#parallel pathways

[awesomeart-83]

Pokemon: Parallel Pathaways Main Characters Introduction Part 1

Kieran

Number: 163

Age: 14

Likes: Candy apples and other sweet things, superhero media, winning, his Pokemon (when he isn’t being a jerk), being taken seriously,

Dislikes: His sister, Ogerpon, Florian (his former friend), the Loyal Three

He is a tough and no nonsense champion with only one goal: defeat Florian the champion. Once, he was a kind but shy and insecure boy who was a student at Blueberry Academy and was viewed as weak and a nobody by most of the student body. Having getting bullied by most of the students at his old school,

Unfortunately for him, a odd train has other plans for him.

Emmet

Number: 133

Likes: Trains, His Pokemon, Ingo his brother, Winning,

Dislikes: Awful people, Losing, rude passengers,

A Pokemon Trainer from Unova who runs a battle facility called the Battle Subway alongside his older twin brother named Ingo. However, one day Ingo while going back from

Carmine

Age: 17

Kieran’s older sister and a student at Blueberry Academy. Having been 3 years older than him

Despite, she still manages to be friends with most students of the student body and Blueberry League (cough….Drayton…..cough) and tries to

Unfortunately an encounter with a certain student will change her mind.

Sophia

Age: 13

Number:

Likes: Video games, Plushies,

Dislikes: A certain somebody, Lightning, Mud

A young girl trapped on the Infinity Train as well althrough unlike Emmet and Kieran she has been on a train longer than them….. for a week.

While she managed to come out (mostly) unscathed, she wants turn her number into a zero so she can escape the train. However it seems to taking its time to do so.

[madeleineengland]

- Chanel Haute Couture Spring 2016

- A Pathway in Monet’s Garden, Giverny by Claude Monet, 1902.

[lunadivino]

Dark Knight Diavolo as a concept would fuck so severely and that's definitely not my bias speaking sorry I keep thinking about it

[machetelettuce]

Solitary Obsessions of Revenge. Thoughts / Psychology below

One thing observed in people (particularly prisoners) who are forced into Solitary Confinement is that they sometimes develop horrible, all-consuming obsessions with one specific feeling or thing. I learned this from my therapist, who explained that this can be... literally anything. From obsessing over the feeling of your bladder being empty to hyper focusing on the feeling of pain. These obsessions occur due to the brain attempting to create stimuli in any way it can. When you are deprived of anything 'new' your brain has to Make 'new' things for it to experience. All of this is to say I think the idea of Narinder having this same desperate focus on his anger and need for revenge would make sense.

Especially because being in solitary confinement essentially rots away at the parts of your brain that store memories. I'm not an expert, don't quote me, but I believe the reason is because those pathways just aren't being recalled. So they degrade over time, and you lose access to that skill. Recalling past events becomes really difficult, and-- imagining this with Narinder-- this could be a reason he sees his siblings in SUCH a negative light. Even sparing their betrayal, he may not remember many happy times with them at all. Only the painful parts. (Which is a neat and horrible parallel to Shamura. Ouch.)

On that note, I've heard people describe Narinder as 'cold and calculating' but I think this isn't true, personally. He's always read to me as a more 'do then think' kind of person-- Specifically in the situation he's in. Which makes sense, following my narrative. He's been trapped for hundreds of years to the point where all he cares about is the ending of his siblings lives. It's not cold revenge, it's desperate, clawing, NEED to see them gone. A mind fueled by a thousand years of solitary torture isn't a reasonable one. I think theres a lot of pain and hurt that needs to be reconciled within himself until he can feel like a person who doesn't desire revenge and bloodshed to keep going.

[waitingandwishing]

everything, everywhere, all at once

In the grand tapestry of existence, the multiverse and time are not separate forces but two interwoven threads, intricately bound to one another. The structure of reality, then, can be envisioned not as a linear pathway or even a branching tree, but as a vast and fluid network—one where every timeline is both a singular entity and an extension of countless others.

You sprayed a bit of water from the sink, watching it land on their face with a mischievous grin. The cold droplets splashed across their skin, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and carefree. But before you could even enjoy the moment, you felt a flick of water land on your cheek. Surprised, you gasped, your eyes wide as the glistening droplets caught the light, and you turned to see their eyes sparkling with playful mischief. The water fight had begun.

You both started flicking water at each other—each drop a challenge, each laugh a victory. Your hands moved quickly, slinging water with abandon as you both danced around the room, ducking and dodging, trying to outsmart the other. Your clothes became heavy with the weight of the water, sticking to your skin in a way that might have felt uncomfortable in another moment, but here, in this moment, it didn’t matter. Every droplet felt like a part of the game, a part of something simple and pure.

Rather than a simple set of parallel universes, the multiverse is best understood as a web of possibility. Each universe exists within a framework of cause and effect, yet no universe is fully isolated. 

Instead, they are connected by subtle vibrations—moments of decision and fluctuations in probability. Every event, no matter how seemingly insignificant, sends ripples that do not echo through a single timeline but reverberate across multiple realities.

You bowed before them, padded knee against the ground as you raised your sword high. You didn’t deserve this title, one that you certainly could not live up to in the grand scheme of things. Sure, you had trained for this your whole life, but… You weren’t ready.

They told you to rise, to come forward. And you did, with your head not daring to meet their royal eyes and your sword by your side. They stood up, reaching their hand to your face and caressing it so gently that you were sure this was a dream. You should be cursed, cast out, but instead were met with a gentle whisper of praise. You did enough.

Time is an illusion of structure. In reality, it behaves more like an ocean than a river, shifting, eroding, and reforming its paths with the weight of existence. The past, present, and future are not fixed entities but shifting constructs. Some moments are more resistant to change—fixed points where the probability anchors them into stability—but most are fluid, subject to alterations caused by interference, both internal and external.

Every night at 2:47 AM, a person appears in your dream. They’d confess their love for you then caress you softly and hold you close. You have no idea who this person is, but every day no matter how horrible or good, they are there. And they comfort you even though they’re a stranger.

You want to find them but can never speak in your dreams, can never change the fact that they are pulled away from you time and time again, but… They’re there. It never sat well with you that you could never find this person who whispered sweet words to you. But there was some comfort that even if you two were strangers, they’d always end up loving you.

At key moments, timelines and universes brush against one another, forming convergence points. These can take many forms. For example, echoes. Residual imprints of events from one timeline appear in another, creating déjà vu or premonitions. 

Or perhaps crossroads, decision points so powerful that they send tendrils of possibility stretching into multiple realities, ensuring that at least one version of existence bears witness to every choice. Or, on rare occasions, merging phenomena. When two or more timelines collapse into one, their histories intertwine into a singular thread where paradoxes are absorbed into reality itself.

For centuries you have wandered the earth, untouched by time. For centuries you have seen your friends and family die. After a few centuries, you have learned not to love. But then why did the lungs that you never knew were there make you lose your breath whenever they looked at you? Why did a heart you didn’t know you had skipped a few beats every time they kissed you? 

You told them stories of places you had been and ancient civilizations you had witnessed, but you never shared the truth. You could feel their growing attachment to you, and the weight of knowing you could never truly grow old with them was unbearable. You saw the glimmers of hope in their eyes, the desire for a future—their future—and you knew that, like all the loves before, this one would be destined to end in tragedy.

While some aspects of existence are seemingly unchanging, the interplay between free will and fate is an ongoing struggle. Within this theory, fate is not a force that dictates a singular path but rather a gravitational pull—one that can be resisted or redirected but not entirely ignored. Some beings exist in multiple timelines simultaneously, their consciousness stretching across realities, while others are bound to the linear perception of time, never aware of their counterparts in distant echoes.

A couple sits side by side at the kitchen table, papers scattered across the surface. The air is filled with the quiet rustling of forms, the clicking of a calculator, and the occasional sigh. There's a rhythm to your collaboration. Every so often, you pause to share a look or a laugh about the complexity of the tax code, both trying to make sense of the labyrinth of deductions.

Despite the stress, there’s a sense of camaraderie between you. You’ve learned to navigate this annual task together, finding humor in the little mistakes and the occasional frustration. At times, you argue over the numbers, but the tension usually dissipates easily. It was all part of the process.

Changes to the past rarely only overwrite reality. Instead, time exhibits a form of self-correction, where contradictions resolve themselves by redirecting the course of events rather than outright erasing them. 

A paradox does not destroy reality but instead forces it into a new equilibrium, ensuring that continuity persists in some form, even if the details shift.

You grab the detergent, carefully measuring out the right amount, your eyes glancing over at them with a smile as they fiddle with the dryer settings. They’re the one who always forgets the fabric softener, but you don't mind—it’s a small quirk that makes you laugh.

There’s no rush, no pressure. Laundry is just another part of your day, but it’s also a chance to enjoy each other’s company in the quiet moments. Folding clothes, laughing at an old shirt that brings back memories, chatting about everything and nothing. The task is simple, but together, you make it something a little more—something shared, something that makes your home feel warmer.

Concluding things, to navigate the multiverse and time is not to travel through space or history but to understand the delicate balance of choice, consequence, and convergence. Reality is not a single truth but a shifting mosaic of infinite possibilities. The past and future do not merely exist in isolation—they are sculpted by the infinite interactions between worlds, each moment a ripple in the great and boundless sea of time.

[brailsthesmolgurl]

RETRIBUTION

SEQUEL TO DAMNNATION. kindly read the prequel to get a better idea on the story's direction. I know I promised an alternate ending, where angst is not involved, but I want to prolong this pain for you masochists :> Enjoy this long, hefty, and incredibly hurtful read. But, it is okay my lovelies, I shall have a good-comforting parallel-universe ending written for you guys this week. SOOO pls do keep up with my profile :)

The legend goes on, with the God of the Sea failing to protect his beloved. His fate was decided for him by his people, but now, he shall take fate upon his own hands and remake his own endings. But, does fate falter? Even to a God?

Warnings: Angst Angst Angst Angst, Spoiler to Rafayel's Lore and I put in some of my own zesty twists to the lore, Deaths and Bloods and some okay maybe not some descriptive gore.

Rafayel walked across the sandy paths of Lemuria, in his human form, with his beloved laid peacefully in his arms. Rafayel did not even bothered to shift back into his merman form as he wanted to dedicate the mundane's death to his people. Or rather, to show how much he loves her, by being a shadow of her, a human, walking amongst Lemuria. A promise he had always given her.

"You promise to show me Lemuria someday right?" He remembered the way her face would light up when he tells her stories of Lemuria. From how Lemurians had sourced for various kinds of sea stones from different parts of the ocean to build their homes to how Lemurians were created, to what do their daily routines consists of and many other kinds of stories that a man could ever dream of hearing from an actual Lemurian.

There was not a moment that y/n was ever bored of it. Instead, whenever he visits, it naturally became a conversation starter. Y'n would ask him of the most random things. "So do Lemurians possess any gardrobes?" Rafayel nearly spat his tea out, snapping his head towards her when she mentioned about toilets as they were having snacks in the middle of the night within her chambers. "Or perhaps they just do their business wherever they are allowed to---" Before she could even finished, Rafayel would have his hand on her lips, to silence her before she continue ruining his appetite for the rest of the night.

The swipe of his fingers on her pale lips reminded him of those days. She is no longer smiling now, eyes and mouth closed, her skin looked ghoulish under the water, skin reflecting light whenever the lightning above struck the surface of the sea. Rafayel's face is a sheet of calm demeanour, but the soul that lays beneath the hunk of this man is a roaring sea, just like how he summoned for the storm before he stepped foot into the vast ocean.

Fishes and various kinds of sea creatures that used to swim along the pathways are not seen nor found within miles of Rafayel's sight. None of them were brave enough to be within his presence as they knew the aura that Rafayel had emitted. It is no doubt that sea creatures are much smarter than Lemurians. Every step he took made the sea creatures scattered further away, burying deeper into their hideouts, scared for their lives.

Rafayel stood in front of his kingdom, eyes pinned against the marble white towers that he calls home. Cheers and laughters could be heard from the banquet hall, where the Lemurians were probably herded, awaiting for his return for a grand celebration towards the revival of Lemuria. But Rafayel was far from a celebratory mood. "We have arrived, my love." His voice monotonous, no hints of happiness nor giddiness, nor sadness, nor disappointment. Just numbness. A man with feelings bears empathy and sympathy, but, a man without feelings bears emptiness, null and void of all emotions.

He continued his course, holding onto y/n tighter in his arms. He had the initial thought of wanting her body to rest within his chambers before he commits bloodshed. But, having an audience might not be a bad idea. Instead, Rafayel wanted this. He knew that she could not be able to tell nor see, nor to be there to stop him, but he wanted her soul to watch him commit this, to execute damnation upon his kind. All he wanted, was to show her how much he loves her, to the point he is willing to do this, to be a mad man.

The heavy doors leading to the banquet hall slowly opened with a chant of a spell. Rafayel's eyes staring straight ahead, his once two-toned irises had now dissolved to be a dark maroon colour. His guess was right, all of the Lemurians were gathered within this hall, laughters and conversations filled the environment. But, almost abruptly, the laughters and conversations seized, and Rafayel could care less about the whispers that started to take place within the silence.

It did not took long before some of the Lemurians sensed something was off and they started swimming towards the heavy doors. Rafayel chanted something under his breath and the doors slammed right in front of their faces. The ones who tried to escape were shocked, but none of them made their move to question why the God of the Sea had a dead girl with a gaping orifice on her chest within his arms and why did he chose to present himself in a miniature form of a mere mortal. Practically the size of an ant compared to the average 2m Lemurians surrounding him.

"Your highness!" Arvia was initially cheerful, emerging from the crowd before he spotted the girl the God was holding onto. He stopped in his tracks, wanting to turn back before he felt a strong force pulling him towards Rafayel. Arvia faced Rafayel, eyes bulging when the invisible force coiled around his neck. "Your highness.... please!" The young merman coughed, the crowd watching in horror.

