#scraping the divine

[depravednotdeprived]

Full of Hell/Andrew Nolan - Scraping the Divine (2024)

Genre: Grindcore/Noise

Artwork by Savage Pencil

[onlyhurtforaminute]

FULL OF HELL AND ANDREW NOLAN-SPHERE OF SATURN

[just-somehuman]

GANG

GANG

I RAIDED THE JP TWITTER FOR ALL THE YURA CARDS I MISSED IN THE PAST YEAR OR SMTH IDK (i deleted twt) AND OMG??? HELLO???

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE CONTEXT IS BUT ARE YOU SEEING THIS??? THE SHADOW??? HIS SHADOW IS TRYING TO ATTACK HIM BRO

or claw its way out of... something (the curse?)

IDK THE STORY BEHIND THIS BUT WTF HOW COULD I LIVE MY LIFE NOT KNOWING THIS EXISTED IN JP

I have to play JP now there's no way I can let Yura cards like these escape my grasp.

[aesethewitch]

Free Tarot Friday!

Free readings are closed for the night!

It's been a hot minute! It's late in the day (for me), but the migraine I've been dealing with since last night seems to have let me go. So while it's still Friday, let's do this!

I'll be doing free one-card pulls this evening from now until I either run out or get tired. My inbox has been cleared out, so it's first come first serve.

To get a reading: Read the rules. Send an ask, get a single card pull. One question per ask, one ask per person. Repeat requesters from past FTFs are fine.

Want a guaranteed reading? More cards? In-depth analysis? Commission me here. Enjoy your free pull or my other work? Tip me here.

[the-travelling-witch]

HOLLY HATES GRANDPAS (zhongli) CONFIRMED/j

I actually really like the thought of Xiao and his relationship being a bit darker I mean didn’t Xiao kill thousands of “people” and creatures for him? I’m not educated on his lore but I know Xiao was some type of warrior to Morax when he was a god? Archon?

Holly I would love to hear your thoughts on it

okay where do i start with this… no seriously where do i start

You said you don’t know much about Xiao, so let’s start there (coming from someone who might know a little too much about him jshsh).

Basically, yes, you are correct that Xiao was fighting for Morax alongside the other Yaksha and Adepti during the Archon War after Morax saved him from his enslavement to an ancient god and gave him the name “Xiao”. Because of his gratitude to Morax, Xiao took on the duty to protect Liyue, something he still does to this day.

Now, what I think is important to mention here is that Xiao is still referred to as a “young adeptus” even in present times, so during the Archon War approximately 2700 years ago, he was much younger still, meaning he was enslaved from a very very young age. (My personal headcanon is that he had golden wings originally and that they have been cut off/ clipped/ ripped out by the ancient god when he was first enslaved.)

But Xiao was not alone in protecting Liyue. He had four fellow guardian yaksha, who were all very dear to him, but who tragically passed after succumbing to what is known as “karmic debt”. Karmic debt is the residual wrath of slain gods, whose hatred and power remain after being defeated due to them being immortal. It causes a physical and mental toll on those who are subjected to it, especially continuously over long periods of time, like the yaksha.

(There were more than these five yaksha, of course, like Pervases, but I’m talking mostly about the five guardian yaksha.)

In the perilous trail quest line we learn more in depth about what happened to the four other yaksha; Indarias succumbed to madness and fear, Bonanus and Menogias killed each other in battle and Bosacius fought in the Chasm during the cataclysm after even forgetting his own name.

Xiao wasn’t unaffected either. Had he not heard Venti play the flute, he would have lost himself to his karmic debt too, which is not unsurprising considering he has been fighting the remnants of gods from the Archon War all this time.

(I feel we are now leaving hoyo’s plane of storytelling and entering my plane of angst, so everything from here on out is interpreted through the messenger that is me… but you guys love my angst right)

And Zhongli isn’t the harmless, senile grandpa who forgets his wallet all the time (which he totally does on purpose) as he makes himself out to be. When Xiao first met him he was the Warrior God, Morax.

Surely, during a war, for someone like him, the first thought on his mind wasn’t how the people around him felt but how he could best utilise the weapons at his disposal to ensure victory.

And Xiao happened to be one of those weapons.

If you look at what Xiao did during and after his enslavement, it’s not much different, is it? He still, as you said, slaughtered and slayed countlessly, just under a different leader.

And sure, the difference here is that Xiao accepted it willingly this time around, yet, as I explained earlier, I think that he was still very much within his formative years (decades? centuries?) back then, where he, for one, learnt that apparently killing is what he was good for. But also, of course, he would perceive Morax as this “good” person who freed him and who he wants to support; and at first glance, there’s nothing wrong with that.

We also see, however, that Xiao holds Zhongli in a higher regard than pretty much anyone else. Even nowadays he still refers to him as Rex Lapis and dares anyone to speak ill about him (or Morax for that matter) though Zhongli has retired both of those names already. Yet Xiao of all people clings to it.

Also what kind of (good) father would let his son literally work away to the brink of insanity?

Yes, I’m aware that Zhongli inquires about how Xiao is doing and that he has medicine made for him (which he doesn’t deliver himself), which is fine and all but also… too little too late huh? It also means that Zhongli is aware of the state Xiao is in and he never bothers to walk his old ass over to Wangshuu Inn and tell the guy to stop? We went over how loyal Xiao is to Zhongli; you’d think he’d listen if he earnestly told him to rest, the old geezer is the reason Xiao does all this protecting in the first place.

And don’t think I forgot about the chasm quest, oh no. I know Zhongli saved Xiao just in the nick of time and we all cried at the cutscene, and I cried so much but also… why does this retired grandpa have to show up so late? He couldn’t have stopped looking at silk flowers two minutes earlier, before Xiao took on the physical and mental toll of sacrificing himself? Sure… if you say so…

(Though probably not his intention, you could read it as another sign of “You are still here because of me” or Xiao could be encouraged in feeling like he once again owes his life to Morax.)

But, what is even more heartbreaking, is how Xiao had been ready to make the ultimate sacrifice this entire time (shown by how he asked Yanfei about what a will is and if anyone could make one). Where do you think that mindset came from?

(Okay, Holly, calm down. Don’t throw hands with the geo grandpa… leave some for Neuvillette.)

And I’m not saying that Zhongli would still make the same decisions today that he made back then or that he is proud of what he has done. Actually, I think he’d feel quite guilty now that peaceful times have been established and he is in the position to take a step back and reevaluate, which is probably where his attempts at healing come from. I’m not saying he is a fundamentally bad person.

(Zhongli: “We did not measure right and wrong during the days of the Archon War in the same manner as we do today.”)

I’m saying that the circumstances of their first meeting lastingly formed the base and nature of their relationship.

I don’t think Zhongli has bad intentions, yet he also doesn’t address their past dynamic either and after what we established, we can assume Xiao wouldn’t either, which is probably why Zhongli reckons it is okay to let the topic rest.

(comment by @watatsumiis: “i feel like xiao literally isnt equipped to bring up these sorts of conversations. he just thinks how hes living is totally normal. like if you were to really twist it, YEAH their relationship could be like a father and son dynamic but in the way that like.. zhongli is a more mature and well rounded person than xiao is and because of his emotional experience he should be the one taking the lead and helping to guide xiao in these situations, even if that means starting the hard conversations.” Thank you for putting into words what my 1am brain couldn’t <3)

When he tells Xiao to go and make and meet friends he probably has very good intentions and there is care there. But we also know making connections is something Xiao is very afraid of, no matter how much he craves having a connection to someone, because he is scared to taint them with his karmic debt.

I also want to reiterate that the god who helped Xiao most with fighting against his karmic debt was Venti, who Zhongli labels as a useless drunk… just saying.

You could say that Zhongli tries to move their relationship from master and weapon to something more familial but his attempts are a little clumsy, probably because their history just runs very deep and old roles are hard to let go of.

To me, Xiao is a character with childlike curiosity but also the resoluteness and stoicism of someone who was forced to grow up too fast. And in a happier ending, someone close and dear to him (me, it’s me) can help him reevaluate his purpose and bring more nuance into a pretty black and white view on things.

However, @/watataumiis and I have been moving into a completely different direction ofc and I won’t spoil what it is here but I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then (and naturally I immediately started self shipping shenanigans bc I can’t not insert myself when Xiao is involved :])

And with that I conclude my crazed ramblings <3

(Again, not saying Zhongli is a bad person or anything, and this also not necessarily the basis on which I write him in x reader fics; you know me, I just like exploring avenues like this. Also I feel like I’m forgetting half of what I wanted to say, but that’s kinda typical; just know that I feel like there are more angsty thoughts under the smooth surface of my late night brain.

And while it’s not my cup of tea, I’m not trying to put down anyone who does see them as a functional father/son dynamic; there is nothing wrong with wanting that fluffy found family comfort ^^)

[gonnabeokaykid]

Oh the poetic justice

[fromdove]

JASON TODD does not love you.

He says it in silence, in shrugs, in the scrape of his boots across your floor at 2:47 a.m., smelling like cordite and stormwater. He says it when he doesn't kiss you hello. When he stands in your doorway with hands in his pockets like they’re hiding something — not weapons, this time, just the fragile truth of him.

No, he doesn’t love you. Couldn’t.

His heart is an abandoned cathedral, echoing with gunfire and the names of people who never came back. His tenderness was smothered young — snuffed out in alleyways and interrogation rooms, in a casket buried too soon.

He learned that love was a ghost story. He came back wrong.

And yet—

you exist.

You, with your stupid smile and your socks mismatched, your warm vanilla and coconut scented hair, with your morning voice and the way you hold him like he’s not about to vanish again. You, who touch the sharp parts without pulling away. Who asks nothing and somehow still makes him want to give everything.

You cup his jaw when he’s spiraling, thumb grazing the old scar no one else dares to mention. You laugh at his worst jokes like they’re divine. You leave the bathroom light on because you know he doesn’t sleep well in the dark.

And that fucking terrifies him.

Because it would be easier if you were cruel. If you looked away. If you didn’t see him — all of him. The fury, the fracture, the failure.

But you do.

And he doesn’t know how to live with that.

So, no. Jason Todd does not love you.

He just thinks of you when he bleeds. He just reaches for you in his sleep. He just keeps a key to your apartment in the lining of his jacket, right next to the switchblade. He says your name like it doesn’t belong in his mouth, like it’s too clean for someone who’s been covered in blood more than sunlight.

He doesn’t love you. But if you asked him to stay—just once, just tonight— he’d hang up his guns. he’d learn how to breathe again. he’d try.

God help him, he’d try. He’d tear out the parts of himself that learned how to leave, just to stay this time.

[luffysscraps]

How they eat~

Drabble;🔞;Fem reader;Ft;Luffy;Zoro;Sanji;Ace;Sabo;Law;Kid

Luffy devours you~

-“Shi shi shi~ come’re~”

Gruff hands grab at your thighs and pull you down causing your legs to dangle off the bed. In no time his head is deep in between your legs. He looks up at you and gives you a cute, angelic smile before his slimy tongue slips out of his mouth. In an instant his mouth is against your folds, nose deep on the ridge of your clit while his tongue plunges deep into your gummy walls. His hunger is ravenous. He inhales through his nose while his mouth is busy, not once lifting his head to take away take from his meal. Lots of slurping, sucking, and gulping when he’s eating out your pussy. His arms squeeze around your torso tightly, not allowing you to move an inch. “Stoppp squirming~ ‘m hungryyy~” He came to eat and that’s exactly what he’s gonna do. He’s not letting you go until you cum at least three times on his tongue. Even then his hunger knows no bound, he’ll go until he’s locked jaw and his boxers are soiled with his own cum.

