#she's more chaotic than she lets on. she wields an axe like 3 times her size. queen

[critterpdf]

happy 1 year to this comic i forgot to post feat. my inq basil <3

[callsignbaphomet]

Ok, so, originally this was gonna just be a million fuckin questions, and it'll prooooobably turn into one of those question chains from several months ago. BUT to start I think I can do just like, three. First, tell me ALL about the area in Norway where Jelani was growin up, absolutely anything and everything you can think of about it. Secondly, tell me ALL about babby Jelani! Again just anything and everything you can think of! Lastly, how exactly do those magic weapons work? :o Like, once they're made can anyone grab them? Can he only have one at a time? Stuff like that! Basically just use this as a chance to talk about all those things! :3

❤️❤️❤️

So Jelani was born and raised near what is known as Hammerfest today (woohoo subarctic climate!). Honestly he’s been everywhere and just about seen everything but nothing compares to when he was growing up in that area and watching the Aurora Borealis with family and friends in a comfortable silence while just taking it all in, ya know? Being born in 870 CE meant there was no light pollution so every night the sky always lit up and the stars were so shiny and there were millions and millions of them which was absolutely insane to see and had a lot of significance because of his mom’s culture and their relationship to the stars.

They were close to the coast so there was a lot of fishing and sailing. He was also partial to that area because it was close to the sea and close enough to the mountains where it felt like a happy in between. He’s not a fan of being too far from some source of water. That place was perfect as he could see all kinds of sea dwelling animals like whales and seals, squids though he’s not a fan, he’s kind of scared of squid especially the really big ones he saw every once in a while. He especially liked puffins as a kid since he thought they were kinda silly. Inland he saw his fair share of reindeer, foxes, bears, wolves and otters which he completely fell in love with and still loves as an adult. Show him pictures or videos of otters and he’ll melt, if he sees one irl he’ll practically die from the amount of cute. There were also the more supernatural creatures though he mostly grew up around a lot of werewolves.

Oh! And sure, he’s not a big fan of the sun but even he has to admit that the midnight sun is pretty impressive and beautiful in its own right. It was gorgeous to see it and he did enjoy walking around in the middle of the night and still see the sun out.

Also, despite the location, he was exposed to a lot of different people as the village was flagged as a safe area which saw a ton of traders and all were welcome regardless of who you were or if you were human or non-human. He saw everything and interacted with all sorts of people from the local Sámi People, Middle Eastern, Asian and even other African people. And after his mom found out her family were still alive and well they’d also visit each other when they could. Honestly, his upbringing was kinda fairy tale like.

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qasdxcfgbhn well, Jela as a little kid was always hanging around his parents, grandparents and especially his brother. Since Loke’s 13 years older than him Loke often watched him and played with him a lot, he wasn’t even asked to he just did it because baby brother. Like the instant Lo first saw him it was like love at first sight type of shit. He learned to speak clearly very early on which surprised everyone at how clear and structured his speech was for a kid so young and then they learned he was a very fast learner and really smart and was always curious and asking tons of questions.

Even since he was little he really loved animals so he was always seen chasing after them or somehow petting them and playing with them. Learned to ride and care for horses pretty fast and when he got his own it was like fireworks went off in his head. Even in present day he sees a horse and it’s like instant childhood memories flooding him. Btw his first horse was a mare he named Dagny, just like his ball python in modern times lol, it was a Fjord with a grey coat and a two tone mane and he loved her to bits. Aside from that there was the family dog named River because she loved to swim. He also liked cats but they didn’t have a cat because Loke was scared of them and Sanaa (for different reasons related to another creature) wasn’t fond of them. They don’t hate cats but they’d rather just keep ‘em at arm’s length.

Then teen Jelani who was...I don’t wanna use the word difficult because he wasn’t but let’s just say different for lack of a better word. It was around this time that he was realizing he wasn’t like his family and it actually hurt ‘im a lot. Especially since his mom was an arcane berserker and it was like a huge deal so they all thought he was gonna be one too. So in come the feelings of alienation and the doubts and the semi angst and the moodiness. He was never disrespectful to anyone but he was often moody and often felt down. Around this time he was also learning he had some unique abilities of his own that no one else had and since no one else had them he learned to control them but not without incidents. Not to mention that since he was very little he could see and hear and talk to things that no one else could really see. Some were friendly and others weren’t. Mix in the regular hormonal shit teenagers go through during puberty and it made for a bit of a mess. This kind of “weakened” him and his old self (which he nor anyone else knew of) was starting to rear in and it was kind of scary. He was actually fluctuating between his old personality which was chaotic af and his present self and both seemed to clash a lot. Once this started happening the migraine attacks and the nosebleeds began as well as the sleep paralysis, night terrors, insomnia and the nyctophobia and they all seemed to hit him really hard and suddenly. So all of that mixed in made the ages of 13 through 17 really, really fucking messy.

But family and friends were with him through it all and at 17 and a half he chilled out and learned to control himself and managed to suppress his old self. He’d learned to use and handle his abilities responsibly, still felt a little out of place but his family was sure to always let ‘im know they loved him no matter what and his grandfather especially let him know that his differences weren’t a bad thing and that they made ‘im special. By 18 he was back to his cheerful old self though sometimes he still felt bad about being different but didn’t let it get him down. However, he now had to cope with migraine attacks, night terrors, nyctophobia, random nosebleeds, insomnia and sleep paralysis which he still has even in present day.

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Okay so berserkers are non-humans that have the ability to summon powerful weapons and very sturdy armor from nothing thin air. The armor can take a beating but if they get targeted by a barrage of attacks the armor can break and they’d have to summon the armor again but there’s a cool down of about half an hour so it’s better to hang on to the armor even if broken or get your ass to safety. The weapons don’t break though. Oh and if an armor broke and they summon it again it’ll show up as good as new. Berserkers can summon up to two different weapons so which ones they summon depends on the person’s taste and comfort level.

These weapons can be summoned and dematerialized at will and have no cool down. Anyone can grab them if the berserker it belongs to doesn’t mind though why would a berserker use another one’s weapon unless they wanna be offensive and kill ‘em with their own weapon? It’s not offensive, more like yikes.

Now, since Jelani isn’t a berserker he managed to figure out a way to mimic berserkers’ ability to summon a weapon from thin air though unlike grown up berserkers he isn’t limited to just two types of weapons. For example Loke is able to summon a two headed axe and a bow, nothing more nothing less. Jelani can summon whatever he wants as he can manipulate the shape. His mom’s tribe are partial to glaives so he mainly uses a glaive. His weapons however are made of an unknown material that’s insanely hard and impossible to even crack. His weapons can’t be wielded by anyone other than himself bc as soon as someone else touches them they dematrerialize. It also looks weird, like it’s so dark it swallows all light and no light bounces off of it. He can’t summon armor though so that’s where the blacksmith comes in. His uncle Jørgen made his look like his dad’s and his mom’s.

