#shasinos

[starcunning]

Tender; grey

Then, perchance, a star fell, with a trail of red. — Aleksandr Blok

She is not but a week gone from Eulmore when she returns to it. She comes by airship from the Crystarium, and finds the City of Final Pleasures little changed since her last visit. But for its new resident. He is much changed—anyone else might not notice the tension in his jaw or the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes; most of her companions may not care to.

She is hardly one for easy embrace, but when she takes his arm she cannot help but note the way his hands shake. X’shasi says nothing, only descends with him into the Canopy and the villa she has let there.

Zenos yae Galvus has not come to the First for leisure; there is little in his nature that would allow it. But after their return from Garlemald and the occasion of a note from Ryne about matters out in the Empty, she has brought him there. No one will be looking for the Crown Prince here, even if they know to. There have been many theories put about as to who is responsible for the death of Varis zos Galvus, some of them even more outlandish than the truth.

He is at ease with the ostentation of Eulmore’s gilded halls, though she can tell the sights bore him. “If you’re uncomfortable here,” she finds herself saying, “we could go elsewhere. Twine, perhaps. It’s nearer to the Empty, after all.” Even the Crystarium would be better. Few enough she might weather that place for, but he is on that short list. Not least because she’s certain he would gladly place himself between the Exarch and her, even without her asking. In this she is a spiteful creature, perhaps, but he has pledged his acceptance to all of her, even and perhaps especially the parts too ugly for her to bare before others. After a moment, he says, “No. This is the place you’ve chosen; that is more than enough for me.” Now that she looks, she can see Emet-Selch’s hand upon it—more lightly than in Garlemald, to be sure, but she has seen the city of his heart and now the city of his hands, which he molded to his needs and from which he ran his empire. Eulmore is neither Emet-Selch’s residence nor, in such a way, his tool, but Vauthry’s influence, she is finding, is really his influence, and there are parts of this place that do remind her of the Imperial Palace. “It doesn’t look like Garlemald to you? All the snow aside?” “Ah,” he says. “A bit.” “Is that why you’re not sleeping well?”

He seems surprised by the question, lifting a hand to his face as though he might feel the evidence against his fingers. They slide over his cheek and brush his long blonde hair back over his shoulder, but his expression never changes. “No,” Zenos says. His throat is dry, his voice cracking as in those early days in a far different cage from this. Shasi waves him to sit and fetches a glass of water. “Zenos,” she says a moment later, “what’s going on?” He glances away, dark eyes fixed on something beyond this plane. Memory, she supposes, or dream. “Am I so obvious,” he murmurs, not quite a question. The next words are: “So weak?” “Looking upon you I cannot help but recall how you were when first you awoke in the conservatory,” she tells him. “I have hardly known you to tire since.” He smiles, crooked and sharp. “I don’t,” he says. Then, “How did you look upon me in my sickbed and not long to crush me?” “I am not so cruel a creature as to save your life so I might end it at my leisure,” X’shasi says. “All executions notwithstanding.” He shakes his head, dismissing the notion. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose that’s rather unbecoming in a hero. I hadn’t counted on that.” “You accused me once of casting you in a role,” Shasi reminds him. Zenos nods. “I did. You were. And so was I,” he admits. “I still believe that in the tales concerning us you would be described thus, but it is my own role I was mistaken about.” “What do you mean?” she asks. His hands rest on the table before him. One of them cradles the glass of water, but the other simply sits idle. She studies the calluses upon it.

“My great-grandsire was fond of the arts,” Zenos says. “I’m aware,” Shasi replies. She has not spoken much of her dealings with Emet-Selch to his descendant, and for a moment wonders if this might be the moment to disclose. She dismisses the notion a moment later—this is Zenos’s story, and ostensibly about why he looks so tired. “Early in my life I took it upon myself to study all I could. His favorite epics and works of theatre, among other things. The Empire—and all of the Spoken races, in truth—has ever favored songs of war and tales of great battles and the greater people who fought and won them.” “I suppose I’ve known enough bards to take that for the truth it is,” X’shasi agrees. Zenos seeks her eyes, and, a moment later, finds them. “It became clear to me early on that the bards were liars,” he says. “That there was no bliss to be found in battle; no excitement. Not on the training ground, nor as I was made ready to enter the army, nor thereafter. When I crossed blades with Lord Kaien, something in me awoke for all too brief a time. But in that moment it lasted, I was granted clarity: that I would never make a hero, never know that euphoria that was their province in the arena of combat. That left one role for me to occupy, if I hoped to share that grandest of stages.” “The villain,” Shasi says, voice hushed. “Just so,” Zenos replies, taking a sip of his water. “Few enough were the nights I slept well in my youth,” he continues. “The night I defeated my tutor, my victory was ashes in my mouth and I found myself moved to dream instead of a worthy foe; of the stuff of songs. And not again until Kaien, when I understood my role. It never lasted,” he says.

