have time, we have to--" A shuddering breath before Ferdinand helps her stand, "Evacuate the fortress.”

They all look upwards past the pillar of fire--

The Fortress’ signal fire shines in the night. It won't for long.

“We have to give them the order to fall back to Leonie and the East.”

“This level of magic…” Dorothea struggles beneath Byleth’s weight, shifting to her other side. “What could they possibly be planning? There’s...there’s no records of--”

“...yes there is.” Ferdinand pales. “Arianrhod and Fort Merceus."

Byleth looks up towards the sky and the fog that's swirling above them into a large funnel, fire pulling upwards with it. The higher the fog climbs towards the sky, the brighter it becomes until it's a singular point of brightening white light at the top of the large whirlwind, pitch black outside of it. Like it's absorbing all of the color in the night sky--the magic. The air. The stars. They’re surrounded, no retreat. They can’t fall back. Fish, caught against the edge of the pond.

“Professor.”

Byleth looks at her palm, red of blood sinking into the ridges of fingertips, brows knitting. If she could rewind time--

“Professor.”

Lips barely purse, taking in the fighting scene around them that's visible through the harsh flames, pushing away from her students to stand on her own.

Calmly assesses.

The magic hasn’t fully built, yet, otherwise they would have used it. They don’t know where their fallback position is, unless any of their other positions have fallen, but they would have heard word if there was this large of an attack, or if this much magic had unleashed in an attack--

This is the first. Hubert had been right. Byleth--Kleiman--the remnants of what was once Duscur...this is the first target.

A nod, decisive. There's one path that ensures the war, even if it forfeits the battle.

"...the strike force can misdirect them towards the West, and we’ll send a small team with a messenger to the East. Ferdinand…”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You’re fastest with a horse.”

“What?”

“Dorothea and I can redirect the magic, but you’re the only one that can break through to warn everyone else what’s happening. If we do have a spy, we cannot trust it with anyone else, Ferdinand.”

“But--”

“I’m wounded.” Byleth says simply, “Go. It’s an order, Ferdinand. Dorothea? With Ferdinand, or with me.”

“Yes, I--” Dorothea's matted hair is stuck to her forehead with sweat and blood but she nods, a little firmer, “I’m with you, Professor.”

“Good.”

The fire burns sweat and ash along Byleth's neck.

     -- ‘Does it feel hard? Letting people go, like that? Making that choice?’  

They all share a look and little, precious time, is all they have before Ferdinand leaps up onto his horse, racing away from them and through the pillars of fire.

-- 'I don't know.'

He’s out of Byleth’s earshot when she turns back towards Dorothea, whose jaw barely trembles but eyes set stone. They're not alone in this fight and when they break through the flames on the opposite side of Ferdinand's swift departure, Byleth sees the splintered remains of Dorothea's battalion scrambling back from the assassins.

     ‘But I think you’re right, Caspar. War doesn’t let you save everyone—but it doesn’t mean you stop trying.'  

Even just two of the Black Eagles manage to make quick work of them, only a handful of robed men left from a battalion of twenty from Dorothea's command. But they're more than Byleth and Dorothea.

“Let’s go. Mages!” Her voice carries over the din of the fight--the screams and the swords clashing and the fire-- “With us! Gather as much magic from the air as you can--create us a path through the fog!”

  You can feel it, can you not?

They manage to fight through the thickest of the bandits despite Byleth’s wounded arm, sword of the creator dull and bronze compared to its life as the sun full of blazing oranges and reds.

  You can feel it coming.

They’re nearly to the edge of the fog when the air grows thick.

They have only a second to spare before they'll need to move, but they take it.

  You can feel the change of time--

"I had forgotten," Dorothea pants against the wall of the fortress as they gather their men, sweat clinging to her neck and her ashen, bloodied cheek, smile wry and tired. She stumbles, uneasy. Feet clearly singed and tired. "What it was like to be your adjutant, Professor."

A smile. Dorothea's hand hovers over her unwounded arm. They'll push to the West and Ferdinand--

  We felt this, before--

It tastes like blood flooding Byleth's mouth.