[zeravmeta]

Hey so i was inspired by some of those fanservant posts and made one for Optimus Prime since im on a TF kick lmao

Servant: Optimus Prime / Servant Class: Ruler

Origin: Transformers Universe / Region: Cybertron, Earth

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Aliases: Leader of the Autobots, Orion Pax, Last of the Primes, The Thirteenth

Parameters: STR (A+++++) / END (EX) / AGL (B) / MP (E) / LUK (E) / NP (EX)

Class Skills: Magic Resistance (EX) / Rank of Prime (EX)

Character Info: In a far-off universe, on a far-off planet, a race of sentient machines were born from the planet’s own life, an ancient being named Primus who had transformed himself into the planet Cybertron. A Golden Age of peace had emerged, but eventually the corrupt politics that had developed over time ended up splitting the population between the Autobots and the Decepticons. The Great War was one so brutal that it had poisoned the planet itself, forcing both factions off-world in search of resources. In these dark times, a Prime would weild the Matrix of Leadership and ensure a peaceful future for all Cybertronians…

…Orion Pax was once just a clerk who worked in the Iacon Hall of Records, unaware of the great destiny that would await him.

Skills:

Matrix of Leadership A+: The very life of Primus shared with any bot who wields it, this skill works like a unique combination of Golden Rule, Imperial Privilege and Tactics. The Matrix chooses someone with natural leadership abilities and greatly boosts their parameters, and the affected bot can in turn inspire their allies even in their darkest hour. Such a connection to an ancient otherworldly being would mean that the chosen individual would qualify as Foreigner class (within the Fate Universe), but Optimus’ sheer willpower and belief in justice means he isn’t overtaken by Primus, not that the benevolent Primus would do so even if given the chance. Optimus’ own self-sacrifical nature, however, puts him in danger more often than not, having him take the blows intended for his allies.

[8->6 Turns][Increase NP Gain (20%-30%)(3 Turns), Increase Atk(20%-30%)(3 Turns) and Def(20%-30%)(3 Turns) and Restore HP(1500-2500), and Increase NP Strength (20%-30%)(3 Turns) for All Allies. After 3 turns, decreases Def(20%-30%)(3 Turns) and grants Taunt (1 Turn)(Demerit)]

Battle Continuation EX: Optimus is no stranger to death, unfortunately. His variable existence across the multiverse due to his status as Prime means he has died many times before, yet he always finds a way back to help his fellow Autobots.

[10->8 Turns][Grants Guts status (3 Times, 5 Turns, restores 1000-2000 HP)]

Cybertronian Warfare C+: Optimus has millions of years of military experience, and is equipped with an Ion Blaster and his trademark Energon Axe. However, his original status as a civilian bot lowers the rank. 

[7->5][(60%->90%) Chance to grant Evasion(1 Turn) and (60%->90%) Chance to Increase Atk(30%->50%)(1 Turn) for All Allies and (60%->90%) Change to decrease NP Strength(20%->30%)(3 Turns) for All Enemies]

Noble Phantasm:

Will Of the Primes - Optimus’ Resolve / Rank(EX)

Optimus Prime has an unyielding resolve that can never be shattered. With the Matrix of Leadership, Optimus can release an extremely powerful burst of Primus’ power that can eradicate any enemy. However, the true power of this pseudo Noble Phantasm is the large inspiration boost to his allies that can carry them through millions of years of warfare.

[Type: Arts][Increases Arts Card Effectiveness (40%->60%)(1 Turn) for All Allies and deals massive damage (800%->1200%) to All Enemies and (Overcharge Effect) Restores HP (1000->2000) for All Allies]

Bond Lines: 

Bond 1: ”Hmm…This world is certainly strange, however I do look forward to working with you.”

Bond 2: “I am…saddened. One as young as you working towards saving your universe, despite being so unprepared…Well, at your side you have many dependable allies. I can power down in peace knowing they have your back.”

Bond 3: “Hmm….’Master’ is such a weird thing to call you. How about I just call you by your name instead? [name]? A fine name. I’ve worked with humans before….What? No, my head doesn’t have a cockpit for you to ride.”

Bond 4: “…Did you know I used to work with Megatron? He and I used to be allies, before he succumbed to his own lust for power. We are arch enemies now…yet I can’t help but hope he changes for the better. Any living being has the capacity for change, even…even if they them self don’t believe it.”

Bond 5: “Ha! You can certainly hold your own. I can see I’m gonna be needed here for awhile, so I swear to you on my spark that I’ll stay as long as I’m needed. You are the hope for this universe, and trust me when I tell you I can understand the weight of that burden, especially on one so young. So…if you’re ever feel sad or lonely [name]…I’ll make sure to take you on a peaceful drive.”

Voice Lines:

(1): “A catchphrase? Well, I do have a battle cry…you wanna hear it? Well then, ahem: ‘Autobots! Transform and Roll Out!’…How was that?”

(2): “Is there any natural energon in this universe?…What? Magic? Well, wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dealt with it…”

(3): “You wish to know about my people? Well…Let’s just say the list goes on and on…Though I do hope you can meet the other Autobots I’ve worked with one day.”

Likes: “What I like? Easy. Peace. I would wish that this world enters it’s own Golden Age similar to my own.”

Dislikes: “…Violence. I’ve had far too much fighting for one spark, much less all the other times I’ve needed to come back.”

Event: “[name], I’m sensing a distress signal. Let’s go!”

About The Holy Grail: “A wish granting device? Be careful with those, they only lead to trouble.”

Summon Quote: “My name is Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots. I recieved a distress beacon….A human? Um, where am I, exactly? This doesn’t look like my Earth…”

Happy Birthday: “Happy birthday, [name]. Cybertronians live for a very long time, so we make sure to celebrate the lives of smaller organics.” 

(Mash Kyrielite(Pre-LB1)): “Hello there, young warrior. Do you wish to train today?…Haha, perfect! We’ll make sure you can leave a bigger dent in me than last time!”

(Mash Kyrielite(Post-LB1)): “Don’t lose heart, young one. I’m sure your powers will come back in time….Hm? A robot suit that lets you fight? You’re sounding more and more like an Autobot every day.”

(Babbage/Danzou/Mecha Eli-chan/Xiang Yu/Qin Shi Huang):”Ha! You’re Autobot material, all right!”

(Emiya/Emiya(Assasin)): “Sacrificing yourself for the cause is noble…but you’ve let yourself be consumed. I hope you can one day let yourself feel hope again. No matter the past, anyone can change.”

