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original-szajnie · 2 months ago

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Klonnie Weekend 2025: Arranged Marriage

This prompt got me, so it’s turned into a multi chapter full fiction that will be posted on my AO3 account. But for now, here’s a sample…

It should have been a triumph.

The curse was broken. The wretched thing no longer dictated his flesh, and the hybrid within him—werewolf, vampire, something ancient and newly made—moved beneath his skin with an ease he had never known. Power pulsed through him with every breath. The world had tilted in his favor.

And yet Klaus Mikaelson could not fuck.

Not for lack of trying.

He had wine. He had music. He had blood.

He had a very willing vampire stretched across his bed, her limbs loose with pleasure, her throat slick and eyes heavy with wanting.

And still, when he touched her—when he kissed her—his body betrayed him.

No pain. No failure of mechanics.

Just… a wall.

Invisible. Unyielding.

A sense of something tethered inside him, leashed like a beast in chains.

The vampire laughed, sharp and delighted. ��Performance anxiety?” she purred, rolling her hips with the lazy confidence of someone who believed herself irresistible.

He tore her throat out for the insult.

Left her bleeding across his mattress, face frozen in that terrible smile, and stormed into the night with a fury crawling beneath his skin like a second curse.

A week later, he tried again.

A human girl, this time. Sweet-faced. Doe-eyed. All nervous giggles and flushed cheeks. She clung to his arm like he was the night itself. He fed her wine from a crystal glass and touched her like she was made of silk.

She gasped prettily. She tilted her head just so. She offered herself, all breath and softness.

He went through the motions—mouth to throat, hand to thigh—but the moment he pressed himself closer, the same thing happened.

His body recoiled.

Not enough for her to notice. But inside?

Something seized. A taut thread pulled tight across his ribs. A rejection not of her flesh, but of the act itself, like instinct had been replaced with something… selective.

Not this one. Not her.

He pulled away with a murmur, feigned disinterest, and compelled her to forget.

The third time, he didn’t bother with charm. Picked up a college girl on her way home from the Grill—bold, smoky-eyed, thrilled by the danger.

He thought maybe that would help. Maybe detachment would free him from whatever was clawing at the base of his spine.

It didn’t.

He let her touch him, grind herself on his lap, lips and tongue hot on his skin, her voice like gravel and sex. Let her hands wander. Her teeth nip. When she slid down his abdomen in wet licks—he felt nothing.

No desire.

No ache.

Only tension.

A coiled, unrelenting wrongness that flared whenever he reached for the edge of pleasure. Like invisible claws yanked him back just as he began to surrender.

By the fourth, he was angry.

By the fifth, he was pacing his home like a caged wolf—shirtless, restless, clawing at the air. His muscles ached from effort. His skin prickled with something wrong, something unfinished.

He tore apart the velvet drapes. Shattered a mirror with the heel of his hand. Growled at Elijah through the walls until his brother—annoyed and vaguely amused—left him to spiral alone.

When the sun rose, he was still pacing.

When it set again, he made the call.

“I need Gloria,” he snarled into the receiver. “Now.”

——————————————————————-

Gloria arrived two days later.

She swept through the threshold of the newly restored manor like she owned it—sharp heels, sharper eyes, the clink of bangles echoing with every gesture.

She took one look at Klaus—shirt half-buttoned, a bottle of bourbon already open and nearly empty before noon—and rolled her eyes skyward.

“You dragged me to Mystic Falls. Mystic Falls. This godforsaken town where dreams and witches go to die. I swear to the Loa, this better be good.”

He said nothing. Just jerked his chin toward the velvet chair across from him.

She sat. Crossed her legs. “Talk.”

He poured two fingers of bourbon and handed it to her. “Something is wrong with me.”

“I could’ve told you that from Chicago.”

Klaus bared his teeth. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Gloria sipped her drink. When he just continued to glower, she sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. What is it?”

“I can’t—” Klaus hesitated, jaw flexing. Then he gestured, elegantly miserable, to his general groin area. “I can’t engage. Carnally.”

Gloria blinked. Blinked again. “…Excuse me?”

He was not repeating that. “You heard me.”

Gloria leaned back in her seat, one arm dangling over the armrest. “Klaus Mikaelson, I know you did not fly me in from Chicago because you can’t get your dick wet. Take the little blue pill and move on with your day.”

“I don’t need a pill,” he snarled, standing. “I need you to undo whatever bloody spell has tangled itself around my—person. It’s a hex. Has to be.” His voice was just shy of desperate, a growl curling beneath the words.

“Okay, okay.” Gloria held up one hand, her bracelets clicking like wind chimes. “Tell me exactly what happens.”

He growled again, dragging a hand through his hair. “The equipment works. The instinct is there. And then suddenly—it isn’t. I try. I want to. But then something inside me snaps—and I can’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Gloria set her glass down, expression unreadable. “Have you considered therapy?”

“Gloria—I will kill you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, something old and assessing in her eyes. “Fine,” she said, rising with feline grace. She pulled off her long leather coat and tossed it over the chair. “Take off your shirt. Lie down.” One finger in the air. “And shut up.”

Klaus pulled his shirt over his head and flopped back against the settee like a corpse, one arm flung behind his head, the other resting across his chest while Gloria moved around the room, gathering her things.

“This is ridiculous,” Klaus muttered.