The midday sun is not so harsh as the tyrannical light that had once scourged this place, but he looks sallow in it just the same. The shadows it carves into Zenos’s face only make worse the pallor and dullness of his skin, and for a moment, speaking of his past, he looks almost haunted. Fragile. Shasi stretches out her arm, her fingers brushing his knuckles a moment.

He looks down at her hand, and his unfurls like a galleon’s sails. It dwarfs hers, the whole of her hand resting in his palm. Zenos says, “When we came to Rhalgr’s Reach I expected to find nothing of interest to me there. I thought I should dream the same dream as ever. And when I left I had no reason to believe otherwise. And yet … I slept soundly, and dreamed of nothing. And at Doma, when we met there … the dream left me and did not return. Not until I came upon you, broken upon the ground, and the Emissary in my skin standing over you.” Shasi cannot help but shudder at the memory, her free hand skating over her chest as though to assuage some ghostly ache. “Then the Hunt was,” she says, but finds she has not the words to finish. “An attempt—horrific and misguided—to win some measure of peace for myself,” he says, bowing his head briefly. “To seize back command of my unconscious mind from that which has encroached all my life.” “It went away,” she says, “when we fought that second time. When you named me your equal.” Zenos nods again. “I believed I had found peace because I finally knew what role I would play and which tale I was in,” he says. “But you were wrong,” X’shasi says. “I was,” he agrees. “I did not think the hero of my tale would see my throat exposed and do anything but sink her teeth into my neck.” There is some retort she could make to that, but it is ill suited to this moment. “That you would see my weakness and do anything but destroy me. I had never imagined I could be in such a song where a place might be made at the hero’s side for one such as me.” “What is your role now, do you believe?” He looks at her. “A hero may have any number of allies or friends. Or lovers. I am glad to be counted among them at all.” “I liked it better,” Shasi says, “when you named us equals.”

Then she asks, “Is it always the same dream?” “All my life,” Zenos says. “Tell me,” she says, in those soft words a plea. “The heavens fall,” he says. “A city burns. A people flee.” “Bozja?” she wonders. He shakes his head. “No city I know,” he says, “though Bozja was gone long before I ever came that way.” “I used to dream of Carteneau,” Shasi tells him. “Of the flares falling to earth; of the lamentations.” “Yes,” he says. “More like that.”

She looks at him and, belatedly, understands. There’s no need to say it out loud, so she stands from her place at the table, and crosses to take him in her arms. Even with him sitting, he can envelop her easily, strong arms holding her head to his chest. In the warm darkness of his embrace she can still feel him shake. “I wish I could do this for you,” she murmurs against his shirt. “Hold me?” he wonders, shrugging to shift her arms around him. “Make you feel safe,” she replies. “Weren’t you listening, Shasi?” he says. “They go away when you’re around.”

[starcunning]

18. Wilt

You’re gone away, and I’m in desert

For @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast’s FFXIVWrite 2019. [Title] [AO3 mirror]

Already the hand of spring had seized Ala Mhigo by the throat, dragging it onward into the heat which would elsewhere be called “summer.” Beneath a cage of glass, neglected flowers gave up their breath, perfuming the air with petals and stagnation.

Him too. It was exactly as she had said: death waited all around him, unworthy and afraid. He hated her for consigning him to this place, and more still for taking her leave of him thereafter, but to hate her was at least to feel something.

Zenos held his breath like a tree in winter, waiting to live again.

[starcunning]

Anabasis

This, on the other hand ...

There might be one more in this wheelhouse before patch. We’ll see.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Fray knows what is best for them, so it is Fray that rouses their body from bed, Fray that makes sure they remember to eat and wash and breathe. No one around them is aware of their curious codependency; Urianger had some early inkling of their symbiosis, but Urianger is gone.

So when a Julien de Vedastus is announced as wishing an audience with the Warrior of Light, it is Fray that prepares to meet with him.

The name means nothing to X’shasi, and hardly rouses her from her torpor. Fray expects an Ishgardian nobleman, disdainful of the layer of dust that has settled in the solar. Were there more of them perhaps they might have more concern for keeping up appearances, but the senior Scions are gone beyond the reach of even Eorzea’s greatest champion, and those that remain have other priorities.

Perhaps in time their dormitories will be like Minfilia’s solar, gilded with disuse; sunny rooms that no one visits. Perhaps Shasi’s will too. She thinks it from time to time—she will never take Fray’s offer to run away, but the choice to disappear and become unknown may not always be hers.

For now there is the unseemly quietude of the Rising Stones and a request for audience. Fray expects more requests will follow.