(Artoria Pendragon(Any Alt)): “I’m not sure why…but I feel a strange affinity with them….Hm? King Arthur? Excalibur? Wait, you can’t be serious…”

(Leonardo DaVinci/Nikola Tesla/Thomas Edison): “[name]…Please help me. They seem intent on…studying me.”

(Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty): “[name], be careful. That shady individual has been following you for awhile now…Hm? A friend? If you say so…”

(Hijikata Toshizo): “…You are sick. I don’t think I’ve ever been as disgusted by an organic being as you.”

(Kiara Sessyoin/BB(Any Alt)): “[name], I advise caution. She feels…strange. I’m feeling a signature similar to Unicron from her.”

(Avenger Class Servants): “…You’ve been consumed by your righteous anger and grief…I just have this to say: Any living being has the capacity for change. I hope you can find peace with yourself.”

[som3thingcr3ative]

Voluspa Part 7

I PROMISED DIDNT I

synopsis: Astrid and Ivar spend more time together: they talk about defenses, the future and Ivar’s *gasp* feelings. 

PART 1 2 3 4 5 6

previously:  I wave off her near-apology. “My abilities are not easy for a christian to accept.” I say. She flinches, clearly knowing the C-word doesn’t mix well in a heathen country. “I understand your uncertainty, Rita. We can talk about your questions tomorrow, after I have rested.” I glance at her as I tuck myself back under my furs. “Do try to rest now, the hours left to us until the dawn will be uneventful.”

My breath frosts in the air as I stand outside the great hall, waiting for Ivar to emerge. Speaking to him before Bjorn spins a web of lies is critical, especially this early and despite my status as a witch. Einar sits ever faithfully to my right, leaning against my leg as he watches vikings go about their business. Rita is to my left, her curiosity never ending.

“So your powers come from actual gods, who actually speak to and through you?”

“My powers were passed down through my family line for longer than you can imagine,” I tell her honestly, thinking of the thousands of my ancestors who’d come before me, all in times after those I currently live in. I can’t dwell on it too long or the thought weirds me out. “I came into them when my father died, and he when his mother before him passed. It is given to the first born child, and if that child is dead, then through the siblings until none remain. If there are no siblings, it goes to the closest blood relative, and if the whole family has been destroyed, the gods choose a new völva.”

Her mouth drops open. “Did Christ truly exist?” She questions, a logical next query. “Is my god real, or just yours?”

The doors to the great hall open just on time. Her god is not one I feel comfortable commenting on for good or ill; I have seen what it does to people in my time. “My King,” I say, drawing Ivar’s attention as his crutches pass over the threshold. He looks at me curiously, turning toward me. “I was wondering if I could join you to spar this morning?”

Ivar’s smile is genuine as he glances at the sword resting on my hip, the vambrace of throwing knives on my arm that I’d had packed in my saddlebags. “How could I say no to that?” He tilts his head toward the woods, where I can feel the chaotic energy of warriors blowing off steam. “I’ve heard what the scouts said about your weapon and I’d love to see it for myself.”

I walk next to him through the city, Einar on my other side and Rita following demurely behind. Ivar seems barely limited by his legs; in fact he moves rather gracefully on the crutches, the shirt under his leather armor straining over his chest, shoulders and arms. I don’t let my gaze linger, no matter how badly I want to. “I confess to having an ulterior motive.” I say, and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “I wish to speak to you about the city’s defenses.”

His eyes turn to the walls rising along the wooded line of Kattegat, where guards pace on their watches. So far away they appear as small moving bumps. “What of them?”

“The defenses you do not have are the ones that concern me, My King.”

“You honor me with the title, Seerschild, but among peers it isn’t warranted.” Ivar’s eyes are crystal, glinting playfully in the light. “What changes would you have me make?”

“I’d start with enclosing the beach with walls, leaving two entrances; one for traffic in and one for traffic out, on busy days. The houses there would have to be moved, of course, in order to find solid ground for the walls- or we could have some houses outside the walls, at their own peril. They would have to be stone, to be maintained against the water and attackers, but if the city expanded into the mountains beside us, we would have enough.”

“In the same design as a saxon city?” Ivar questions. 

“The same.” I say. “I intend to protect you against future attackers, to allow the Viking way to thrive. To do that we must keep up with what lasts the longest; wood burns. Stone does not.”

“I have personally visited and conquered many saxon cities.” He says. “I must admit, the walls can be...tricky.”

“Many cities will use them for hundreds of years to come.”

He looks back the way we came, toward the undefended beach. “I will announce the work tonight. Many will grumble, but in this time before raiding season, we must stay busy and in shape.”

“And prepare for the winter. This one will be harsh.” I say, feeling the energy of the ground beneath me. Something dangerous slumbers, ready to awaken in the deadening cold. “I’d advise a longer raiding season, with as many fighters as can go. The fewer left here, the better.”

“Can we finish the walls before the season?” Another glance toward the beach. He shakes his head. “No, it wouldn’t be possible.” 

“Halfway.” I announce. If we found saxon stone masons on the raiding trips, so much the better. The scheming wheels in my mind begin to turn faster as a plan arises. “Floki will need help building the boats needed; we will have many captives to bring back as workers- and so long as they are treated well, they will do beautiful work for us.”

I can feel Rita’s eyes on my back. She doesn’t like the idea of the vikings taking any more slaves than they already have- not to mention what I’m proposing sounds awful. “I know the people taken are viewed as weak, since they couldn’t fight off the Viking might.” I say, feeling Ivar’s eyes on me as well. “But if our ways remain as they have been, we will be the ones too weak to fight off invaders. We must integrate carefully, building our numbers with theirs without losing our way.”

“What are you proposing?” 

“Too much for one conversation, I fear. The simple truth is this; they can prove useful to us, and us to them. A people who love and respect their King are far more likely to protect him and their lands than ones who fear him. Fear breeds mistrust and hate. Respect must be earned.”

We step onto the training ground together. I’ve given Ivar much to think over- and for a moment I believe it to be too much, too fast- but then I see the plans behind his eyes, the clever mind at work. “Let us fight, Astrid Seerschild.” He says, drawing an axe from the holster on his thigh. “I wish to see your other skills now that I know a piece of your cunning.”

I grin, unable to help it. I’ve never been able to train the way I was born to; all out, a fight for my life. Now is my chance, and for it to be against such a famous Viking, well, I can’t be embarrassed to say that my heart flutters. “Einar,” I murmur. “I’ll be fine, go with Rita.”

My handmaiden takes the hint, drawing the wolf off to the side of the clearing where he whines just briefly, his amber eyes on me. I draw my sword, laughing at the wicked, greedy gleam that suddenly arises in Ivar’s eyes. 