“Shut up,” Gloria said, utterly calm. “You want answers or not?”

She lit five candles. Burned the tips of his fingers with mugwort and blood. Stood over him, murmuring under her breath in a language older than the floorboards. After the flames changed from orange to blue, she drew a sigil on his sternum with wine-dark ink.

She pressed her hand flat over the center of his chest. Her touch was warm, almost gentle. Power coiled from her fingers—quiet, searching, like a snake slipping through long grass. It sank beneath his skin, curling around the buried parts of him: the vampire hunger, the wolf’s fury, and something else...

Klaus felt it the moment she touched it.

It wasn’t anything specific so much as a pull. A magnetic current, stretching outward like it had somewhere else to be...hooked on something…

Gloria’s hand jerked back like she’d been burned.

Her eyes snapped open. “Oh.”

Klaus sat up slowly, spine stiff with wariness. “What do you mean, oh?”

She stared at him.

First confused.

Then—just for a flicker—a flash of something approaching concern.

And then—God help him—she laughed.

“Gloria,” his voice dripped with warning, “tell me what you saw.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said, thumbing the corner of her eye. “Of all the people—you?”

His eyes flickered amber-gold. “I swear on the blood of your ancestors—”

“You’re married.”

Klaus froze.

Gloria beamed like she’d just pulled the biggest secret out of the bones of the world. “Mystically, of course. But the bond is solid. Strong. Fresh.” She reached out and tapped his chest with two fingers, right over the sigil still etched into his sternum. “Look at you, you little Romeo. Making a claim.”

“I made no such thing,” he snarled.

“Maybe not with words,” she said, backing away, her stained fingers twirling lazily through the air, “but magic doesn’t lie. You’re tethered. Mated. Tied up in cosmic knots. Pick whichever term makes your head hurt less.”

Klaus rose to his full height, fury vibrating just beneath his skin. “I am not married, witch.”

Gloria didn’t even blink.

“It’s instinctual. Part of the werewolf soul. Wolves mate for life, Klaus. And when your curse broke—when your wolf was finally free—it found its match. And it sealed the deal.”

She stepped closer, voice a little softer now. “And you can’t ‘seal the deal’ with anyone else because your whole system’s already chosen. Your body knows her. It’s rejecting anyone who isn’t—”

“There is no her!” he shouted, voice cracking at the edges.

Gloria just gave him a look. The kind that said: Don’t lie to me, wolf-boy.

Klaus’s voice was a rasp. “No. No, that’s not possible. I know plenty of werewolves with multiple partners. Whole packs—”

“Can have all the fun in the world until the bond snaps into place. Then it’s done. Sealed. You’re off the market.” Gloria interrupted. Then, “Tell me, Klaus. When did this start?”

He didn’t answer, still trying to wrap his head around what she was telling him.

“You broke your curse—what—a month ago?”

“Two,” he replied absently, eyes unfocused, jaw working uselessly.

“And who was there?” Gloria asked, wiping her hands on a towel.

He clenched his jaw. “Plenty of people.”

She arched a brow. “Fine. Think about that night—and then, tell me what flashes through your head.”

Klaus was silent. His jaw clenched so tight it could have cracked but he closed his eyes.

It had been blood and fire. Elena bleeding on the ground. Elijah betraying him. The moon screaming. And her—

She’d descended from the tree line like wrath made flesh. Bonnie Bennett.

Her magic had torn into him like it had teeth. He remembered the way the clearing shook, the ground curling upward beneath her feet as she wielded something older than herself. The air had gone cold. The pain had been exquisite.

And in the moment before he blacked out, before Elijah’s hands had dragged him into the night, he had looked up at her—her eyes glowing with fury, hair wild, mouth murmuring an incantation meant to kill him—and thought: Mine.

He hadn’t spoken it aloud. Hadn’t said a word. But the magic had heard him.

Gloria was grinning like the devil herself when he opened his eyes “There it is.”

“No,” Klaus argued. “She hates me.”

“She can hate you all she wants,” Gloria said, reaching for her unfinished drink. “The bond doesn’t care.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“Tough luck, mate.” She raised the bourbon like a toast. “You have a wolf-chosen, mystically binding, divinely inconvenient marriage. Congratulations.”

#bonnie bennett #klonnieweekend2025 #klonnieweek2025 #klonnie #klaus mikaelson #szajnie writes

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yumjum414 · 1 month ago

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Subhadra-harana

The wheels of the chariot hissed over the earth, flinging dust and starlight behind them as they tore through the sleeping countryside. Dwaraka shimmered on the horizon like a dream fading at dawn; golden, distant, and no longer hers. Subhadra did not look back.

They were being chased.

Her hands trembled on the reins, just slightly. Not from weakness, but from the weight of what she was leaving behind: the palace, her brother’s trust, the silence of a role she had outgrown. The dutiful princess who never said no was gone now, her place taken by a girl running toward her own choice, terrified and alive.

Her hair whipped behind her like a banner of black fire, wild and untamed, alive with motion.

They streamed behind her like black silk caught in the wind, gold bangles chiming with every jolt. Her cheeks were flushed from the effort, her tinted lips parted in breathless urgency- but her eyes, gods, her eyes. Beautiful, dark, burning with resolve and something wilder. Something freer than Arjuna had ever known.