"You were the messenger weren't you?" Rafayel asked, eyes looking past the young merman, not even sparing him any last bits of attention.

"I was only...executing...what...was being....told..." The merman replied, his breath getting more restricted by every passing second. "I did...not...know...of...the ceremony. Please...I just want to save---"

"Your highness, no!" A mermaid appeared from the crowd, with blonde hair curling like tendrils on land, hazel eyes staring at the young merman before darting over to Rafayel's figure. She happened to be Arvia's mother. "He did what he have to...To save us all." Her sentence made Rafayel's right eye twitched slightly, fueling the God's wrath even more. "Then," Rafayel turned his head and angled it upwards to stare at her right into her eyes. His dark eyes could quite literally burn a hole through her soul as she finds herself talking back to a God. Not just any God at this moment, for he has taken his stance as a vengeful God. "Should it be justified? That I am only doing this to save my beloved?" Before the mother could even say anything, Rafayel only exhaled his breath and Arvia's head immediately got cut off clean by the invisible force. The head's eyes blinked a couple of times, floating upwards towards the surface, while its body sank onto the sea floor, twitching as it goes down. Blood seeping out into the ocean waters, creating symbols guided by the waves.

Lemurians within the banquet hall went into immediate panic, screaming and screeching, wanting to leave the banquet to save themselves. Rafayel looked up, watching as the Lemurians tried to flee. Like a bunch of fishes trapped within a fisherman's net, pushing against one another and fighting for whatever that is left for their puny lives. His voice was hushed, but clear enough to be heard within the hall. "Don't worry my people, you shall only feel the hurt that I had felt." And all of the screams halted.

...

Amund dragged himself across the sea floor, a trail of blood painted by his very own body fluids. The man was in agonizing pain, nearly to the point of passing out. Just a while ago, he was getting all cozy within his own chambers before he heard loud screams that travelled through the sea rifts. But it did not took long before it stopped so he took no mind to it, figuring it was just another norm for those celebratory parties. Not segregating the mischievious ones from the docile ones, that is just an invitation for a mishap to happen at a party.

He heard a swoosh coming from the side of his house and his door slammed open to reveal the God of the Sea, in his mundane form, covered in splatters of blood from head to toe. Amund's jaw dropped when the screams finally registered into his head. The screams may just be caused by this man standing right in front of him. The very girl Amund had tortured set securely within Rafayel's arms. Rafayel's unusual calm demeanour is not part and parcel of his personality, which further solidified Amund's questions to himself.

"Your high---" Amund was literally smashed through the walls of his house and the merman landed roughly onto the sand pile behind his house. Rafayel walked through the hole, eyes still hollow and face expressionless. "Pleas---" Another slam through another wall. And this repeated for a couple of times, until Amund was laying on the sandy pathway in the village, blood pooling out of his mouth. He tried to escape, pushing himself up and trying his best to get his tail to wag so he could generate enough momentum to give him a boost off of the ocean floor.

"It was a fairly easy instruction." Rafayel spoke, finally. Maroon eyes boring into Amund's skull. "And yet, you failed." Rafayel knelt down, showing Amund the girl he was holding onto the whole time. "You had deeply failed me, Amund. And you had failed Lemuria." Rafayel stood back up on his feet, licking his lips and looking back towards the towers that he had walked out from. "For what you had done to her, death would only be the easy way out for you." Rafayel's eyes turned a darker shade and Amund let out a blood curdled scream, begging for his highness' mercy.

It has been a while, with Amund crawling on the sea floor. Dirt and rubble trapped under the old man's nails. Some of his nails however, were ripped off due to him being tossed around---his failure to hold onto anything to slow down the impact, caused some of his nails to be ripped right off of his fingertips during the impact---with Rafayel's invisible force whenever he tried to plead for the God's mercy.

Rafayel had managed to pluck out the merman's scale, piece by piece. Lemurians scale are used to make lethal weapons not only on land, but also in the waters. Yet, they are the hardest to harvest as pulling off ONE scale would equate to a human ripping off their whole scalp in one go. So, one could only imagine the pain Amund is going through currently. Amund could barely crawl, eyes swollen from the sand that had entered his tear duct and hoarse voices turned into silenced croaks.

If Rafayel was not holding onto his beloved, he would have easily been the one to pluck out Amund's scales one by one. Rafayel's blinding rage had deluded his mind, as he watched the merman who is the reason behind his lover's death. "She was going to be my mate, my lifetime mate, for this upcoming season, do you know that?" Rafayel scoffed, tears stinging at the back of his eyes.

"But you had to just test my patience, and my capabilities as the God of the Sea. Hence, what you had experienced today, shall never equate to the pain you made me go through. For you had taken my fate, my people's fate upon your own hands." He gave Amund a good kick and the guy groaned in agony, facing down as he regurgitated blood. "What I did today, was nothing but a mere taste of what I am capable of. AS A GOD." His last sentence carried a strong surge of disgust, his bloodlust psyche temporarily separated his status between Amund, an ordinary merman and himself, which is made to be a God.

"I curse...curse her." He managed to choke out and Rafayel's eyes widened, immediately leaping forward to grab the merman's head to face him. The merman croaked out his very last laugh, taunting Rafayel's actions and the last sentence of his was spoken in Lemurian, a rendition of a chant to curse y/n to be reincarnated into a sea witch.

Rafayel's blink of an eye sparked his evol, and he stood there, watching the eternal flames that was casted on Amund burn the merman from what was left of him into a pile of dust, waiting to be consumed by the planktons that lives within the sea water's ecosystem. Tears unknowingly flowed down his cheek and trickled onto his lover's face. The show is over and so is his wish to see her to be a mundane again in her next life. Rafayel held her corpse closely and tightly to his body, soft sobs finally leaving his lips as he faltered to the sea floor.

...

Hundreds of years has passed. And hundreds of years, Rafayel had travelled the seas to search for her. To at least sense any signs of her presence. Ever since the massacre, Rafayel was tied down by his own guilt, for not only failing to protect his lover, but also being the sole reason for the extinction of Lemurians. How uncanny, a legend that tells the tale of a God seeking vengeance upon his own kind just because they had killed his one and only lover. That tale would surely be pure nonsensical or would and could possibly generate pure hatred from anyone who hears it.

Rafayel could care less, like how he heard the screams of his people in their very last moments, the sound of blood and tears splattered across the once white and pristine walls that they were confined within. The sound of Amund begging not to be killed---with his throat slowly giving up on him---the last curse that he uttered and the last sounds that had bubbled from him when he was lit up with Rafayel's evol.

A hint of humming caught his ears and the man stopped his movements, ears twitching in directions to catch onto the tune. A tune only he has ever whistled. With a gesture, dolphins came surrounding the God in circles, by command. "Find out the source for me, yeah?" Rafayel asked and the circling dolphins chirped in return before they dispersed into all directions.

Rafayel's heart skipped a beat, out of nervousness? He had no idea, he still has not gotten used to the idea of his heart being whole again. Because his heart has only been whole only when he was with her. He does not need a whole heart, he only needs her to fill in for the whole of his heart. And for that moment, he shall forever await.

One of the dolphins returned, whistling back to catch the God's attention. Rafayel looked up, and without hesitation, grab ahold onto the dolphin's fin and he was led towards the source of the humming. The dolphins brought him through the kelp grounds, where his people would usually come by to forage for food when they migrate to the northern side for warmer waters during the changing in seasons.

The dolphin led him to the side of the cliff, where it plunges down to the deepest part of the ocean. Creatures beneath those waters are indespicable, and no Lemurians had ever dived that deep. And that includes the God of Sea himself. The humming came again, this time further confirming that the source of the sound came from down below. Rafayel turned around to look for the dolphin, but the poor creature had left him all alone the moment it dropped him off here.

With a deep breath and a puff of his chest, the purple haired God swam deep into the dark waters below. All of his senses heightened to the max as he himself would not expect what he might encounter. Legends were told that there lives a sea serpent so huge that it could engulf the whole world if it awakes. And that was the only legend that still kept Rafayel on edge till now.

His fear dissipated almost instantly when he spotted a faint light in the far distance within the dark. You see, Lemurians although are half-fish and half-man, they do not possess infrared vision that allows them to see in the depths. Within the depths, Rafayel's flames do not work as well as this is the place where Gods are not exactly welcomed. He sped up his swimming when he noticed the light bounces further down into the dark. Pause. Then the light comes back up, but this time, at a very high speed.

Noticing a huge shadow, Rafayel turned and immediately started charging full speed towards the cliff again. But due to the darkness of the waters around him, the God found himself entrapped in the darkness, bumping and hitting himself against the cliffside. The bone-crushing, chomping sounds that came from behind him made him not-one-bit curious to see what was actually chasing him. Right when he was about to be gnawed by a creature, he heard a voice calling out in a language he had not heard of and he blacked out.

...

"I think he is waking up." A voice whispered next to Rafayel. "His eyes are fluttering."

"Is it? Oh yeah, he does look like he is awakening." Another voice intruded, deeper, but not enough to be known as a man's voice.

Rafayel slowly opened his eyes, before he was met with two snailfishes. One with a red while another is tinted with a blue hue. His eyes darted in between the two fishes as he was trying to comprehend if they were the ones talking earlier.

"Good morning." The red one spoke and Rafayel gasped, moving away from the fish. His pupils blown out as he was shocked. He has seen fishes all of his life, but he had never encountered talking fishes. EVER. But making spells to make fishes talk is definitely a skill only a sea witch possesses. This gave Rafayel a thought, maybe she felt lonely down here so she made herself some friends.

"You scared him Red." The blue one spoke this time, and it swam closer towards Rafayel, using its spiny fins to mimic how a mundane would usually talk. Gestures, as what was taught to the snailfishes, is a common courtesy of good body language to humans. But given the snailfishes had never been in contact with any humans, they took the closest resemblance to what their highness looked like. Rafayel looked just like a human to them.

With parted hair and two eyes, a nose and a lip. He is obviously a human to their knowledge. "We are not going to hurt you." The blue fish gestured it's small fins in circles, speaking slowly for each word, afraid that the man before it would not understand them. "Our master ask us to care for you as she went out to gather some food."

"Who is your master?" Rafayel asked as he sat up, kindly hoping that it was the girl he had awaited for many years. "Where is she?" His excitement made him winced, his head still hurts, a side effect of a sea witch's spell.

The feel of the water temperature shifting made the two snailfishes swam off to one of the tunnels. Rafayel took this time to observe his surroundings. Contrast to the dark waters he was in just now, he is currently in a cave like structure, with huge seaweeds and some pebbles laid out beneath him and a sea lantern hung up at every corner of the cave to provide some decent lighting. For a moment, he did not believe that he is in a sea witch's abode.

The walls had paints on them, some forming artworks of the seas above, and some were writings written in what Rafayel assumed to be sea witch's language. Rafayel stopped at one of the drawings, it was a rough sketch of Lemuria. Seeing the sketch, his breath hitched in his throat. The past memories of his massacre surfacing again but he forced it down. Not willing to show weakness in such a foreign territory. Below the sketch, there were symbols that Rafayel could not read. But he decided not to further crack his head.

The fishes returned and Rafayel's heart dropped to the bottom of his tail when he was met with her. The girl who he had always been waiting, the girl he had committed massacre for, the girl that had made him suffer with loneliness for the past hundred years. Y/n is now in front of him, but other than human legs, it was swapped with a black and singular long tail, resembling one a Moray eel has. Her once brunette curls took on a much darker shade, the same as the waters below here. The curse happened after all, for she had became the sea witch of the depths.

"You are awake." Y/n spoke and oh how he missed her voice. The voice that produces the best laughters and asked the most silly questions. Yet, with this version of her, her voice held none of those characteristics he remembered. It was deadpanned, the lack of emotions nearly made Rafayel winced. With his lack of a response, the sea witch looked towards both of her friends. "Does he happen to be a mute?"

"He spoke to us just now, but more like engaged us in a question or two." The blue snailfish chirped, swimming back to the side of Rafayel. The same fin that used to make gestures came to give a pat onto Rafayel's cheek and the merman turned to look at the fish in question. Seeing Rafayel's reaction, the fish hurriedly swam back to its master. "He is a human as you described right? Right, master?"

"Not quite, Blue." Ironic, Rafayel thought. It is very ironic of her to name things exactly based on the way they looked. It has always been a habit of hers. She placed the seashells she had harvested neatly onto the floor and she swam over to have a closer look at Rafayel. "I think, his origins are of a mermaid." Her eyes are now a different shade of colour, black irises match the shade of her pupils. Another staple for a sea witch. "I apologise for the black out you had to experience earlier on. I had to cease the Angler Fish from rising towards the surface as I did not want it to disturb the ecosystem as of above."

"Do you know of my name?" Rafayel asked, a glimmer of hope shined in his eyes as he really wished for her to remember at least a slither of memory of him. For he had been her one and only lover in her past life. But with the way she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, his hope got extinguished like a fire that could not be ignited.

"What do you seek for, Lemurian?" Y/n swam back towards the pile of sea shells she had collected and she grabbed one of the bottles from above her shelf. Examining the shells one by one before placing them into the bottle, only the ones that has spots on them would be chosen while the other would be tossed aside and the two snailfishes seem to be having a feast with the leftovers.

The turn of her head got her to look him right into his eyes. The warm glow emitting from the sea lantern casting a soft glow on her face. Just like the time when he held her in his arms, on top of the rock. He tore his eyes away from her, his cheeks burning from how affected he was from her gaze. But he answered her. "I came here for a potion. A potion to cure me from my wandering heart." ...

It took y/n 100 days, a cycle between 50 days and 50 nights to produce the potion that Rafayel had requested for. Shortly after the interaction, Rafayel had returned back to the shallow seas, as he could not bear to watch the love of his life not knowing him for who he is and who he was to her.

His last words to her before he departed to the shallows was, "Once the potion has been completed, I shall meet you at the sea stacks by dawn. The one far north." He said, index finger pointing towards the said direction. His eyes does not meet hers before he left. That was how heartbroken he was. His heart wearing him down day by day as he waited for the potion to be crafted.