Just like that, we enter into a fight that is more dance than anything else. I batter him back with a series of well-thought out blows and he replies with a violent grace, axe swinging as if it’s part of his own body. Around us the clearing goes quiet. I don’t know if it’s because my senses are so in tuned to the fight or if everyone’s watching, but the exhilaration fuels me as my muscles stretch and contract, quickly warming me up. 

“Nothing like a fight to start the day, huh?” I ask of Ivar, whose eyes narrow as he parries a particularly quick flourish and attack. 

“Gets the blood flowing,” He agrees, striking at my shoulder. I roll with it, spinning along the length of his arm and stepping into his guard, landing a solid blow with the pommel of my sword into his gut. The air whooses out of his lungs against my neck, and a bare second later I’m gone, a sword’s-length away. “Good move,” He concedes, recovering quickly. “Not many can land a hit.”

Sweat gathering under my layers of clothes, I smile, all teeth. “I’ve been well trained.” It’s the truth; my father had insisted on private tutors in martial arts, fencing, weaponry. I’d grown up being taught the value of hard work and sweat, often with too many bruises to count. He hooks his axe over the tip of my sword, twisting to pull me in; I hold fast, anticipating his strike. It comes quickly as he draws another axe and begins the fight anew, dual wielding. 

My grip switches to single hand and I pull a dagger from around my waist, settling into a ready stance. Block, strike, defend, strike, parry. Our blades clash together, bodies twisting and stretching, minds sharpened to just the single moment. I do not hold back, and after a few blows, neither does he. We fight in earnest, not a cripple and a woman, but two skilled bodies honed to the craft. 

It’s long minutes before Ivar gives me another opening. He’d over-extended in his effort to feint toward my leg, leaving his elbow too close to straight. I duck in, dagger curving over his forearm and pinning his wrist against my own arm, landing a quick hit with the vaguely-fist shape metal of my pommel. The blow lands true in the muscle just under his armpit and his forearm spasms, nerves going dead. He growls, his axe dropping from tingling fingers as he twists, the remaining axe swinging in a deadly arc toward my head. 

I tuck and roll, popping back up on my feet in a fluid motion, successfully avoiding his attack. Oh, now he’s angry. Ivar’s eyes gleam in the sunlight, sweat beaded on his brow, falling into a thin cut I’d given him a minute or so before, a bare scratch. He twirls his axe, teeth bared as he advances on me. I give a step, then two, and just as he lunges I move in, graceful as a dancer though my muscles ache. 

Ivar’s reaction speed is just a hair faster than I’d thought it would be; clearly he’s learned. He pulls his arm in, forcing me to abort the slice I’d planned. I regroup quickly, fast enough to avoid his strike, but not fast enough to get out of his range. No time, I think to myself. No one could escape his next move.

I know the fight’s about to end; I can feel it- his grip shifts on his axe as he moves and I come up short, finding the blade pressed against my throat. Ivar grunts, feeling the point of my dagger pressing into his side, just over his third and fourth ribs. My sword is against his back, putting the two of us in a lethal embrace. I could slice his spine open or drive my dagger home into his heart. He could decapitate me or let me bleed out. 

Both of us are breathing hard. I can feel his every breath through the solid muscle of his chest pressed firmly against my back. I’m panting too as we look at eachother, the vikings around us suddenly bursting into noise. They whoop and holler, seeing the fight end in a draw. 

I don’t hear them. Ivar’s eyes are brilliantly shining, his lips slightly parted, hair mussed in the fight. Our faces are scant inches apart, neither of us willing to cede first, both waiting for the other. So close to him I can see the individual drops of blood welling in the scratch above his brow, the sweat beading in his hair. Gods, I want to run my hands through that hair, just to see if it’s really as soft as it looks. It has to be. My heart pounds in my chest and for the first time during the fight I wonder if it’s from adrenaline at all. 

His eyes trace over my face as we catch our breath. “What did you do to my arm, little witch?” He questions, voice merely a whisper against my skin. I try not to shudder, my heart beating way faster than it should. 

“Pressure point,” I breathe, trying not to look at his lips. “It will be normal again soon.” A wicked idea forms in my mind. I offer him a feral grin. “Faster if I undo it.”

He lowers the axe, still watching me with curious, cunning eyes. I can’t help the lopsided grin on my face as I step away, trailing the edge of my sword ever so gently against his back as I go. Ivar watches me like a predator with prey, his gaze never faltering. 

“You know your way around a blade.” He points out, using his axe as a crutch to lean over and pick up his second weapon. 

“It’s not often that I could fight like that back home.” I say. “I fear I’m a little rusty.”

His brows raise. “I’d welcome the challenge of fighting you any day.” 

“My King,” I say with a smile, bowing my head to him. His eyes linger as I make my way to Rita and Einar, fluffing my wolf’s fur for being so good during the fight. 

“I have never seen such a terrifying thing be so beautiful before, My Lady.” Rita tells me, her eyes wide in awe. “You fight like no woman I have ever seen.” 

I laugh, taking an offered waterskin from a nearby warrior with a thankful nod. “It feels good to fight.” I say. “It’s in my blood.”

“I dare say it isn’t in mine.” She murmurs, still watching me with awe. “I much prefer tending animals or children.”

“Astrid,” Ivar’s voice comes from just behind me. I turn to him, holding the waterskin between us. He takes it, waiting to drink until he’s spoken. “Would you join me for lunch? I believe we have plans to draw up.”

“It’s not quite that time yet.” I say, giving a pointed glance toward the sky where the sun has only crested the mountains for two hours or so. “Perhaps we could go for a ride instead?”

There’s something in his eyes that draws me in, a scheme that I so badly want to be let in on. “So long as you’ll eat with me afterwards.” He murmurs. 

“I’d be honored, Ivar.” I say. 

Barely an hour later, I sit astride Hvardr with Einar frolicking through the woods before me, mapping out the scents among the trees. Ivars’ white pony walks contentedly behind me with his rider strapped into the saddle. For a while we don’t speak; the woods are calm and peaceful, birds chirping high in the trees accented by the occasional screech of whatever animal Einar has managed to sneak up on and scare. 

“You are quite a mystery, Astrid.” Ivar eventually says. “I haven’t met a völva before you, and I’m not entirely sure what to expect.”

“We are few and far between.” I respond carefully. “True witches, at least.”

“Bjorn met an imposter before.” Ivar reveals. “He was fooled by her, beguiled, and, I believe, entranced. She took what she wanted of him and left him bitter for the rest of us to deal with. It’s why he has such a mistrust of you.”