The blinding flash of light is so quick that few of the soldiers have time to scream and all Byleth sees is Dorothea’s widening, frightened eyes before she leaps forward, a composers’ hands lighting green around them and Byleth’s wounded arm barely manages to tug her student closer before the green and white engulfs them.

  We felt this.

The sword of the creator, thrust into the ground between them, glows for barely a moment through the white before all color fades to black, the soft wind brushing along the waves of the lake standing in front of a gaping hole in the ground where the fortress of Kleiman once stood, a sea of stars spread up in the sky as far as the eye might see, nothing obstructing their view.

Only two things remain:

Dorothea Arnault, pierced through the side by a bolt of light, covering Byleth Eisner's back like a cloak as the eerie glow surrounding the Sword of the Creator, shattered into far more pieces than an old empire about bare feet, fades, pitch black engulfing them.

Dorothea merely trembles before she slumps upon the arrow still lodged in Byleth's shoulder, both of them thrown to the ground from the might.

An adjutant. A shield. Her friend.

Byleth's hands tremble, brows barely knitting as her breath quietly skips from her stilling heart.

  With Jeralt.

And in the stillness of the word and the stillness of the wind, Byleth unties Dorothea's hair from its hasty, painful, uncharacteristic bun it had been swept into in sleep from eyes so that it can be free and wraps her cloak around bare shoulders and apologizes to an empty field, not a single other thing left within the crater of what once stood Kleiman and once stood Duscur before it--

"I'm...sorry, Dorothea." Byleth's voice sounds hollow, "For...making you run through fire without shoes."

Silence and wind is her only answer.

[thettrpgtournament]

Why you should vote for each of them and full art below!

Felix Ambercreek (by @ghostbrawl for D&D)

felix is honestly just my beautiful boy. that's all i can say. unfortunately, players from his campaign will read this so i have to be brief. felix is a newly-paladined paladin of sarenrae who is taking to redemption, forgiveness, and virtuosity like a special interest, but carrying it out in practice incredibly badly. when felix felt sarenrae call him to work at a mercenary guild, he left home with full support of his (also religious) family and took advantage of not seeing his family for a while in order to totally reinvent himself - changing his name and swearing himself to always be veiled, even in combat, so that nobody could see who he is. even as a novice paladin, this has already started to cause him problems -- for example, a band of goblins tried to steal his armor to summon a metal eating monster, and took his veil along with it. out of fear and desparation, felix split from his party and chased the goblins alone, almost dying to the metal monster (and a particularly cruel goblin) and strangling and killing one of the goblins that tried to kill him out of anger and frustration, marring felix's relationship with his god. though he does get his veil (one with embroidery done by another party member) back, it is torn and dirty at the end :-(. maybe one day felix will truly "get" what being a paladin is about, but for now he's largely controlled by fear, rather than the drive to value and redeem others - and he ends up using his responsibility as an escape instead of a duty.

(art by @ghostingbrightly)

Levlith Craephin (by @the-web-of-iris for D&D)

Levlith is a tiefling Bloodhunter, a mother of two who originated in the town of Icehaven, A woman of wits and courage, yet her calloused hands hold endless kindness and love. She spent her time caring for her own children, and many other children and adults alike in her hometown, a pillar of her community and someone trusted with the protection of many. Married once to a Drow bard named Briza, the two are now separated (but not divorced. it's complicated) she now reserves herself and has little interest in romance in her middle age life. After a terrifying incident and a close dance with death she came into possession of her ragged sword, as well as her newfound blood-hunter abilities, and soon left her adult children to roam across the empire and beyond in her mission of hunting down dark blots within the world from the shadows. After entering the coast with the intention of making a deal with the leader of a mercenary guild, she begins to meet new people and make new friends, and comes to realise she is now working in the same environment as her once lover briza. Together, the Silverlinings guildmates will follow requests, find themselves in trouble, and explore the unknown. However, what is Levlith's motives? What is she truly looking for? What is she hiding from? |O|nly time will tell.