During the 100 days of wait, he kept going back and forth between the waters and land to keep himself occupied. But the land served him better as the mourning of the princess had ended long ago. When the princess went missing, the King sent out every single one of his troops to search for the lost princess.

Rafayel purposely placed her back onto the sea stacks so she could be found easily. Knowing the God, he would have kept her by his side even if she were to be nothing but a bag of bones, but he knew, her people would want to know of her whereabouts. Even if it would only bring them to her corpse. He could not give himself anymore liberty to take her away from her people, like how he had singlehandedly perished the people of his kingdom. He did not turned his head back at all once he had left her there, swimming away in full speed so that he would not be discovered and caught, and to save himself from crying anymore.

The beloved princess' death was mourned by all. Every citizen within the Kingdom's grounds were in tears, regardless if its a man or a woman, an adult or a child. That was how loved she was. Her people mourned for her for nearly five decades, and that was how long Rafayel refused to surface and to walk on land. Every time he closed in to the shores of her kingdom, the sounds of the cries of her people would strike his ears. He became so used to it that he would visit the same place every day, by dusk, just to silently cry and mourn with the people of her kingdom.

He would not even go anywhere near his kingdom either. For it was filled with the bones of his people. The people that he used to cherish, that he would always go back to. But now, all he returns to, is a dead and eerie silence. The bloody stains of his people had now hardened, taken over by sea crustaceans as Lemurian blood offers a lot of benefits to the sea creatures. If any Lemurians lived past that day, Rafayal would definitely earn the title of 'The God Who Went Deranged'.

The day has finally came, where they shall rejoice by the sea stacks. Rafayel was already waiting there since dusk, body floating above the waters, facing up towards the bright skies painted in pastel yellows and reds. Blobs of clouds that seemed so edible Rafayel wished he could fly instead of swim. A bunch of bubbles surfaced next to him and he slightly turned his head, watching as she emerged from the waters, holding two vials in her hand. Her face expressionless and cold as the first time he had met her in this life.

"Here." She handed him one of the vials and he took it, repositioning himself from having to float, to facing her directly. "Are you sure this is what you desire?" Her question caught his attention, his mixture of lilac-lapis orbs stared into her obsidian ones. "Because your memories will be perished forever, do you know that?"

Rafayel looked at the vial, the contents of the fluid is watery, and takes on a sheen of coral-like pink. "My mind is set." His eyes caught her again. "This is what I had desired when I met you that day." His words although does not hold any meaning to the sea witch, but it held meanings that one could never fathom, within the God of Sea's memories.

"This is usually done between two, one to forget while the other to contain the forgotten memories." She explained, holding up the vial to her eye level as she continued. "And since you do not have anyone you want to consume this with, I shall be the one to contain your forgotten memories."

As expected, Rafayel knew she was going to say this. He had never once mentioned anything about the Lemurians being extinct. Neither did she asked. Always putting people ahead of herself, her nature still seeped through from her past life that it has easily become one of her core personalities even till now. Rafayel silently sighed in his own mind when he looked at this woman in front of him. The lover that he had sworn his life to, became the lover that was seemingly a stranger to him.

"We shall consume this together, and with a chant of a spell, hence the void of the memory shall take upon its place." Rafayel pulled the cap open, mirroring her actions and they drank the mixture together. Rafayel winced at how bitter the content tasted but y/n seemed unaffected, as sea witches are not equipped with a sense of taste as most of their potions tasted wicked as their personalities had always been portrayed to be. "Well enough to start?"

"Hu-Ayr-Tey Ta-Fa-Fu-Lei." Rafayel chanted and he watched as y/n's eyes widened. Finally, a reaction from her. Not in the way he had hoped for a reaction of course. You see, Rafayel, being God of the Sea, although had never travelled through the deep waters and had never knew of the Sea Witches' language, but the spells equipped by the sea witches were born out of a God's nature. Should there be benevolence, there shall be malevolence. Just like how Rafayel's massacre is a proof of a God's malevolent nature taking place physically, a sea witch's spells are born out of a God's mentally twisted nature.

"What have you done?!" She held onto her neck, feeling herself struggling to breathe as her neck is closing up on her. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" She raised her voice, looking at him with anger that starts to paint her face a shade of red. "How do you know of this spell?!" She was in disbelief, eyes shooting daggers into the merman in front of her. Rafayel showed no amusement though, his eyes although were entirely focused on her, his heart crushed.

Fate in general, creates thousands and millions of possibilities towards one's ending. For a God, fate should easily be nothing but a just another miniscule issue within their palms. But for Rafayel, the moment he fell for a mundane, was the moment he signed a blackmail for himself. He has to gamble with fate now, just like with any other mere mortal. The only advantage he got is that he could look into the near future to help him better plan out his upcoming course of actions.

This happening now, marks one of his course of actions. The fate he had chosen was to kill y/n with his own hands, so she could be reincarnated to be a human in her next life. Then, he could take place as a man, on the land, seeking for her love and attention, just like how a mere mortal would. Yes. Rafayel, the God of the Sea, would risk his status of being a God just to be a human, just to be with her. "This is the only way." He spoke to her, as he watched her slowly lose her memories to swim, her tail, now a pair of legs, flailing clumsily in an effort to save herself.

The spell that he had uttered, does not only make her forget her own identity, but it makes her forget everything, wiping everything off of her memory and giving her a clean slate. A reincarnated soul would always remember bits of their past lives, that is how deja-vu and realistic dreams come about. But this spell would wipe her memory of her past life as well. As bad as it sounds, Rafayel sees this as the only viable way for him to live his next life, having to protect her. All the other courses of action, would only lead to more bloodshed and he grew tired of it.

The tears came flowing again, watching his beloved struggle to breathe as she started to choke onto the seawater that is rapidly entering her lungs. Rafayel could only watch, he could not interfere as it would ruin the course of her next life. Heart wrenching, gut punching, every other word of torturous feeling would describe him perfectly at this moment.

Y/n reached out her hand to him, desperately looking at him and clawing for him, seeking for his help to drag her out and onto solid land. But his refusal seemingly made her accepted her fate. Her pupils then slowly stopped moving, her body slowly stopped thrashing and twitching as she continued descended deeper into the waters. A scene that reminded him deeply of Arvia during his last moments.

Once the bubbles had stopped surfacing out of her agape lips, Rafayel swam down as fast as he could, and he held her cold body in his arms again, closely studying her very last moments. Her eyes were opened, in a state of shock and acceptance, lips blue like the shade of his lapis-coloured eyes, tail had now taken form into two legs, her body stiff and hollow like how she was when he first found her in the past 100 years. The curse was finally broken, but it also broke Rafayel. With shaky breaths, he uttered. "In your next life, I promise you. I promise. You shall only ever hear of my name as to be Rafayel. I shall no longer...be the God of the Sea."

Parallel Universe Ending is Out: Salvation

I love doubling the damage sometimes, this one-shot had became somewhat of a small series. I enjoyed using a bit of my gore movie visual experiences within this piece of writing. Thank you for the ones who wished for a sequel. I hope this makes you bawl your eyes out.

But do not worry, I am already starting on a not-so-angsty ending that takes place in a parallel universe. I don't think this series would continue on as I think it is best to leave it to you lovelies' vast imagination.

As usual, any requests you want me to write? I can write it for ya :)

Have a good day and pls cry for me lovelies :)

[saphig-iawn]

Blowing Off the Dust

Through life getting in the way, it had been a little while since I had a session with one of my drones.

She had been active for a good while and was worried that her connection to my Network and the other drones was losing its efficacy.

Sometimes, our electronics just need a good reset, so I shut down her operating system that runs parallel with her mind, so we could get in there and blow the dust out.

I started by bringing her down through gentle fractionation. Taking her mind on a beautiful walk that calmed and soothed her like a gentle rolling tide.

With her on my lap, blissfully floating in trance, I began to recount all those experiences we had during her drone conversion and slowly developing her programming.

That feeling of re-establishing connections, retreading pathways we'd hollowed out in the forest, made her feel so good.

That was all I was doing. Nothing was lost. Its just when we've been so used to something, we tend to forget that its there. But by telling her those stories of those delicious moments, those sense memories came up to the surface, experiencing them anew.

As with everyone I gently fractionated, she took a little while to gather herself afterward, but I was there to ease her up. She couldn't believe how deep she went.

Then I turned her programming back on.

Like she was being booted up for the first time, her posture straightened, her face calmed, and she recited her boot-up message like it was second nature.

I run a few diagnostic exercises, simple head turns, arm raising and lowering, and she was operating perfectly.

Needless to say I will be dabbling in my code again soon.

What are drones if not dolls with some extra electronics?

(This writing is about a real hypnosis session with real hypnosis and real people. If you would like to see more writing like this, then please support me over at https://ko-fi.com/saphig, where you can also commission 1-on-1 hypnosis sessions and have your own piece of writing just like this!)

[awesomeart-83]

Sorry if Parallel Pathaways hasn’t been updated for a while, I wanted to give you a little trivia on the two main characters:

Emmet’s hand number: 115 which is Chandelure’s (Ingo’s ace mon) Pokédex number in Black and White. I originally wanted his number to be 133 which is Galvantula’s Pokédex number but I decided to changed it because it made more sense story wise.

Kieran’s hand number: 163 which Hydrapple’s (you know why) Pokédex number and it will change quite a bit as the story goes on. For better or for worse.

As the story goes on, I’ll add more numbers of the characters that are stuck on the train.

Ingo disappeared after the events of Sun and Moon and has been gone for 2 years during Sword and Shield and Scarlet and Violet.

Emmet got taken by the train before the Teal Mask.

Carmine is 3 years older than Kieran and they have been living with grandparents for 7 years.

The Indigo Disk takes 6 months after the Way Home. The Teal Mask takes place during the main stories.

The story will be back in September because I am busy with my life and I have other things to do.

[mangooes]

Beauty and the Beast

A Sylus x reader (non mc) fanfiction

~ In which (Name), the most beautiful maiden in Taurus City, yearns for a life outside her walls. There she meets a certain beast, who wants a change of heart.

It is recommended to read this chapter while listening to the "Belle" ost from the beauty and the beast! As i took alot of inspiration from it while writing this prologue chapter!

Prologue - ch1 - ch2 - ch3 - ch4 - ch5 - Epilogue

Prologue - There must be more than this provincial life!

The city of Taurus was a place where time moved slowly. Each morning began with the scent of fresh bread wafting from the baker’s shop, the sound of birds chirping, and the chatter of civilians busying themselves. The old cobblestone pathways bustled with merchants selling their wares. The people were simple, content in their quiet lives, easly satisfied with their bussiness and routines. Yet there was one among them who did not quite belong.

(Name)

Now, it's no wonder that her name means "Beauty". Her looks have got no parallel. They praised her beauty that has no pararell with anyone, though just as often they shower her with praises, they whispered about how she always had her nose stuck in a book, a bookworm, a lone girl who cares too much about the outside world for her own good.

While others gossiped in the marketplace or busied themselves with mundane chores, (Name) wandered through the village square with a novel clutched to her chest, her soft brown eyes lost in distant thoughts of grand adventures and far-off lands.

'Little town its a quite village..' she thinks, walking down the long path, only her book keeping her entertained.

"Bonjour (Name)!" "Bonjour Miss Mausine!""Bonjour little madame.!" "Bonjour!"

Everday, like the one before, every morning just the same, to this provincial...life.

She walked towards the end of the road and stood atop the hill overlooking Taurus City, the wind gently tousling her hair as she gazed at the vast landscape before her. She sits on the lush grassfield, too engrosed in her own world. 'Isn't this amazing??' she thinks to herself, reading the words written in the book on her hand. "This is where she met prince charming! Tho she won't discover that its him till chapter three... oh how i could read this book all over again!" she gushes herself.

The wind rustles through her hair, as she looks up towards the view infront of her. Beyond the sharp cliffs, rolling meadows and endless forests lay a world she had never seen, one filled with interesting things, with stories far grander than the ones bound in the pages of her books. Her mind drifts off, imagining a field of beautiful flowers...just like the ones in her storybooks, just like a fairytale.

Looking at the view infront of her, her eyes stared at the horizon longingly, 'wish i could have taken you to that flowerfield papa...'

A nostalgic feeling surges, Her father, Maurice, a kind and eccentric inventor, often chuckled at her longing. “The world out there isn’t always as wonderful as the stories, my dear,” he would say. "But father, whatever the cost, I want to see it with my own two eyes!" (Name) would always replied, "I know I know.." her father laughs, "When the time comes, show it to me too okay dear? Promise me that you would always be happy.." the distant memory echoes, her heart ached for the lost of her only family member, for something more than the repetition of her daily life.

The villagers, however, did not understand her yearning. To them, (Name)’s beauty was wasted on her oddity. Nothing like the rest of them. A puzzle to the rest of them.

Of course, many had tried to court her, but she found no charm in men who could only speak of hunting and drinking, boasting about their richness and arogance..

What was the point of a handsome suitor if he could not dream beyond the village borders? If he could not see the endless possibilities waiting beyond Taurus’s walls?

And so, (Name) remained an enigma, admired yet isolated.

(Hello! Might edit this later but I'll post the first chapter on friday since i have an upcomming test tomorrow :(( hope you guys enjoyed this prologue tho! Comments and sudgestions are welcomed <3)

[jks1uv]

𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 ; benjamin (ben) “benny” miller | one-shot |

summary: the morning after you intoxicatingly confessed your crush on the man (& what he says after).

pairing: introvert!fem!reader x ben miller

trope: best friends to lovers.

genre: fluff + mild angst.

warnings‼️: feelings of low self-esteem & insecurity (reader).

word count: 2,374.

random disclaimerrr: a continuation of this one-shot! i have garrett headlund brainrot & i’ve read that oneshot as a bedtime story for like 5 nights straight… happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

Ben’s making breakfast: chocolate chip pancakes with some syrup, whipped cream, and some freshly cut fruit on top.