You just taste so good. He can’t get enough~

Zoro’s a fucking tease~

-“Feel good don’t it~? Sounds like it does~”

Zoro speaks in between long, wet, licks. His meaty tongue sinks in between your folds ever so slightly and starts out quick, but once he comes up to your clit he takes his time. Painstakingly so. Short and spaced out licks land on your bundle of nerves and then when you least expect it he’ll dive straight in and start sucking on it intensely. His large hands hold your thighs in place so you can’t squirm away while you lull out in pleasure. He moves away from your clit and extends his tongue as far as he can into your pussy, it swirls around collecting and sucking up your juices. You’re almost to your limit and Zoro knows it. So he pulls away, a trail of your juice and his saliva connecting his tongue to your pussy “Hmm tasty~” He’ll chuckle and look at you with an all knowing smirk. “What… where you about to cum..? Hmm I’ll just have to go back in for seconds then~”

He loves to edge you with just his tongue~

Sanji savors his meal~

-“Thank you for the meal, Mon amour~”

Soft, slow, and gentle kitten licks and kisses trail gently down your stomach until they reach your soaking core. He inhales your scent, softly groaning at the delicacy as his thumbs gently pull apart your folds. His tongue laps at your juices softly, taking in the wetness on his taste buds and imprinting your taste into his mind. He loves it. It’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted and he’s infatuated with your cunt juice. But he’s not a glutton; he takes his time eating you out. Small licks, gentle sucks on your clit, and takes in mouthful after mouthful of your pussy slowly. If you end up cumming he takes his time using his tongue to clean you up and drink up his reward.

You’re just so divine, he has to savor you~

Ace gets pussy drunk~

-“Hmm~ I need ya sugar~ com’ere”

Ace often wakes up with a need to taste you. He’s already under the covers and between your thighs. He lazily scrapes your panties to the side before diving in. His tongue roughly and wildly scraps against your entrance a few times before he parts your folds plunging his face in between your pussy lips. Ace practically melts on your cunt; his tongue curling and twisting inside your entrance, a thumb lazily flicking your clit, and his other hand begins to palm himself through his boxers. “Mmm~ So good~” He can’t help but moan into your pussy at the taste of you. He laps up your juices with lewd and loud slurps, sucks, and licks. He buries himself in between your thighs lulling on your cunt like a lollipop, your juices soaking into his taste buds like a delicious sweet. After you reach your climax all over his tongue he greedily dives back in for another round. He just can’t stop, no matter how sensitive you are.

He craves your pussy

Sabo’s a freak~

-“Sit on my face.”

Without much of an explanation, Sabo’s arms wrap around your waist and brings your body down and clit on to the ridge of his nose. No hovering; He holds your waist down tightly to his mouth. You can feel his short breathes against your clit and while a large smile forms against your pussy lips. He simply watches your pussy from this angle for a while. His hands not letting go of you and you can’t move an inch. Without warning he pulls you down farther, smothering his face in between your cunt. The pleasure hits you like a rocket and you aren’t sure if he can even breathe anymore. He’s sure having his fill, his tongue goes wild against your pussy, licking, sucking and frantically slurping up your juices. He doesn’t let you move from off of him, in fact his fingers sink deep into your waist lightly scratching you as a warning. He rocks his head against your cunt, giving your clit stimulation from his nose rubbing against it. Because of his wildness you feel yourself squirt as you reach your climax. Sabo smirks allowing you to lift off of him just a little bit as your juices soak his face. You’re beyond embarrassed but the blonde just stares up at you with a knowing smile as he licks his damp lips and face. “Delicious~”

What more can he say? He just gets a little feral when he gets to taste your juices~

Law plays with his food~

- “You want more than just my tongue don’t you~? Such a naughty pussy.~”

Right there. In between the ‘D’ and ‘H’ in the word ‘Death’ tattooed on his fingers. Spells none other than ‘eat’, and boy do his fingers know how to devour he has two fingers knuckle deep inside of your cunt, twirling around and tapping along your gummy walls. Every now and again he’ll pull them out with a lewd ‘pop’ and give them a soft gentle lick. “Hmm~ you’re sweeter than usual today~”. He’s such a dirty talker. He thrusts his fingers back in without any warning causing you to squirm a little. “Stay still.” He commands giving your bottom a smack. While his fingers thrust into you, he bends over and gives your clit some attention with his tongue. Lightly sucking on it and rolling it around his tongue. you can feel the small, cold metal piercing clink against your clit which adds to the pleasure. Your juices taste delicious against his tongue and his fingers and tongue switch places. Now his fingers are rubbing circles in your clit while his tongue thrusts in and out of you; drinking up your juices with nothing but primal urge. It doesn’t take long before you cum undone onto his tongue in which he drinks it all up, softly pulling away once he’s satisfied. He even goes so far as to lap up the rest of your juices on his finger and pops it in his mouth.

He knows how to work his fingers; from his devil fruit to the bedroom~

Eustass Kidd loves to bring you to tears

-“What? Can’t take anymore slut~? Isn’t this what you wanted~?”

As obnoxious as Kidd is, he sure knows how to get you to scream out on his tongue. He smirks deviously as his tongue edges in and out of your walls. He’s holding you down onto his face while his hands grip your bottom. His hands practically claw and dig into the side of your ass, not allowing you to get away from him. “ ‘s too much? Slow down? You beg and whine for it all day but can’t take it~?” Kidd laughs as his overstimulation and frantic tongue practically brings you to tears. You’ve already came three times and he won’t let you go, the pleasure is too much; You’ll know to think twice before asking him to do anything for you. “Too bad. I’m enjoying myself now~” He chuckles into your pussy before going back in. Your hands claw at his legs for dear mercy but the pain only drives him further. He sucks at your labia before plunging his tongue inside of you and thrusting wildly as if it was his cock. Even as you cum for the fourth time in an hour he shows no signs of stopping, even licking your hyper sensitive clit as you cum and scream out his name.

He just loves to make you scream on his tongue~

Cum back post <3

[quarterlifekitty]

That Price coming home to his missus with a baby thing was delicious, absolutely divine. Do you think for the other boys and Nik it'd be something similar or would they have wildly different reactions? Btw I absolutely love your writing, I check your blog daily for your new stuff, the way you write is delicious, thank you <3

I’ll give you a little something for Ghost since you made me blush and teehee

Also uhhhh I might’ve fucked up the timing a little on infant development milestones but you’re gonna have to forgive me on that

cw: suspicions of infidelity

Ghost is bouncing his leg the whole time he spends in evac. The heli ride, the plane back to base, the car back to his flat— as soon as he was released from the mind frame of the mission it was like all of that anxiety over you he’d built up over the past year and half came crashing on his head.

You’d’ve left him. You must have. He wasn’t really anything he’d call worth sticking around for. That was the plain and honest truth. He’s thinking of the quickest way he can find you and get on his knees for you once he’s scraped all of the blood and dirt off. It was easy to nod and go along with a sudden job Price called about, back when he was under the impression that it would be a few months tops.

He sees a light on in the window of your shared flat. Fuck, hopefully that you and not some new tenant— that somehow his automatic payments had fucked up while he was away and he got evicted. For a split second he debates whether sprinting up the stairs would be faster than waiting for this god-forsaken lift.

He pauses at the door when he hears your laughter. Thank fucking god. His relief is palpable, he’s thanking you and god and whoever else will listen, he’ll never ask for anything again—

“When did you get so cute, huh?”

No.

You wouldn’t.

Not in the flat you two shared, where you fucked and loved each other and cried together, the world couldn’t possibly be so cruel that you’d—

He gets as far as bursting through the door after he manages to find the right key before he’s stopped in his tracks. You look to the door like a deer in headlights, your eyes wide and with a little spoon of sweet potato puree in your hand. Your hair is a mess and—

There’s a baby looking at him. Looking where mommy is looking. The fat little thing is in a high chair, a mess on its face. The name “Lydia” is embroidered in big, swirly letters on her bib. It was a name he’d talked about, his one decent childhood memory, his aunt—

He drops his duffel and rips off the mask. The baby has these whisps of hair that are undeniably yours, eyes that he’s only seen in the mirror.

“Simon— is it really you?” You almost whisper in disbelief. Like you’d dreamed him coming through the door before. Makes his heart fucking ache. The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Yeah, mama. S’me.”

[wethotcrazy]

CAN'T CONTROL IT

pairing: Franco Colapinto x Fem! Driver! Reader

word count: 739

just something a little short and sweet for franco colapinto. also i think the can't control their mouth and can't control their face would suit him well?! idk bro

The F1 social media team had a new favorite hobby: catching YN's reactions to everything Franco Colapinto did.

It started during pre-season testing in Bahrain. Franco, fresh in his Williams racing suit, had spun on his installation lap – a rookie mistake that had the paddock chuckling. The TV director, whether by instinct or divine intervention, cut immediately to YN in the Alpine garage.

Her expression was poetry in motion: eyes rolling skyward, lips pressed together to suppress a smile, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I can't believe this" and "that's my idiot" in one fluid movement.

The clip went viral within hours.

"Have you seen this?" Franco bounded into the Alpine hospitality area, phone already extended. "'Every Time YN Dies Inside Watching Franco Colapinto: Testing Edition' – they even put sad violin music over your faces!"

YN didn't need to look. She'd already seen the compilation – a masterfully edited collection of her various reactions to Franco's testing adventures. Her personal favorite was the slow-motion zoom on her face when he'd described his first F1 car as "spicy."

"I'm starting to think you do these things on purpose," she muttered, but her treacherous face was already softening at his enthusiasm.

"Maybe I just like seeing your reactions," he winked, dropping into the seat beside her. "Remember in F3 when you said your face wasn't that expressive?"

"Remember in F2 when you said you'd learned to think before speaking?"

His laugh echoed through the hospitality area. "Some things never change, no?"

The Australian GP brought new material for the ever-growing collection of "YN Can't Control Her Face" content. As Alpine's reserve driver, she was in the garage when Franco scored his first F1 points – a remarkable P8 in a chaotic race.

His radio message was pure, unfiltered Franco: "P8! P8! YN, are you watching? Better than that time in F2 when you said I'd never score points because I was too busy talking!"

The cameras found her instantly: pride blooming across her features before she could school them into professional neutrality.

"Every time they show your face, the comments explode," Esteban teased later. "I think you've got more screen time than some of the actual drivers."

YN groaned. "Don't remind me. Someone made a TikTok trend out of my different 'Franco Reactions.'"

"At least you're not 'Can't Control His Mouth' Colapinto," Pierre chimed in. "Did you hear him in the press pen? He spent five minutes explaining how you once bet him he couldn't qualify top 10 without talking on team radio."

"Did he mention he lost that bet?"

"No, but your face when they asked you about it said everything."

Monaco was where things reached new heights. Franco, running in P6 during practice, had been providing commentary that somehow always circled back to YN:

"YN's watching, no? Tell her this is how you take the hairpin properly—" Franco spoke through team radio confidently before scraping through the hairpin.  "Ah. Maybe not like that."

The camera cuts to YN's perfect face-palm, followed by a head shake that somehow conveyed both "I knew it" and "why am I even surprised" in one swift motion.

The resulting clip went viral on Tiktok and became F1's most-watched social media post of the weekend.

"You know what I think?" Franco asked one evening, as they shared takeaway in the quiet of the paddock after everyone else had left. The cameras were finally off, but YN's face was as expressive as ever in the dim light.

"That's a dangerous start to any conversation with you."

He grinned, nudging her shoulder. "I think you like that I can't control my mouth."

"And what makes you say that?" she asked, trying and failing to keep her expression neutral.