I hum, slowing Hvardr to walk beside Ivar’s pony. “He visited me in my room last night.” I say. “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, but it frightened my poor handmaiden half to death.”

Ivar growls. 

“I don’t say it to incite punishment on him, My King,” I say quickly, relieved when the suddenly tense line of his shoulders relaxes just a touch. Bjorn still has a part to play. “I humiliated him enough that he won’t come back for more.”

“I know he hates me.” he says. “I took our father’s love and attention from him. He could never understand why.”

I glance sidelong at him. Ivar expressing his feelings wasn’t at all what I’d expected of the legend. It certainly wasn’t how he was portrayed in the TV show Damon had made me watch. But damn if they weren’t spot on with the actor. All of them, really. For a minute I wonder if the show will change now that I’m a part of history. My heart hammers as I ponder the ramifications of my time travel; will I alter history so permanently that the events leading to my birth never happen? Would that then lead to an endless loop of me never being born, never altering history and being born again? If I’m successful, will my future child self grow up in a viking culture with no reason or knowledge to defend it once I grow older and possibly return to the past?

“You’re not like the others.” Ivar says, drawing me out of my thoughts. I look at him and am relieved for the distraction. His blue eyes are already focused on me, expression unguarded and wondering. “You haven’t once said anything about my legs, or treated me as any less capable than you. And you fought me all-out. Most people don’t do that until I’ve beaten them.”

“The only thing you’re less capable than me in is seidr, Ivar. Everything else is down to how you treat yourself.” 

A strange look enters his eyes and he looks away, thinking over what I’d said.  

As we walk in silence, I think about the prophecy Damon had me translate. “Do you want me to say something about your legs?”

“I am surprised you haven’t.”

I look over at him, taking in the details. Sunlight dapples over his shoulders and back, filtered through the trees above us. My eyes stray to the bracers and I almost flinch. They look borderline barbaric, but I’m not sure I could do any better given the materials and technology available. I’m no smith, and I know that for a fact. I can sharpen and care for any of my weapons, but I don’t know the first thing about different metals or the training needed to actually make weapons. 

“Your legs are not what people should concern themselves with, Ivar. It is your brain they should worry about. You have become someone to fear because that is what you had to be; you refused to be broken by the challenge set before you, and like a true Viking, you turned it into a strength.”

A half mile passes in silence. Hvardr takes everything in quietly, ears flicking back and forth as he takes in the new environment. It is at once the land he knows and also the land he doesn’t. We have walked through these trees thousands of years in the future, though I know they must be very different. My eyes fall on a small plant hidden among the darkened recesses of a tree’s roots. An idea forms in my mind, half-baked and quite dangerous, but my heart thrills at the possibility. For generations, my family has attempted to reconstitute this particular plant- with no success. I hadn’t thought of it for some time, but since I’m in the past, it’s available. 

I stop Hvardr, running my hand over his face when he looks at me curiously. Ivar’s eyes are also on me as I dismount, squatting by the tree roots to pick only from the plants that can survive. I take some to grow closer to Kattegat and some for future use. 

“Are you after a crown?” Ivar asks me while I am still on the ground, at a disadvantage. He knows this; I can read his body language too well to dismiss the threat. “Is that why you have come now, to beguile your way into being Queen? I can think of no other reason for your actions.”

My head tilts. “Truly? No other reason?”

He shakes his head just briefly. 

“Have you considered that I truly care for my people and I wish them to survive the coming change?”

“That is what you said, Seerschild, but it cannot be enough to face everything you are facing.”

“You mean your half-brothers’ threats, the anger and suspicion of a third of Kattegat and your many enemies once they learn of my abilities?”

“The same.” Though his voice is rough, his lips are drawn vaguely upward in the corner. I can tell he’s impressed that I’ve put so much thought into the threats I face. I’m a little concerned that he suspected any less of me.

“My intentions are pure, My King.” I say, meeting his gaze long enough to show the truth in my words. “I did not come here by choice, though I find there is nowhere I would rather be. My old life…” A long suffering sigh. “It had nothing for me. Here, I can be myself. I do not have to hide. I want that for future witches.”

He watches me tuck the plant into a bag strung across my back, rolling a leaf between my fingers. There is a faint blue stain left on palm from the stems. “Is that poison?”

“Of a sort.” I admit. Honesty is needed if I’m to gain his trust: clearly that is the only way forward. “A single dose will kill anyone without seidr. Enough will kill someone with it.”

I pocket the remaining leaves, wiping my hands on my jodhpurs. Ivar doesn’t protest when I swing onto Hvardr once more, gathering the reins. “Do your legs bother you?”

He blinks, probably wondering if he can trust me enough to answer honestly. I don’t make a big deal of it, nudging Hvardr forward. A minute passes in silence, then two. I wonder if he’ll answer at all. 

“I am used to the insults.” he admits. “Though no one except Bjorn dares say them to my face anymore.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“I do not care that I am a cripple.”

I level him with a look. “Still not what I asked.”

His anger simmers. I can tell it’s poorly restrained. Instinct wars with tradition: I am a völva, due respect equal to royalty, but he is the King, and he has had a lifetime of hating his legs and being poked at for them. He feels that is what I am doing now. 

“I ask because there may be something I can do to help. I do not pity you, Ivar. I only want you to succeed.”

The King remains quiet for a minute. When he speaks, his voice is soft, broken. “They hurt.” He says. “Every day, every night, endlessly. It’s worse in the winter, when the wind is harsh and cold. Then, it feels like I am being stabbed over and over.” A humorless laugh. “Many times I wonder if it would hurt less to just cut them off.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. His fingers twist in the reins. “I have broken bones more often and often worse than many others I have seen. I do not understand it.”

I bite my lip. Can I reveal the research I’d done after watching several seasons of Vikings and falling in love with his character? How do I relate the advanced medical knowledge without showing that I’m clearly not from anywhere near here- or this time?

“Ivar,” I say cautiously, “I may be able to help with the pain.”

“Do not give me false hope.” He growls, suddenly extremely irritated. “Floki has tried everything- herbs and pastes, tonics, even drinking myself into a stupor. Nothing works for long.”

Gods, Heat radiates off of him in his anger. With the path being only so wide, I can feel it clearly from him as our ponies walk wide-by-side. “I do not give false anything.” I snap in return, drawing his attention and meeting fire with fire. It’s a risk I’m willing to take with him. Still, I take a deep breath and relax, feeling his shock. “Where I come from, we have a great deal of medical knowledge. Our… healers-” I’d almost said doctors. Whoops. “-are the best in the land. They’ve studied people with your condition. They’ve come up with treatments that work. They’re not perfect, but they help.”

And there it is. Fragile, tenuous hope lights in his eyes. I can’t look away. “You know one of these healers?”