He also made you some coffee.

A good breakfast isn’t something you indulge in as often as you’d like but he knows what you need.

He always does.

He walks in with the plate and cutlery wrapped in napkins in his pockets, gripping the coffee mug carefully.

He sets them down as quiet as he can on your bedside table and checks up on you.

Your body temperature has returned to normal and your vitals are still good since you only consumed half of the drink, thankfully.

Ben’s instinct to protect is always amped up by a thousand around you.

He was hot-blooded, wanting nothing more than to just bash that demented motherfucker’s skull in. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Not when he had you there. Not when he had to take care of you.

You, with your soft heart and voice. You with your beautiful smile and clever mind.

He sits down on the side of your mattress, admiring you.

The golden rays slip between the cracks of your blinds and cast an ethereal glow onto you.

It’s a bit comical how the only space that is occupied by light is casted onto you, in an ethereal glow no less.

Your face is like a mountain he once scouted while on a dangerous mission in South America. The slope of your nose reminds him of a pathway that leads down, into the plush forest that are your lips. The delicate curve of your jaw juxtaposed with your collarbones are the parallel channels of water he crossed stealthily.

Everything ultimately leads back to you.

Turning on your side, you deeply inhale and exhale: the early tells of your awakening.

Your blink rapidly for your eyes to adjust and once you notice him, you self-consciously tap around your mouth to get any drool you may have produced overnight.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty.” He cheekily smiles.

You smile with your eyes. “Hi.” Your voice raspy as you lift the duvet to cover your mouth.

“Made you breakfast.”

You smell it before you see it, a great plate of your favorite breakfast main course and coffee.

You gasp with excitement. “Aw, Ben. You shouldn’t have.”

He smiles at your happiness. You still have that light from when he first met you all those years ago.

“Of course! Gotta keep my best girl fed.” He winks.

His girl. His best girl at that.

You blush at his words, heat crawling up your neck and spreading over your cheeks.

“I’ll just be outside.” He swiftly adds, knowing you’d wanna get ready before eating.

You nod and he’s out the door, shutting it gently.

You bring the duvet over your face and breathily giggle, lightly squealing in giddiness.

There's an opposite reaction outside.

Ben facepalms himself and sighs in frustration. “My girl? Really? Why do I always do this shit.” He shakes his head and rubs his face, hoping you don’t mind.

Quite the contrary, actually. You mind it a lot but not in an offensive way. More like in an “I can't stop thinking about it” way.

You try to recall last night's events but it's a weird blur for you, a haze of bits and pieces that don't quite connect yet.

You remember walking in and meeting his friends. You think they're nice. You went off to get a drink at the bar, Will came and chatted with you for a moment, what else?

You squint your eyes as you clasp your bottom lip between your index and middle fingers.

There was a shifty guy who wouldn't stop talking your ear off... and then he insisted on getting you a drink.

But what after that? How'd you get home?

You sigh and get up to freshen up, maybe your mind will freshen up as well.

In the meantime, Ben is gushing and blushing.

He smiles cheesily as he hears your words ring in his ear, your flushed face and sparkly eyes cloud his mind and you're all he's thinking about.

Actually, you're all he's ever thought about. You're constantly on his mind, 24/7 and he didn't even know it.

He'll be eating dinner late at times and think, Did she eat today? She probably did. When? I hope not as late as me.

Ben thinks about you when he's out doing some shopping, whether it be for clothes, decor, or any other random things.

He'll stop by the candle aisle and think about which candles you'd like, which ones smell like you, which scents remind him of you.

“She'd like this.” He'd say as he held up some room decor and imagined how it’d look in your place.

He’s been so enamored by you all these years. His heart has always called out your name.

If Ben has any shot at making this real, he has to do this right.

Should he plan a romantic candlelit dinner? At home or at your favorite restaurant? You’d like a carnival date as well! He could win you anything you’d like and then y’all could go to the photo booth and immortalize the whole day.

So many choices, so little time.

There’s no doubt in his mind that your confession was said in a moment of clarity and not in a state of delirium.

“Hey, you’re still here.” You smile warmly and he's keens on the sight.

Your hair slightly frizzy and damp from your hotter-than-hell shower, skin glowing, and eyes still retaining that same sparkle from last night.

He can feel his heart skip a beat as you laugh. Are you laughing at him?

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” You say with an airy lilt in your words.

So you are.

“Like what?”

You walk back to grab your plate and get seated at the dining table, a cute grin on your face still.

“I dunno, kinda like a kid being told to move his clip back from red to green.”

Ben guffaws at this. You always did have such a way with words.

“A guy can’t just be happy now?” He asks as he takes a seat beside you.

His knee touches yours and you don’t move away. He doesn’t either.

You shrug, taking a bite of your pancakes and closing your eyes to savor the taste. You set down your utensils and point at the plate repeatedly, chewing before you speak as you’re no animal.

“This is so good.. Five stars, seriously.”

Your praise for his culinary skills aren’t rare but they aren’t common either.

What kind of chef can you a expect military man who survived on food packs to be?

Ben rests his chin on his palm, his lips in a slanted smile as he observes you in your natural state.

You’re calm, cool, collected. You’re in your comfiest clothes and fall into a rhythm not many people get to witness.

He also notes that you’re very happy but food tends to do that to you anyway.

There’s just one thing: you’re still abashed when he watches you eat. It’s just the one thing you can’t get over with people regardless of how close you may be or how long you’ve known them.

He knows that, that cheeky little shit. It’s the thrill of poking fun at someone who won’t let it get under their skin that makes him want to do it all the more.

“Please, stop staring.” You ask softly before taking a sip of your coffee.

He moves his head left then right, then left and right again.

Your tongue pokes your cheek in a feeble attempt at trying not to smile and / or burst out laughing.

“I wanna keep doing this.”

You lick your coffee stained teeth and your eyes dart to him due to his sudden comment.

“Keep doing what?”

Ben's confidence has always been his stellar quality, the best thing about him. Though, it dwindles as you stare at him expectantly to continue his train of thought.

His nervousness is afoot and he hopes it's not as noticeable to you as it is for him.

“I, uhh... I mean I wanna still, like...” He trails off and shakes his head, a shy smile growing on his almost-flushed face.

“Nevermind. It's not important.”

He tries to pass it off but you dismiss the notion.

“What? No! You can't do that!” You deny with a laugh. “Now I wanna know— have to know, actually.”

Ben bites his lip in contemplation. Should I say it now? Is it the right time?

Regardless of what his heart is telling him, his mind overrules it and he shakes his head once more.

“Nothin’, it's nothin’. I promise, I was just...” And he trails off again, a short laugh interrupting his string of words.

You tilt your head and blink, your hand coming to rest on his. “It's not unimportant, not to me.”

That makes him hold his breath. You really give a damn, don't you?

“But if you still don't want to then I won't force you. Just know that you can always talk to me, always tell me anything.” You smile sweetly and he’s left staring.

“No pressure.” You say lastly before drinking some more of your coffee.

Oh but the pressure's on.

He can feel an odd squeeze at his lungs and is reminded to breathe again, the feeling going away once he exhales deeply.

“You wanna go out with me?”

He couldn't have picked worst timing.

You choke on your drink and explode into a fit of coughs, almost spilling it on yourself as you set it down with a semi-loud thunk.

The man next to you immediately sprints into action by placing one hand on your back, rubbing it and occasionally giving it a pat.

“Jesus, Y/n! You okay?”

You clear your throat and just sit for a minute, catching your breath.

“Yeah, yeah… I-I'm good.”

Your softly pant as he sits back down, both hands in his lap now as he observes you.

For the first time, he can't read you. Ben can't seem to figure out what's going on that pretty, little head of yours and that starts to freak him out a little bit.

He doesn't show it though, obviously. You shouldn't have to cater to his feelings when you have your own to cater to.

You clear your throat gingerly and catch his attention, his blue eyes intently observing you.

“Do you really mean that?” Your voice comes out small.

He blinks, confused by your comment. “Yeah..? Of course I do.”

You nod, looking down at your unfinished breakfast.

You don’t know what to say. The better part of your life has been filled with an undisclosed secret, a longing for him.

He’s your best friend, your confidant. He’s also the one that knows you inside and out, the one that loves seeing you content more than anything.

You’re so elated yet conflicted.

A sharp breath enters your lungs and gives you the courage to raise your most important concerns.

“Are you sure?”

He’s clearly taken aback. “What?” He laughs incredulously.

You blink once, twice. Licking your lips, you ask again. “I mean, are you sure that’s how you feel?”

Ben’s stumped. This was not the reaction he calculated at all. “Where exactly is this coming from?”

Oh boy.

If he’s gonna take it there then you might as well go ahead.

“Okay, Ben... I know what I said last night and I’m really, really sorry.”

He can’t believe this. You’re apologizing for having a crush on him?

“It was honestly, probably the most embarrassing moment of my life so far,” A pitiful chuckle escapes the confines of your mouth before you can reel it in. “…But please don’t think you have to return the feelings.”

Your eyes are beautifully tragic. They’re filled with a glimmering sadness that runs deeper than he’ll ever understand.

You’re baring your soul to the man who has the privilege of being the object of your affection, he sees that much.

Ben feels so badly for you. He doesn’t know how you can think of him as a man who’d take pity on you for something you revealed in confidence, albeit under the influence given the circumstances.

“Y/n,” He husks and doesn’t let you look away from him.

He ducks his head down to meet your flinching gaze and you hesitantly look.

His steely eyes are unwavering and raw, always revealing his inner machinations to you. Even now.

“I’m not… doing you a favor or whatever it is you’re implying.”

You blink as unshed tears border on the horizon of your eyes.

“I like you a lot, actually. As in I wanna be with you.”

A shaky sigh from you, a breath of confidence from him.

“And I’ve felt this way for a long, long time, alright? I would never lie to you and you know that.”

You don’t hold yourself back anymore. You lurch forward and anchor yourself against him, both arms around his neck and your chin in the crevice of his shoulder.

The fabric of his denim button-up is now marked forever by your tears of joy.

“Do you know how long you’ve kept me waiting, Miller?” You sniffle.

Ben smiles but doesn’t dare show it.

“Do you know how long I’ve been holding on to that secret?” He playfully retorts.

You lean back just until your noses are a hair away from each other.

He stills, absorbing every detail your presence has to offer.

The tear tracks on your cheeks are rubbed away by his thumb and your lashes flutter from his tender touch.

“Seriously though. I’m sorry it took me so long, I dunno what I was thinking.”

You shake your head lightly. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough, too.”

Ben nudges himself closer, carefully entering your space as his knee touches yours once more. A rough and calloused hand comes to caress your head as he coaxes you to lean in a bit.

As he plants a feathery kiss onto your forehead, you think about all the ones that came before this fateful day and the many to follow in the near future.

[actual-changeling]

i feel like all my meta posts just clicked and solved a puzzle in my brain. however i am also currently upping my sleep med dosage so if any of this sounds like the incoherent rambles of a mad man it's cause i am. incoherent and insane and rambling that is. (not a man)

but i have to write this post since i had a lightbulb realization moment.

because the thing is, besties, that aziraphale is a fucking horrible liar. he gets nervous and fidgety, he stutters, you can SEE him sweating anxiety. just look at him in the bookshop when the archangels inquire about their not-so-little 25 lazarii miracle.

his best "lies" are when he is actually telling the truth but twisted. he has never been a good liar (see job) and that has not changed in six thousand years. all smiles directed at archangels are visibly wrong, his discomfort is tangible.

whenever he panics it is written across his face clear as day, including, and this is the important bit, when he is talking to the metatron.

now, you are wondering why exactly that matters, and the point is something we have all talked and thought about for ages but my brain just. formed some new neural pathways.

because he is a terrible liar, he is horrible at hiding his emotions.

but you know who isn't?

crowley.

unless you know him, it is very hard to read his facial expressions with his glasses on. he can turn his emotions "off", he can put a wall in front of them and by extension around himself.

i talked about it more in this post, so for background info have a look at it (if you want to)

it's crowley's thing yet there is one moment, one, glorious moment in which aziraphale executes it perfectly. and that moment mirrors crowley putting on his glasses, it is aziraphale attempting to hide away all of his feelings and thoughts so no one can tell what he is really thinking.

the parallels besties. the fucking parallels.

what really sells it to me is that last comparison because it matches too well to not be intentional. honestly, after the sink story i think every little thing in this show is done on purpose and with attention to detail, so.

the empty look, the heartbreak, the pain - the realization. this is it. i am not walking away from this unharmed but i am walking away. or rather into the loneliness, the absence of the person i love.

for aziraphale also the realization that the world is about the get fucked and he is not.

after that we have the inhale of courage. taking a deep breath to calm yourself, to find your way back to your body. a kind of preparation we have all done at one point or another.

the mask slides into place. or at least you want it to slide into place, you are trying to fucking jam it into the spot you need it to be but sometimes it's like trying to push the square peg through the round hole.

it's a disconnect, it's putting up a physical and emotional wall. crowley does it to hide away from aziraphale.

aziraphale does it hide from heaven and the metatron, yes, but he does it to hide from himself. at his core, aziraphale compartmentalizes. he is so fucking good at cognitive dissonance it's scary, and that's what happens here.

he knows, he KNOWS, that he needs to lock up his feelings or he won't be able to get into that fucking lift and do what he thinks he needs to do.

and so he walks away from crowley just like crowley walked away from him, copying him and doing exactly what he has seen him do a thousand times: putting up wall after wall after wall. ripping out every sprout of vulnerability before it can bloom.

except that he stopped doing it after the no-pocalypse, and that is why it hurts so fucking badly when he puts his glasses back on.

he is not ripping out a sprout, he is uprooting an entire fucking tree

aziraphale cannot hide behind sunglasses by crowley so he hides underneath an angelic persona, the person he thinks he should be, needs to be, and the problem is that whenever he slips into that role, it becomes him.

getting crowley to take off his glasses again is going to be a herculean task and the same goes for getting aziraphale to drop his act. they're one and the same in shape and origin and purpose but they are not indestructible.

because listen. all of this is painful and it hurts. it really is.

the fun part, however, is the fact that we know exactly what it takes to destroy that barrier, we have seen it happen to crowley before.

my point is that we are missing the parallel for said destruction.