[razieltwelve]

Overextension (Final Rose x Game of Thrones)

If there was one thing that Tyrion had learned in all of his games of Cyvasse against his nephew, it was the importance of not overextending. Edward was an absolute master of feigning weakness to disguise strength. Of course, what made that style of play so obnoxious was that Tyrion could never be sure when to press his advantage more sharply and when to simply nurse his lead into the endgame.

As Edward had so aptly put it: “You feel like you’re winning... right up until you aren’t.”

For weeks, Tyrion had compiled evidence that a certain Lord Petyr Baelish had been launching attacks on their businesses using a variety of means, most of them rooted in the man’s dealings in the city’s underworld. Most of these attacks had been too pitiful to truly care about, the sort of posturing that Tyrion would have expected of any ambitious lord with designs on the city’s underworld.

However, the man’s purchase of more and more brothels combined with his moves into smuggling, tax evasion, and other fraud meant that he was no longer a problem that could be ignored. It was a simple fact that a great many highborn folk frequented brothels, which meant they were prime sources of information. Since Tyrion was not an idiot, he could see the danger in letting Lord Baelish control so many such establishments.

Furthermore, the tax evasion, fraud, smuggling, and standover rackets that the man was running were beginning to have a noticeable and growing impact on businesses throughout the capital, both legal and illegal. It had gotten to the point that both Tyrion and Edward agreed that the man needed to be dealt with. of course, their exact method was still something they were discussing.

Until now.

Why only until now?

Because Tyrion was currently standing behind Deron as Ser Bronn, Markel, and Jerod fought off a band of would-be assassins in one of the seedier parts of King’s Landing. Tyrion’s lips curled. To think he’d come down here to check on some of his informants only to find them dead and these men waiting for him.

“Stay back,” Deron warned as he palmed another pair of knives. The motion was so smooth and swift that Tyrion only noticed what he’d done when the knives were already in motion, whistling through the air to bury themselves in a pair of throats. Just as quickly, another pair replaced them, and the lean man’s eyes were once more scanning the battle for another opportunity. “Your nephew would gut us all if something happened to you.”

“Yes, he would be most aggravated if I got stabbed.” Tyrion had drawn his own dagger, not that he wanted to use it. No, he’d leave the fighting to those best suited for it - and these four were most definitely suited to it.

Bronn was a blur of motion, mixing expert swordplay with the sort of roughhousing, underhanded tactics that spoke volumes of his experience. He blocked one strike and drove his knee into his opponent’s groin. As the other man crumpled, he brought the pommel of his sword down on the back of his head with skull-cracking force. A second man tried to rush him, but Bronn simply stepped to the side and drew a knife with his off hand. He drove the weapon into his opponent’s side, and the assassin gave a wheezing, shocked gasp before stumbling and collapsing against the wall of a nearby building.

The twins, Jerod and Markel fought together. Their swords rose and fell with less grace than Bronn’s, but there was a ruthless efficiency to the butchery they dealt out. The two of them fought side by side, their movements perfectly synchronised as they pushed their opponents back, switching seamlessly from one assassin to the other until they forced openings they could take advantage of. All the while, Deron hung back, keeping himself between Tyrion and the assassins, his knives lancing through the air whenever one of their opponents dropped their guard.

With a final blow from Bronn, it was all but over. Only a single assassin remained. He turned to run, but a knife caught him in the leg, and he dropped to the ground. Bronn gave Deron a grateful nod and then ambled over to the downed man, kicking him brutally in the side before turning him over and landing a punch that rattled his teeth. 

“Now,” Bronn growled, tossing aside the dagger the man had tried to pull and driving his fist into his gut. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

To the man’s credit, he didn’t choose the easy option, but although Bronn wasn’t the most persuasive man in the world, Deron could be exceedingly persuasive with his knives. Tyrion gulped and looked away as Deron got to work. That left him with Jerod and Markel since Bronn was the one asking the questions.

“I’ll bet a week’s pay it was Baelish,” Jerod grumbled.