No, I don’t. I had google. My fingers go subconsciously to the herb in my pocket. “I can use their methods. I can help you.”

He stares furiously at the pommel of his saddle. I give him time to think. “Can you… I know I am not supposed to ask, but can you prophecy the outcome?”

“I will need help for this.” I say. “The herb in my pocket enhances my abilities, allowing me to follow choices instead of seeing the most likely outcome, but it comes at a great cost. I will be immobile during its use, utterly helpless, and very vulnerable.” I can’t believe I’m telling him this. “For it to work, I must take the first dose willingly. Any more than a carefully controlled amount can do irreversible harm- or it can make me extremely dangerous and out of control until it wears off. 

“If I am to do this for you, I will need you to swear to me that you will protect my earthly body during the visions. I need your word that I will be safe.”

His eyes flash in the light, brilliantly blue. “You have my word.”

Maybe it’s a mistake, considering the paths I can see are equally as likely to happen, but I trust him.

Tag list (open):  Voluspa: @tis-itheapplepie​ @thetwistedqueen @inforapound​ @wuxiesalt @readsalot73​ @themusingkitten @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​

All Ivar tag: @inforapound​ @amy8220 @saldelys​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @i-am-a-teenage-dirtbaggg​

[vidalinav]

Cassian’s Love is Warm (Part 1/3)

Summary: Nesta’s life after ACOFAS and living in Illyria 

Links: Nesta’s Love is Quiet Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Sometimes, Nesta dreams of war.

Her blankets and pillows are arrows and shields discarded along the ground. The monsters under her bed are men with axes and ruthless eyes. Blood-stained teeth grimacing in blood-covered skies, Death is the master of them all. He wields them like puppets, strings sewn into the sleeves of their armor. He makes them dance with a sword in their hands, forcing their eyes open when the bodies start piling.

When they plead for safety, Death laughs, tells them that he is helping. It’s not their body lying on the ground. In her dreams, they scream for her. Or maybe, the wind does, calling out to the girl with grief tattooed on her arms. Surely, she will understand their pain.

Death hears their pleading with a playful smile, perfectly content with the mess he leaves behind. His face a portrait of greed and ecstasy.

She’s never sure which side she’s on. In her dreams, she is merely standing at the edge of the world, waiting for the end. Nesta watches as lines of blue and green mold into burnt oranges and reds. She isn’t far enough to stop the spray of blood that hits her face.

All screams sound the same when everyone is dying. Nesta thinks they sound a lot like her sisters.

Although the sound simplifies into low humming, she hears each and every one of their heartbeats as if it resides in her own chest. Thump after persistent thump. It doesn’t matter which color they strap against their backs. In the end, it all turns to red. The world sun-bathed in roses.

When she wakes, Death sleeps on the pillow next to her. Like a lover, he trails kisses up her spine. His manic laughter swallows her screams as she pushes him away. Nesta runs as far as the door, protects herself in its bare wood, and clasps her eyes closed. He disappears in a wisp of smoke, while the shadows ask for her name.  

Nesta supposes, she is already fae, they cannot steal a soul which does not have a soul. But Nesta thinks her soul is hiding. Just like her heart. Hiding somewhere between a cold winter night and a stack of wood that doesn’t burn.  

She thinks her soul is disguised as something akin to fire. The same fire that turns each soldier to ash, and each worry to dust. Each dream into another day, another hour, another minute gone by. The same light she holds on to when the darkness surrounds her. Her soul blazing so bright, it burns like bitter frost.  

Nesta pretends their love is a game. Different than a war, but just as precarious.

She knows that when fae hide, they disguise themselves as beasts, and when her sisters hide, they disguise themselves in pretty words. Lyrical phrases that profess they only want the best for her. So, Nesta lies just like they do. Just like Feyre does, when she says that it’s her own fault she let things get too far.

Her hands have bloody half-moons where her nails dig into her skin, but she says that she is just fine. Her magic haunts her even more than her dreams, but she tells them she sleeps enough.

She plays dress up with her feelings, like she’s eight again with little sisters. She dresses her grief in wolf fur, puts red on harsh words…

But, the wolf skin turns out to be real and its bite is a little too rough. Its teeth sink into her arm, leaves wholes in her skin, trails and trails of grief left naked with fear. Nesta pretends it isn’t there, but the pain doesn’t go away and neither do the scars. It just becomes another game, that she wins by being silent.  

When they kick her out, though, she can’t lie anymore. Nesta is enraged. Not the kind that yells and screams and kicks, but the one that hides beneath her skin, waiting and very much alive. The nagging pain of a wolf’s jaw that does not let go for anything.

Her routine is perfect. She takes only as little as she gives. Small glances for one-word greetings, rent for appearances. She crafts the mask of painted indifference, pretends that their invites mean nothing until they just stop inviting her and pretends it doesn’t hurt when they do.

It isn’t good enough for her happy family. They don’t know that she sees a fearful little girl in her own reflection, and for them, she kills her with fists to the glass.

The little girl doesn’t die, though, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t win that little game of theirs.

In another mirror she’s there, in the reflection of wine in a glass bottle, in the polished metal of a door knob. She lies in a pool of her innocent blood, but her heart still beats. Beat by persistent beat. Nesta hears it ringing in her ears like screams.

Sometimes, she thinks Cassian can hear it, too, the pounding of a headache she can never get rid of. If he does, she might not just be crazy. But, then he looks away as blue passes hazel, or pretends just like she does, that he doesn’t hear a sound. She chooses to indulge him just like all the others.

No, if Nesta looks shameful, covered in vomit and last week’s clothes, it is because she isn’t a good enough liar. Not good enough at dress up or playing house or pretending that she’s fine. Just a portrait of someone her sister doesn’t even want to hang on her wall.

Cassian says nothing to imply that he notices the enraged grief she stores in her lungs, or the fear she takes with her to that little cabin in the woods. Its foundation wedged between the mountains of Illyrian cries and her own, silent monsters that hide in the evergreen and the ones that hide under her bed.

She wonders if he hears the regret in every sloshy footstep as they make their way to the wooden door. Wonders if he cares about her at all, or just pretends to care, or wants to care, but can’t. Their once promised time slipping through their fingers, perhaps, disappearing altogether when she can’t stand even herself.

Though, Nesta wonders how Cassian can stand this house. It is too plain, too lonely for someone like him. Not for someone so… chaotic.

There’s something cold about it.

A bitter frost sleeps in the living room, nestled deeply in the bare walls and the cracks in the dining room table. Every window is open, which is odd for someone exuding caution. They chip away any semblance of warmth.