"Because every time I talk about you, you make this face – like you're trying not to smile but can't help it. It's my favorite one."

"I do not have a special face for when you talk about me."

"Si, you do! You're making it right now!"

She threw a napkin at him, but her smile – soft and genuine and completely uncontrolled – gave her away.

The next day, during the drivers' briefing, Alex caught Franco staring at YN with an expression that mirrored all of hers – soft and fond and entirely unguarded.

The photo went viral with the caption: "Looks like neither of them can control anything anymore 💕"

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: You are meant to be a sacrifice to Nikador, but when you gain the attention of the wrong god, you learn firsthand why mortals are not meant to trifle in the affairs of the divine.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 12.7k

Content Warnings: mentions of human sacrifice, mentions of abuse, it’s going to get violent and whatnot i am sure, blood and whatnot to be expected, obviously an alternate universe, an ending i would say is bittersweet??, not really 1:1 with the myth of bellerophon however if you know the myth you will definitely see a lot of similarities in the general progression of the story, phainon is a god, like fr, so ig you could consider it a problematic age gap SKHJF but more so power imbalances in general, phainon is a catfisher for a bit lowkey, vaguely ancient greek/rome inspired but in the way canon is (so loosely + i make most of it up), i have played maybe HALF of amphoreus !! so characterization may be spotty (#powerofau), uhh idk what else i will try to add it in here if/when it comes up ig

A/N: hey guys, it's me again, international best-selling author mira m1ckeyb3rry, with a special announcement!! (/ref) hehe i don't know what sort of writing fever possessed me but i truly wrote this entire thing in a matter of days (which may account for how messy it is but wtvr) anyways you all read the warnings i am sure but here are some additional notes for those who are interested (mostly regarding the background of the fic)!! with that said, i will keep my angsting to a minimum here because you all know the deal atp T_T no i haven't played amphoreus, yes he's probably ooc, i do indeed think this sucks, i am posting anyways. whatever

It was your brother who tied the bells around your wrists, the trembling melody of his hesitance echoing in their silvery clanging as he fumbled with the red silk of the ribbons. The knots he made were clumsy but firm, as artless as was to be expected of one of Nikador’s devotees, and as thunder shrieked outside, you wished most of all for your mother and her careful fingers. Yet she was forbidden from seeing you, not by any divine decree but because she would not stop wailing and the priests found it grating to listen to her repetitive cries. How can they do this? How can they ask for the life of my daughter?

Your brother, the pale-robed prince, would be the one to dedicate your heart to Nikador. Of course he would be — who else could? Not your father, that feeble, fading king who had long ago relinquished the throne to the lord of strife; not your mother, who came from a distant land where a gentle goddess was venerated, an endless forest where they praised reason instead of the steadfast violence that those of the mountain danced for. No, it had to be your brother, the next king, who had yet to prove his faith in the priests, who had yet to appease the thunderstorms which would not vanish from the horizon until that great titan was given the utmost of sacrifices.

“You mustn’t be frightened, sister,” he whispered fervently, winding cloth around your eyes and taking your hands to lead you forward. “This is what you were meant for. The priests said as much, and when have they ever been wrong? Nikador awaits you most eagerly. It will be quick, and then you will be with them. You mustn’t be frightened.”

The stone of the sanctuary scraped your bare feet as you were brought to the center of it and told to stand very still, your brother’s footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he took one step and then another away from you, leaving you alone upon the altar. You stood in exactly the place that countless oxen and sheep had, and although the scent of the many-flowered wreaths resting atop your crown was dizzying and heady, you were sure that it was nothing but the stench of stale cattle-blood which stung at the back of your throat, those dried, acrid remnants serving as cruel reminders of the ritual you had watched countless times yet never dreamt of participating in.

“Hear me, savage king who bears the lance of fury; you who vanquish all enemies and who are with me in all my battles; befriend me in this mine hour,” your brother began, his voice cracking as his hands, still wet with ceremonial water, seized your forearm and drew a shallow gash in it. You bit back a whine, for you would not give the priests the satisfaction of seeing you cower, and you waited until you heard the trickle of blood into flame before you allowed yourself one whimper of dismay, when you could be sure no one was listening.

“Now,” came the soft croon of the High Priest when your brother choked on his prayer, tears thickening his practiced incantation, “do not falter, young prince — call upon Nikador to free us from this storm. What is one life compared to thousands? Every man and woman on this mountain will suffer if this typhoon continues to rage, but until our great lord is duly satisfied, they will not lift the curse on our kingdom. I have seen it myself; the princess is who they demand. Who are you to deny they who have done so much for us? Who are you to deny your own deity?”

“Yes,” your brother whispered. “Yes, yes, my vigorous and horrid-tempered god, please, I pray, I beg you, deliver us from this torment, bring about a new dawn for our home, and — and in return — in return, accept our offering.”

You waited for him to plunge the sacred dagger into your heart, which was no longer your heart at all but rather Nikador’s, yet there was nothing of the sort, only an awed silence and a blistering, immeasurable heat, oppressive in its sudden strength. You turned your head this way and that, though of course with your blindfold it did nothing but frustrate you, the bells around your throat singing mockingly, teasing you with their knowledge of the unfathomable.

“So,” a stern voice said, and although it was softly done, it echoed in your ears such that you had to clamp your hands over them for fear that they would bleed. “This is what has become of the great cult of Nikador. A boy-prince pointing a blade at a sister who will not fight back. They would be ashamed to hear of it.”

“Why have you come?” the High Priest said, and although he was clearly attempting to maintain his dignity, his valor, he could not stop his words from breaking. “He did not summon you! What business do you have with us, who have always scorned you?”

“You called for dawn,” the voice said, nearly laughing, albeit humorlessly. “You called for deliverance. Who else but me did you expect?”

“Please,” the High Priest said, and you heard a thud as he ostensibly prostrated himself before the mysterious presence. “Do not punish us, revered one, sun-bringer, bearer of the world; spare us, and everything on this altar is yours. We shall hail your name for generations to come, shall honor you as surely as we honor Nikador—”

“It doesn’t seem to me that you honor Nikador very well,” the voice observed. “Why should I accept such an exchange? You have drawn the attention of divinity; perhaps I am not the god you wished to see, but I am a god nonetheless, and yet you are receiving me with such an unpleasant welcome. Well, I’ll overlook it this once. Tell me, why do you pray?”

“The storm,” you said when neither the High Priest nor your brother responded to the nameless god. “They say it is borne of Nikador’s wrath, and so we must pray for its end before we are swept away.”

“Ah,” said the god. “You speak. For how silent you were, I thought they must have cut your tongue out.”

“They did no such thing,” you said. The god hummed, and then a blade, sharp as sunrays, traced up the bridge of your nose, slicing away the linen covering your eyes without so much as nicking your skin. You blinked, your vision adjusting to the blinding light filling the temple, and when you realized who you stood before, you immediately fell to your knees and pressed your forehead to the floor.

“Do you recognize me?” he said.

“Phainon,” you said, your heart pounding when he did not correct you. It was him, the young general of the gods, the one who had supplanted Nikador in the pantheon, the bringer of the dawn and the deliverer of the departed — here he was, the deity that those of the mountain despised most, who they had unwittingly summoned to earth from his throne in the heavens. If your brother did not look so aghast, you would’ve sworn at him, for in truth you would rather die in Nikador’s service than live for even a moment longer under Phainon’s gaze, but you could tell even without him saying it aloud that he knew these things already, and furthermore echoed your thoughts entirely.

“Yes,” he said. “Then, knowing this, will you ask for my blessing?”

“No,” you said, surprising even yourself with how resolutely you said it.

“No?” he repeated.

“What will you do to them if I do? This storm is no natural disaster, and for you to free us from it, you will have to venture forth and do battle with Nikador until their fury abates. Isn’t it so?” you said.

“It is,” he agreed. 

“Then I will not ask it of you,” you said. “Since the birth of our people, Nikador has been our guardian. Perhaps a tempestuous one; perhaps a contemptible one, at times; but we will not abandon them. We will not turn our back on fury for a god without so much as a city to his name.”

“Girl!” the High Priest hissed. “What are you doing? Esteemed one, she meant no disrespect, you must ignore her, fright has twisted her mind…”

“Silence,” Phainon said. “I have met many men like you, old priest, and I have no desire in meeting another. Rise, o sacrifice, and enough with the bowing. What is it that will make your loyalties sway?”

“Nothing,” you said, scrambling to your feet and raising your chin, although you did not brave staring directly at him for too long, knowing that the truth of his being would sear away your vision forevermore. 

“What if I threaten to turn you into an ewe or mare?” he said.

“Aren’t I already as much?” you said, lifting your hands and showing him your adornments, which mimicked those seen on the livestock slain for the fifth day of Nikador’s Feast. He chuckled.

“How self-aware,” he said. “Well, what is it you want? Surely there is something. I can halt this storm and make you queen of this mountain in a moment if you say the words. I can afford you endless wealth and eternal peace. I can ensure you never go hungry and that your children are always healthy. Love, riches, power…pray to me and I will give you them all.”

“Do not squander this,” the High Priest hissed at you. “I am not sure how, but you have gained his interest. You must not let pride stop you from this opportunity.”

Yet you had read the stories; you knew what became of those who received the so-called favor of the gods. It was only Nikador who you could trust, only Nikador who disdained all mortals equally. The rest were as generous with their fits of rage as they were their boons and gifts — even your mother’s kind goddess had once caused the forest to wither for five years, after they had been given a bull instead of a sow as they preferred.

“Nikador,” you said. “That is what I ask for. Convince them to take me as their bride, and then, on the day of my wedding, I will swear allegiance to you as well.”

“Nikador has never taken a bride. Even in the heavens, not a single goddess has turned their head, so how would a mere mortal accomplish it?” Phainon said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “And they would not make a good lover, anyways. Are you certain that is your greatest desire?”

“That is all I want from you, sun-bringer,” you said. “If you cannot accomplish it, I will not blame you, but there is nothing more you can give or take from me.”

“You are bold,” he said. “But I will reward you for it. Very well; until the next time we meet, then.”

As quickly as he had come, he was gone, leaving spots in your vision and a curious darkness in the sanctuary, the very walls crying out for what they had held and then lost. You gasped for the breath you had been unable to fully draw in his presence, dabbing away the sweat which had collected on your brow and not daring to look at your brother or the High Priest.

“What have you done?” your brother whispered finally.

“What have I done?” you parroted with a scowl. “You incompetent fool, what choice did I have? You made me bargain with a god — and not just any god but Phainon!”

“Do not raise your voice against the prince!” the High Priest said. “We were — we were so close, we even had a god in our hands, and you wasted his goodwill with such a thoughtless wish. Nikador’s bride! Who do you think you are?”

“Have you forgotten those stories you taught us when we were children? What if we ended up in the way of my uncle? He, too, thought he could parley with gods, and how has it left him? Bereft of an eye! Whatever Phainon may have given us, we would come to regret it, I know it to be so,” you said. “I have asked him for an impossible gift in the hopes that something else will strike his fancy in the meantime and he will not return to toy with me further. Everyone knows Nikador does not love, and furthermore they detest Phainon, so they will be doubly sure to say no to any requests coming from him. It was the best I could think of in such a fraught situation!”

“You’re right,” the High Priest said. “The gods are unpredictable at best.”

“Thank you,” you said warily, for he was not the sort of man that would concede so easily, and especially not with the sort of absurd smile he was, for some reason, donning.

“Thus, we cannot let you stay here. You have gained the attention of Phainon, who is staunchly opposed to Nikador. Who knows what will become of us if we continue to harbor you with that knowledge? Nikador may not strike us down, they are far too judicious for it, but there is no telling what curses Phainon will rain upon us if we mistakenly anger him when his eyes are turned toward our kingdom,” he continued.