He couldn’t look away.

He had thought her beautiful the first time he saw her, standing on temple steps in saffron, sunlight glinting off her earrings, laughing at something Krishna said. But this, this was different.

This was fire.

The fierce set of her jaw. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when the horses bucked. The way her silks clung to her in the rushing wind, golden thread catching the light like flame. She was frightened, but magnificent. Braver than anyone he had ever known.

Because she had come for him.

“Subhadra-” he called over the thunder of hooves.

“Don’t distract me,” she snapped, half-laughing, half-panicked. “Your cousins can shoot a hundred yards away per minute, can’t they? Pray, I don’t crash us instead.”

A glint of silver flared on the ridge - armor, bowstring, pursuit. Without turning, Arjuna reached for an arrow and loosed it in one smooth motion. The shaft struck the rider’s shoulder, knocking him clean from the saddle without drawing blood.

Another scout emerged, and another arrow flew- precise, unhurried, disabling rather than wounding. He did not look back. He didn’t need to.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she said suddenly, voice barely audible. “Dau... he’s always protected me. He thinks this match with Duryodhana is a gift. He doesn’t understand it feels like a cage.”

Arjuna said nothing. His heart was too full; full of her words, her trembling defiance, her hands white-knuckled on the reins, and her gaze locked on the horizon.

“But I want to choose,” she continued, her voice steadier now. “Even if it hurts. Even if I’m scared.”

And then, she smiled- a small, wild, lopsided thing.

“Bhrata Krishna told me that freedom isn’t the same as fearlessness. I think he’s right.”

Arjuna laughed then, soft and helpless, undone. Gods, he was undone by her; by her honesty, her stormlight, the impossible strength in her fragility.

“You terrify me,” he said, almost reverently.

“Good,” she shot back, grin crooked, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to show the barest flash of teeth. It was almost a gummy smile, unguarded and bright, as if joy had caught her off guard.

“I terrify myself.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in him broke wide open.

“No one will blame you for choosing your heart,” he said quietly. “But if they do... I’ll take the blame. I’ll say it was me who begged you to run.”

Her breath caught. “You would?”

He shrugged with that boyish charm she was beginning to recognize as armor. “I’ve always had a knack for trouble. Besides, it’s no hardship- being abducted by a goddess.”

That startled a laugh from her; sharp, sudden, real. And for a moment, she didn’t see Arjuna the warrior or the exile, the legend or the prince. She saw the brahmin who had offered her a mango in the gardens. The one who smiled like he knew sorrow and still chose light.

And now, he looked at her like she was everything.

The wind tugged at her dupatta, greedy and relentless, as though the sky itself wanted to keep a piece of her. But her hands were steady now- her fear still present, but no longer alone. It had found a companion. A joy.

Beside her, Arjuna turned slightly, abandoning even the pretense of watching the road behind. His eyes were on her, and they were full of awe; something tenderer.

“Should I worry you’re better at this than me?” he said, gesturing to the reins. “Stealing chariots, outrunning armed guards, breaking a dozen royal laws... all while looking like the goddess of dawn?”

She flushed. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So distractingly poetic in the middle of mortal peril?”

He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “Only when I’m doomed.”

“Doomed? To what?” she asked, cheeks pink.

He leaned in slightly, voice a hum beneath the wind. “Doomed to you, Priye”

She turned away with a smile she couldn’t hide. “Well, That was shameless.”

“Was it? I was going for tragic hero swept away by overwhelming love. Did it not land?”

“It landed,” she muttered, lips twitching. “Hard.”

He chuckled, low and delighted. “You’ve ruined my judgment, you know. I used to be strategic. Focused. Then you showed up wielding reins like a sword and smiling like rebellion, and now I’m ready to duel Lord Balarama with one hand and write love poems with the other.”

Subhadra laughed, loud and unguarded. “You are the worst fugitive I’ve ever met.”

“But I’m your fugitive, aren’t I?”

She tried to maintain her dignity, and failed. “And if I crash this chariot, charming prince, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I’d blame the stars,” Arjuna said lightly. “For making you so lovely, that I forgot my own name.”

Her hands faltered- just slightly- because she wasn’t used to being seen like this. Like she was the only one. Like she was wild and holy and someone’s whole sky at once.

And it was Arjuna, Arjuna, who looked at her like that.

The same Arjuna who bore god-gifted weapons and too many scars. The one Balarama called reckless, and Krishna called beloved. The one who sat beside her now, watching her like she was the thing he had been searching for across lifetimes.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, flushed.

“Can you blame me?” he whispered. “You stole me.”

“You let me.”

“I would’ve let you steal me a hundred times over,” he said, the playfulness fading to something real. “I would’ve climbed into that chariot myself if it meant waking beside you tomorrow.”

She drew in a breath- startled, shaken.

“I don’t know what tomorrow will look like,” she admitted.

“Neither do I,” he replied. “But I know I want it with you.”

And then- with the world blurring past them, the city vanishing behind, the sky wide with dawn- she reached for his hand.

He took it without hesitation. His grip was warm, calloused, grounding.

“I thought I was brave,” she whispered.

“You are.”

“I thought I was reckless.”

“You definitely are.”

She laughed again, fierce and soft. “But you... Arjuna, you’re everything I didn’t know my heart had been waiting for.”