Markel nodded but didn’t say a word. In fact, Tyrion had never heard him speak although the other three somehow seemed to know what he was thinking. 

“Most likely,” Tyrion murmured. “No one else has both the cause and the means to kill my informants and then try to kill me.” He nodded at the twins. “And, by the way, my thanks for dealing with those assassins.”

Jerod’s lips twitched. “We’re men of House Baratheon now, and we serve your nephew. He said to keep you in one piece, so we’ll keep you that way by hook or by crook.” He chuckled. “And you’re not a bad sort either, my lord.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Tyrion shuddered as the assassin’s screaming trailed off. “It sounds like they might be finished.”

“Aye.” Bronn walked over. “It was Baelish, all right. He wanted your informants to turn their coats. They refused. He had these bastards torture them and kill them before having them wait for you.”

“I’ll see that their families are compensated,” Tyrion replied. “Loyalty should be rewarded... and avenged.”

“Aye,” Bronn muttered. “Baelish must have lost his damn mind. By going after you like this, he’s opened himself up to the same.” 

“He’s underestimating us,” Tyrion replied. “He thinks he knows what we’re capable of, so he thinks he’s ahead when he’s not.” His eyes narrowed. “This is an overextension, and he’s going to pay for it.”

X     X     X

Petyr Baelish was not pleased that his attempt to deal with Tyrion Lannister had failed. Those assassins had been amongst his finest, but they’d evidently been no match for the dwarf’s protectors. His lips curled. Perhaps Ser Bronn was more than some upstart mercenary who’d somehow bought himself a knighthood.

Oh well.

He controlled the brothels, and he was making inroads on the docks, to say nothing of his other schemes. The money was pouring in, and money made the world go round. Of course, money wasn’t the only thing in the world that he enjoyed. His gaze drifted to the woman who was a pale shadow of the lady he truly loved.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Catelyn.” It wasn’t her name, of course, but he could pretend, at least for a while.

He might have been a bit rougher than he intended, but a man had needs, and his frustration at his failed plan might have gotten the better of him. Still, when he closed his eyes, it was with a smile on his face. Soon... soon he’d have the money and power to put his real plans in motion. Little Finger? It was supposed to be an insult, but he’d always considered it motivation.

It wouldn’t be long before people stopped mocking him and started bowing instead.

X     X     X

When Petyr Baelish woke, it was to find himself in a room with five other men.

“Hello,” Tyrion Lannister drawled. 

Petyr scrambled for the dagger he always kept nearby when he visited this establishment, only to find it gone. Of course. Behind Tyrion, a lean man held the dagger up and smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“Nice dagger,” the man said, handling it with the skill of an expert. “I’ll hang onto it.”

“You can have it and more,” Petyr said. “If -”

“We’re not the sort of men your coin can buy, Baelish,” the man said. 

“Indeed,” Tyrion added. “These men are amongst the most loyal I can call upon.” He gestured and the man Petyr knew to be Ser Bronn walked over to stand beside the bed. Petyr was torn between trying to keep his eyes on him and watching the twins who lurked nearby as well. “You know, I was perfectly content to wage war against you in a matter fitting our respective positions. After all, we’re both men of noble standing. There was no need for our... squabbles to get so bloody. But you killed my informants, men and women sworn to me. That was your first mistake. As for your second mistake, that would be trying to kill me.”

“Yes,” Petyr said. “I might have gotten carried away there.” He looked at the door. He’d owned this establishment for years. Where were his guards? Where were his people? “But perhaps we could reach an accomodation. Payment, perhaps, for damages.”

Tyrion followed his gaze. “If you’re wondering where your people are, they won’t be coming. They’re our people now.” Tyrion chuckled, and Petyr would have tried to wipe the smirk off his lips if he hadn’t been outnumbered five to one. “You see, when people are only loyal to you because of money, all it takes is more money to have them switch sides.” His lips curled. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Petyr. The woman who runs this place? She hates your guts. And the guards? Underpaid and treated poorly.”