The empty fireplace reminds them of their distaste for sympathy and like the snow outside, their presence leaves the house a structure of silent complicity. Like somehow, they are punishing each other by living here, and the house is making sure they suffer—promising, almost threatening, that the cold is more at home than they ever will be.

The door of her bedroom is both her menace and her solitude, and crossing its threshold is anything but matrimonial. Cassian gives her space when she steps inside, and Nesta half-expects to wake up in her old apartment to find this to be some alcohol-induced dream.

His looming body paints shadows on the naked wall. Along with the rest of the house, it’s undecorated. Its wood panels and white sheets whispering that she does not belong.

Nesta is grateful for the house’s words. The feeling is mutual…and familiar.

When she turns back to Cassian, he is messing with the wood left beside the fireplace and it is not a dream anymore. Not a nightmare or a hallucination or a numbness she can’t get rid of. She isn’t numb when she tells him no. Nesta feels the heat even as he looks at her curiously; he stokes the fire with every second he touches the match.

Nesta fights everything in herself not to call him a bastard or a prick or an ass or any other name she can associate with him and his family. Maybe he sees her rage, kicks at it slightly and patiently waits. Questions if its bite might sting much worse than the words she spews. But he steps away from the fireplace and doesn’t touch the wood again.

She hears his cautious footsteps from across the room, watches as Cassian’s eyes glaze over the picture window. Perhaps coming to the obvious conclusion that it’s winter and cold. Her feverish skin hasn’t looked, though. The temperature of the room rising even with the loss of a warm body.

When he returns, he is carrying a mountain of blankets, each a different color than the last. A cacophony of oddly shaped patterns and furs. He places each one on top of the other, lying them down on sheets that are far too thin for Illyrian winter. He is all hard lines and few words, but the crease in his brows warns her not to argue with him. She wants to anyway, just to see what it’d look like.

He asks her if she needs anything else and just like that the room is freezing.

His eyes hold no fury, only compassion and Nesta has to wonder what she looks like to make him look like that. Maybe she looks like she feels. A candle with no more wick to hold the flame, it all but blowing out when her sister tells her that she isn’t wanted. She isn’t good enough.

Her eyes burn, and the emotions well up in the corner of her eyes. Nesta finds that her body can’t lie as well as her mouth. Words get stuck in her throat, harder to swallow as he looks at her from the bed with the colorful blankets. She clenches the tears in her fists and holds on as her chest tightens.

Cassian notices her slow-blinking eyes, her shaking fists, the way her head lulls at the sight of warmth. Perhaps, can tell that she has not been comforted for much of her adult life and maybe most of her childhood. Maybe she lures him with images of an injured fawn, maybe she looks at him with the eyes of a wolf. Dangerous only because she is scared and can see no threat past his body.

He walks slowly to her, lets her decide if she wants him to touch her. Nesta resists the urge to crumble into a ball and sob, but she makes no complaints as he gently grasps her shoulders. He folds the blankets back, easing her into the promised warmth.

It isn’t dark outside, but he closes the curtains, and shuts the door quietly when he leaves.

They stare at each other before the door shuts completely, and Nesta demands to know where her anger went, if it would roar as loud if she wasn’t half as cold or tired. But her fury isn’t for him… so it doesn’t matter if she feels it or not.

Nesta just hopes that, by tomorrow, the fire inside of her is still silent and burning.

Her anger, the only family she has left.

The clash of swords is brutal. The groans coming from the beaten make her sick. Nesta wants to go home, though she supposes she doesn’t have one.

The men fight until they bleed, the same red as all the rest. They fight until they can barely stand and still they continue, wearing mud like clothing. She watches as they’re pummeled into the dirt and are satisfied by it. The bruises somehow making it onto her own skin.

Perhaps she is a little too human for all of them, or maybe she is something else entirely. Her grief unrecognizable to the once human and the never human, and not even to the Illyrian, though they stare at her harshly. Like they are just as confused as Nesta about who she is.

Nesta decides she hates them all, the same hate that rages against her own body.

Not because they are at a clear disadvantage in their current state of politics. Not because the women have no rights and the men have no voices. Not because she is caged with them, trapped on a spinning wheel with the rest of the world and the choices they couldn’t make for themselves.

She decides she hates them for the stories they don’t tell. A lover of knowledge values truth above all else, and each wound is a lie. When they stare at her, their eyes scream. Each man and each woman scream, and Nesta is one of them, because she can hear them all.

The silence is their enemy. Worse than death’s preternatural wink. It threatens them like the promise of war.

Cassian may train them to fight monsters, but he doesn’t teach them how to fight the ones inside of them. The ones that fear cages more than the death it consumes. One day, they’ll all explode. All the rage they keep inside themselves will come hurtling out and they will hurt the ones they love the most.

The cauldron may have created magic, but it will not stop them from pillaging it. Like her dreams, they fight without rest or lie there with no choice. She thinks they’ve forgotten they’ve been born with wings. Not the ones straggling about like living appendages, but the ones hidden deep in their souls, that call out for freedom and flight, and possibility.

But they look at her, like she looks at them, like she looks at herself, like she looks at that little girl.

Maybe she is not the only one trapped in a war that will never end.

Cassian leaves for three days. She tracks each minute by the amount of times she looks out the window or opens the door. Every small noise sounding like Cassian’s heavy footsteps moving with the full weight of his armor. Nesta can’t say he’s ever been quiet.

The house stays silent, bare, and empty. The house so empty that the silence echoes and so do her thoughts. Her mind fills with 1000 pages of worry and 200 more of blame. Of words she can’t remember and words she wishes she could forget, all the reasons she did this to herself splayed out in paragraphs.

She reads each book with an eye to the door. Paces the living room long enough to number the exact amount of cracks in the wood, or the six different shades of grey in the worn rug she leaves trails against. The one she turns her nose to when Cassian asks her to sit next to him. Every shade reminding her of every reason she’s incapable of love or compassion.

The way she scorns him is the reason why he isn’t here or why her sisters don’t want her.

She understands why the shadows ask for her name. She is not Nesta. Her name is bitterness or fury or ugly hatred. They want to know what to call her, because they can’t call her beautiful or lovely or soft. They can’t call her an Archeron when her family doesn’t want her.

They can’t call her anything. Maybe, that’s why they all leave. Even Cassian giving up on her melancholy woes, when she refuses to stop dancing in its rain. The house blurring in weary blue with every question no one answers.

She doesn’t even notice him enter the room. With the closing of a door, the house is bathed in indigo.

Nesta is quiet the entire time he goes to the kitchen, as he takes out bread. Plans her words carefully as he slices meat, waits for his explanation while he piles it together, controls her breathing as he lays it on the plate she wants to grab from his hands and smash on the wall.