[its-leethee]

Then take a different path, dummy!

1x02 / 2x05 / 4x02

[drdemonprince]

(ED mention) Holy shit! Ur the first person I've seen to compare ED behavior to addictive behavior after having experienced it. I have always felt the same way. It's affirming to hear you say that, thank you. I also think my experiences with EDs were informed by my undiagnosed/unaccomodated neurological disorders in ways I'm not sure I can articulate in a single ask. But I hope you know what I mean?

10 years in recovery and I *never* miss my ED, yet it's jarring how close it feels when I'm spiraling, and this feels like an important piece of the puzzle. Here's to recovery and finding pleasure being in our bodies 💌

You should check out Shira Hassan's book Saving Our Own Lives! Or Gloria Lucas' harm reductionist approach to eating disorders! The addiction (and especially harm reductionist) frameworks for understanding EDs I think really help make sense of the needs that we attempt to meet with our behaviors (and how we might more effectively meet those needs) far better than the conventional ED treatment models do. I now understand my ED not as some horrible malformed mental model of my body or a lack of adequate self love or whatever and instead appreciate it as a way of satisfying a lot of competing needs that I had in my mind and body -- needs for structure, stimulation, an excuse to escape from other people, privacy, body autonomy, endorphins, control over my schedule and habits, and on and on. Now when I experience a resurgence in any of my behaviors I no longer feel that I've failed to be abstinent or that I never really had the right mindset toward my body all along, but that I just have to satisfy those needs in some way. Sounds like you are on a recovery pathway that already works fabulously for you, but if you want to think more about parallels between EDs and addiction I think those worlds might help you find other people who think similarly! It's helped me feel a whole lot less alone knowing that there's an entire world of people addicted to substances who get pretty much exactly what it's like.

[cynthiav06]

A friend of mine pointed out that people tend to date those with similarities to their parents.

When I started poking around the PJO franchise, my brain screamed that when I looked at Annabeth and then Gabe. And now I'm thinking about how Rachel may have similarities to Sally.

Please share Perachel thoughts.

This is so GOOD. I am only mad I didn't make the connection first. Percy is a mama's boy, so it's obvious his first girlfriend is a reflection of Sally. Bear with me, this is going to be LONG.

I am going to gloss over the bit about Annabeth and Gabe because it's not as much of a comparison as it is an analogy.

[Before anybody gets mad at anon, he wasn't saying Annabeth is like Gabe, he is paralleling them because Annabeth's form of mistreatment against Percy is so subtle but so deeply unsettling that he hasn't noticed it himself and if he has been feeling suffocated he hasn't yet connected the feeling to Annabeth.]

I feel compelled to clarify a few things in Gabe Annabeth comparison and why it's unfair.

Gabe was in no way, shape, or form Percy's parent.

Percy despises anything remotely related to Gabe like alcohol or poker, so Percy would never be with someone who, even for a second, reminds Percy of Gabe.

Gabe was exploitative of Sally, heavily so with no love or affection attached to it.

Annabeth, on the other hand, does love Percy. She, however, does not love him the way he deserves to be loved because her fatal flaw and a few toxic traits get in her way. For example, Annabeth has a habit of taking Percy for granted and is not appreciative of his efforts. She shows toxic possessiveness over him and almost always gets physical with Percy due to her lack of control over her emotions and not knowing how to express them well enough. She has consistently shown a poor understanding of Percy's motivations and his choices and has a habit of putting blame on Percy in several unnecessary situations. Character development would have served us all well but it doesn't seem very likely because Rick is Rick and Annabeth's fatal flaw is hubris, which means she is unlikely to acknowledge her toxic traits.

Now, back to our main point. Let's look at some direct or indirect parallels between Sally and Rachel and some things that deviate from the mold of Sally's experiences.

Rachel, I think, has always paralleled Sally. She is a mortal born with the sight, something that Sally herself has gone through. Rachel is Sally's past, and Sally is Rachel's future in a way, at least when it comes to their sight. Yet their final choices contrast each other, which is very fascinating.

Sally is a writer, and Rachel is an artist. They both have creative interests and aspirations. They are both naturally compassionate and kind but also very strong-willed.

What Poseidon was to Sally, Percy is to Rachel, and I think I really like that parallel. Maybe in another life, Sally would have said yes to Poseidon's offer, and in another life, Rachel would have turned down the Spirit of Delphi and pursued Percy, and Percy would have pursued her.

(They represent the pathway to an entirely new world to both Sally and Rachel, and its a feeling you cherish forever.)

Remember how being in the rain or near the sea makes Sally look younger and healthier, I think Rachel has a similar connection to the things Percy is connected with. After meeting him, she does seem to like beaches more. Considering her vacation spot was a beach and she also went on a beach date with Percy.

(You might think Percy chose that date spot, but it was obviously Rachel cause Percy is a gentleman who would definitely let his partner choose the date spots and then prepare the date for them as they like)

Her visions begin revolving around Percy, and Percy himself begins dreaming often of her. Not just visions but in general. It is stated in Botl that he dreamed of running into her again and not being able to answer her questions.

Another thing is that Sally parallels Rachel in case of emotional nuances between her and Poseidon and Rachel and Percy. Even after all these years, Sally trusts that Poseidon will not abandon Percy and will protect him when it comes to it, even after her death; especially after her death. The same way Rachel is comfortable in calling Percy whenever she is in trouble or when the visions are bothering her [I think we get a mention of how Percy has met with Rachel's father in The Last Olympian and how Rachel's father TRUSTS Percy's word about keeping Rachel SAFE.] And for the shippers, he has already met the parents and they approve lol.

The trust goes both ways, too. Cause we know Percy is an extremely private person and doesn't like to share anything about himself unless he is obligated too and even then sparingly. Even after being friends with him for so many years, Annabeth and Grover are in dark about a lot of things about him but Rache who has canonically had visions about Percy and his experiences, who has the power to tap into Percy's past and Percy is just so chill with that. Like he knows Rachel knows cause he has had several visions of his own about her, but he just lets it go.

Percy Jackson of all people TRUSTS Rachel enough to let her peek into his past experiences, hell it's because of her that he uncovered the true meaning of the prophecy and then TRUSTED HER WORDS ENOUGH TO STAKE THE FATE OF THE WORLD ON IT. We all know he hates Luke like no one else has hated Luke ever and yet GIVES Luke the knife, not cause of Annabeth's or Hermes's trust in him [they have both been wrong before] but because RACHEL SAID SO.

Another thing that's reminiscent of Sally's relationship with Poseidon is the fact that Sally was in no delusion of who she was with. No delusion of Poseidon being anything other than what he was, a force of nature and a god. He was kind and soft with her, but she was not disillusioned to his other natures. The same goes for Rachel.

Rachel doesn't expect Percy to be some tamed down version of himself or for him to suppress his impulses or nature. He is soft and nice to her. She appreciates it, but she doesn't expect nor want him to be anything other than what he is. As evidenced by the lovely painting she gives him of Percy looking fearsome against his battle with Antaeus. It was such a sight that Percy himself was jarred, but Rachel said he looked good. She was totally fine with his darkside, accepted it, and understood it.

Rachel also has a very positive relationship with things Percy is passionate about. She has a keen sense for environmental conservation as we see her participating in a charity work (actual volunteering) in BoTL and we know how sensitive Percy is on rivers or oceans being unclean.

She also seems to have a great bond with Percy's companions. Like you are telling me Blackjack, who has trauma of his time with being captive on Princess Andromeda under Luke, and who is fiercely loyal to Percy, let Rachel just order him into going to CHB like that. Obviously, Blackjack likes her enough to let her take him without Percy's explicit permission and without informing Percy because he knows his boss cares about her. I don't know how we, as a fandom, moved on from that scene. It's so beautiful that Rachel is able to connect to Blackjack so seamlessly. And how one of Percy's first thoughts is worrying about Rachel's well-being as soon as he finds out.

Don't even get me started on how him, including Nico and Hades in his wish and demanding justice and respect for children of Hades, is what broke the curse on the Oracle. I think Percy knew what Rachel was going to do or what her role was due to him seeing the visions of May Castellan, and don't tell me he didn't include Nico in his wish for that reason as well. And he was still so panicked when Rachel swore the oath to Apollo, despite the curse already being broken.

There's also a point of how they are both very integral part of Olympus and quite above the others in terms of hierarchy. Percy is the twice savior of Olympus. Several gods owe him a favor, and he is the prince of Atlantis. Rachel is the vessel of Spirit of Delphi, a force that has existed before even the gods. The Olympians need her, the demigods need her, and she is under the protection of Zeus himself. The two most important people in the world exempting gods and other immortals are literally them.

This is why it bothers me when people say Perachel is a big what if. Perachel isn't a what-if. It already happened. It simply didn't last. Not because they didn't want to but because the choice was taken from them. But both Percy and Rachel chose to save the world and chose to do the duty expected of them over dooming the world and being in a relationship. Destiny is inherently unjust as it were. The only what if's are what if they chose to defy expectations and rules and got back together anyway.

The Savior of Olympus and the Oracle of Delphi are a perfect match, but fate would not let it be. Perhaps in another world, they would have cared less about the fate of the world or less about defying Olympus. Maybe when Percy becomes immortal, he will finally get a chance to be with Rachel. In my headcanons, that is how it goes. I admit I like the dynamic of the strongest demigod ever and the Oracle herself teaming up. It's not like anyone can top that duo. The power couple that they would have been, the fandom is not ready for it.

[vigilskeep]

there are so many things in veilguard that have made me go "wait what??? okay i guess i have to totally rethink the character i'm roleplaying now" that it's literally impossible to guess what thing you're referring to as The Thing That Happened. obviously extremely curious to hear what it is once you've detangled it

it’s kind of like that but it’s also less that and more... okay i should probably just say it, i’m being weird and unhelpful and i need to write it out anyway so i can think

MASSIVE SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT for a companion quest, do NOT say i didn’t warn you. also please don’t respond to this if you know more than me i am in distress but i still don’t want spoilers

so i just finished lucanis’ “a murder of crows” quest. and lucanis. first talon. for some reason. (this is the writing choice i’m ??? on. also i’m ??? on lucanis’ whole storyline, frankly. the writing was. well. like i said, we’re not unpicking that right now, i don’t want to get into it at this point, not the conversation i’m having.)

lifelong trauma of being in the crows and fighting to get someone in a talon’s position and keep them there -> the thing that gave sol all their diseases and made them, to be frank, fairly suicidal

viago: ultimately can handle it without them, especially with teia’s backing.

lucanis: CANNOT handle it without them. holy fuck. for like twelve hundred different reasons, unthinkable, completely laughable, that he can handle this. who is going to protect him. the only reason this could be better at keeping sol mentally stable than watching viago’s back is that they will never feel purposeless or need to go looking for an adrenaline rush, because forget crows, an ambitious blackbird could eat that man alive. he can’t scheme. he can’t even SCHEME and the very fact that he trusts sol DE RIVA demonstrates this. sol is a crow! from another house! does he have no memory at all of the fact that his own parents died in crow infighting? sol could have been playing him this whole time, it wouldn’t have even been hard, and if they were that kind of person, then right now the first talon’s house would have just fallen directly in their hands like a gift from the maker, and they can’t even say a part of themself they can’t shut off isn’t thinking about it that way! how is sol supposed to keep someone like that alive?

you see what it’s like trying to sleep while sol is having this discussion in my mind.

ahem. anyway. pathways for sol’s life assuming they indeed make it through the game:

becoming lucanis’ guard dog the way they were for viago, which (even if they could mentally handle that, which they can’t. or can they??) means switching house loyalties which would surely destroy them eventually -> bad

somehow trying to persuade lucanis to give this up, as if that wouldn’t be throwing house dellamorte completely to the dogs, which at least sol can’t imagine any crow is capable of, let alone someone so dedicated to clinging to what remains of his family that he couldn’t even kill a traitor -> bad

going ahead and leaving the crows, but sol now has to leave BOTH viago and lucanis behind and also lucanis is going to die in there because they left him to do this alone -> bad

solution: sol is back on their original “if a blighted dragon eats me by the end of this, i don’t have to experience consequences” train

and maybe they’re right and i should not worry about this because i’m painfully aware it’s VERY bold to start deciding what happens after the game at this point, when they might still get trapped in the fade or turned into paste or something. and admittedly they did know and dread the possibilities from the first moment they felt something for lucanis, which was why they so wanted it to be anyone else, because anyone else in that lighthouse could have given them a different world, and he is the one who regardless of his best or worst intentions can only tie them tighter to a burning building. and SURE, i see the solas/mythal breakup parallels of sol still leaving, i’m looking at them, that doesn’t mean i have to LIKE them

he hasn’t even kissed them. they’re doing all of this unkissed. lucanis dellamorte when i get you

again please absolutely do not respond to any of this with even the vaguest of hints if you know more about the rest of the game than me 🙏 it’s probably best if no-one responds to this at all lmao i am just thinking out loud. you can reply with a “that’s rough buddy”. for sol

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part five

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: grief, suicide mention, assault mention

word count: 9.3k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The sun burns bright upon the courtyards of the Red Keep, its blinding rays showering the grass in warm morning light. Lords and ladies make their way through the stone pathways, chatting in lowered voices as the sacred and ancient exchange of gossip and rumor occurs. Few clouds dot the brilliant blue sky, and the flowers seem perfectly content to rise up towards the crystalline heavens. Upon a white marble bench, Lady Tyrell finds little solace in the pleasant weather. A book rests upon her lap as she attempts to make her way through its pages, but what is normally as natural as breathing today does not come easy. Each time she tries to read a page, her mind wanders and becomes embroiled in worry and anxious trepidation over yesterday’s events. She had rested fitfully, waking from nightmares thrice over. 