“What?” Petyr growled. “I raised her out of the gutter. The only reason she isn’t some common street whore is because of me!”

“Ah, right. Well, Amara is a woman of ambition, Petyr. You might have picked her up off the street, but she’s put her time to good use. She’s learned what she and her girls could be earning if you weren’t taking such a large slice of the profits, and she’s learned about what sort of enemies you’re making.” Tyrion shook his head. “There’s a saying in the Stormlands, Petyr. Only an idiot stands in the path of a storm. Well, the storm is coming, and she has no intention of being an idiot.”

“You can’t kill me,” Petyr growled. He prided himself on his quick wits, but they’d caught him off guard and flatfooted. This place was in the heart of his territory. it was supposed to be safe.

“Your third mistake, Petyr was underestimating both me... and my nephew.”

“The prince?” Petyr scoffed. “A talented boy, to be sure, but naive.”

Tyrion laughed. He actually laughed. “Oh, you poor fool. You think I run everything?”

“You don’t?” And now Petyr was worried. His informants, the information he’d paid so richly to acquire, all of it had suggested that Tyrion was closely intertwined with both legitimate and illegitimate businesses in the city.

“I’m technically the second-in-command of the most powerful merchanting group in the seven kingdoms. My nephew is the one in charge.”

Petyr’s stomach clenched. “He’s a figurehead, nothing more.”

“That’s what he wants people to think. But the ones who know him, truly know him, understand that he is more than a mere figurehead. Most of the ideas, plots, and plans are his. Me? I come up with my fair share, but a lot of what I do is ensuring that my nephew’s visions come to fruition. After all, he can’t do everything himself, and he does have to keep up appearances.” Tyrion grinned. “You made a lot of enemies rising to the top, Petyr. Too many enemies, I’d say. It wasn’t hard for us to find those enemies, as well as a great many disgruntled... employees.”

Petyr’s fists clenched. “What are you going to do?”

“Now, there’s a part of me that thinks we should just let you go. After all, you are a nobleman. Killing you would set a bad precedent. But... you did try to kill me, and that is not something that can be forgiven. Your death will also give my nephew a wonderful excuse to start reforming the gold cloaks.” Tyrion’s smile turned cold. “Yes, we know how many of them are taking your coin, and it’s not something we can tolerate any longer. Your death will simply provide us with an example of how badly the gold cloaks have failed and how desperately reform is needed.”

Petyr’s blood was cold now, like ice.

“Some of your former associates turned over records... records that will be found shortly after your death.” Tyrion sighed dramatically. “Such a pity, Lord Baelish. You were on your way home from a house of ill repute when some of your business partners decided to decided to have you killed to increase their slice of the profits. Naturally, the gold cloaks won’t be able to capture the culprits, which will make them look quite horrible. After all, you’re a childhood friend to Lady Catelyn Stark and Lady Lysa Arryn. How disgraceful that your murderers should escape unharmed.”

“You can’t do this.”

“We can, and we will.” Tyrion nodded. “Bronn, let’s get this over with.”

X     X     X

“It’s a disgrace,” Robert thundered. Beneath the king’s fury, Janos Slynt cowered. Edward almost felt bad for the man since what had happened to Petyr Baelish wasn’t exactly his fault. “You’ve had more than a week, and you’ve turned up nothing?”

“Your Grace,” Janos simpered. “My men and I -”

“You and your men are utter failures!” the words came from the Hand of the King himself, Lord Jon Arryn. “Petyr was one of my bannermen, and he was like a brother to my wife and her sister.”

“I -”

“Silence!” Robert boomed. His hand twitched, and Edward had a feeling that if his father had his war hammer within reach, Janos would be missing his head... and most of his torso. “I’ve put up with your stupidity until now despite Jon’s opinion because I was worried that whoever we replaced you with might be worse, but now?” He lowered his voice, and Edward winced. Unless his nose was mistaken, Janos had just soiled himself. “You have a week. Seven days. If you can’t bring Baelish’s murderers to me before then, I’ll have you banished from the city.”