“What did you just say?” you said.

“He is headstrong and young as far as gods go, and you are his latest amusement. We are already suffering from Nikador’s wrath. We cannot handle another disaster, especially of such magnitude,” the High Priest said.

“You’re banishing me,” you said, and now you were incredulous. “I who was meant to be your great sacrifice, I who am your princess…you’re banishing me?”

“Perhaps we ought to think it through,” your brother said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. “My sister is sage and learned; her presence at my side will make my reign only that much stronger. Besides, who’s to say that Phainon will do anything? As she said, likely he will grow bored of Nikador’s obstinance and move on.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” the High Priest said, and if you were not old enough to know better than to raise your hand at anyone, you would’ve struck him on the mouth for his daring. “Your reign will have all the strength you require if you continue to follow Nikador’s teachings. The words of a careless princess tainted with Phainon’s favor will only bring about our end.”

“Your mind is made,” you said. “And if you say it, then it will be done, High Priest.”

“Surely you understand,” he said.

“All too well,” you said, and then you looked at your brother, who avoided your eyes. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he was motionless, as deferent in the end to the High Priest as the rest of the kingdom, despite his many-times-higher status. So it was all you could do to dip your head in feigned respect before spinning on your heel, leaving a path of red footprints in your wake as you left the temple unimpeded.

They gave you until the next dawn to leave — after all, dawn was Phainon’s domain, and so they could pretend like it was mercy or caring that drove them to this. He will guide you, the High Priest assured you as his servants stripped your chambers of their finery, carrying the velvets and silks to the temple where they would be burnt in search of Nikador’s forgiveness. Wherever your path leads you, he will light your way.

You saw him at the kingdom gates in the blue hour, when the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon and your pony was impatiently pawing at the dirt of the road. He wore new robes, the collar trimmed with velvet, his face lined with satisfaction, and when he saw you he had the nerve to bow, although you were a princess no longer and he had not shown you that respect even when you had been.

At his side, her elbow secured with his fist, was your mother, and although her countenance was wan with despair, her very expression begging you not to leave her alone, she did not move. You could not bear to look at her, not without your throat threatening to close, so you pulled your cloak over your shoulders and knotted your fingers in your pony’s flaxen mane, as if through his unwavering strength you could find your own. Then, without looking back, you kicked him forward before you could falter, knowing that every moment you hesitated would only cause you and your mother both to suffer all the more. 

“Go to your uncle!” she shouted after you as your pony spooked at shadows, bolting out of the kingdom with ears pinned. “Go to your uncle, he will—!”

She was cut off by the High Priest’s rebuke, and you squeezed your eyes shut, leaning forward and urging your pony faster, faster, wishing, not for the first time, to be somewhere far, somewhere that the High Priest and his ilk could not reach you ever again. If you had wings, you might’ve flown, and in the back of your mind you laughed at the thought that you could’ve, had you been naive enough to ask Phainon for that kind of a blessing. Yet as it was, your only recourse was galloping away on the mountain road, leaving your temple and your family and your title far behind, where you could never again reach them.

You wandered for some time — how long you could not say, but it was certainly many hours before you came across another person, the first sign of life you had encountered since leaving the kingdom. He was an old man, his eyes a bright shade of ochre set deep in his wrinkled, sun-worn face, his hair thin and white, his limbs spindly and bent. His clothes were torn and looked to be only hastily mended, and he walked with a warped branch serving as a cane, limping along the path without care for the day beating down on his caving back. 

“Sir, are you alright?” you said, reining your pony to a stop beside him, ensuring your shadows fell over the man in some semblance of protection. “Why do you travel by yourself, in such a state?”

He beamed up at you, gummy and pink, and then he coughed. Before you could stop yourself, you were dismounting and patting him on the back, offering him your arm to steady himself with as he heaved and hacked.

“Ah, you are such a kind girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, his gnarled fingers digging into your bicep. “Not many would stop to help a stranger. Your family has raised you well.”

“My mother always told me that it is better to be scorned in the pursuit of kindness than to ignore someone who may be in need,” you said.

“She must be very proud of you,” he said. You frowned slightly before schooling your expression back into a pleasant, if not plain, one.

“Perhaps,” you said. “But what of your family? Why have they let you travel this road on your own? It is dangerous, you know.”

“My family and I are ever-quarreling,” he said, shaking his head with such affected despondence that it was nearly comedic. “My latest actions have drawn their ire, so I have excused myself from my home for a time. They will forgive me sooner or later, and then I will return to pester them as always, but at the moment, it is best that I am on my own.”

“I see,” you said. “In truth, I am in a similar situation, although I do not think I will be forgiven. I go now to my uncle, who does not know, yet, that I am to be spurned, and I hope that he understands my plight a little better than my brother and father did. Do you have a destination, sir? If our paths are similar, then I can accompany you for a time. I do not like the idea of you traveling alone, especially not at night. The wolves are so daring this time of year…”

“I have no path in mind,” he said. “I was set to walk this road until I thought their rage might have cooled, whereupon I would perhaps return home — or perhaps not.”

“Then you must come with me!” you said in alarm, for he was such a frail wisp of a person that even a particularly strong breeze might be enough to knock him over, let alone an actual threat. Though you were sure he was safe from the many thieves that liked to accost wayward travelers, having nothing worth stealing in the first place, that did not mean he would escape the notice of any beasts that might be hungry enough to grow indiscriminate in what they saw as prey.

“Oh, I would not want to be a bother,” he said. You shook your head.

“I insist. It would bother me far more to leave you behind; I would think of you with every step, wondering if something had happened,” you said. “Come, let me help you onto my pony. He is gentle, and anyways I will lead him, so you needn’t worry about falling.”

“You will walk!” the old man said, stepping into your cupped palms nonetheless and allowing you to boost him into the saddle. You shrugged, for although you were unused to such laborious work, you were determined to bear it without complaint.

“My uncle does not live very far,” you said. “And between the two of us, I am the better suited to it. Do not fret — if I thought I could not manage, I would not have offered!”

“You are generous to such a fault. One day, someone may take advantage of it,” the old man said, cracking his back as you began to walk forward.

“It is a habit for me,” you said. “Since childhood, I have been tasked with helping others. Nikador’s teachings call for it, if they are followed in their purest form. There can only be strength if it is in contrast to weakness, and it is the duty of those with to help those without.”

“I have not heard of such a creed,” he said.

“Many accept the words of the priests as those of Nikador themselves, but then, how easy it is to twist ideals if none are willing to seek the truth on their own! I have read the myths and the stories in their most ancient versions, so I have drawn my own conclusions, but I know they are in opposition to most,” you said.

“Then isn’t it vanity for you to assume that yours are the correct ones and theirs are not?” he said. You whirled to look at him with your jaw dropped, and when you saw he was serene as before, his eyes now closed, his lips still half-curled, you let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“I suppose so!” you said. “Though it’s not the priests’ interpretations I am opposed to, it is how — never mind. I should not burden you with my anger, fresh as it is.”

“After helping me, you worry about burdening me?” he said. You waved your hand dismissively.

“It’s beyond explaining, anyways,” you said. “And far from prudent. I have said too much already.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “The ramblings of an old man are hardly widely believed, anyways. You can speak freely before me.”

“I appreciate your offer,” you said. “But it is alright. You have your troubles, and I have mine; I won’t inquire into yours if you offer me the same courtesy. We may reach my uncle with our sanities intact in that way.”

“If it is what you prefer,” he said, and then neither of you spoke further, leaving nothing but the afternoon birdsong to fill the empty silence. 

He was a good companion, the old man, and as the day bled into night and then back to morning again in a perpetual loop, you found you were grateful for him. Your feet may have ached terribly, but it was better than being alone, even if the two of you never conversed much beyond the basic formalities. You were fond of him in your own way, and with every hour that passed, you thought to yourself how wonderful it would have been if you both had met under better circumstances. Had he been younger, a citizen of your kingdom…had you still been a princess instead of an exile…you might’ve been friends in earnest instead of weary travelers merely following a road without end.

“We are nearing my uncle’s home,” you said when the firs began to mingle with poplars, the sunlight gold and dappled on the path instead of thin and harsh as it was in the alpine territories. “He can be frightening to those who do not know him, but I give you my word that he is a kind man, and I will do what I can to soften his heart to you.”

“You mean to bring me into his city?” the old man said.

“Do you have anywhere else to go? If you are even half as exhausted as I, then you should be thanking me. My uncle is well-regarded, and I will ensure your accommodations are comfortable,” you said.

“I thank you kindly for thinking of me, but it is long past time that we parted ways. I will not be welcome in the forest, and I do not want you to face any more troubles because of me,” he said.

“You haven’t brought trouble,” you protested. “And why wouldn’t the forest welcome you? You are so kind!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew more about me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you see, my…aunt, who would be furious to know I just called them that, lives in the forest, and they will do anything to chase me away if they learn of my presence.”

“How cruel,” you said when he motioned for you to halt and then slid to the ground. “They really cannot tolerate you to that extent?”

“It would be best not to push it,” he affirmed. “Thank you for coming with me this far, but I will be alright from here. You were nothing like what I expected, but I am happier for it.”

“What do you mean by that?” you said, bending to embrace him in farewell even as you did. He inhaled sharply, and for a moment you thought you had overstepped, but then he was holding you to him with a strength that belied his delicate stature and advanced age. It took you aback, but it was somehow so tender that you made no move to escape, burying your face in his shoulder, which smelled of thyme and mountain-tea.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go on and do not hesitate. We will meet again, I am sure of it.”

“How can you be?” you said, more bewildered now than you had been in the entire time you had known him. He only hummed, mysterious and sly, and then turned to walk back the way you had come. You glanced at your pony, although of course he would be no help, and then back at the man, who continued to hobble along.

“Our business remains unfinished,” he called over his shoulder. “And I do not like to leave things open-ended.”

“...our business?” you repeated under your breath, trying to think of what he could possibly mean by that and coming up blank. Mounting your pony, you cued him forward, and then you shifted in your saddle for one final look at the strange man, who had never confounded you so greatly as in that moment — yet in one final twist, he had vanished, as surely as if he had never been there in the first place. You blinked a few times, attempting to clear your vision, but he did not reappear, and you were left with nothing but the ache in your legs from walking and the lingering warmth of his arms to know that he had been there at all.

The great city of the Grove was sheltered deep in the forest, caught in a sort of perpetual twilight from the lacy shade of the many boughs that criss-crossed over the sky and flourished eternally, blessed by Cerces as they were. Your uncle had told you, once, with mocking in his voice and a pinch to his brow, that the Grove itself was Cerces’s sanctuary, and so the entire place bloomed as a temple might, every blade of grass as sacred as any altar’s offerings.

He was waiting for you by the gates, and you did not ask him how he had known you would come, for of course he had — he knew everything, he was that sort of man, who could see farther and further than hawks and prophets alike. You only handed your pony to a waiting stableboy and then collapsed against him, your arms winding around his neck, clenching the fabric of his long coat and allowing a single sob to escape you.

“Uncle,” you said. “Oh, uncle, uncle, they’ve cast me from the mountain—”

“I know,” he said, and somehow you found his typical perfunctoriness to be a comfort instead of abrasive, as it often was. “I will come to your chambers tonight; there will be time to weep then, but not now. Now you must appear brave, or else I will not be able to convince the others to accept you. They are already wary of taking in one who reeks of Phainon’s meddling, and their reluctance will only double if you appear to be a frightened coward crawling to us and expecting our protection from the gods.”