He leaned in, close enough to taste her breath, to feel the quiver of her exhale. Their foreheads touched; a quiet meeting of storm and stillness, fear and excitement. “Then let’s go,” he said, voice low and sure, “and find a future that frightens us… and choose it anyway.”

And the chariot surged forward, wheels singing over the earth, trailing dust and starlight; two hearts running into the dawn, hand in hand with their courage, and the unknown.

A Strange Charioteer by Giampaolo Tomassetti

#mahabharat #arjun #arjuna #hindu mythology #subhadra #pandavas #krishna #balarama #dwarka

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ramayantika · 1 year ago

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The dance of the devi

Flowers for the goddess

in my alta-dyed hands,

I offer them at the lotus feet

of the Mother of the Universe.

***

Gentle blues of the skies move out

And Surya slowly rises from slumber

in its captivating regal glory,

its golden rays adorning

the Devi’s forehead.

***

I behold the golden complexioned goddess

set in stone with a benevolent smile.

My anklets lay at her feet

with turmeric and vermillion coating

some of those melodious bells.

***

A sweet summer breeze blows by.

A bell jingles and a lotus from her garland

falls to the brown earth at my dust laden feet.

A jingle of bangles and anklets,

A low hum of a mysterious yet beautiful tune,

And a voice sings,

A voice that I can recognize anywhere –

The Devi has risen!

***

Draped in silks and gold,

fragrant garlands around her limbs,

She steps outside to my courtyard,

A very humble stage for the one

who is the abode of this entire Universe.

The sun makes her ornaments gleam,

yet her moon-like face is the brightest.

My anklets are around her feet

But what truly do I own

in this illusionary world?

What I receive –

Beauty, intelligence, riches and power,

All comes from her.

***

And by the bright yellows of dawn

I see her dance in my courtyard.

Wherever her feet travel, little blooms arise

and where her hands softly touch,

Golden dust flies.

She twirls round and round

And I see the might cosmic Gods

Swirling around her magnificence.

Her veil, the illusionary veil,

which she playfully casts

around this world

escapes the clutches

of her beautiful braided hair.

And now I see. Clearly.

***

She leaps into the air,

Resembling a warrior

and a warrior she is,

for she is the Devi,

The ferocious Bhairavi,

The invincible Durga,

the slayer of Mahishasura.

She is the dark one, Kali,

The slayer of Raktabija.

***

Her dance of grace and elegance

transforms to a dance of death and destruction.

She is Shivatrinayani and Maheshwari.

She leaps and twirls with her trident

and her anklets and the temple bells ring

harmoniously,

Just like the eternal forces of nature.

Devi is Nitya, the eternal one.

***

I, a mere mortal woman, a devotee

akin to the turmeric and vermillion on her feet

watch the goddess dance in all her glory.

I see all the worlds and this vast universe

dance with her,

And maybe it is really true:

That everything in the world dances.

Laasya performs in every object,

in the largest to the very smallest.

***

And then I see the radiant one

stretch her palm to me.

I see my world in her hand

And clasp her hand tightly.

Which daughter lets go of her mother’s hand?

So we dance.

***

Stars and galaxies, planets and cosmic bodies,

Fire and snow, gods, demons and mortals,

I see her in everything

And this is the Dance of Realisation.

The music, the drums and the bells slowly fade

But the dancing soul now awakened

dances in ecstasy.

I see, I hear, I dance, I understand everything now.

***

The Devi twirls, spins, sings, smiles and laughs

And finally heads to her abode, to Shiva, her life.

My life, a thread in her hands,

I now submit to her eternal play

of this Life’s Dance.

***

I haven't written poetry in a while now. Somehow I couldn't capture this in a story format, it felt bland and very large and long. I didn't like it. The poem format perhaps gives me a little peace to form the vision I once had a few years ago while meditating on the goddess. I will obviously edit this later for the book, but for now here's the first draft poem for the book

Tagging: @swayamev @indiansapphic @jukti-torko-golpo (big thank you to you for the devi content!) @navaratna @rhysaka @krishna-priyatama @krsnaradhika @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @alhad-si-simran @ramcharantitties @kaal-naagin

#samridhi writes #poetry #devi #goddess #devi durga #goddesses rishikas & women

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shruiee · 2 years ago

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chapter 5 | RIVER OF FIRE | blood runs thick | d.t x reader x r.t

masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

synopsis: the aftermath of Alicent being wed to Viserys.

~ “Did you think it all true, all these things will catch up to you now.” ~

It truly wasn’t much of a bother, was it. Here you were, threading together a bouquet with gold silk threads and next to you paced Rhaenyra, cursing practically anyone that would dare interrupt her maniacal pacing. Five steps she would walk forward, mutter curses under her breath and then she would turn, walk five more. The antechamber almost grew hot, burning along with Nyra’s ire, the dragon flames within her burnt so bright, you feared for the Queen’s life.