Julien de Vedastus enters the dusty room with a blademaster’s confidence. Fray can tell just from the sound of his footsteps. Something about them rouses Shasi from her living sleep, so that when Fray turns them around to see the man approaching in the garb of a Resistance soldier, she too is looking at him.

He is an Elezen man, with eyes of deepest blue and a Doman blade hung from his belt. The gryphon’s-head cap he wears casts a shadow over his features, but they are familiar to her just the same, as is the expression he wears: not the open worship of a man come to petition a champion, but a quieter awe. Tears prick her eyes. His name is not Julien de Vedastus. It can’t be. It’s something else. It’s—

“Zenos,” she whimpers. Her face is against his chest already, his arms around her, holding her up. They are the only thing that does; her knees are weak and wobbling. She clutches at him, callused hands clinging desperately to khaki canvas. He has a heartbeat. He is alive, somehow. Not himself, but here. “Yes,” he says, dropping to one knee. She can reach his neck now, and buries her face against it. His pale skin is perfect, unmarred. There should be a scar there, from the time he almost died in front of her, and there isn’t. She touches his chest, where another should be—from the time he did die in front of her. “I killed you,” she says. “How are you here?” “By accident,” he says, “and then by choice.”

She cannot make sense of it, and only understands that he has returned to her—an unforeseen boon executed in unforeseen fashion. For a moment she wonders if Myste has stirred, but her crystal is whole, if not her heart. Zenos lives.

“Where have you been?” she asks softly. “Garlemald,” he replies. “Elidibus has your body,” Shasi tells him, trying not to choke on the words. “I know,” Zenos says. “When I awoke, no one knew where you were. And in your absence, it seemed, certain parties were keen to cast your victory in doubt. I chased him across the provinces,” Zenos said. “Always just too late. Always just in time to hear about the miraculous recovery of the beloved Crown Prince. Lies upon lies.” “I believed them,” she confesses, and it shudders out of her like a sob. “For a time. I watched you die, and it broke me, but Brutus was so certain.” “Who?” he asks. “Asahi sas Brutus?” she says, feeling foolish. “Your devoted disciple?” “I believe I would know if I had taken such a person on.”

She can feel the tears roll over her cheeks, hot and unwelcome, falling onto the canvas of his uniform until it too is hot and damp and stifling, and still he does not let go of her. His fingers, familiar and strange, slide through her hair. “I know,” she says, trying not to sob. “I know, now. But I believed it. That somehow you had returned to the Empire, that you had played me for a fool. That this little killer from the capital knew you better—loved you better—” He hushes her, breath hissing from him. One hand strokes her back and the other comes to cup her chin, to lift her head. He will kiss her now, she knows, and she yearns for that without end.

But she cannot allow that, and turns her head. His lips brush the corner of her mouth instead. “We can’t,” she says, head dropping. He nuzzles against the crown of her hair, breathing deeply. Then he sighs—though he does not seem half so disappointed as he does relieved. “Why ever not?” he asks. She lifts her head to look at him. For all that he looks different, so much of him looks the same. She raises a hand and brushes back his hood, and the blond locks she expects come tumbling out over his shoulders, and she cannot bring herself to explain everything. She takes his hand instead, presses his palm to her cheek, his thumb to her scar. The scar he gave her.

It feels like cowardice when she says, “Look.” Like she should bear the pain of explaining, like she should wring herself out for him. Do you trust him with the knowledge of me? Fray asks. She only nods, eyes closing. Both hands clutch his now, the fingers of one locked around his wrist, the others intertwined with his own, pressing his skin to hers. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she says. “Please, please make this easy for me.” Her hands tremble. He nods, and presses his forehead to hers. His breath spills over her skin, evenly at first.

There is a soft yelp of surprise and pain, a trembling of his hand in hers. This is how she knows what he sees with his Resonance; this is how she can know he has drank of her suffering.

“He might still wake up,” she says, opening her eyes to fix the stranger that was once her lover with her pleading gaze. Her voice is quavering, desperate, trying to convince herself as much as explain to Zenos. “There might still be something I can do to save them, and when he does …” “When he does,” says Zenos, hoarse-voiced and closed-eyes, “you cannot have betrayed him.” He lifts his head. “Even if I can explain it to him and he understands,” she says, realizing now the impossibility of the situation, “I don’t know if you should be with me.” “I love you,” he says, as though this is simple. As though anything in her life has been simple in ten years. She closes her eyes on this notion, shaking her head. Her hands fall from his, but his fingers still caress her cheek. “Don’t be foolish, Zenos,” she says softly. “It’s easy to convince yourself you love someone when they’re around you all the time.”

The light is different in Mor Dhona, but the way it slants through the windows is just the same as at the conservatory, and for a moment she allows herself to indulge in the fantasy that it is moons ago, and she has not killed her lover, has not watched Myste die and Thancred fall. Less than a year’s turn and she is so much diminished by it; her responsibilities erode her. As Fray always warned. There will be nothing left of her, soon, and sooner still without him. Still, she cannot ask him to stay.