Fingers drum against the cover of the book in a jumpy rhythm, and she taps her shoe against the stone pathway beneath the skirts of her gown. The words run together upon the page, blurring and mixing and dancing about, and by the time she has supposedly read through a chapter she finds she has not retained enough information to create even a simple summary. Closing her eyes and taking a long breath, she releases a slow sigh and lifts her chin to stare up at a single white cloud that drifts lazily in the sky. 

One of the ladies stops to greet her, and despite her troubled mind she is glad to have an excuse to close the book that has been giving her unusual difficulty and chat about idle gossip. 

It is during this discussion that Cregan Stark pauses in the hall, partially hidden in one of the stone passageways. The Northern lord had found sleep eluding him, his mind troubled and occupied by the previous day as well. And there upon a bench, bathed in morning light, sits the cause of his insomnia. Laughing sweetly at a likely scandalous comment whispered to her behind a hand, eyes sparkling in the sun. Her hair has been returned to a delicate arrangement and her dress is a dulcet cream that plunges just as low as any that typically adorns her figure.

As if nothing had happened at all. But Cregan knows better; he knows far more than he ought to, and the knowing is what stills his boots and causes him to stare out into the courtyard. There he stands, storm-cloud eyes unable to be torn away from how she brushes a strand of hair out of her face before leaning over to offer a delicious piece of gossip herself. The gloves upon her arms have his attention raptly captivated.

Ivory satin that covers the bandages on her wrists, the reddened and now bruising marks that Cregan had helped to cover. It had been his hands upon her arms, his calloused fingers ghosting over her soft skin as her eyes watched impartially, allowing him. What a strange thing it is, to look at this lady who has been so wrapped in secrets and deception and to know that him and her now have a shared secret of their own. 

Lady Tyrell senses a foreign presence in her peripherals and her sharp eyes flicker over to the corridor that runs parallel to the courtyard.  She meets Cregan’s eyes in an immediate recognition, faint surprise present in her own as she holds his gaze a moment. But just as soon as she notices him, her eyes dart back to her companion and she redirects her full attention to the conversation in front of her, as if she has not seen him at all. 

Cregan watches as she nods to the lady sat upon the bench with her, hands folded elegantly in her lap, and his eyes narrow at the poignancy with which she ignores him. It is so pointed and evident, when she has been tracking him down like a hound with a scent from the moment he set foot within the Red Keep. And now she turns away, as if he is no more noteworthy than a passing page or a squire. His chest tightens.

His redirection is swift and purposeful, and he squares his shoulders as he approaches the two women across the courtyard. Lady Tyrell’s companion stiffens and blinks up with concern, but there is only faintly concealed irritation in the eyes of the lady he seeks. Her lips press together, likely to produce a sugary sentiment with which she can dismiss him, but Cregan shall not let her rid herself of him so quickly.

“If I might have a moment with the Lady Tyrell…?” The tone is detached and proper, and the other lady upon the bench offers a quick nod before she gives a worried glance between the two of them and scurries off. 

Lady Tyrell finds herself casting an irritated glare in the direction of the other woman, frustrated at the quickness with which she catered to Cregan’s wishes. Annoying, yet far from surprising – It is he who causes such fear and worry about the castle these days. Is that not why she had been seeking him out? How ironic, this turn of events where she now wishes to be rid of his presence but instead must simper and smile to keep him at newly preferred distance. 

Giving a slow sigh, she feels her shoulders lower and her hands fall to rest upon the cover of the book within her lap. As her chin tilts upwards to meet his stare, Cregan is keenly aware of how little she seems to desire his being there at that moment. Even so, a sweet smile falls across her lips as she gazes up at him expectantly. A skilled combination of powder and lip coloring has been applied to her mouth to hide the flowering wound he knows is still there. If any manner of thoughts upon the way his eyes fall to her mouth fill her mind, she gives no indication of opinion.

“Lord Stark,” Calm as the fair weather this morning, her voice is soft and pleasant. The tired, thin cobwebs that hung from her weary words the previous evening have been brushed aside, and the emptiness of her eyes polished and shone until they shimmer as brightly as ever. A broken puppet that has been patched and mended and returned to the playhouse to continue a never-ending show. With the flap of pearl wings, a gull flies over head in a lazy swoop. “Such a pleasant morning, is it not?”

“Are you well, my lady?” Steady and low, the words interrupt her honey-coated offering of returning to their previous routine. Cregan will not play pretend with her, will not join her upon her wooden stage. The imagined audience that she is consistently acting for, all prolonged pauses and enunciated projection, shall not find amusement in the Lord of Winterfell. The telltale signs of irritation that Cregan has come to recognize – a twitch to her eyes, a tightening of her fingers as they rest on top of each other – inform him that she much prefers he not ask.

“I am, my lord. How kind it is for you to ask after me.” A gloved hand raises to her chest, pressing softly into the exposed section above the low neckline of her morning gown. The skin beneath her hand gives slight way, and Cregan might find his attention drawn if he did not harbor such insistent and gnawing worry upon her wellbeing. 

The ease with which she has returned to amiable pleasantry only serves to concern him further. In a flash of unusually petulant selfishness, Cregan discovers he wishes her to speak candidly with him, as she had the night before. No matter how venomous some of her words had been, to communicate with her free of presentation had been strangely liberating and rewarding. “Your hands–.”

“Is there a particular matter that you wish to discuss, my lord?” The interruption is swift and final, in spite of the gently bright and melodious way it is delivered. Soft lashes flutter as she gazes up at Cregan from the marble bench upon which she sits. The faint echo of voices can be heard, both from the courtyard and further within the castle’s halls. It is as busy a morning as ever.

Lady Tyrell cannot help the anxiety and frustration that she feels tightening her chest and pressing into her lungs at his presence. Keenly aware of the severity with which she has disgraced herself in front of him, embarrassment pounds hotly in her veins. It is only with years of practice that she keeps any of this from showing upon her face. For all his patient and genuine apology, and the gentle care with which he had tended to her wrists, she cannot help but retain the crashing waves of suspicion within the harbor of her heart.

Cregan is silent a moment, jaw tense at her quick dismissal of his attempt to reach past her heavily fortified walls, draped in fragrant flowers as they may be. The tossing and turning in his bedsheets the previous night, admittedly not the first time her image has found its way into his mind during such dark and silent hours, has left the lord with an unsettling understanding of her perception of him.

Far from perfect, he knows well that he has made a few mistakes since his descent upon the Red Keep. And so needing for allies has he been of late, there has been not one Southern noble whose opinion he has truly drawn upon in his decision making. With a deep sigh, Cregan finds himself sitting next to her upon the bench. She pauses.

Her eyes dart about quickly, as if to see who might notice this, but she does not strike him nor rise to leave. Suspicion can briefly be read upon her face, but it is swept away just as rapidly as it arrives. His heavy gaze falls upon her for a moment, and she does her utmost to not fidget under such an intense look. She imagines she ought to be used to it by now, but there is something about its weight that she cannot grow accustomed to just yet. It is clear, when he parts his lips, that the matter he is presenting has been onerous to entertain within his mind.

“Sit upon my council this morning.”  It is phrased with that Northern lowness that is more resembling a command than a request. Lady Tyrell blinks back at him with an empty smile, fighting back the urge to behold him as if he has grown a second head. The possibility that he has lost his mind entirely does briefly wander through her brain with faintly amused disbelief. A few heads have turned at the two of them sat upon a bench in the courtyard together, fans fluttering over mouths whispering of the odd pairing.

Yet Cregan regards her with utmost seriousness as he continues, his brows drawn low above his bright eyes. “I have realized, in my mistreatment of you, that I have acted with certain prejudice in mind while carrying out my responsibilities here at King’s Landing. I believe a neutral Southern presence among my retainers might serve to temper the storm that gathers at my table. And to offer a perspective I would not have otherwise.”

It is a thoughtful proposal, a prudent and gracious offer in the wake of the uncompromising and violent war that has racked the Seven Kingdoms. And it is this that brings her pause – the wise action of a leader seeking knowledge and perspective from an outside source while he holds court in a city that is all but foreign to him. She has not believed Cregan to be a tyrant, save for the misunderstanding yesterday, but neither has she believed he genuinely intends to practice the justice he mentions so often.

Her face remains impassive, but she lowers her gaze a moment, eyes resting on the cobblestone pathway that weaves lazily through the courtyard, like a stream through a meadow. If she were his advisor, she would be utterly aghast at this. But as a lady of the South, who has grown unsettled by the increasing arrests and murmured spoiling for war that looms darker upon the Realm by the day, she finds she is quite nearly impressed at his willingness to listen. She does not like the thought of being impressed by Cregan Stark. She shifts uncomfortably upon the marble bench.

“If you ask this of me, my lord, I would be honored to serve both you and the Realm.” Sweet and gentle, she agrees with a blossoming quickness to his offer. After all, she would be an absolute fool to refuse such a ripe opportunity. One she has been working towards from the moment he seized power – a chance at his ear and a place within the temporary inner circle, gained through the winning of his favor. How many lacy smiles has she woven for him, how many delicate, intentional movements of her body? And yet, it does not seem to be his favor she has gained.

Lady Tyrell cannot quite pinpoint what about her that the Lord of Winterfell has seen and decided is acceptable enough to bring her to his council table, and this produces a sense of nervous unease. Since she is unsure what she has done to earn this hesitant truce, she does not know how to continue to present it and solidify her position. Worse yet, rolling about her gut in a nauseating condition reminiscent of sea sickness is guilt. 

Never before has she felt anything of the sort when manipulating various lords and ladies of the court to act in her best interests. But this victory feels unearned, underserved. Cregan had bested her thoroughly and completely, despite his own genuine apology over the matter, and she can admit defeat civilly. Her brows pinch together in a wary frown as her eyes lift to meet Cregan’s, a hesitant uncertainty flickering in her pupils. “…Only if it is truly your wish, Lord Stark.”

It is not that he trusts her – Cregan cannot say he does, in truth, but the vibrancy with which she expresses love has eased his worries of her possessing a blindly ambitious nature. It is as clear a picture of raw honesty as he has seen from anyone in the castle thus far. Coupled with her sharp mind, he has decided it is worth it to take the risk at one meeting, as a test. “It is you that I wish there. You need not offer your true opinions in front of the others, but in private I would ask that discerning mind of yours to tell me plainly your thoughts.”

The fabric of her gloves presses together with a soft rustling as her eyes fall once again, the cogs within her brain turning quickly to design a proper response to this line of reasoning. Although she can find no fault in it, there is a selection of data that she has collected so far that does not support his supposedly courteous offer. With a delicate lift of her chin, she begins to arrange the words eloquently upon her tongue. “If you do not mind, my lord, I only believe--.”

“Speak your thoughts directly. Only I can hear you and I have already heard the truth, Lady Tyrell.” Cregan’s stern gaze is met with a lightning flash of faintly repressed irritation at the interruption. It does not faze him, wishing for her to deliver herself plainly and discard the word games with him. Have they not overcome this? Cregan shall ensure that they do so.

With all the elegantly annoyed scorn of a cat that has been bothered, she blinks at him a moment before casting her gaze about the courtyard. They are not completely alone, but no one is close enough to eavesdrop upon the manner in which she speaks to him. Lowering her voice to a soft yet sturdier whisper, that same even and exasperated tone she had spoken to him with last night graces him with its presence. The serious look upon his face becomes slightly less so, and he resists the urge to nod in approval.

“Why do you care to have a Southern perspective cast upon your planning? I have heard the whispers brought to me regarding your men. They want war.” Dispelled is the persona and her sharp words spiral into smoky arrows fired towards the target that is his mind. She wants an explanation for the whispers brought to her by her network of lingering spies, and he can hardly fault her for that. It is entirely possible he seeks to utilize her for his own gain, and naturally she is suspicious.

“Aye, the elder men I have brought wish for the continuation of the war,” Cregan begins, his voice lowering to match her quiet tone. Running a heavy hand through his red hair, he shifts his muscular figure upon the bench to better face her and gives her a neutral look. “Many of my soldiers have seen far too many winters. They came south with the intention of dying, of sparing their families another mouth to feed in the coming winter. If your spies report upon disappointment, it is not wanton bloodshed my men desire. But worry they harbor in their hearts at the prospect of marching home to burden their kin.”

This catches her attention. A frown creases its way onto her features as she tilts her head, searching Cregan’s eyes for any sign of a lie. She cannot find anything that indicates his words do not hold truth. It would never have occurred to her, the idea of these men wishing fighting and death upon them for the security of their families. She could not imagine a season so brutal and devasting that it is better to die than wait it out. The Reach has not yearned for food in her lifetime, not when their grass is fertile and yields a healthy crop each year. Starvation had sunk its unforgiving claws into the capital during the war, but she herself has never wanted for food within the walls of the Red Keep. 

As this information settles its way into her mind, she feels a heavy understanding fall upon her. Perhaps the Lord of Winterfell is correct – there is a holistic lacking of perspective between the North and South after all. It is her responsibility to carry out her mother’s wishes while the lady remains at court, and to do her utmost to put an end to this war so that her House might see a peaceful future. For her younger siblings, and the people who rely upon her family. Slowly, her eyes lift to meet Cregan’s evenly.

“I shall accept your offer then, my lord. In hopes of a better way forward for both of our peoples.”

A white flag has supposedly settled within the dust of the night before.

The Northern nobles convene within the room that had previously hosted the Small Council meetings, hazy pale light drifting in through a collection of small circular windows that rise from floor to ceiling. Archways of grey stone connect to pillars of similar material, the sunlight reflecting in lazy shimmering rivers across the floor. The long rectangular stone table has ornamentally carved wooden chairs placed around it and as Lady Tyrell enters the room, she cannot help but recall the scarce instances when she had seen the council gather. 