She was just next door, being readied for her wedding by her Hightower cousins, you could hear the rambling and muffled giggling and jangles of gold bangles and necklaces. Her wedding to Viserys - by the gods - even now brought bile to the back of your mouth coating it with bitter thickness. It wasn't unheard of but perhaps when the bride bleeds from so close to home, one might truly weep for her virtue. Even if she were to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a girl and a grieving King. What bore far more pain was that she hid it, for months she hid her ongoing relationship with the King, from you, from Rhaenyra. Being unable to aid Rhaenyra through her grief to which Alicent sewed parts of Rhaenyra back together with such ease. She is wise, truly wise, yet she hid this. Rhaenyra believes her a traitor now, for weeks she voiced the fear of Aemma’s memory fading if Viserys were to remarry, Alicent listened and yet said nothing.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the doors to Alicent’s bed chambers opened, ladies poured out one by one, bowing to you and Rhaenyra before heading for the Grand Sept, the bells had begun to ring, marking the King’s arrival to the Sept.

A girl of six and ten turned into a woman, Alicent stood at the door with a stunning ivory gown, her cape sleeves curving around her figure and intricate gold metal work placed on her shoulders to mimic dragon wings, her beautiful brown hair pulled up. She was radiant as always, you couldn't help but smile at her, it was her wedding day after all.

Alicent’s eyes flicker to Rhaeyra, expecting to find some warmth within the purple of her eyes, Nyra gives Alicent a once over, taking in what had seemed like a nightmare come true.

“You look lovely, your grace” the hint of sarcasm coated thick in Rhaenyra’s voice as she bowed to Alicent before taking her leave.

You pitied her, the smile you gave her after screamed so, the Queen loved by all but the one closest to her. You walked her, reaching out to fix an untucked ribbon and then handing her the bouquet.

“Is there no way that I might mend this?” she sighed, sorrowful and guilty.

“Not today.”

She looked defeated as you fussed with pinnings of her wedding dress.

“Not today, because today is about you, our petty problems will be with us tomorrow too, my lady.” you give her a once over before once more smiling at her “today you become Queen.”

This time she matches your smile, a long breath shaking away the sorrow weighing upon her shoulders. You walked behind her, lifting her long train with both arms as she proceeded to walk.

There was this joy, your friend was being wed, a momentous event but you couldn’t breathe past how terrified Alicent looked, and torn over how perturbed Nyra appeared to mask her strong need to sob. Your lover and your companion, both bleeding from the wounds of court and you could help but one, a side that you had to choose. She had ripped through two dolls, sobbing over the one gown she managed to steal from her mother’s chests. She didn’t want a stepmother but most of all she didn't want to have to lose a friend so cruelly. No matter how tightly you held Nyra through the nights and gave her comforting touches, the dark shadow of doom that seemed to follow never left her, it loved her more than you could. More than the sunshine could cast a shadow, it persisted. At supper and at tea, it pained you to watch her so.

So much so, she wrote to Daemon, begging him to return, to stop this madness, speak some sense into his brother but what was done couldn’t be undone by a banished prince, now could it?

You reached for Nyra’s hand as you stood amongst the people, watching the Targaryen cloak draped over Alicent taunt her. All would be well, all must be well, you prayed. A marriage for the stability of the Realm, even with an heir, the lords never truly seemed satiated.

As Alicent and Viserys turned with their heads held high, the crowds cheered, roared in an out pour of joy. A new Queen had blessed the Realm, soon she would bless the Realm with a son.

A son, you looked to Rhaenyra. The whites of her eyes had gone red, moist.

“She is no Queen of mine.” she angrily whispered to you.

In the vast toll of things, one thing you had expected less. Rhaenyra had charged her ladies to be so frigid to the Queen. You sat with her and her ladies, leisurely pushing your needle through the fabric and then back out, every now and then glancing at Alicent and the growing mound of her belly hidden behind the plush blanket she sat under.

A rabid dog with a mustard collar, that’s what you were to her. Shielding her from the bitch-like behaviour many of these courtly ladies had directed towards her. Loud mouthed wenches, snickering behind her back, most of them had expected to be Queen– now they lick their wounds, playing those half cooked political games to gain Alicent’s favour. Most of all, you shielded her from Rhaenyra’s wrath, raging just as hot as Syrax’s fire, burning all those who might to diminish it, though you– immune to the brunt of it all, both figuratively and literally. The Targaryen in you kept you Valyrian-clad, and Rhaenyra’s lover in you kept you protected.

You looked out the window this time, you were sure she was up there– somewhere so high where if she was to let out rageful screams, she would be the only one to hear. Well– her, Syrax and perhaps a vulture or two. You and her had talked about it at length, while Viserys saw the possibility of a spare, all Rhaenyra saw was an heir, to overshadow her, to depose her before her father sold her hand in marriage to the highest bidder. A castle? Gold? Armies or perhaps a foreign political connection, casting her away. Just as Jaehaerys’s daughters suffered, so would she.

Your mother Daenereys was probably the most fortunate of the lot, along with her sister Alyssa. Both women married the men their hearts desired, Alyssa and Baelon producing the purest of Targaryen children and your mother bringing Dorne into the fold by marrying your father Allyrion Martell. You however bleed Martell through and through, unlike your brother that possessed purple eyes, the ravenous features of a true Dornish woman embraced you as you grew, full lips, sun kissed glow, a distinct head of loose curls, leaving but a few streaks of white, just like Princess Rhaenys.