“Ah,” he says. His eyes are blue, and his insights are grounded in the mundane when he says, “This, then, is what you think happened with me?” “What choice had you but to love me!” she protests. “You were my captive! What choice does anyone have? I am the Warrior of Light! To deny me is to risk the future of this star entire. Is it not better to capitulate? To keep me happy?” Fray bristles in the back of her mind, but Zenos speaks before he gets the chance. “You think this, too, of your rogue, then. That, like me, you wore him down.” “Yes.” “You forget some things in your eagerness to explain this to yourself.” She glances away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “Like what?” she asks softly. “We have been apart for moons now,” Zenos says. “I did not forget that at all,” Shasi says, feeling her tone sharpen. He only holds her closer then, her ear to his chest. “But I chose to return. And you love me, despite my absence.”

She stiffens but does not pull away. Unseen, her eyes go wide, and she thinks over every word that has passed between them, and there, in her condemnation of Asahi sas Brutus, is her confession. No wonder he had tried to kiss her after.

Her love is a death sentence, but he has survived his execution, or at the very least haunts her in living flesh. “I love you,” she agrees. “It was around the time I met Lindleya that I realized …” “The Hydrus widow?” he asks, lifting his head from hers. She looks up into his face, finding his brow knitted. “Yes,” Shasi says. “Lindleya rem Aglaophotis. You knew each other?” “Socially,” he says, and she remembers that which she always forgets: that he is a prince, with a prince’s education and a prince’s responsibilities. “She was wed to my father’s … favourite.” He lades the word with meaning, but she already knows all about Regula van Hydrus and Varis zos Galvus—and she knows, too, how it made Lindleya weep. “It was inevitable that we should meet. One pities her lot.” “Then would you be her?” Shasi asks. “In love with one whose loyalties are divided?” Zenos laughs softly. It is a comforting sound. “You have been in love with Thancred Waters longer than you and I have known each other,” he says. “You saw that when you looked?” “No,” Zenos says, “I saw it in the Menagerie, watching you fight. It came off of you so readily. I could read it in the air around you. And around him.” “But only because he and I—” Zenos clutches her to his chest, stroking her back. “You lost them all. For more than a year he was absent your life, and you loved him. He came back then. He’ll come back now.”

Shasi isn’t sure why Zenos is so keen to create for himself a rival, but she allows herself to relax against him for a moment. “What will you do now, ‘Julien?’” “My hope has ever laid with you,” he says. “And unless I miss my guess, you are in need of support.” “We have some allies yet,” Shasi says. “That is not what I am saying,” he tells her. He draws back far enough so that he can look upon her face, cradling it in his hands—or in the hands he now possesses.

“I needed you, once,” he says. “Whatever I am now, I owe to you. Let me repay that.” Her vision blurs with tears, and she buries her face against his shoulder before they can fall. He holds her as she weeps. For the first time in months she no longer has to be the strongest person in the room.

And Fray lets her relinquish that strength and composure, because this is what is best for her now.

[starcunning]

galaxy braining ; 004

Glass is a poor insulator. It mattered much less in Gyr Abanian summer than it does in Argolid spring--the tail of winter is long here, and it is little wonder that she shivers. He can feel her curling up on herself, her knees pressed into his back, her every breath a wash of warm air against his bare skin.

Zenos is not ignorant of her private amusement at his insistence of sleeping on the side of the bed nearer the door. But he has his pride--and he has her, and intends to keep her. Still, feeling her tremble, he repents of it, turning about to face her. She is asleep, yet, and silent; these are not the sort of tremors that had come upon her in the Menagerie. Still, chill or fear, the treatment is the same. He gathers her to his chest, carefully tucking the blankets around her shoulders before he winds his arms around her, too.

Her body is cool against him, hard with muscles that she had not yet had when she had killed him. The weight of her is proof that she is real and whole and alive--and so, against all odds, is he. They are among friends here, she has said. He isn't really sure what that means. Mostly that Regula van Hydrus is no longer his father's hound, he supposes. Whatever it means, she treads more lightly here, breathes more evenly, lets him sleep on the side of the bed nearest the door, curled up against his back. Until, of course, she decides she's cold, and then he gathers her to his chest.

Zenos is not entirely familiar with happiness, but he thinks it must take the shape of her cold feet pressed between his calves.

[starcunning]

21. Proposal

And none at all will know me    That knew me well before.

[starcunning]

Prince Lindorm

One of two Fanservice Friday entries today. This one was requested (and sponsored! I have a ko-fi!) by @weaselmancer​, who has been patiently waiting for me to drop another faerie tale on her since February 2016, when I wrote one for Halesia.