“Who told you?” you said. 

“Your mother sent a messenger bird,” he said. “Even in ink and parchment, her fear was evident. Is it true?”

“I don’t know what she wrote to you, or what the High Priest has poisoned her mind with, so I cannot say for certain, but given that I am here instead of home, you must know the situation is less than ideal,” you said.

“Later,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and then adjusting the filigreed eyepatch covering the left half of his face. “For now, have something to eat and take a bath. You look horrible, and you will have to face the rest of the Sages tomorrow.”

“I walked all this way,” you said. “I look better than you’d expect.”

“And still worse than one who must argue with the supreme authorities of the Grove ought to,” he shot back immediately. “Go, and gather your thoughts while you’re at it. They will not let you off without sharp questioning.”

The baths in the Grove were modeled in the way of the seaside capital, Okhema, although according to your father, who had been even so far in his youth, the marble buildings of Okhema had no equal, and certainly not here, where fashion was sacrificed for function. But you were in no position to be selective, and anyways, after traveling for so long, you would’ve been thrilled even by a particularly clear pond, so the steaming waters and stone benches of the bath seemed all but paradisiacal as you approached them tentatively.

Right as you dipped your toe in to check the temperature, you heard a small splashing sound, and then you were gasping, for there in the middle of the bath was a small bird, flapping its wings most desperately as it struggled to stay above the surface. Wading through the water as fast as you could, ignoring how the sudden heat of it nearly burnt you, you scooped the bird into your palms, cradling it carefully to your chest. It fluffed out its feathers indignantly, and you were careful to walk slowly back to the edge, so that you did not splash it by mistake, for it was already so damp and sorry-looking you could not bear the thought of worsening its plight.

“Oh, my dear friend, how did you end up here?” you said gently, mindlessly, looking over at the open window and wrinkling your nose, scratching under its beak in an attempt to soothe the tiny heart that you could feel hammering away in the glass cage of its chest. “Such a pretty creature you are. I’ve never seen anything like you before, but then again, I am so far from home that that shouldn’t come as a shock.”

Sitting on one of the steps carved into the side of the bath, you swished your legs about in the water idly, raising your hands into the air and smiling at the bird, who did not attempt to fly away, only cooing at you sweetly, prompting a giggle from you. It was a little songbird of a variety you did not recognize, small and white, with gold feathers ringing its neck and its beetle-dark eyes, which sparkled as it looked down on you like it was entirely pleased with its situation, despite still being soaked.

“I must continue to bathe, but the window is open, so you may fly away whenever you would like,” you said, setting it down on the lip of the bath before beginning to rub oil into your skin. “Or you may stay! I do not mind the company.”

The bird chirped at you, cocking its head, and although you knew it was ridiculous to believe you could genuinely converse with it, you could not help yourself from shaking your head with the utmost of solemnity, taking your strigil and scraping the oil off alongside the dirt of your ordeals, exhaling in relief as you did so, for it had been far too long since you had been properly clean — and longer since you had bathed of your own volition, not by one of the priests tasked with readying you for the ritual of sacrifice.

“I am glad I came as well,” you said. “You might’ve spent hours on your own if I had not. Well, at any rate, you would’ve been the cleanest songbird the Grove has ever seen, so there is that consolation.”

It pecked your hand as you set the strigil down, as if it were chastising you for making light of its troubles. You let your thumb run along its back in apology, and then you returned to immersing yourself in the bath, allowing the hot water to soothe away the tension in your muscles, which were still taut from how long you had spent walking. The steam turned the world hazy, and you stretched languidly, one arm and then the other, finding yourself in such a dreamlike state it was a wonder you did not fall asleep entirely.

“Do wake me up if I should drift off,” you told the bird through a yawn. “Since leaving home, I have not been sleeping well, if at all. It is difficult to go from a palace to a field in a span of hours, you must understand.”

“Excuse me? This bath is meant only for the Seven Sages. Who are you?”

The voice was masculine and unfamiliar, and immediately you sat up, your earlier playfulness replaced with a sense of dread, though the man had given you no reason yet to fear him.

“My uncle told me it was alright for me to come here,” you said. “He said no one else would be using it at this hour.”

“Your uncle?” the man said. “Ah, Anaxagoras. He always has been one to bend the rules. You are the infamous niece, then? But you look nothing like him.”

“He was taken in by my mother’s family when he was young. We share no blood,” you said. “Who are you?”

“I am Socrippe,” he said. “Another of the Seven Sages of the Grove. Ordinarily, your uncle would have been right to say the baths would be deserted at this hour, but I was tired of our latest debate and asked to be excused early.”

“I see,” you said. “It is an honor to meet you, great Sage.”

“So you are the girl that has piqued Phainon’s interest,” Socrippe said, and then he was crossing the bath so that the two of you were side by side, mere paces apart. You shrank away, but he followed you, and the bird trilled as you edged closer and closer to where it had thus far sat undisturbed. “I can see why. With how beautiful you are, I am surprised you have not won Mnestia’s heart as well.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but I must be going now,” you said. “My uncle awaits me.”

“Your uncle is still busy in that debate, arguing that we must hear your case and give you the chance to stay with us. The rest of the Sages are stubborn, but I am sure they will at least listen to you tomorrow. Have you prepared a proper defense? If not, I can assist you. You will not have to try very hard to convince me, at least,” he said.

“I appreciate your concern, but I really am alright. My uncle’s counsel shall be more than sufficient,” you said.

“What is the hurry? Stay, do not let me be the reason you leave earlier than you would’ve liked,” he said when you made to stand, catching your wrist and tugging at it. You felt it, then, the phantom hands of those priests as they scrubbed your back with pumice, how unsympathetic they had been, how harsh, like they were goading you into a yelp you refused to give them, reluctantly permitting them only the satisfaction of seeing your shivers, which you could not help yourself from. Yanking your arm back, you hastened your pace, although it did not matter when he, too, stood and mirrored your every step.

“Thank you for your generosity, but it is unnecessary,” you repeated, though it was in vain.

“You mistake me,” he said, and although he was not so close, it suddenly seemed as though he were looming over you, as if here were a great tree and you were merely the size of the bird at your feet. “It isn’t generosity. I am not offering.”

You took a deep breath, trying to think of a prayer to Nikador. They would not come to your aid, not so deep in the Grove, which was Cerces’s domain and thus forbidden for all other gods to approach, but the words alone would bring you solace as the Sage came nearer and nearer. Yet for some reason, every ode to war was gone from your mind, and all you could think of was a hymn for the sun-bringer, which you did not even remember ever learning.

How, then, shall I sing of you? For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.

In his single-mindedness, Socrippe stumbled on the bird, which set it to shrieking. You covered your mouth as the Sage yelled and the bird flew at his face with a fury you had not expected such a small thing could contain, and then you pulled a towel around your waist, fleeing the bath while he was distracted, thanking Nikador for the intervention under your breath. For surely it had been them, you thought as you touched your forehead in reverence, who else could drive a bird to such madness? And one who had been so cheerful only moments before! You had thought they had abandoned you, but all along they were there, your defender to the last.

You had had some plans of great productivity after returning to your temporary chambers, of eating a full meal and preparing your defense for the Seven Sages, but the bed proved irresistible, and before you knew it you were curling on your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin and closing your eyes, although you promised yourself you would not sleep. It would be unwise — you still had much to do — the day was young, the sun had not even reached its zenith —

A paw batted at your forehead, and at first all you could do was groan, pushing it aside, but to your consternation, the animal remained undeterred, tapping you again and again. You squeezed your eyes shut, doing your best to ignore its demands, but it seemed to disagree with this, for then there was a pressure on your chest, the unexpected weight of the creature all but suffocating, causing you to cough as your lungs constricted in alarm. Against your will, your eyes opened, and you were met with a pink nose and a stare like finchfeathers, glowing even in the dark of the evening.

“I fell asleep!” you said, sitting up abruptly, earning your a plaintive mewl from the cat as it tumbled onto the blanket and looked up at you dolefully, its ears low and its fur standing on end. “Yes, yes, thank you for waking me. It would’ve been embarrassing if my uncle came to visit while I was still slumbering away like a child sent to nap.”

Evidently, the cat forgave you for your transgressions, for it rolled over on its back and peered at you invitingly, beginning to purr as you stroked behind its ears, rubbing its cheek against your wrist in content. A lump swelled in your throat the longer you pet it, and with your free arm you hugged your knees to your chest, trying to stifle your tears but finding yourself unsuccessful.

“How many wonderful things this Grove has,” you said. “First that bird blessed by Nikador, and now—hey!”

The cat’s claws had caught against your palm, leaving behind an angry scratch, not deep enough to bleed, but enough to smart adamantly. When you pretended to scowl at it, it blinked at you, slow and innocent, and then it flicked its tail in an obvious solicitation for you to continue. You did not, crossing your arms and thinking yourself quite stern for it, but instead of being cowed as you thought it would be, the cat only stood and shook itself, prancing about atop the blanket with no small amount of self-approbation. 

“Now, don’t be like that,” you said, giving in and extending your arms. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come back.”

The show was over in an instant; it leapt at you, a flying mass of fur and outstretched legs toppling into your lap and tucking its tail over its paws, glaring at you until you continued your earlier ministrations, albeit more pensive now, lost in reminiscing.

“I had a kitten just like you when I was younger,” you said. “Though she was a tortoiseshell, not all white as you are, and she had the prettiest green eyes. Like the emeralds in my father’s Okheman ring. I would tie ribbons around her neck and bring her everywhere with me; in that time, they called her the second princess and claimed I would’ve given her my wreaths if they would’ve fit her.”

You lifted the cat, paying no mind to its disgruntled huff in the moment but patting it in apology after you had returned it to the dip in the cushion where you had formerly sat. Going to the mirror, you began to fiddle with your hair, attempting to make yourself presentable enough that your uncle would not ridicule you for your sloppiness. 

“I would’ve, maybe,” you said to the cat, who was also grooming itself, perhaps in an imitation of you. “But the High Priest took her from me before her first year. He said that it was better I grieved her now, when I loved her less, than to save it for later, when my sensitive mind would not be able to bear it with the unflinching nature Nikador required. I’m not sure what he did with her; he never told me, I think because he knew I would seek her out. In the end, the truth of her fate was less important than what it meant to me — she had gone somewhere I could not reach, as all things I would love eventually would.

“Nikador tells us that we do not weep, we stand true in the face of adversity and turn our sorrow into strength, but I could not help how I cried that night. The priests chastised me for it, but I was a child and did not understand what meaning they were trying to impart. All I knew was that there was a bleak void in my chest, for my heart had gone with her, wherever she might have been, and I did not know if I would ever be whole again.”

Giving up on your appearance and deciding you would just have to take your uncle’s comments in stride, you reclined next to the cat again, permitting it to clamber onto your chest and ruffling its fur idly as your mind wandered, thinking of everything you had left behind without even a farewell. You hadn’t been given the time, not when the dawn encroached so rapidly on the night, not when the High Priest and all who followed him were watching your every move, waiting to find a moment of weakness that they could prey upon — because it was not enough to exile you, of course it was not. They wanted to destroy you, and they would not settle for anything less.

You did not doubt that even now, they were poisoning the hearts of your former subjects, telling them how the princess had been so consumed with thoughts of godhood that she had even abandoned her people, that she had fled from her duties out of some dream of worshipping Phainon and marrying Nikador. Or maybe they would not even say that much; maybe they would omit the last part entirely, simply announcing  that you had grown enamored with Phainon’s promises, had not been strong enough to resist his ethereal temptation, and so had gone somewhere where you could pray to him until he blessed you wholly, in flesh and spirit alike.