That was besides the point that even with the macabre tradition of the Dornish and the contumacy of Targaryen traditions, you couldn’t fathom admitting that you indeed wanted Alicent’s child to be a boy, for that little child to be heir so you and Rhaenyra could fly east, just like you always dreamed of, marry and live in a quaint little hold with servants purchased from sold jewellery and a farm of your own. Yet once a prey tastes blood, it can only want for more, Rhaenyra’s purpose was this, to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she found power within the title bestowed upon her and just as demanded flaunted his oddities with immunity so would she, you could do naught but follow her, obey her commands and prepare for the day that she would sit the Iron Throne– with a husband on her back instead of you.

You couldn’t give her heirs of her blood, no blood magic nor prayer could change that you too were born a girl, and the unnatural pairing of the two of you would lead to carnage.

“Princess?” the voice of Enorah standing by the doorway tore your attention, you looked at her, momentarily stunned– returning to the world of the living “The Princess Rhaenyra has demanded your presence in the Godswood.”

Demanded

Rhaenyra knew at the cusp at which she played at, your afternoons were Alicent’s by the King’s “suit,” you turn to Alicent apologetically.

“My Queen if I may…”

“Go on, I have my other ladies to keep me company, perhaps I might return to my chambers for some respite.”

You looked around the ladies scattered across the chamber floors before neatly putting away your embroidery ring, you stood, back straight and shrouded in formality. You bowed to your friend before taking your leave.

You knew how you find Rhaenyra in the Godswood, hair mussed— stinking of dragon on the rage of the fourteen flames in her eyes.

“Why must you be with her?”

Something so sacred but irreparable, such a bind of sisterhood never found again. Squandered yet again by what you knew to be the ugly politics of lords in their ivory towers. What irked you the most was the price paid was you— your companions barely old enough to bleed let alone be pawns to whatever bargains were being struck in the Great Halls of the Red Keep.

You remembered the fight they had so vividly, almost envisioning it as you entered the Godswood.

“Rhaenyra, slow down!” You huffed, hiking your skirts to chase behind her.

Viserys had just announced his proclaimation, you stood there. Among the choices he had, along with Laena. Alicent too was— oddly among the lot. It wasn’t a surety until he said her name.

You were sure Rhaenyra felt it harder than you did, right in your gut. A dagger wound, you should have seen this coming. She looked torn, regrettably so, but why? She would be Queen.

Thus you chased out Rhaenyra, down the stairs and to the Godswood where she wiped at her angry tears.

Dear gods

When the realization set it, your closest friend had lied to you, through her teeth. Under the disguise of consolement and wise words of religion and perhaps comfort. She hid her “affairs” with Viserys.

For her sake you wished that she would steer clear of Rhaenyra but such fate was beyond her for she too followed.

“You!” She whipped her head furiously towards Alicent.

“Why? I wept to you, afraid for my mother’s memory and you betrayed me!”

“Rhaenyra truly—“

“You do not speak! You do not breathe near me.”

“Ever again…”

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mumms-the-word · 7 months ago

Text

In the Company of Wolves

Characters: Solas x fem!Lavellan Summary: Solas spends part of the evening at Halamshiral admiring Iren and pondering the similarities between an Orlesian masquerade and ancient Arlathan. When he's not being grim and fatalistic about it all, he's imagining a few naughty things he would like to do with Iren, should the evening give them a chance. Basically it's a whole lot of Solas pining and pondering and wishing, at least for one night, that he were not the Dread Wolf after all. A/N: Some of this is inspired by information we learn in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, but does not contain any Veilguard spoilers. Also, tried something new with verb tenses and flashbacks. I haven't decided if I like it yet, but an attempt was made! AO3 link if you want to read it there! MDNI 18+ even though most of the smut is relatively tame (teasing and such, you know)

Solas cradled a glass of wine in his hand, lifting it to his lips as he watched the Orlesian nobility wandering past. Each one was dressed in their finest silks and brocades, buttons and buckles gleaming, feathers floating, jewels sparkling. There was more wealth in one antechamber or narrow hallway here than in whole towns and villages around Orlais and Ferelden. And as was the fashion, the requirement of Orlais, every single one of them was masked, their faces covered with thin plaster or porcelain, paper-mâché or paint, imitating lips and noses and mustaches and carefully plucked brows. Faces upon faces. Falsehoods upon falsehoods.

It was as familiar as it was foreign. Had he come here alone, had there not been any threat of Corypheus and his Venatori conspirators, he would have been content to watch and observe. Smile to himself at the frivolous concerns of a nobility that cared more for their appearances than anything else and stand unseen and quietly amused at how seriously they conducted their clandestine affairs in half-hidden alcoves and darkened stairwells.

In this sea of masks, it was all too easy to believe they were little more than mindless animals, prettied and painted up to appear as intelligent creatures. If he wasn’t careful, everything would seem as a dream, each person drifting by as no more than a blur of meaningless color. Not real. Completely beneath his notice.

But then she would appear again, sweeping quietly through the hall, and the world would sharpen into focus again.

Iren. His vhenan.

She stood out among the crowd as easily as a single star in a void of night. Whereas everyone else here was dripping with color, turning about the room in their jewel tones, vibrant satins, and complex patterns, she was dressed simply and elegantly in a white dress of soft linen and breezy chiffon that left much of her sides and all of her arms bare. A brushed gold collar and matching thin belt gave the dress shape and held it close to her body, preserving all the necessary modesty that the court required, though her bare arms and sides had already been the subject of several scandalized whispers. Solas alone had overheard a handful of remarks here in this hall where he lingered, so he could only imagine the talk that went on in the ballroom proper. The court was undecided on which was the most offending detail, the sight of her bare skin or the dark red vallaslin she wore so boldly on her face, a vallaslin that also adorned her back and curled gently beneath her collarbone, faintly visible even beneath two layers of chiffon over linen.