(I stand by that work if not its context. Whatever. They don’t deserve this big toblerone.)

So here’s something that’s been on my to-do for yonks. Thanks for giving me an excuse, Vibben.

When the old Emperor died, it was his grandson who succeeded him upon the throne. The first Emperor had been known as a great warrior, and had much expanded the kingdom, and his grandson who was now Emperor was of like make, but he was an unsentimental sort of man, and little was known of him besides his honors, which were many, and his warcraft, which was peerless.

In those days, the Empire was so vast that it was said the sun shone always upon some part of it; though the Emperor’s homeland was far to the North, it was said he ruled in the East and in the West, and the South would soon belong to him. But the general who had tried to claim the South in the name of his Emperor had died, and his city in the West soon came to be threatened by a great serpent, which men called the Lindorm.

The Lindorm was taller than towers, with wings vaster than the sails on ships, and its hide was of scale and steel. It was said that it could change its size, and encircle the whole of the city, but this was not the most amazing thing about it. No, the most amazing thing about the Lindorm was that it could speak, and more astonishing still were the things it said.

“I am the son of the Emperor,” it said, “and now that my father has taken the throne, I shall take a bride to love me.”

The people were astounded by this, for none knew the Emperor had a son at all before he took the throne. But the Lindorm held the city fast in his coils, and no merchants could come to that place, nor the Emperor’s soldiers quit its walls, for the only person the Lindorm allowed to leave was a single messenger, to bear his request to the Emperor.

For a time there came no answer, and the Emperor’s soldiers sought other means to leave the city, but even the ships of the air could not depart, for with a single beat of his vast wings the Lindorm could buffet them with unbearable winds, or call down levinbolts to strike them from the heavens, or pierce their hulls with lances of ice. And so, soon, the only soldiers left in the city were more loyal to the Lindorm, for the Lindorm was present and his power apparent, and the Emperor was distant and powerless to do anything in the city.

It was not for love of the city that the Emperor relented, for he cared for neither the city of the West nor its people, but if he were ever to take the South and surpass his grandfather’s achievements, the Emperor would need the foothold it gave. And it was not so hard to find a bride for a prince—so long as she was not told the truth of the matter.

And so a princess from a faraway vassal nation was sent to the city to marry the Lindorm. But when she saw the prince she had been promised to was instead a great and terrible serpent, she was frightened. His scales glinted like swords, and his wings cast shadows so great she could not see the sun, and she declared she could never love such a terrible creature. The Lindorm roared in anger and despair at this, and from her fear she perished on the very spot.

There were other lands within the Empire, and other princesses; and the Emperor sent them, growing desperate. But all the brides he sent for came to the city in ignorance, and were frightened by the terrible form of the Lindorm. And so the Lindorm sought a bride still, but soon it was said among the nations of the Empire that the prince was no prince at all, and that he had slain and devoured the other princesses, and to send one’s daughter to the West was to send her to her death, and even fear of the Emperor could not compel them to give their beloved children up to be slaughtered.

And when no more princesses would come, a great warrior-king from the East came, saying, “I will do battle with the Lindorm, and I will slay it, for I am the best swordsman in all the world!” And the Emperor was grateful, for the Lindorm was proving more trouble to him than he cared to deal with.

But, though the warrior-king might have been the greatest swordsman in all the world, his blade was no match for the steel that covered the Lindorm, nor could the reach of his arm compete with the Lindorm’s massive size. And so it was that he was slain, and for this, too, the Emperor was grateful, for the warrior-king had been proving more trouble to him than he cared to deal with.

In those days, there was a great Hero who had been born to the kingdoms of the West, but who traveled among the peoples of the South, assuaging their hurts and protecting their homes. To her was given the power to know the truth of things regardless of a man’s words, and she had been blessed also with an unshakable resolve.

And so when the Hero heard of the Lindorm, she heard some things which were true and some things which were not true. But what she knew to be true was that the people of the West were starving and afraid, and as it was the land of her birth, she longed to return home and see the city freed.

Thus it was that the Hero said, “I will deal with him, for I fear nothing.” And she prepared herself to be presented to the Lindorm as his bride.

But a friend she had long traveled with, a Sage, said, “Wait. I am from a land of scholars, as you know; let us seek my old master’s council, and see what can be done,” for she feared that the Hero would fare no better than the princesses, and that her sword would prove no less sharp, and no more effective, than had the warrior-king’s.

And so the Hero and the Sage went together into the hinterlands, where once had been a great city of knowledge that now was there no more. But in the swamps dwelt the old Master, who had trained the Sage when she was much younger.