“As if I would ever pray to that conceited, arrogant deity,” you muttered to yourself, emboldened by Cerces’s omnipotence in the Grove to speak the truth, for they would defend you if it came to it. “Appearing when he wasn’t even wanted, forcing me to ask him for a boon in exchange for my unwilling worship…what sort of a god! Would that Nikador had come, as they had been bid to. My death might’ve meant something then, for it would’ve been the death of a princess, a sacrifice — I might have become a sort of martyr for my brother to learn spine and soundness from, though that could be asking too much. But we’ll never know, will we? Because thanks to Phainon, I am here, a common outcast begging for shelter and talking to a cat like it can understand me.”

The cat meowed. You gave it a look. It meowed again. You snorted.

“My apologies. Talking to a cat because it most certainly can understand me,” you said. “Do all creatures of the Grove have such intelligence and charm? You must teach my uncle your ways, for he is possessed with twice the intelligence but not nearly half the charm.”

Like you had summoned a visitor by taking one’s name, there was a knock on your door, and before he opened it you knew it was your uncle, because he was a Sage, and so the world of the Grove always bent a little differently where he was concerned. Winking at the cat and raising your finger to your lips like you were swearing it to secrecy, you called for your uncle to enter as he’d like, shifting so that your posture was correct, without flaw, for of the many things you knew he might pick at, you did not want that to be one.

“Good evening,” he said as entered, holding a plate in one hand, resting the other on his hip. “I was told you did not ever call for your meal. I can only assume it was because you were preoccupied with more important matters.”

“Entirely,” you said, taking the food without even thanking him, for you were so famished and he had, you noticed, ensured that what was prepared was a dish you had loved in your youth.

“You are a horrible liar,” he said.

“Only to you, who knows me so well,” you said, permitting yourself the bit of cheek — you had always been his favorite, for the very reasons you were so reviled by the leaders of the cult of Nikador. To the priests, your inquisition was a thing to be feared, but to Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage of the Grove, it was a cherishable quality that he cupped his hands around and protected, as surely as one might guard the wavering flame of a lantern in the wind. That was why your mother had told you to go to him, and why you had planned on it before she had even made the suggestion: not out of any sort of familial duty, but his keen recognition, his acceptance of the state of things how they were and not how they ought.

“But the time for lies and jest is past,” he said. “Now you must tell me what happened and why you are here.”

“Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what you heard from my mother,” you said. “I do not wish to bore you with redundancies.”

“She did not write much. I doubt that she could,” he said. “All she said was that you had somehow attracted the gaze of Phainon, and so the priests had banished you from the mountains for fear of what Nikador might think should they continue to harbor the devotee of one that is so loathed by that war-mongerer.”

“Then the High Priest has done exactly as I thought he might,” you said. “Of course. Even though I am in exile, my very name cannot be allowed to linger on people’s lips as anything more than a reference to a weak-willed joke of a girl.”

“I surmised as much,” your uncle said, furrowing his brow at the cat, offering it his closed fist. The cat hissed, slinking back to hide behind you, nudging you in displeasure, like it was urging you to reprimand him for even the approach. “But Phainon’s mark does linger upon you, and that can only mean you have asked him for something. I thought you were sharper than that.”

“Do you think I wanted to?” you snapped. “It was Nikador they were meant to summon, my brother and that accursed High Priest. I am sure you are aware of the storms that have torn at the mountain for weeks now?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Though I was under the impression they paused for a time, and only resumed recently.”

“Yes, I was fortunate that they ceased while I was traveling; perhaps it is that Nikador took pity on me and allowed me safe passage, or perhaps it was Phainon, though I doubt the latter is the case,” you said. “Anyways, during the worst of it, there was a great convocation in the throne room. Every priest in the kingdom was called to attend, and my entire family, too, as we made our plans for how we might appease the great lord. My brother suggested hosting games in Nikador’s name, for they are fond of sporting events, of the competitive verve to it all, but the people were too storm-weary to consider participating in such a ceremony. One of the younger priests thought that we might build a grander temple for them, as ours is old and, some may say, falling into disrepair. Then there was me, who said that maybe Nikador was expressing their displeasure at the order of the priests, who had not served their name in as many years as I had lived.”

“They did not take kindly to it,” your uncle said rhetorically. “You should’ve known better than to say anything.”

“I was tired of them,” you said. “They spoke of games and buildings and slaughterings, but who would do these things? Not them, comfortable as they are, twisting Nikador’s laws to serve their own purposes and make themselves all the wealthier, all the more powerful. The High Priest has already deposed my father in all but name, and he will soon do the same to my brother, who is ten times as irresolute and quivering as his sire, malleable to suggestion in a way you taught me not to be.”

“It is as innate as it is taught,” your uncle said, and although he was brusque, his words were tinged with mourning, for you could tell by the expression he wore that he had already understood where the story was going and now only waited for you to confirm it. “Your brother has long since been past saving. I could not manage it, so how could you?”

“I wanted to, though,” you said. “I wanted to take his hand and bring him into understanding, to lead him from the mania of the priests and into Nikador’s heart, where we might have resided together. I argued with him so desperately that day, him and my father alike, begging them to hear me this once, and for a moment I swear I saw him falter. He would have joined me, uncle, I know it, but then the High Priest had a vision.”

How perfectly it had coincided, a stroke of lightning as the High Priest raised his hand, the room falling silent, your father’s vapidness dissipating in an instant, replaced with a sheen of rapture as he leaned towards the High Priest and away from his straight-backed throne. Nikador had spoken to the High Priest, who was the only one they ever communed with, or so he said, and now he would turn prophecy into decree, vision into direction, storm into sunshine. 

“‘They demand the grandest sacrifice,’” you repeated miserably, the words etched into your memory as clearly as if they had just been spoken for the first time. “‘The princess. Only by giving herself can she satisfy them; anything less will be seen as an offense of the highest order.’”

“What a fraud,” your uncle said, pacing the breadth of the room, and while his voice remained level, his every bootstep was livid, incensed. “To claim divine intervention—”

“But who would say as much? In face of Nikador’s so-called will, we are all powerless,” you said. “How easy it was for him to sentence me to death. My brother did not argue; my mother could not; my father would not. I did not fight it, either, for I knew it would come to nothing, and I refused to let them know that they had — that they had — that they had been successful. I would die as Nikador’s sacrifice, and in the runes written with my blood, my brother, who was tasked with the butchering, would finally come to see the truth.”

“Go on,” your uncle said when you paused. “Finish the story.”

“That idiotic boy,” you said. “He is still a child. Not a prince, and far from a priest, who would be trained in such arts. He was chosen only to prove his mettle, his loyalty to the High Priest, and I suppose he did as much, even going so far as to raise his dagger against me — though in the end, it came to nothing. In his nerves, he floundered his invocation, and so instead of Nikador, he inadvertently called upon Phainon. And unlike Nikador, who is silent even when they do grant our wishes, Phainon answered.

“He turned away the High Priest and my brother alike, finding intrigue only in me. I wonder if he thought I was a sacrifice meant for him, or if he understood that I was Nikador’s and simply did not care, or even delighted in it, thinking that by stealing my loyalty, he would have won yet another victory in that eternal rivalry of theirs. He offered me many things, uncle, in the pursuit of taking me for his own, but I refused them all, for I knew that his blessings would not come without a price. Yet I worried, too; those who reject the gods fare no better than those who embrace them.”

Your uncle’s fingers touched the hollow where his eye had once rested, and, pursing your lips, you let yours follow, lacing through his and squeezing. He had never told you what it was he had bargained his eye away for, had never told anyone, but it did not take a Sage or Cerces to know that whatever it was hadn’t been enough. That was how it was with gods, really; always unequal. Always tilted in their favor. Always lacking.

“I asked him to convince Nikador to take me as their bride. If he was unsuccessful, then my life would not change, or so I thought; if, by some miracle, he was triumphant, then I would be safe at their side, out of the reach of his eventual retribution. For a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he agreed, vanishing with a promise that we would meet again, and that was that,” you said.

“The priests were unhappy that their plan to be rid of you had failed,” your uncle completed. “But they could not kill you without risking Phainon’s wrath, so they came up with some excuse about his enmity with Nikador to banish you from the mountain forever.”

“Yes,” you said. “And so I came here, the only place that I have left. Do you think the Sages will accept me? I don’t demand to be treated like royalty; I know I am not that any longer. But I can read and write, and my mother tells me I am good with the young ones, so I could be a teacher, if there is need…or a recordkeeper, or anything, really, though if it is a more laborious task, I may need instruction, I am still not so good with my hands…”

“Listen to me,” your uncle said, placing his hands on your shoulders firmly. “I cannot promise anything, and neither can I lie to you. The other Sages are disconcerted by your presence, and I cannot blame them. Ever since you came here, it’s as if Phainon himself is with us, and divinity of such magnitude is enough to make even the greatest of men shudder. But you know I am always on your side, and as it happens, I am looking for a teaching assistant, so perhaps — if all goes well — something can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” you said, and if he were one for it, you would’ve embraced him again, as you had upon your arrival. Yet he would not appreciate it, you were sure, so all you did was gather his hands together and press your forehead to his knuckles, holding it there until you could be certain he understood what you meant by it.

Although you had fallen asleep with the white cat tucked under your chin, when you awoke the next morning, it was nowhere to be found. You should not have been surprised, as it was so well-kept and friendly that it surely must’ve belonged to someone, but you could not help the disappointment that crept into your throat. At your loneliest, it had come and, for a time, raised your spirits, so could you be blamed for your longing? Especially now, as you donned the austere garb of one of the Grove’s scholars, pulling the hood over your hair in keeping with their modest tradition. It was foreign, the stiff fabric, the dull coloring, and you longed for something familiar — the rumble of a purr, or the curve of your uncle’s smile, both which you would be denied until after you had passed the Sages’ trial.

Dawn in the Grove was the brightest time of day, and as you swept down the hall towards where the Sages awaited you, you paused by the largest window, narrowing your eyes at the sun peeking above the treetops. The sky wasn’t as vibrant here as it was in the mountains, every shade muted, everything soft around the edges as the morning climbed over the horizon, tinged with the fading lavender of the night. Perhaps it was because Cerces had secluded themselves from the rest of the gods, and so Phainon did not brand their dawns with the same violence as he did Nikador’s, in concession to their enduring neutrality, or maybe in fear of their rare condemnation.

“How, then, shall I sing of you?” you said, reciting the same hymn as had come to mind the day before, the one you must have learnt at some point, though you still could not recall exactly when. “For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.”

You did not mean it as a prayer, only a way to taste the words, to roll them in your mouth, to chew on their softness, so unlike the hard, unyielding edges of Nikador’s many odes. They were beautiful, you had to admit as much, coalescing quietly in the corners of your ribcage and flickering like embers, warming you from within like a sunrise captured in miniature. 

A soft rustling drew your attention from the clouds to the sill of the window, where a bird had just landed. It was the same kind as the one you had saved in the bath, and when it did not shy away from your proffered index finger, you rubbed along the honeyed feathers underneath its eye. For a moment, it allowed you the indulgence, and then it hopped away, warbling out a song before taking off and flying back to, you supposed, wherever it had come from. You watched it go, your heart a little lighter for its visit, your shoulders a little less burdened, your mind a little more prepared for your meeting with the Sages.

It began, as many such meetings did, with the most important member speaking first. Although in theory all of the Sages were equal, they tended to hold the eldest of their ranks in the highest esteem, for in the Grove, an accumulation of years also meant one’s wisdom would have increased to match. In the present time, said eldest Sage was Medea, the Sixth Sage, a haughty woman with angular features and irises like frostbitten earth. 