“Your Grace, please -”

“A week!” Robert snarled, eyes flashing with rage. “And by all the gods, man, if you dare come before me with nothing at all, I’ll have your head mounted on the wall on a damn pike!”

As Janos scuttled off. Robert sighed and turned to Jon. “I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “You were right. We should have replaced him sooner.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “But you were right to an extent... we weren’t exactly drowning in suitable candidates earlier.”

“The city guard,” Robert shook his head in disgust. “They couldn’t guard a bloody brothel.” He rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Whether he succeeds or not, we have to replace him and many others besides. What we found out about Baelish...”

Jon covered his face with his hands. “I thought I knew the boy. He was always a good lad. To be so involved in such... dealings. I do wonder if what happened to him with Brandon Stark changed him. Still... I’ll not have his death go unavenged. Lysa was distraught, and I’m sure Catelyn will be too when she finds out. They were close when they were younger although they drifted apart with time.”

“Boy.” Edward met his father’s gaze evenly. “I know you’ve been gathering... reliable men. You struck gold with Ser Bronn and the others. I might be crazy for asking this, but have you anyone in mind that might be able to run the damn gold cloaks?”

Edward smiled. “Oh, I might have someone in mind, father. Let me get back to you in... a week or so.”

X    X     X

Later that night, Edward made his way toward his secret meeting with a spring in his step. Beside him, his uncle raised one eyebrow.

“Is there a reason you waited for my shift to go on this meeting?” Jaime asked.

“Oh, yes. Ser Barristan is a good man, one of the best in all the kingdoms, but he’s not exactly fond of skulduggery and treachery.”

Jaime’s lips twitched. “No, nephew, he is not.” He frowned. “Does this have anything to do with what happened to Tyrion?” His lips curled. “And thank you for having your men watch out for him. Tyrion might be clever, but he’s not much good with a sword.”

“Which is exactly why he never goes out without at least two reliable men.” Edward and Jaime were both quite fond of Tyrion and both equally worried about how easy it would be to kill him if he was caught alone. Despite his keen wits, Tyrion was not, by any means, a gifted fighter. Jaime, on the other hand, could fight a dozen men and come out with nary a scratch if he had a sword in hand. “As for your other question, yes and no. The two men we’ll be meeting today will guarantee that the gold cloaks come under the control of a reliable man who just so happens to be loyal to me.”

“You might look just like your father,” Jaime said fondly. “But you remind me a lot of Tyrion when you speak like that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Edward nodded at the door ahead of them. “Shall we?”

Inside, Oberyn Martell and Sandor Clegane went from glaring at each other to glaring at him.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Edward sat at the third spot at the table while Jaime did his best to disguise his surprise as he moved to stand behind him. “Shall we get down to business?”

Oberyn scowled at Jaime who returned the expression with equal fervour. “I would not be here if you had not been so... vigorous in expressing your desire to help me with a certain problem.”

“A problem?” Sandor snorted. “I’m here, Your Highness, because you promised to give me a chance to kill my brother.”

“Aye,” Edward said, biting back a chuckle at Jaime’s gasp. “You’re both correct.” His gaze shifted to Oberyn. Now, this was not a man he wanted as his enemy. Clever, cunning, and deadly with a spear, to say nothing of the backing he enjoyed courtesy of his family. “You want Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane dead. I want peace between our Houses.”

Oberyn took a deep breath. “The two... beasts you speak of are loyal banner men to your grandfather. You would give them to me?”

“For peace between our Houses? Yes.” Edward could feel the confusion and bewilderment coming from his uncle but pressed on. “What happened to your sister... Prince Oberyn, it was lunacy. Had I been in my grandfather’s place, I would have ordered her captured unharmed along with her children. I would have ransomed them back to you for a princely sum under the condition that neither she nor her children ever leave Dorne again.”

Oberyn’s fists clenched. “We would have paid any sum you asked.”