The Master had great knowledge of many things, and insight into many more, and she advised the Hero, saying, “When you go to present yourself as a bride, put on a dozen dresses, and have brought to you a tub of water and lye, a pail of milk, and an armful of switches.” “I will do these things,” said the Hero. “And when the Lindorm bids you to undress, tell him to shed his skin. When he has shed the last, you may put the switches in the water and with them beat him. Then you must wash him in the milk, and lastly you must take him in your arms and embrace him as your husband.” “These things also I will do,” the Hero promised. “Remember, then, that you must do all this of your own free will.” “It is my will to do this,” said the Hero, “for there should be less cruelty in this world.” “Mark well that you have chosen this,” said the Master, “for it is the only thing that will protect you.”

Then the Master cast them out back into the swamp, and the Hero thanked the Sage for her guidance, and the Sage was glad of a chance to see her old Master again, for though neither would admit it, both were fond of one another, and thought of themselves like a mother and daughter.

Thus did the Hero enter into the West, carrying with her a dozen wedding dresses. When she came to the city and approached its walls, wound all around them was the steely serpent form of the Lindorm. He laid his head in the road, looking upon her.

“None may enter into this city,” he said, “and none may leave it, but for that I should have a bride.” “I am your bride,” said the Hero; “see, I come to you with my wedding gown.” “If you are my bride you shall have a room at the palace,” he said, “but if you are false you shall surely die. Was it my father who sent you?” “No,” said the Hero, “I sent myself.” “Why?” asked the Lindorm. “The people of this city cry out in fear and hunger, and I wish their suffering to end.” “These people do not know you,” said the Lindorm, “and they do not love you.” “I do not know you, either,” said the Hero, “but I am here for you, as I am here for them. I am come to be your bride, if you will have me. We will see if the rest is your affair.” “You are not afraid of me,” said the Lindorm. “I am not afraid of much,” the Hero told him. “Then perhaps you are the bride for me.” “I will take the room at the palace you have promised me,” said the Hero, “and I wish sent to it a bucket of washing-water, a pail of fresh milk, and as many switches as the servant can carry in his arms.” “What are these things for?” asked the Lindorm. “I shall not tell you,” said the Hero, “but you shall find out upon our wedding night.”

So it was that the Hero was allowed to enter the city and conducted to the palace within. She repeated her requests to the servants. They thought this strange, and would not do it, but the Lindorm said, “This is my bride; treat with her as though she were your queen,” and so it was done. The washing-water and milk were brought, and a dozen switches as long as the Hero’s arm and thick as her finger. Then she was dressed for her wedding in all of the gowns she had brought, and in the custom of the Empire she was wedded to the Lindorm.

Thus they retired together as bride and groom to her apartments in the palace. His scales shone in the moonlight, and his eyes were brilliant, but she was not afraid. “Take off your dress,” said the Lindorm. “Shed your skin,” the Hero replied. “None have dared ever to command me in such a fashion as this,” said the Lindorm. “I am a prince.” “If you are a prince, then I am a princess, and I do not fear you besides. I command you: shed your skin, and I shall lay my dress upon it.”

The Lindorm wriggled and groaned, and sloughed off his skin; the outermost layer of his scales was as silver in the moonlight and brittle as moth wings, crumbling when she laid the fine lace of her dress atop it. He was dismayed to see that she wore another gown.

Again the Lindorm implored her, “Take off your dress.” And again the Hero commanded, “Shed your skin.” “Who are you to speak to me in such a way?” “I am your wife, and a hero of the people. You bade them to treat me as their queen; I bid you, do the same.” And a short while later a second skin laid beside the first, iridescent in the moonlight, and she laid a gown of linen atop it.

They went on in like fashion for some time; the Lindorm shed his skin and the Hero laid her dress upon it. Steel and scale and hide lay upon the floor, bedecked with silk and pearls and ribbons. And when they had done this a dozen times and he was bereft of the twelfth, his skin was soft and new.

It was then that she threw the switches into the washing water, and began to beat him with them. All over his body she struck, and though he shuddered and cried out, the Lindorm made no protest. Even as the lye of the washing-water burned against his skin, he endured; even as each of the switches broke in turn, she continued. He thrashed beneath her, but he did not strike her nor bite her. Neither did he attempt to escape, for certainly he might have flown through the open window. His cries resounded, and when the last switch broke he slumped to the floor, and the Hero struggled to catch her breath.

Then she poured the milk over him, washing away the burning lye in his welts, holding the pail in one hand and smoothing over his hurts with the other. She washed him from maw to tail, and when she laid down beside him, the Lindorm with his last strength laid his head in her lap. The Hero put her arms around him, stroking his fingers upon his brow. All of this she did of her own free will. Then they fell to sleep.

In the morning when she awoke, the Hero saw the dozen shed skins and the dozen discarded gowns, and the switches she had broken, and the empty pail of milk and the dried tub of washing-water. But she did not see the Lindorm.