“Niece of Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage,” she began. “You are here to seek asylum in the Grove. If you pass the examination of the Sages, you will become the Fourth Sage’s teaching assistant, and he will aid you in acclimatizing to life in the Grove, which is surely nothing like the one you have led thus far.”

“Yes, great Sage,” you said, bowing as your uncle had instructed you to, demure and nigh-bashful. “I submit to your inquiries, and whatever it is that you may ask, I swear to answer with only the truth.”

“Only three Sages wish to question you today,” Medea said. “Stagira, the Third Sage, what do you ask of the girl?”

“Will you renounce your ties to Phainon and Nikador alike? If you stay in the Grove, then you will be a child of Cerces, and although Cerces is an affable goddess, they are also a jealous one. You must forget that you were born of the cult of the Nikador, and that you have been chosen by Phainon. Do you have it in you to cleanse yourself of your heritage and your claims, becoming a student anew?” Stagira said. He was a man, older than your uncle but a mere child beside Medea, and his expression was so lively you did not think that he was attempting to trick you, leading you to nod earnestly.

“Yes, great Sage. I will forget that either existed; the cult of Nikador has already expelled me, and Phainon…” you trailed off and shook your head. “I was never his devotee in the first place.”

“That is all,” he said. You glanced at your uncle, who inclined his chin the slightest angle, imperceptible to anyone who was not looking for it, prompting you to sigh. The first test was passed; two more and you were free.

“Apuleius, the Fifth Sage, what do you ask of the girl?” Medea said. He was nearer to her in age, and there was a scar running down his misshapen nose, ending right above the faint line of his mouth. You could tell from even the way he walked that he was less affable than Stagira, but you were used to prickly, thorny men, for they were a common breed whence you hailed, and so you did not shy back as he must’ve liked you to.

“This scar on my face,” Apuleius said, pointing at it for emphasis. “What does your first instinct blame it on?”

War, you thought to yourself. Violence. An altercation. Someone who tried to hurt you, who tried to kill you, who tried to tear your face apart, so that you resembled the two-faced Janus for their efforts.

“An experiment with unforeseen results,” you said. Apuleius regarded you carefully, and then he laughed, clapping your uncle on the shoulder.

“She is quick to learn. Your influence, no doubt, Anaxagoras,” he said. “If a daughter of strife can think through her words so carefully, then all hope may yet not be lost.”

“You know better than to give another credit for one’s victory, Apuleius,” your uncle said. 

“You’re right,” he said. “Well done, girl. And no, although I wish the scar’s origin was so mysterious, the real story is far more embarrassing. I simply fell from my horse and landed face-first onto a particularly sharp stone.”

You winced. “I am glad you suffered no worse injuries, great Sage.”

“It may have left me a little frenzied in the years to follow, but then, those of the Grove always are of such a temperament, so what difference does it make?” he said. “Alright then, boy. Ask her your questions and let us be done with this affair.”

“The Seventh Sage,” Medea said, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. “Socrippe. What do you ask of the girl?”

The man you had met yesterday in the baths was unrecognizable, his face covered with bandages, a formidable gleam in eyes, the whites of which were shot through with enraged crimson. The other Sages murmured to themselves, and you, too, swallowed nervously, for you had not expected him to be in such a state, not when he had been perfectly fine at your last meeting.

“How was I injured?” he said.

“I am not sure, great Sage,” you said.

“You lie,” he said, and then he was jabbing his index finger at you. “This wicked woman attacked me in our own bath yesterday! I had gone to wash after excusing myself from the debate, and she was so infuriated by my company that clawed at me with her fingernails until she drew blood. She is no dove that we can tame, she is a beast that will hunt all in this Grove down if we let her stay!”

“Is this true?” Medea said sharply. You shook your head.

“No, there must be some mistake, that’s not — that’s not what happened, I didn’t — he approached me, and I did not attack him, I only ran—” you stammered, your composure crumbling at their stony glares.

“You’re accusing a Sage of lying?” Medea said, her every word a self-contained avalanche. “He has taken an oath in the name of Cerces, and he will not break it! Need I remind you who is the guest here?”

“I should’ve known,” Apuleius said, clicking his tongue. “You can dress a wolf in the skin of a lamb, but you can’t make it merciful for long. I am ashamed that I was fooled for even a moment.”

“You may renounce Nikador, but it seems he will never renounce you,” Stagira said.

“I didn’t attack him!” you said.

“I know my niece, and she would never do such a thing,” your uncle said. “There must be some alternate explanation or confusion.”

“So you are calling me confused, Anaxagoras?” Socrippe said. “Careful, or you will be replaced. There are plenty who can do your job just as well as you.”

“Now, Socrippe, you don’t have the authority to declare that,” Medea warned. “It would come to a vote, and do not think that you have the power to sway us all against him.”

 “But as for the matter of the girl…” Apuleius prompted.

You thought there would be hatred in Medea’s mien, but to your shock, she seemed a little sad, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. Maybe it was that she knew Socrippe had broken his oath and mourned her helplessness in proving the truth, or maybe it was that she only regretted having to give such horrible news when she had surely prepared for a happier occasion. Although the latter was far more probable, the thought of the former comforted you as she clapped once, so you chose to believe in it.

“All those in favor of sending her to Okhema, raise your hands,” she said.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The rest of the Sages looked at your uncle, at dear Anaxagoras, who clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead with his arms pinned to his sides. They already had a clear majority, so it wasn’t as if they needed his vote, yet you sensed they would not move forth until he made a decision one way or another.

You turned around so that you did not have to witness it, and a minute later, Medea clapped again. You did not know how your uncle had voted; it was like that cat, really, the one you had had in your childhood, the one that the High Priest had taken from you. It didn’t matter whether he said yes or no — what mattered was that it was done, concluded, and irreversibly so.

“The motion is passed. Girl, leave the Grove at once; if you are prudent, you will go to Okhema and tell the Council of Elders that Medea sent you, but never again shall you return here. You are not welcome any longer.”

They were kind enough to return your pony, along with some food and a letter to one of the Elders of Okhema, Caenis, written by Medea herself. You did not wait for your uncle to come and wish you farewell; you did not think he would, anyways. The two of you were not so dissimilar, after all.

Your pony did not complain about being told to trot down the road, going merrily, even flicking his toes as he went along. You were glad that he was happy, for then at least one of you was, and you allowed him the length of the rein to do with as he pleased, eventually urging him to canter, then gallop, until the trees thinned and you had left the forest behind for good.

“Miss! Miss, wait!”

You were ambling through a field of barley when you heard a boy shouting after you. You swiveled in your seat, at first presuming your mind to be playing tricks on you, but then you saw him, sprinting through the resplendent sea of crops with a ball in his hand. His hair was a pale shock on his head, and when he caught up to you, his amber eyes crinkled at the corners in greeting. You halted but did not dismount, for there was foreboding in the air, and although you were loath to leave the child behind, you could not help but think that there was some merit to the notion that he was the very source of your apprehension.

“There you are,” he said, his hands on his thighs as he huffed for breath. “I’ve been looking for you. You disappeared for a little while — it worried me!”

“Do I know you?” you said, as politely as you could. “Perhaps you think I am someone else.”

The boy’s smile did not drop. “I would not mistake you for anyone. We’ve met a few times."

“I’m sure we haven’t,” you said, subtly pressing your heels into your pony’s sides, telling him to walk on, albeit without any speed. 

“Oh! That’s my mistake,” he said. “Wait, wait, do you recognize me now?”

Right before you, he aged decades in only a second, leaving him a hunched old man leaning on a branch, his face split with a broad smile, pink and gummy. Your eyes widened, and although everything in you demanded you flee, you were paralyzed as your old companion waved a wrinkled hand at you.

“Or maybe this is better?” he said, and then he was melting into the form of a white cat, chasing his tail playfully before, in a burst of feathers, turning into a songbird with gold around his neck and eyes. 

“No,” you said, shaking your head furiously, clenching your fists so hard you were surprised your palms did not bleed from the force with which your nails dug into them. “No, it can’t be. Say it isn’t so. Please, say it isn’t so. You can’t be—”

“It is so, o sacrifice!” he said, springing into the air fully formed, a tall man in handsome armor, his eyes still that same burning shade of dawn, his hair still as white as jasmine.

“Phainon,” you said. He beamed at you.

“Well done,” he said. “Yes, it is me. I have been keeping careful watch over you, you know. Why do you think you were never confronted by bandits or bad weather? Ah, but attacking that Sage put me in a lot of trouble with Cerces, so maybe you ought to forget about asking for any blessings and begin to consider how you might repay me.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” you said. “You aren’t Nikador, I haven’t asked for your protection, so there’s — there’s no need for you to give it! Leave at once, I beg of you!”

“Actually,” Phainon said, although he visibly deflated at your repudiation, his shoulders sagging and his eyes growing large, nearly watery with defeat, which was a ridiculous expression on anyone, let alone a fully-fledged god, “I have something to tell you. I think that I can grant your wish, if it is still what you want.”

“What?” you said, your panic replaced with a momentary inquisitiveness.

“Nikador,” he said. “Do you still…desire them? Because if it is so, then listen to me carefully — I have discovered that the stories of their battle-hardened heart are not entirely complete. The truth is as follows: once before, many ages ago, they, too, knew what it was to love.”

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[ghouljams]

Nikolai first strikes up a conversation with you while you're sitting alone in a bar. Your friends have made their way outside for a smoke, and you—ever so thoughtful—volunteered to stay back to keep an eye on the table's drinks and purses. You're so polite—nodding along when he speaks, interjecting with meaningful questions and letting out delightful snorts when he cracks wise.

He realizes just how pliant you are once he's fucking you with your face pressed into the pillow. There's no pesky squirming, just sweet muffled moans and the way your back arches obediently when he presses on it.

After a while it dawns on him just how long your air-supply has been suppressed by the pillow and he's quick to reach down and turn your head to the side. A kind of morbid fascination fills him when he watches you reflexively gasp for the fresh oxygen. Christ, do you not have any self-preservation instinct? What would have happened if he hadn't intervened? Would you have passed out beneath him without warning or complaint?

Nikolai recognizes that someone like you isn't to be taken for granted. Others would take advantage of your desire to please, hurting you in the process. He couldn't have that now, could he? You deserve a firm, loving hand and he deserves a devoted pet. It's like he has no choice but to keep you.

Now whenever Nik has to endure stories of his friend's failed flings he just laughs and shakes his head. "Couldn't be me, my любимая is so sweet for me. Isn't that right, моя умница?"

Hunting is a young man's game, it's why Nikolai prefers fishing. Silent and meditative, waiting for the fish to find his bait before he reals them in. He likes you the same way: gasping for air, eyes glassy, floundering against his grip with no hope of escape. A single well placed slice behind the gills. It's so much more... humane.

You're not suited for self-preservation, not in this world at least. You wander about with legs that shake like a fawn's, finding your place in the world under someone else's protection, a fish out of water. It's his fault really, he knows there's no point in something as pretty as you having to breed decisions behind those wet eyes, knows that soft things like you live better as treasured pets. There was a time when you wouldn't have had anything to do with your body but sit and look pretty, softened and plied with food and drink by hands gifted the divine right of kings. This modern world is too much for something like you.

It's lucky you fell into Nik's hands when you did, lucky that he recognized you for what you were before anyone else did. He needs nothing more than to feel you wrap your arms around his shoulders, than to feel the weight of you settle in his lap, than to listen to the soft breaths you take as you fall asleep, safe and sound, in the circle of his influence.