“Instead,” Edward continued. “My grandfather... well, I cannot say for certain if he ordered them killed or simply turned a blind eye to what went on. And even if he didn’t give an order to have her killed, he should have ordered her spared if he was going to send beasts like Amory and Gregor there.” He didn’t look at Jaime, but his next words were for him all the same. “You know I speak the truth, uncle. You were part of the Kingsguard then. Elia did not deserve that fate, nor did her children.”

“No,” Jaime murmured, and Edward could hear the grief in his voice. From what little he’d said of her, Elia had always been kind to him. “They did not.”

“And what good did the murders of her and her children bring us?” Edward said, raising one hand and staring into his empty palm. “Nothing. After all, there are still two Targaryens alive, so killing the children hardly ended the bloodline, and Elia? By all the gods, what stupidity. Dorne is one of the seven kingdoms, and it has shown its worth in battle many times.” His gaze shifted to Oberyn. “I am not stupid. Dorne obeys, but I’ve no doubt that it is only grudgingly.”

Oberyn nodded. “You can hardly blame us, can you?”

“No. My grandfather should have offered you the heads of Amory and Gregor years ago. Instead, he did not because they were his banner men and he did not wish to look weak.” Edward scowled. “I doubt anyone would ever think the man who brought about the Rains of Castamere weak, and antagonising an entire kingdom is hardly the wisest thing to do.”

“And you intend to rectify his mistake?” Oberyn asked.

“I do.” Edward folded his hands together. “My mother the queen intends to take a trip to visit her father. I will request that certain banner men be sent to attend her. Amory and Gregor will be amongst them. That is how I will draw them out. They will have to come here to King’s Landing to escort her.”

Oberyn pursed his lips. “And you could guarantee a chance?”

"King’s Landing is a dangerous place.” Edward’s lips curled. “Why, only last week a lord was killed. Who’s to say something can’t also happens to those two?”

“I see.” Oberyn nodded. “And I have you word, Your Highness?”

“You have my most solemn vow, not only as a Baratheon but as the future king of the Seven Kingdoms.” Edward inclined his head. “What was done to your sister and her children was monstrous. Let us put an end to the enmity between our Houses and rid the world of the filth responsible at the same time.”

“Very well,” Oberyn said. “But what is he doing here?” He looked at Sandor.

“Oh, you have no idea what my brother has done to me,” Sandor growled. “But I’ve more reason than most to want him dead.” He turned to Edward. “You help me kill him, and I’ll serve you for the rest of my days. It’s all I’ve ever wanted since I was a child... to see that bastard dead for what he did.”

“Good.” Edward smiled. “Then we have an accord. I’ll let you two decide exactly how you want to kill them, but let me know once you come up with a plan, and I’ll take steps to make sure it will work.”

Later, as they walked back to his chambers, Jaime spoke.

“You’re going to use the deaths of Lorch and Clegane to make the gold cloaks look even worse, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes.” Edward said. “The gold cloaks are an absolute disgrace. If there is going to be a city guard, I want it to be competent and under the control of a man whose only loyalty is to me and my family... a man who can do what needs to be done but who, at his core, is a decent fellow.” He grinned. “Sandor should do quite nicely, I think. And he’ll be a lord too, after his brother meets his end. He’ll be perfectly suitable.”

X    X     X

Author’s Notes

The scheming continues. Edward (Diana) isn’t a vicious person most of the time, but go after people she cares about, like Tyrion, and the gloves come off. As for the scheming Edward had going on, he has identified the corruption in King’s Landing, particularly the gold cloaks as a huge weakness, so he’s going to deal with it.

Removing Janos and replacing him with Sandor ensures that the gold cloaks are not only loyal to him and his family but will soon be whipped into shape since Sandor will not tolerate that sort of stupidity and incompetence. Moreover, combined with the removal of Baelish, it gives Edward effective control over both law enforcement and the underworld.

You can bet that Alera’s (Jahne’s) agents in King’s Landing are going to have a lot of interesting things to tell her. She’ll know there’s another player in the game, one as skilled as she is. Also, in case it isn’t clear, these snippet aren’t necessarily in chronological order.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.