A few of the lords have already arrived, and she takes note of the faces she can place names to – the young lords of House Tully and House Blackwood, whose reputations have grown large and fanciful from their exploits during the war. The remaining two she is able to deduce are the lords of House Corbray, and with the arrival of Lady Jeyne Arryn it would seem that the council is completely present. A rather small gathering, she concludes, and if she is to make swift judgement based upon the rumors she has collected regarding those present, not entirely unmanageable. 

Despite this conclusion, as she stands within the room, gaze drifting demurely about the space, the eyes that rest upon her are suspicious and wary. Her hands remain folded in front of her, and it would seem that the only thing preventing outright confrontation is the steady presence of Cregan Stark at her side. The Lord of Winterfell does not let her wander far from him, and this tethering leads her to feel akin to a child that has been brought to a playdate rather than a lady at a formal gathering. If it irritates her, she does not allow it to show upon her sweetly pleasant expression. The stares do not bother her, not when she has spent the last few years of her life subjected to far more reviling glares of hatred.

These Northerners stand within her territory, regardless of their positions at present, and they will not scare her with glances. And it is of little consequence as she has not come to play, but simply to observe.

When Cregan calls the nobles to begin the meeting, it is with little fanfare that he introduces her to the gathered lords and lady. In spite of their unwelcoming stares, not one voice is raised to argue with their liege lord when he informs them that she shall be attending the entirety of the meeting. One of the lords of House Corbray shifts rather uncomfortably in his chair and Lady Jeyne Arryn does little to hide the mistrust in her eyes, but nary a word is uttered in disagreement.

Lady Tyrell finds herself seated next to Cregan, a matter which does not go unnoticed by those around the table, and she smooths her gown down elegantly before she folds her hands within her lap. She need not do anything but listen intently and gaze with amiable neutrality as various concerns and issues are brought to the attention of the Northern council. 

It is in this time that she ensures herself take careful study of each leading character at Cregan Stark’s table, for the information will surely prove useful sooner rather than later. Lord Leowyn Corbray is a stout man whose reputation as a warrior precedes their meeting, but after listening to him speak for more than a minute she does not believe she shall be hearing any groundbreaking tactical suggestions from him either now or in the future. His brother Corwyn seems to have his head on considerably straighter and enough so to regard her with the most suspicion of all of those present, but she does not find it particularly cruel in nature. Both Oscar and Kermit Tully appear quite eager to prove themselves as capable leaders now that they have achieved greatness on the battlefield, and she imagines that once time tempers the bold pride of youth, they shall become quite wise. Benjicot Blackwood seems to have similar potential, although is considerably more quiet than the Tully brothers.

Lady Jeyne Arryn piques her interest above all, and she finds an unwilling flicker of respect for Cregan’s keeping of a woman at his table. It is a wise decision that few male leaders make and as Lady Arryn speaks, it is clear how much insight and shrewdness she brings to the gatherings. With each problem that arises, a swift combination of practicality and experience is wielded expertly between Lord Stark and Lady Arryn, resulting in admittedly efficient solutions. Lady Tyrell finds her eyes remaining upon the older woman, keen to hear her wisdom and the confidence and ease with which she presents herself among the men of the North. An unmarried woman who sits upon a ruling council is a rarity that Lady Tyrell cannot help but gaze after with faint wanting and curiosity.

“The Lady Johanna Westerling has agreed to the peace terms sent by Corlys Velaryon, on behalf of the Lannisters. Her raven arrived only this morning.” Lord Corwyn Corbray informs the table, his brows drawing together pensively as he presents the letter in question for the gathering to gaze upon. Cregan Stark reaches for the parchment, his face stern as his eyes flicker over the lines of dried ink. With a slow inhale, he nods, his broad shoulders lowering as he hands the paper over to Lady Arryn to read as well. There is a heaviness to his gaze, as if he is weighing a matter of great importance upon his mind. Lord Kermit Tully leans over to whisper something to his brother Oscar, who frowns before offering a quick response in an equally hushed tone. 

“It was less of a matter of if and more one of when, with Lady Johanna.” Lady Arryn observes dryly, an unreadable expression upon her face as she scans the written text of the letter before passing it along down the table. When handed the parchment, Lord Leowyn Corbray gives a mighty sigh, stroking his chin in a manner Lady Tyrell might describe as thoughtful if she believed he thought for very long about any matter at all. 

“An agreement is progress nonetheless.” There is a rotund rumble to his manner of speaking, as he possesses a portly voice that is decidedly fitting of his physical figure.

Lord Oscar Tully gives an unimpressed scoff at this, and when the letter finally reaches him, he beholds it quickly before letting it pass to his brother. The young lord’s eyes narrow, his hands folding together upon the table with a sharp swiftness. “It matters not, when our great trouble still has yet to send any indication of even reading the terms given.”

“We knew from the start that Oldtown would not be easily persuaded to abandon the war.” Lord Corwyn reminds the nobles with a knowing gaze, his eyebrows raising with the words. He offers a neutral partiality that seems to balance the boldness of the younger lords and the reservation of his brother. With an inhale through his nose, he shakes his head slowly. “They have risked too much to surrender outright, and it is likely they see their House’s future upon the line. They quite nearly had the Seven Kingdoms within their grasp, they will not be so quick to concede.”

“Lyonel Hightower is young and hot-tempered; he will spoil for war so long as he believes it is his right.” Cregan remarks calmly, his stormy eyes even as they gaze down at the stone table in serious thought. Lord Leowyn gives another deep sigh at this, nodding rather vigorously to express his agreement as the letter makes its way to the hands of Lord Benjicot Blackwood, who seems to take the task of reading it quite seriously.

Lady Tyrell finds the matter is the first one that truly draws her attention. It would seem that the general consensus among the room is that there is want for the peace terms to be agreed to, despite the widespread belief that the Northerners desire further bloodshed. Her eyes lower down to the table as she rolls the matter over in her mind, like marbles in a hand. It is a delicate situation, as Lyonel Hightower does still possess a host large enough to continue the fighting with, and a reason to do so as his father had been killed in the fighting. And he lacks the judgment and experience that might prevent an older lord from responding with callous and reckless rage.

“He seeks vengeance for his father,” Lady Arryn points out with a thoughtful tilt of her chin. Her eyes are calm yet have a distinct edge that gives the impression of a bird of prey surveying its options. “Lady Samantha shall find it difficult to convince the young lord to stand down, even should she have his favor.”

This situation Lady Tyrell has heard whispers of – a shocking rumor that the new Lord Hightower has become infatuated with his father’s young widow, only two years his senior, and yearns to make her his new bride. The ladies of the Red Keep have been shaking their heads and pressing disapproving hands to their chests over the matter, but the lady cannot say it is particularly appalling to her despite its scandal. An unfortunate side effect of spending far too much time around Targaryens, perhaps.

The haze of sunlight sneaking in through the small circles of windows casts a soft glow over the mutely colored room, revealing particles of dust floating about. Lord Benjicot is taking his time reading and then rereading the letter, but Lady Tyrell’s eyes have flickered over to Cregan in the seat next to her, who remains silent as the rest of his council continue to ponder the issue presented by the Hightowers. The Northern lord listens with stern attentiveness, his large hands clasped together in front of him as his elbows rest upon the stone table. Strands of his red hair fall about his face, curling slightly at the tips that reach just below his jaw. 

As she watches him lead his council from the head of the table, she is pointedly reminded of the power and influence he possesses, no matter how gently he attended to her the night before. There is a strange juxtaposition in the sheer strength he has a leader and a solider, and the quiet and steady honorability she had seen within him yesterday. A feeling of unease begins to coil in her stomach again, and beneath the table she feels her fingers beginning to press into each other anxiously. 

Cregan must feel the weight of her stare, because he flicks his eyes over to meet hers while the young Tully lords raise the idea of crushing Oldtown before they have the chance to march on King’s Landing. She gives a silent inhale of breath at this, but does not look away. His grey eyes give an asking narrow, but her own face remains neutral as she regards him calmly, thinking back upon the events of yesterday. 

Her eyes widen a fraction when the realization crashes down upon her in a thunderous tidal wave and her hands still.

The Lord of Winterfell takes silent notice of this, his eyes becoming more questioning before she turns her head to look out across the table, the gears of her mind spinning with rapid perspicacity. He pauses with a steady gaze as she draws her conclusions, patiently awaiting the presentation of whatever scheme her mind has quickly drawn up in solution to his problem. A faint flicker of pride burns hot within his chest, and he attempts not to look too pleased with himself for deciding to include her in this morning’s meeting. It would seem his gamble is about to pay out, and quite profitably.

“If I may, Lord Stark?” When her quiet, sweet voice breaks softly into the conversation, Lady Tyrell’s eyes turn to Cregan for approval to speak. Her lashes flutter gently, and she sits with all the poised grace she has been offering each time she performs for an audience, no matter how large or small. 

“Go ahead, my lady.” He is already staring back at her, and with a start, she swears for a heartbeat she can see the ghost of a smile curl at the edges of his lips. As if he already knows what she is about to say, despite him lacking the information that would allow him to draw that conclusion. Does he truly have such faith in her? Her gaze flickers with soft suspicion before she shifts delicately in her seat and turns her attention to the faces that have cast their rather unwelcoming gazes to her. Taking a small breath, she relays her plan to the Northern council.

“If it is Oldtown that causes you worry, I might have means by which to dissuade Lord Hightower from continuing the war,” Lady Tyrell begins with soft inflection, ensuring she makes proper eye contact with the nobles gathered about the table as she speaks. Her hands remain together within her lap, and she keeps her chin raised and straight while she addresses the room. “You see, it happens that his younger brother Garmund is a ward of House Tyrell. A companion of my own younger brother, who is being raised in Highgarden.”

The room falls silent at this revelation, and at its implication. Presented by this delicate lady, doe eyes soft as she gazes about, it seems like quite the mild observation. But the truth of her words rings out clear as a bell to the temporary council: every ward is a hostage, and every hostage can be leveraged in a time of war. Lady Arryn lowers her chin, her sharp eyes focused on Lady Tyrell as she leans forward.

“And House Tyrell would then demand the Hightowers stand down?” Lady Arryn questions slowly, seemingly unsure of how trustworthy House Tyrell and its representative are in this troubled time. The Lady Tyrell gives a small, elegant shrug as she meets the other woman’s eyes with soft detachment.

“I am not the head of my House, and therefore I can swear you no oaths. But I do believe that if I explain the delicate situation to my mother that she will be persuaded to suggest to the Hightowers the folly of raising a host without her approval.” It is a tentative offer, carefully phrased and wrapped in the ribbons of soft-spoken eloquence. The Lords Tully are quick to offer their own opinions on the matter, and Lord Leowyn Corbray remarks loudly upon the assistance a Hightower hostage would provide. But it is Cregan that Lady Tyrell looks to, her eyes narrowing as he gives her a slow nod of approval. Her plan has apparently pleased him. 

Her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks as she looks down a moment, not eager to continue to be subjected to his stern and silent approval. It evokes an unusual feeling; one she does not wish to give name to. Cregan’s own scheme the day before is what sparked her idea, reminding her of the strength found in the weaponization of loved ones in wartime. She does not wish to give him too much credit – they are still not quite allies, after all, but perhaps if he asks she shall reveal the truth of the matter to him. As the council seems to come to the general consensus that this is their best chance at securing a peace with Oldtown, Cregan voices his quiet agreement and Lady Tyrell does not look his way.

The council is soon dismissed, but she can feel the lingering of Cregan’s eyes upon her figure as the other nobles trickle out of the room. Pausing in her ambivalent drifting towards the door, she waits for the space to empty before turning to meet the lord’s steady gaze. When the heavy wooden door draws closed, leaving them in equally weighted silence, Cregan gives her a long look.

“Your cooperation does not go unnoticed, my lady,” Low and even, his Northern manner of speaking carries the words across the hollow and dusty room to her with a gruff quality. His brows are drawn together, not in a frown but in a serious appraisal of her, and his eyes flick up and down her body as he speaks. She raises her chin slightly at this, hands folding atop her cream gown as she shifts her balance to stand straighter. “I thank you for your assistance with our pressing issue.”

���It is not for you that I offer a solution,” Lady Tyrell’s words are direct and straightforward, signaling an end to the performance she has given in front of the other Northerners. Cregan’s chest warms at the realization that he does not have to coax honesty out of her this time. That ghost of a smile returns to the corners of his lips, his brows remaining low atop his eyes. “But my House’s own desires and the good of the Reach.”

“I could hardly expect anything less from you,” Cregan gives a slow tilt of his head, nodding to affirm his understanding of her motivations. His eyes squint slightly and his lips press together, his gaze dropping to the floor as he takes a few large steps towards her slowly. “My gratitude is offered nonetheless.”

Lady Tyrell watches with wary gaze as Cregan draws near, his sizable stature still giving her pause even in this hesitant armistice. Fighting back the urge to retreat to the door, she allows him to draw nearer. With a deep breath, her eyes fall to his face and she confirms what she had seen last night as he had knelt in front of her armchair, firelight upon his skin. Tiny freckles dot his nose and cheeks as stars in the heavens. Her eyes flicker between them.

“You might attempt to show that gratitude, in that case, my lord,” There is a serious look upon her face at the suggestion, provided as she readjusts her gaze to stare into his eyes instead of upon his face. She need not think of such trivial details, not when so much is still at stake, and he remains an uncertain piece upon the grand chessboard. “Actions hold more importance than words, after all.”

“You are right, my lady.” Cregan acquiesces with smooth and deep timbre, absentmindedly closing his hand into a loose fist as he gives her eyes his full attention. There is that weight again, bearing down upon her with such intensity regardless of intention. She has half a mind to scowl and ask if he chooses to look at people this way, or if it is a byproduct of his Northern upbringing. “Is there something I might do for you then?”