When she turned around she saw instead a man sleeping upon her marriage bed. His skin was fair and new, pink with welts only just begun to heal. His hair was long and golden as the Lindorm’s wings, and when his eyes opened they were the most startling blue.

“Who are you?” asked the Hero. “I am your husband,” said the man. “My husband is the Lindorm,” she said. “Yes,” said the man, “or he was, for I was the Lindorm, and now I am a Prince.” “How came this to be?” asked the Hero. “Such were the circumstances of my birth,” said the Prince. “I was not what my father the Emperor wished me to be, and he named me a stranger to him and cast me out.” “The people of this city have suffered long,” said the Hero. “I am sorry for my part in their sorrows,” said the Prince. “My father’s men will have fled the city in the night, I am sure, for they love me not.” “That is but one of the city’s troubles,” said the Hero. “I shall mend my ways,” said the Prince. “There should be less cruelty in the world.” “So there should,” agreed the Hero.

And so together the pair set about putting things right within the city, and within the kingdom of the West. The seasons turned, and the Prince remained a Prince, and the Lindorm did not return. It was in spring that the Prince came unto the hero to speak with her.

“Thank you for liberating me from my monstrous nature,” said the Prince. “For that I shall always be grateful to you, but if you would not have me for a husband I shall not force you to be my wife.” The Hero thought about this, and said, “It is by my own free will I came to you, and by my own free will shall I remain here. You have been honest and humble in your attempts to make right the troubles of the city, and it is this that makes you princely.” And the Prince was glad of her answer, for he had come to love the Hero.

But though the courage and kindness of the Hero had saved the city and the Prince, the Emperor was unhappy, and loved the Hero not, for now it seemed the West would stand between his ambition and the South.

But that is a story for another time.

[starcunning]

galaxy braining ; 007

so a week ago, EL James previewed a new canker set to blight the modern literary landscape, a novel called The Mister, and you can read that excerpt here. it’s a terrible way to preview a novel, but whatever.

for some reason my friends and i were possessed to try remixing this whole “step into a bedroom, see the love interest, whoops he’s awake, nope, back to sleep now” framework and i did uhhhh well a bunch of them so here they are i guess

X’shasi x Thancred

Brushing her sweat-damp hair from her brow, Shasi elbows open the door, pausing on the threshold.

Still here? she thinks, but does not say, about the sleeping figure.

He is sprawled face down, naked, across the large bed. She closes the door behind her quietly, looking him over with fascination. The sheets are twisted up around him, dark cotton wound around pale limbs. He faces her, his unbound white hair sleep-tousled and falling across his features. There is no scar on the left side of his face. This surprises her; given his penchant for wearing that blindfold, she had assumed there might be. One arm is tucked up under the pillow, the other extended toward her. His hand dangles over the edge of the bed; a thousand tiny cuts silver the skin of his fingers. His arms and shoulders are defined, but not brawny. Just beside his spine, halfway down his back, she can see the old stab wound, twin to the one on his front—and to the one she bears. He has other scars, though the twisting blue cloth of the bedsheet covers much of him below the waist.

One leg peeks out from the edge, though, bare calf exposed where it lays atop the bedcovers. His foot hooks over the hollow of the opposite knee. He stirs, fingers curling, extending, and his eyes open. He lifts his chin, his hair stirred with the motion so that she can glimpse the red tattoos upon his neck. His mismatched eyes focus, after a moment, fixed upon her face. She feels like she’s been caught at something illicit, takes a breath, readies an apology. Then he turns his head, shifting, settling. In a moment, he’s asleep again.

Cassilda x Nael

The door slides open. Cassilda steps through, freezing just across the threshold.

The White Raven is sleeping.

In the nude.

She sleeps facedown and, Cassilda cannot help but note to herself again, naked. She’s shocked and fascinated at once, feet rooted to the ceramite as she stares. She should be angry, Cassilda is distantly aware, that the Legatus has forgotten—slept through—their meeting. Instead she is transfixed by the way Nael is stretched across the length of the bed, tangled in her duvet. Nael faces the door, but her features are covered by unbound white hair. Her arms are extended before her, beneath the pillow, fingertips but a few inches shy of the headboard. Nael is broad-shouldered, pale as milk. A few faded scars upon her arms betray long practice with the sword. There are no scars upon the White Raven’s back. The rumpled bedcovers fall across the curve of her backside, just below the dimples of her hips. The crimson silk of the duvet winds between her legs; one dangles over the edge of the bed.

Nael stirs, the muscles of her back rippling. Her eyes open, pale blue and focusing swiftly on Cassilda. She goes still—as one must when a raptor fixes you with their gaze—and tries to muster an explanation. Before Cassilda can speak, Nael rolls to her side, away from the door, and settles back into sleep.

X’shasi x Zenos

Shasi pauses at the threshold of the nave.