Quite a smart thing, finding him the same way butterflies find a crocodile's tears. Symbiotic. He could no more survive without you, than you could survive without him. You even out his edges, scrape away the filth that he tracks through life. You pull his head to your breast and coo your own praises with a slurred tongue. You don't flinch when he sinks his teeth into you, when he wraps his hand around your throat and watches your lashes flutter.

There is no reassurance like the glaze of your eyes, the part of your lips, the clutch of your sweet cunt, when he presses the sharp edge of a posture collar to your jaw. It could be anything, a knife, a gun, rusted metal or freshly oiled pistons, you'd trust him all the same, allow the treatment all the same. He doesn't need you to prove yourself to him, no grand gesture could echo as proudly as the way you suffocate yourself in pillows.

You poor thing. Need Nikolai to give you the air in your lungs too, huh? He's already taken care of everything else, so why not one more thing? Leave brains and ambition for the mammals, little fish.

[mercurial-chuckles]

On the qui vive

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader WC: ~1k Warnings: Fluff | Established relationship | Absolutely-in-love Bucky | Protective Bucky | Bucky painting your toenails | Bucky taking care of some business (mob elements) | Bucky being hot and incorrigible | Allusions to spicy times | Some language | Very much unbeta'd | Let me know if I missed anything! A/N: Sorry, I haven't been on much here. Found a thought in my drafts and put together something haphazardly for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 02 Prompt: "Did I give you permission?" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Damn it!

You scrambled around the hotel suite.

You were supposed to be on time. You always told yourself you'd have everything sorted and ease into important days with a calm, relaxed start. But nope. That version of you clearly didn't exist. A miserable case of chaos was what you were.

Gawd!

Bucky was to be blamed anyway. He'd flown in late last night, and he didn't let you out of the bed ever since he stepped foot into the hotel room. And he thwarted every attempt of you sneaking out of the bed this morning, dragging you right back into his arms. You couldn't believe sometimes that he could be so insatiable despite being married for more than a decade now.

Your husband was a ridiculously sinful man, indeed! Not that you usually complained about your husband's incorrigible loving ways. But today was an important day, and you should be there on time.

You had a luncheon with the whole team today before your book launch tomorrow, and Jeremy would absolutely have your head if you were late to your own event. You'd already been two minutes late to the dinner meeting last night. To be fair, that wasn't really your fault either. You got held up by a couple of women who somehow recognized you. You hadn't expected anyone to know you, especially not in Venice, so far from home. It was endearing. You'd been so flustered when they asked for your autograph that you walked into the meeting grinning like an idiot, only to get an earful from Jeremy for being late.

Yesterday was a simple team dinner, but today was important, and you couldn't be late by a second.

You heard the loud yawn, followed by a grunt.

Fucking Finally!

"Bucky, hurry up, will ya?" you called out to him.

"I'm almost ready, pretty girl," came his gravelly rasp.

You'd both gotten maybe a couple of hours of sleep between stuff. You turned just in time to see him walking out of the bedroom, phone against his ear, as he said, "Good," before placing the phone down on the kitchen counter.

He wandered over, buttoning up his white shirt at such a seductively slow pace, you grunted annoyedly at him for various reasons.

Jesus Christ! He looked divine.

You sat cross-legged on the ottoman, rushing to paint your toenails because, of course, you didn't get to do them earlier. No thanks to your husband. You figured you could get it done while Bucky got dressed lazily, leisurely.

Whatever was up with him today.

He strolled over, popping a piece of fruit into his mouth that you cut hurriedly for you both a few minutes earlier.

And then he met your eyes.

Shit.

The second he looked at you, you knew. Bucky knew. You didn't know who snitched, but after nearly fifteen years with Bucky Barnes, you shouldn't be so surprised. Your husband always knew when someone so much as breathed your way wrong.

You'd actually been relieved he wasn't at the dinner last night. Because if he had been, things would've gone very differently. Henry, your executive publisher, had cornered you. He was drunk and touchy, and you managed to wiggle out of the situation without making a scene. Mostly because you didn't want to see bloodshed. But the second it happened, you knew it would've been a disaster if Bucky had seen it. So yeah, you were glad he'd been delayed. Even if part of you wished he'd been there to stop it from happening at all.

He sank onto the couch in front of you, dragging your foot into his lap.

You tried to wiggle away, but his grip tightened around your calf.

"Stay still," he warned in a dangerously low voice. Nevertheless, you squirmed.

"We don't have much time," you argued, worry gnawing at you.

"Don't worry, pretty girl. I got you," he said calmly, and he took the little bottle of nail polish from your hand.

"You'll ruin your trousers," you muttered.

"Gotta be still then, Sweetheart," He hummed softly, too jaunty, for your liking. Bucky painted the first toe carefully. It was utterly unbelievable how quickly he unraveled you.

You watched him, waiting for him to ask you, but he didn't, making you groan internally. And the longer he kept painting, the more nervous you got.

"Should I just tell you?" you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn't look up. "Tell me what, beautiful?"

"You know what."

"Do I?" He raised his eyes, and that dark gleam in them made your stomach twist. It was dangerous, that look, especially for your poor heart, always ready to topple you more and more into him.

Your phone rang. Jeremy. You answered quickly.

"Hey! Promise I won't be late. Ten minutes tops…" Jeremy, however, cut you off your babbling, "You didn't hear?" he said urgently.

"Hear what?" you asked confused.

"Henry. He was in some kind of accident this morning. It's serious. We gotta cancel the lunch."

You froze. "Is he…?"

"No idea. It's all over the place. Ronald called and said something about him losing an arm. It's bizarre. I put him in a cab last night, and he was fine." Jeremy sighed before he continued, "I don't know what happened, but I'll update you when I can. The launch is still on for tomorrow though. I'll send over the new schedule soon."

You set your phone aside, mind still trying to process. You went to pull your foot back, but Bucky didn't let go.

"Did I give you permission to move, Mrs. Barnes? You'll mess up all my hard work." he chuckled, casually blowing on your toes.

"Bucky," you hissed, "What the hell did you do?"

He took his time. Capped the polish. Set it down. Then lifted your leg over his shoulder and tugged you onto the couch beneath him.

"Bucky."

He kissed the curve of your neck, then licked a slow path to your ear. You let out a lewd moan, an entirely inappropriate reaction to the feeling of dread settling in your tummy. Bucky pressed himself against you, one hand cupped your face and the other wandered toward your chest, palming your tits.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him to find your losing sanity, "What. Did. You. Do?"

He finally met your gaze.

"He shouldn't have touched you, doll," he said softly, his breath warm against your lips, his stubble brushing against your skin, and dousing you in his sweet, sinful smell.

"Be grateful he's still breathing."

"Bucky…" His name caught in your gasping breath, and he smiled at you reverently, and gawd, you knew you had to put some sense into your man, but fuck, did you love him so goddamn much.

Well?

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[undyingdecay]

this feels like a safe place to admit that bob as sentry was SO hot

(i yearn for sentry to manhandle me)

you’re already crying when he says it.

writhing on your back, pinned beneath his weightless strength—like being crushed under light, under divinity. your legs are trembling from where he’s held them apart for what feels like hours, your pussy aching, swollen, dripping down his forearm where three of his fingers are knuckle-deep and still moving. too fast. too precise. too inhuman.

“please—” you sob, hips stuttering helplessly as your body tries to escape the unbearable friction, the overload of nerves. but there’s nowhere to go. not with his other hand flat against your sternum, keeping you in place like your bones were made for this. like your body was shaped to break open beneath his touch.

he doesn’t stop. not even when your cunt clenches so hard around his fingers that it hurts. not even when you say please again—this time with a cracked voice and tears slipping into your hairline.

“you want to cum?” his voice is soft. too soft. like the flicker of a candle right before it turns wildfire. “you think you deserve that?”

“i—i need to, i—” your voice cracks again, shame curling beneath your ribs, guilt coiled with the want. “it hurts, bob—please—”

but it’s not bob staring down at you.

not just bob.

the blue in his eyes flickers gold. his skin glows faintly like something holy and furious and carved from the sun. he doesn’t blink when he pulls his fingers out of you with a wet, obscene noise, the sudden emptiness punching a sob straight from your throat.

you reach for him, mind blank with need, but his hand catches your wrist mid-air. holds it there, gently—but like iron. “no.”

you choke. “why—?”

he leans down, mouth at your ear, voice still gentle. still cruel. “because gods don’t give without sacrifice.”

then he’s licking his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours—watching your desperation rise in your throat like a scream you can’t voice.

“pray,” he murmurs, gold light pulsing faintly behind his irises.

your thighs twitch. your back arches. your nails scrape helplessly against his chest.

“pray,” he says again, slower now, more command than request, “and maybe your god will answer.”

because this isn’t mercy.

this is worship.

and you’re going to learn how to beg for it.

[littlelamy]

your day had been a parade of powdered wigs and drooling mouths. one by one they lined up—lords and sons of lords, limp-limbed and overperfumed, every one of them staring at your tits instead of your face, reciting lines their mothers made them memorize. “your beauty rivals the moon.” “you’d make a fine wife, princess.” “your hips look strong enough for sons.”

you smiled, curtsied, even laughed when they made jokes that made your stomach twist.

and all the while, rafe stood silent at the edge of the hall, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes dark as thunderclouds. you could feel the heat of his gaze even through the silks. but he didn’t come to you or save you from your misery—not until it was over and you were left alone in your chambers, throat sore from pretending to be sweet, hands shaking as you pulled pins from your hair.

“you didn’t like them,” he said from the doorway, quiet.

you turned, robes sliding down your arms, curls falling wild around your face. “what gave it away? the part where i almost vomited when lord routledge said my voice reminded him of his favorite milk cow?”

“you shouldn’t have to stomach that.”

“but i do.” your voice cracked on it, just barely. “i’m the daughter of a king. but apparently, my future belongs to the highest bidder with a functioning cock.”

rafe crossed the room in two strides. “forget that.”

you blinked at him with doe eyes, confused on where this is going, “you’re not supposed to say that to a princess.”

“then punish me then,” he said, cupping your cheek. “tie me to your bedposts and make me beg for your forgiveness.”

your laugh was a weak, shaking thing. “i don’t want you to beg.”

he kissed your forehead. “then let me gift you.”

you didn’t argue when he dropped to his knees. he pushes your robe down slow and careful, kissing each inch of bare skin he uncovered like it was sacred. “my star,” he whispered against your thigh. “my heart. my furious, radiant highness.”

you leaned back onto the bed, heart hammering. “rafe…”

he parted your legs and looked at you like you were something divine. like he'd bleed for the chance to taste you.

“you’ve been good all day,” he murmured, dragging his mouth up your inner thigh, teeth scraping. “let me make it better...let me ruin you, my sweet.”

your breath hitched as his tongue slid between your folds—slow, teasing, a filthy kind of devotion in the way he moaned like he’d found the cure to every wound in the world. he licked like he meant it, nose brushing your clit, hands wrapped around your thighs to keep you right there, trembling and gasping.

“you taste like honey,” he groaned, lips slick, voice ragged. “i should stay here forever; between my princess’ leg.”

your hands tangled in his hair, tugging. “rafe—oh gods, rafe—”

he sucked your clit hard, making you scream, and then soothed it with lazy licks that had your thighs shaking.

“shh,” he whispered, tongue flicking faster. “you’re not leaving this bed until i’ve made you forget every bastard who looked at you today.”

and he did; you were still trembling when he finally climbed up beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple, his face sticky with you and pride.

“better?” he asked, lips curved against your hair.

you turned, curled into his chest.

“tie you to my bedposts tomorrow,” you murmured. “i’ll make you beg then.”

he laughed—low, warm, wrecked. “can’t wait, your highness.”

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