There are half a million things Lady Tyrell ought to ask Cregan Stark for. A permanent place upon his council, an agreement between their two houses, for her to be released from the temporary cage of the Red Keep. But simmering in the back of her mind, like a kettle that is never quite removed from the stove and never far out of reach, is the worry that has anxiously filled her mind night after night since prisoners had been taken by the Northern forces. Cregan is awaiting her response patiently, stood quite still in front of her, but her mind is elsewhere as the realization that she cannot put aside her own selfishness in this instance settles thickly into her mouth, molding into the words that fall from her lips.

“I wish to see Princess Jaehaera.” She takes a long breath as soon as it leaves her tongue, her arms folding across her chest as she looks away from him, stepping past Cregan so that her back is to him when he turns to face her. The Lord of Winterfell is not expecting this request, and a somber confusion finds its way into the pull of his brow and the tightness of his lips as he stares at her hair and the back of her gown. At the way her arms have drawn protectively across her front. A silence settles between them as Lady Tyrell keeps her attention cast to the circular windows, the cloudy glass of the small frames preventing her from seeing anything outside clearly.

“The princess is meant to be kept in solitary confinement, save for her Septa.” Cregan begins slowly, unsure of what the lady might want from a visit to the young girl. His intention to politely suggest that she provide a different request disappears from his mouth when she turns on him with such swift force that her hair whips about her face before it settles upon her back.

“She is five. A prisoner in her own home and alone.” There is no hiding the emotion that her voice catches on, snagging across it like fabric upon glass. It burns in her eyes then, that same look that she had given Cregan when she had spoken of her sister. Love, of this Cregan is quite clear, but it is encased in something painful. It has the quality of an open wound, bruising and tender like damaged fruit. A rushed sigh breaks out of her lungs and she presses her lips together in a tight line, her chin raising as her eyes scan the room, attempting not to say anything too scathing at the rush of anxiety and loss that fill her lungs. Cregan offers her the silent courtesy of patience while she collects herself.

“Her mother–.” Lady Tyrells makes a valiant attempt to explain herself, knowing full well that she cannot simply ask to see the princess without reason. Any number of people might wish to bring the girl harm – in a way, she supposes she is grateful to Cregan for being so selective about whom is allowed to see her. But the words lodge themselves into the lining of her throat and an attempt to force them out only results in near coughing. Her lips part, her brows furrowing deeply, her hands opening and closing into fists as she finds, to her utmost horror, her grief rising sharp and fast despite her being in front of Cregan Stark. Biting back her own frustration, she digs her nails into her palms so quickly that she is sure to leave marks.

Cregan finds himself staring into a reflection in a broken mirror, watching a state of being he knows all too well.

The pain from her hands steadies her, and the lady is able to loosen the words from her throat enough to string together a phrase that is somewhat logical. “I swore an oath to her mother.”

This raw and honest side of her is something that Cregan will need getting used to. It is refreshing and liberating, to have her opinions and thoughts spoken so plainly, but he cannot stop the wrenching of his chest each time she wears her love so clearly upon her face, so deeply within her words. He wishes, in decided and utter foolishness, to give her what she asks of him if only to ease the jagged pain held within her eyes. It is quite obvious to him that she only desires to see the princess to uphold this oath that has been sworn. Far be it from Cregan Stark to deny the fulfillment of an honorable promise to the deceased. “…If you shall agree to my remaining present during the visit.”

The compromise is soft and firm. As if she has been turned to marble, she stills. Unblinking and unmoving, eyes cast down to the stone floor as she considers his terms. Slowly, she looks up at him and nods wordlessly. 

Late is the hour that she arrives outside the guarded section of Maegor’s Holdfast, and low is the torchlight. While most of the nobles attend to their supper plans, and busy themselves with socializing as boredom runs amuck throughout the Red Keep, she stares numbly out an arched window and down at the iron spikes that fill the dry moat below. It is not the first time she has cast her gaze to the metal outside, but the first time since the Northerners had taken control of the castle. So busy has she been, concerning herself with the host occupying the capital and with its liege lord, that she has not had time to sit in her grief.

It is far from gone. She can count every single day that has gone by since Helaena threw herself from her window, and with the passing of each week a sense of wrongness and longing sinks its teeth into her heart. On occasion, she wonders innocently where her dearest friend has gone, expecting to see her turning the corner or sitting in the garden. And then Lady Tyrell is back in front of that open window, night air unforgiving on her cheek and sheer white curtains blown back gently. Staring down at Helaena, whose eyes were closed and whose body was so very still. It rushes back with the terrifying sense of falling, as if she is being jarred from a nightmare. Only the nightmare is her reality, one that is unbelievable at times and numbly accepted at others. 

There is no one that she can share her grief with – the dowager Queen has been locked away and Lady Tyrell is not certain that she wishes to see Alicent even if given the opportunity. Helaena’s brothers have all died, and the strangeness of nearly every immediate relation to the girl being gone is an eerie reminder of how haunted the quiet stone halls are. In her deepest, rawest sadness she finds herself even wishing to speak to Aegon and Aemond, whom she had always loathed in life. If only to have a connection to Helaena, to talk with someone who might begin to understand. 

Without Helaena, Lady Tyrell has not a single true friend in her life, not one person who sees her for what she is and loves her still. How good Helaena had been to her, how truly loved she had always felt from the closeness and understanding shared by the two girls. Without the late queen, there is no place for her within the castle. She grows restless with the stinging ache, finding it hard to exist within walls that seem to loom closer and darker by the day. Walls that hold their laughter from moments of shared childhood, their exchanged smiles and whispered secrets. No amount of screaming nor crying shall rectify the anxious energy that buzzes beneath her skin, nor the guilt she feels for simply living. Lady Tyrell had always known how important Helaena was to her, but when she had seen Helaena’s body, how clear had become to her then.

Lady Tyrell would have waited there with Helaena forever.

Dull eyes remain tethered to the spikes as she hears the approach of heavy footfalls, that draw closer and then stop in front of her. 

“Are you ready, my lady?” Cregan Stark’s steady voice is a buoyant raft tossed to her in the turbulent storm of her mind and she accepts it after a moment of considering drowning. Tired eyes meet his own, dimly lit by the glow of golden torchlight from the wall. There is a heaviness to her expression that tugs at Cregan’s own grief, reminiscent of that which ate at him the first year after Arra’s death.  Part of him wishes to ask her, to extend assistance in what he knows is an impossible situation. But he does not believe he knows her well enough yet, and does not want to overstep.

At her soft nod, he leads her down the halls to the chambers in which Jaehaera is being held. The Northern soldiers guarding the rooms give their liege lord a deep bow and allow Cregan to unlock the door as Lady Tyrell watches on with an unreadable expression. Jaehaera had been brought from Storm’s End only to be locked in the Queen’s Chambers, where Helaena had once lived. The irony seeps its way bitterly in the lady’s bones, a deep sickness that might never be cured as the door opens with a soft noise. How many times has she stood before this very door, waiting for Helaena to allow her in? How many times has she heard that exact clicking of the locking mechanism, how many times has she been met with violet eyes and silver hair? 

Lady Tyrell does not believe in much, but she has, on many an occasion now, felt Helaena’s presence around her. Soft and persistent, staring back at her when the lady cannot manage to do anything but bawl until tears have run into her hair and tangled it horrendously. 

When the little girl looks up from her bed, Lady Tyrell sees Helaena nearby, watching. As clear as if the other woman were standing within the room. 

Jaehaera’s eyes go wide with instant recognition, the book she has been reading immediately discarded by her pillow as she jumps to her feet. The lady has pushed past Cregan in a moment, practically breaking into a run to reach the girl, falling to her knees upon the stone floor with such impact that it will surely bruise. But it matters not, not at all, because Jaehaera is there in her arms, safe and breathing. The princess holds onto her with such tightness that the lady wonders if she will ever let go and finds herself with her hand on the back of the girl’s head, holding her close as she had when Jaehaera was just a baby.

“Muña.” Jaehaera’s voice breaks upon the word and Lady Tyrell cannot help the tears that begin to pool within her eyes. It has always been strange to her, that ‘muña’ is used to refer to both one’s mother and maternal aunts. No matter how many times Helaena had patiently explained it to her, the lady had firmly repeated that it was nonsensical to not have two different terms. But hearing the princess call her now, the same way she had called her mother, fills her with a sense of protectiveness and love that she cannot put into words even if she takes up a quill and writes for the remainder of her life. 

“Oh, sweetling,” Lady Tyrell cannot bring herself to say much, the tears already finding their way down her cheeks. It frustrates her to no end that no matter how many times she cries, it is never enough. She always has more tears, stinging her eyes mercilessly, always threatening to fall down her face. Others have offered condolences to her, stating that she would stop crying once the reality sets in, but to her own irritation that day has still not arrived. When she hears Jaehaera’s soft sniffle, the lady’s tears only fall quicker. “I am here. I am right here, little love.”

Cregan lets the door close, not wishing for his guards to watch her cry. It feels wrong to intrude upon the pair of them, to witness this tender display of love and loss. He shifts uncomfortably by the door, moving his weight to his other foot. This draws attention to him, and the little princess looks up with worry. Tears stain the girl’s face, and she turns to Lady Tyrell, who leans back and rests her hand on the child’s cheek. Catching Jaehaera’s concerned gaze, the lady turns to look at him.

Upon her knees on the stone floor, tears down her face and red-rimmed eyes, her hand on the young princess’ cheek tenderly – Lady Tyrell looks up at Cregan with parted lips. He cannot utter a word, even if a sword were to be pressed to his bare throat. 

She does not speak to him, but instead musters up a soft smile for Jaehaera, giving the girl’s cheek a comforting brush of her thumb before she drops her arm to take the girl’s hand into hers gently. “This is my friend, Lord Stark. He is only here to protect us from anything bad happening, so you need not worry.”

Jaehaera does not seem convinced, quite wary for a girl of five after everything she has lost and endured, and she gives Cregan a timidly unsure blink before she squeezes Lady Tyrell’s hand. The princess’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“I am sure. I swear it to you.” Lady Tyrell tells the girl with certainty, any doubt vanquished from her voice as she brushes a loose strand of silvery hair from Jaehaera’s face with her free hand. This seems to settle the princess a little, and after a moment of pause, the girl leads Lady Tyrell to her bed in hopes of showing her the book she has been reading. 

Cregan settles himself by the fire, within a plush chair that faces out into the large room. The Queen’s Chambers are an extensive set of rooms – he had hoped that the princess would not feel overly trapped within its walls. But seeing the young girl now, sat beside the lady at the head of the bed, fingers running over the words of her books, it seems too big a space for a child to be kept in alone. 

Lady Tyrell manages to prevent any more tears from spilling down her cheeks and chin as Jaehaera tells her of the books she has been reading while she remains locked within the room. The princess does not ask if she can be freed, which only serves to worry the lady further. The girl has lost so much and suffered so because of the war, and the lady wonders with a sickening start if there is nothing that she can do to help Jaehaera. But as the girl begins to read the book aloud to her, showing how good her Valyrian has grown, Lady Tyrell knows she must do her utmost to keep her promise to Helaena.

Her oath to protect Jaehaera. If it is all she can do, she shall do it. 

The rest of the night is spent reading together, as they had many times before. Jaehaera does her best to teach Lady Tyrell more Valyrian, and the lady in turn tries to repeat the language correctly. It does not bother her when she gets the words wrong, because if her pronunciation is poor enough then the princess’s face lights up with a laugh and the girl smiles as she tells the lady to try again. The hours tick by until Jaehaera begins to yawn, and Lady Tyrell takes a brush from her bedside table to begin combing through the girl’s silver hair gently. 

How familiar a scene it is, how comfortable. The soft candlelight of the Queen’s Chambers, the wooden tables scattered with books, the moon shining brightly outside of one large window. Since Jaehaera’s birth, they have repeated this routine many times. Lady Tyrell has missed it dearly. She has always known she wishes to be a mother, and Helaena had given her three beautiful children to help raise in preparation. Jaehaera is all she has left. 

As the princess’s eyes flutter closed, her hand holding Lady Tyrell’s as if she is afraid the woman will disappear, a soft voice can be heard whispered into the silk pillowcase. “Jaelagon muña.”

I want mama.

Lady Tyrell’s hand trembles slightly beneath Jaehaera’s as the girl drifts off to sleep, her own eyes closing heavily as she tries to fight off any more tears that might wish to drip down to her chin. After she is certain the child is asleep, she rises and turns, eyes widening as she is reminded quite suddenly of Cregan Stark’s presence. The lord had been so quiet and still that she had all but forgotten him.

As she makes her way across the chambers to him, a dry swallow is forced down her throat. It is against her nature to allow others to see her in vulnerability, and the Lord of Winterfell has now seen much more than he should have. She decides not to speak of it, simply folding her hands together. Her eyes drift to the fire as Cregan remains sat within the soft armchair, his gaze upon her face. Finally, with a sigh, she speaks softly. “I do not wish to be demanding, but if I could only see her-.”

“Whenever you wish.” Cregan’s voice is quiet and sturdy as he interrupts her. With a creasing of her brow, she raises her gaze to meet his eyes, searching for some sort of trick or ploy. She is instead met with a look that makes her lips fall open slightly, her expression softening. There is nothing but steady certainty upon his face, bathed in the warm glow of firelight. “I shall bring you by whenever you wish, my lady.”

A gentle gust of wind blows through the open window. 

a/n: i have once again written an incredibly long chapter, my deepest apologies. i know i promised protective cregan but he is on the way! this ended up being much lengthy than i planned and therefore a scene got shifted. 

this chapter and all of my writing is dedicated to the person i would wait with forever, and to everyone experiencing grief. 

october is domestic violence awareness month and i encourage everyone to try and find an event or drive near you, or to simply repost information and resources. the links below offer free educational materials on domestic violence prevention, as well the american national domestic violence hotline:

Free Materials | Domestic Violence Awareness Project (dvawareness.org)

national domestic violence hotline website

almost all localities in the us have a specific organization for helping victims of domestic violence, and it is important to familiarize yourself with it even if you believe you have no need. your vigilance and self-education could one day save you or a loved one.