Zenos is not yet awake.

Much less dressed.

He sprawls, too large, face down atop the cot. In the grey-gold light of dawn, she stands, staring. She’s seen him naked before; studied him, even, but this feels different somehow. He is fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, his unbound hair falling all around him. Through the golden strands, his features seem softer, somehow. One arm is beneath his head, the other slung over the edge of the cot, fingers dangling just inches from the floor. His broad shoulders and muscular back bear no scars; his pale skin seems almost to glow in the morning light.

The linen bedsheet preserves his modesty, barely; it winds from hip to taut backside, over and around one muscular thigh. One foot hangs over the side of the mattress, and the other off the end; he is too big, and the bed too small. He stirs,  lifting his head. His eyes are deep blue, his gaze startling. It settles but does not quite fix on Shasi, who only stares impudently back at him until he turns his face away. A moment later he is asleep again.

Nero x Timaeus x Julia

The door creaks a little as Nero opens it, and he freezes.

Timaeus and Julia are asleep already. Dim lamplight from the hall falls across their bodies, intertwined and nude beneath the blankets. Timaeus sleeps facing the door, so Nero sees first his broad shoulders, his bare chest, the way Julia’s hand molds to the curve of his hip. His dark hair has begun to work loose from his queue, and a few strands fall carelessly across classical features and a strong jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of stubble. One of Timaeus’s hands rests on Julia’s forearm—his skin is so much lighter than hers—and the other is stretched out before him, across the undisturbed white expanse of sheets.

Julia is nestled against his back, her face buried against his shoulder. The duvet covers them both to the waist, but she has slung a leg overtop so that her bare calf hooks over Timaeus’s. Most of her is lost in shadow, but two limbs is more than enough to get a sense of her deadly exactitude.

Nero stands there, his shadow falling over both of them, and wills himself halfway across the world—to Nagxia or Meracydia or the New World; anywhere but the capital, two fulms from the edge of the bed and malms displaced from anything he deserves. Adventurers can do it by reflex; he, alas, is Garlean, and remains fixed right where he stands.

Timaeus opens his eyes, golden as candleflame, and blinks against the light. Nero shifts to cast his face in shadow. I was just, he means to begin, but has no followup. “Nero,” Timaeus says, lifting his hand from the bed to wave him closer. “Come to bed.”

[starcunning]

annnnd last of the hell round for which i will likely owe you several souls, to be collected at your very leisure: masquerade ball shasinos

He is a skillful dancer; Shasi supposes a life at court has given him that, even when he leads a partner with half his height and not an ounce his experience.

“What does it feel like, Eikon-slayer, not to be their figurehead for an evening?”“I don’t know,” she says; “what does it feel like not to be Viceroy?”

[starcunning]

When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body. (right in there.) (shasinos, or haurchewol, either works)

821.

The flicker of blackrobes brought her hand to the hilt of her blade, steel ringingagainst the scabbard of her sword. The light of her crystal focusflared red, like blood, like his mask.

She could feel thefurrow in her brow, the set of her jaw. There could be no words forone of them, and neither was she prepared to allow any.

But he spoke beforeshe could close the gap: "Oh, do not look at me so." Thequality of his voice froze her, rigid in place, all her buried lovelike soil in her chest. She knew what she would see even before heprised the mask from handsome, grinning features, letting the hoodfall back to expose his shaggy, blue hair. "A smile better suitsa hero."

That face, thatbeloved face, and an enemy behind those kind eyes. He lifted a hand,stepping into her reach, and turned her sword aside. It fell from hernerveless grasp, and he took her hands in his own, turning them asthough inspecting them. Despite the blood he brought the left to hislips and kissed the signet—her signet; his signet—tracing theunicorn graven there with the tip of his tongue.

“Haurchefant,”she said, because she knew it wasn’t, but it was the only thing sheknew how to say. “It can’t be.”“It can,” hesaid, and took her in his arms. He felt strange, out of armor, theclawed gloves pawing through her hair, but he was warm and breathingand he smelled like comfort. “You struck a bargain,” he told her.“Do you remember it?”She shook her head, burying her faceagainst his chest.“‘Thank you,’” he repeated. “‘Imiss you,’ you said. And then … you said, ‘I would tear godsfrom their thrones to see you smile one more time.’”She shivered at thememory of cold. “Nobody was there to hear me but Shpoki,” shesaid after a moment.“And me,” hesaid. “It need not be many gods, of course.” He stepped back amoment so that he could meet her eyes; so that she was looking upinto that face once more. “One will do,” said the servant ofZodiark.

She understood the only way this would end: by her hand. She could not do it now. Perhaps later. Perhaps not at all. It was insanity to consider, but it hadbeen insanity to live without him.

“One will do,”she said, because she didn’t know how to say anything else.