She was ornamented lightly with gold in the same brushed finish as her collar and belt—a golden armband around one bicep, a set of simple thin bangles around both wrists, earrings that threaded thin chains between her earlobe and piercings that sat halfway up the line of her pointed ears. And of course the thin ring she always wore in her lip, the gold indenting her bottom lip and drawing the eye there every time. She had painted her hands with dark henna, a pattern of swirls that matched the markings of Sylaise on her face and darkened the tips of each finger to a shade of dark rust red. Crowning it all was a gold headdress of sorts, shaped in curving lines to form a pair of halla antlers that stretched back from her head.

She looked like a long-forgotten goddess among distracted mortals, a being from an ancient empire whom nobody could remember. She appeared simultaneously as a creature out of place and a being that rose above as something more.

She looked like one of the ancient elvhen.

No. He smiled to himself. Even among the nobility of ancient Arlathan she would have stood apart. There, the nobility had been just as opulent and colorful. More so, in fact, when Arlathan was at the height of its power. Iren, in all her simplicity, wearing only white and gold, would have appeared not as one of the Evanuris, but as something set apart. Something not even they would know what to do with.

He doubted she knew the effect her appearance had on those around her. She had wanted simple and she had gotten it, for better or worse. For here, simplicity was an outlier. Here, simplicity was rare.

Simplicity meant every eye was on her now, rather than passing over her.

As she drifted by him again, offering him a small smile that he returned as she made her way toward the gardens, he recalled how nervous she had been in the days leading up to this ball.

She paces his rotunda restlessly as she frets over the ambassador’s choice of fashion and uniform. “She’s talking about corsets and laces now, Solas.”

“Oh? Has our ambassador already selected your outfit for the evening?”

“She’s working on it.” She stops with a sigh, resting a hand on a stack of books that stand on his desk. “I requested her to go as simple as possible, but I’m not sure she understands what that word actually means.”

He laughs at that and takes her hand from his books, raising it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Lady Josephine can be reasoned with, after a fashion. She will honor your wishes if you communicate them clearly.”

“I just want to be…comfortable,” she says. But he knows that isn’t the word she wants to say. She wants to be helpful. She wants to heal hurts and move on. She wants to be invisible. She wants to be herself. It is, in part, why she is so drawn to Cole, and so protective over him. If she were a spirit, she would be Compassion.

But she is flesh and blood, and the Inquisition needs an Inquisitor. Who better than the woman who heals the sky and who stops the pain of every conflict ravaging the land?

He gently pulls her in close for a soft kiss. “Whatever you wear, you will be beautiful, my heart. You always are.”

And she was. The light of hundreds of candles illuminated golden light over her warm, dusky skin as if to cast her in polished bronze. The dark red of her vallaslin and henna added an enchanting, otherworldly effect to her natural beauty that these Orlesians, in all their paints and powders, didn’t know what to make of.

So as with anything they did not understand, they warped fear and curiosity into scorn and hostility.

Primitive. Rabbit. Savage. Knife-ear. Witch. The nobles used these words so carelessly, as though the sight of her bare skin and unmasked face were an open invitation. Like wolves, they surrounded her, thinking they scented blood, ready to sink their teeth into her flesh and tear her to shreds. They saw the halla antlers that adorned her head and thought her a prize beast to fell in a hunt.

She had predicted that.

He steps into her rented room in the city of Halamshiral, nodding quietly to the assistants who are putting the final touches on her face. A subtle dusting of shimmering powder on her eyelids, a line of dark kohl around her eyes, and a dark red stain on her lips, just a shade or two darker than that of her vallaslin and henna. Iren sees him in the mirror and dismisses the assistants with a smile.

“What do you think?” she asks, standing as the others file out of the room, leaving them alone. “I doubt I’ve ever worn this much finery in my entire life. This part in particular seems a little excessive.”

She touches the golden horns that curve and curl back from her head, an elegant mimicry of halla antlers to remind the court of her proud Dalish heritage. Her dark hair has been carefully arranged to cover the headbands that keep them secure on her head, the rest of her long tresses left to fall loose down her back and over her shoulders. He clasps his hands behind his back and smiles.

“You wear them well,” he says. “And the court will certainly have opinions about them.”

“Of course. I can’t wait for someone to call me a halla rider and think it’s a compliment. I’d almost rather they just insult me outright.”

Her eyes drift away from him, toward a painting that hangs on one wall. A group of Orlesian nobility dressed in the fashion of the age long since passed, gathered as a hunting party, their bows drawn. At their feet and beside the fine horses, sleek gray hunting hounds lead them through the forest. Their prey, a white halla with silver horns.

“They hunt them for their pelts and antlers, you know,” she says quietly. “In Orlais, a single halla is worth a fortune. Dead, of course. No point in capturing the creature alive.”

He says nothing. He is all too aware of the destructive tendencies of a people who would rather attack first than seek to understand, to appreciate, to learn. After a moment, Iren purses her lips, playing idly with the bangles around one wrist.

“I wonder what they will think of me.”