He sits at the table with the cracks that she has counted 86 times and says nothing. Nesta counts every shade of control, forcing the words out when all she sees is burnt oranges and red.

“Where did you go?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet hers, dismisses the question like he dismisses her feelings.  

“Have you eaten today?”

Her eyes sting and she thinks he can see past her wide, blood-shot eyes, but all he sees is the fire. All she can see is flames.

“Where did you go?” She spits.

Hazel moves from blue to white, perhaps coming to the obvious conclusion that its winter and cold. He gets up, moves the plate to the sink, and walks past her question.

“Velaris.” He goes to the fireplace and the weary blues drop in her stomach. “Have you eaten, today?

“Why?” She gasps, not even sure what she is asking. If its towards his indifference or his incessant need to know if she’s eating. Like he cares at all about her or well-being.

Cassian looks at her as he grabs the match, strikes it against cold, grey stone. Watches her as if he knows she can’t stand him or what he is doing to her. He lights the match anyways, even as angry tears well up in her eyes. His eyes as bare as his walls, and just as cruel as the shadows he paints. He raises mocking eyebrow at her clenched fists.

“To give reports. Have you eaten?”

She nods her head and asks another, entranced by dancing color along his ugly face. At the crackling, she closes her eyes and breathes the bitter words. “Reports about what?”

“Just training.” Casual. Nonchalant and aggravating.

She hears the fire roar, words and intentions blurring into background noise, shadowed by bones and fear.

“That’s it?” She whispers, tired.

“Why are you asking, Nesta?”

She hears his wings, her father’s neck, her sisters’ innocence, her hope. All broken, lying dead as the blood pools from the bricks. Sees the murder of her love in the foundation of wood.

“Is that it?” She asks, dazed.

“Why don’t you say what you really want to say, Nesta?”

The fire laughs at her, mocks her, shames her. Leaves limp bodies out for her to see, for every last bit of her and her incessant need to want. Calls her ugly, unloved, and unwanted as she sees his head sever from his body. Nesta wonders what lies he spouts to her sisters.

“Is that it?” She says quietly.

“Yes.” He promises.

The fire roars louder, drowns her in its flames. Nesta bathes in it, soaks it into her skin, its red crawling up her chest until it reaches her face. Her hatred burns, it rips, and it roars, and it wants to tear her apart to get out of her body. It spits out of her mouth instead, and she burns them both to save herself.  

“We’re both liars then.”  

Nesta trails her fingers along crystalline fabric, the same color of the veins on her pale skin. Like branches they trail up her arms, blooming outwards when they reach the top of her wrists. A book sleeping steadily in her hands.

In the twilight, Nesta grasps each word as if they are stars and they pool around her. They make wishes come true as she catches them. Through the window, she sees the ardent embrace of a woman and her lover, watches as they dance on top of the snow and mud, through trees and fading dark. Their voices careening into each other, writing their harmony on each page.

The two do not stop as the book ends. They merely begin as someone else.

When she opens the door to her room, another book is nestled on the ground. A slumbering dragon that spews promises instead of fire.

Today, the dragon is green. Yesterday, it was purple. Tomorrow, it might be as red as his siphon’s glow. Like yesterday, she cradles it gently, scratches behind its ears, and lets it tell its story. The couple once again beginning their sacred dance.

The chair is soft, the window in her room is wide. Along with the woman and her lover, the words fly off like a green dragon into promised light. The book never ending, even as she reaches the last page.

Cassian is a creature of routine. Every day as the sun washes the world in subtle light, Cassian rises. A beast ready for war, training, and dutiful vengeance. She is forced to hear the sharp whistle of steam and the grinding of coffee beans every morning. Mother forbid he leave without drinking a cup.

If she is looking for any reason to hate him, she doesn’t have to go too far. The amount of noise Cassian manages to make gives Nesta a headache. His addiction to sweetened dirt wrenching her from the little sleep she manages to get.

She isn’t sure when the noise stops being the villain she needs to best. The sounds becoming a constant reminder that someone is here in this house with her. That she is not alone. After weeks and weeks, the whistling kettle sounds more like bells that wake her from nightmares than screeching demons.

But, sometimes Cassian sleeps. The house holding its breath as to not make a sound.

The first time it happens, Nesta thinks that her body must know the world is ending, because she still wakes up at sunrise. Waiting for his presence of muffled screams as he bumps into tables and his silent curses as he tries to be quiet but fails. The part of her that worries for him, the part she ignores frequently, silences at the soft snores she hears as she listens through the door.

Nesta can’t say why she starts, only knows that even the birds are silent outside. Almost as if they know he gets as little sleep as she does. It is the books that are left outside her door every morning that have her padding through the living room. Softly, so her footsteps can’t be recognized by his light sleeping habits.

Cassian never acknowledges that he leaves the books there, doesn’t hint that he knows she had wanted them since the first day, and was too afraid to ask.

She takes down the grinder, for those books, and tries with all her might not to gag at the smell. Nesta fills the kettle in water, watches it turn to steam and lifts it off the stove just before it whistles. She counts the number of drips it takes to fill the cup, the one she knows Mor had given him eons ago.

When her actions begin to settle, and the doubt wells up inside of her, she tells herself she makes it out of spite, the feeling warming her hands with the heat of the cup. Nesta thinks she’ll spit in it, just to be safe, just to remind herself where they stand in the grand scheme of her agony. She doesn’t, the idea too juvenile even to her.  

When she hears his rustling, she panics. Nesta places the cup down, runs quickly to her room, and closes the door behind her. Any evidence of her existence gone, except for the steaming cup of surrender. If he asks, she’ll deny it.

He never does.  

At first, she is afraid he won’t drink it. The anger that alights in her at the thought, makes her want to go back out and smash the glass. But, when she sees the newly cleaned cup in the cabinet, hanging upside down by a nail, she knows. The satisfaction is enough to make her do it again the next time he sleeps in, as rare as that might be.

The coffee is a truce, for him and for her. As long as they are going to be stuck in the same small cabin, breathing the same wild air, she’ll be civil. She’ll try—whatever that means to them, to her. She’ll try for her sisters, for her life after, for him.

Because, Nesta finds that the warmth of fresh coffee is a more pleasant feeling than the burning flames of her regret.  

Tagged: @dreaming-of-bohemian-nights , @missing-merlin, @strangeenemy, @saltydreamcollector, @midnightbluhm, @my-fan-side, @queenofillea1 

I’m actually going to write a longer Post-ACOFAS multi-chap fic. I hope I get to share it soon.

Let me know if you want to be tagged on this fic, or if you want to be taken off. It’s no biggie, but I hope y’all like it!

Comment, reblog, like, and chat with me!