“They will think you are simple and easily defeated.” He smiles. “And like the stubborn, clever halla, who has no doubt felled many an arrogant Orlesian hunter, you will prove them wrong.”

She had said nothing to that, but he had seen how she entered the main ballroom, how she had navigated the first hour of the masquerade. As they thought, the nobility here watched her with predatory stares, eager to pounce on a single mistake. They tittered behind their fans and perfumed the air with cruel whispers. They murmured ridicule just low enough to sit at the edge of one’s hearing,

She had acted as though they hadn’t spoken, keeping her back straight and her chin high as she entered the ballroom on the Grand Duke’s arm. She had curtsied to Empress Celene, walked a confident circuit of the ballroom, and made it out into the hallway where Solas had taken up a place in one corner. It wasn’t until she had slipped her hand in his that he noticed the tremor in her fingers, the fine trembling tension that sang in her body as her blood thrummed with adrenaline and fear. On the surface, she had kept all of that hidden away.

He was the only one who knew how terrified she was.

“You will be fine, vhenan. And I will be here if you need me.”

But she didn’t need him. Or at the very least, she had no need to rely on him as a wounded man might rely on a crutch. She was, above all, adaptable and clever, and she had a natural grace and elegance that made her seem nearly at home among the more civilized Orlesians. They still derided her, of course. But they found very little purchase for their barbed words and veiled insults.

He watched her through the window as she perched on one of the railings that lined two sides of the Winter Palace garden, only a few feet away from him. The only things separating them were clear glass panels, but she didn’t look his way. She sipped from a glass of wine and pretended to find something interesting in the statuary of the fountain, but he knew she was listening for secrets. Feigning indifference or boredom to lure others into a false sense of security, where they may let slip something vital within earshot.

But then, as he watched, she lifted a hand and traced one finger against a spot on her neck, beneath her hair.

Ah. He smiled again. Perhaps her mind was not as much on the mission as he thought.

She turns to look again in the mirror of that room in Halamshiral. Her eyes are on the halla horns she wears, contemplating his words about proving the court wrong. He comes up softly behind her and wraps his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. Beside her, he looks pale and sharp, his indigo eyes darkened by the falling evening light. Still weak. A shadow of what he had once been. A humble disguise he didn’t even have to fabricate.

He focuses on her instead, admiring the curve of her brows over her dark brown eyes, the shape of her lips when she purses them faintly as she considers the two of them in the mirror.

He presses a slow kiss to her bare shoulder. “You will be the envy of all the court, ma vhenan.”

Her lips flicker with a darkly amused smile. “No, I won’t. Even with all this finery, I have no doubt I’ll be the most underdressed guest at the masquerade.”

He hums into her skin as he brushes another kiss against her shoulder. “But you are beautiful. You are enchanting. I doubt even the empress herself could compare.”

“Only to you, perhaps.”

To that he says nothing. Instead, he carefully moves aside the long, dark hair that trails over her shoulder, pushing it back to bare her throat above her golden collar. From his place behind her, he has easy access to the space just below and behind her long, slender ear, and it is there that he kisses now, lathing his tongue against her neck before gently taking her skin between his teeth in little nips. She relaxes against him, nearly melting, listing her head to one side to give him better access.

“Solas…” His name is a sigh, a breath from her lungs.

“Relax, my heart,” he purrs against her throat.

One of his hands finds purchase in her skirt, slowly and carefully drawing it up until his fingers brush against warm skin rather than cool fabric. He brushes his fingers up the inside of her thigh, inching closer and closer to her heat, only to smooth his touch back down and away. Teasing and tempting, the game they play, have played, since that first kiss in the Fade. She shifts, parting her legs to give him better access as she leans back against him, but he ignores the invitation. They don’t have time for what he wants, what he has planned. It would have to wait. For now, though…

He flicks his gaze back toward the mirror, watching her eyes flutter closed as his fingertips brush featherlight against her inner thigh again, close but not quite where she wants him. He sees himself in the reflection, too, his lips pressed against her skin as he sucks a dark mark onto her throat just below her ear. He watches them both, his gaze hungry, intense, while she relaxes back against him with her head to one side. The halla antlers curve back over their shoulders, glinting in the warm evening light. As the last of the daylight falls, shadows creeping into the room, his pupils reflect gold-green, a predator’s gaze in the dark.

If they had a few moments more…

A knock at the door brings him back to his senses.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor? We are gathering outside at the carriages now.”

The ambassador’s voice. Iren shifts as if to draw away, but Solas wraps an arm tighter around her, determined to finish what he started with the mark on her neck. “Y-yes,” she calls. “I’ll be down in a moment!”

He listens for the telltale sound of a latch being thrown at the door, but instead they hear footsteps drawing away. Satisfied, he finally lifts his head, brushing her hair away to admire his work.

There, just below her ear, a red love mark almost dark enough to match the red of her vallaslin and henna. By the end of the night, it will be bruise purple. A semi-permanent mark of his own making. One more adornment to add to her finery.

He smiles and rearranges her hair to cover the mark, hiding it from view. A secret, just for them.

Back in the garden, she seemed to catch herself and dropped her hand in her lap, idly rubbing the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. She had chided him when she caught a glimpse of the mark in the mirror. But her hair hid the bruise, so long as she kept it over her shoulder, as she did now. No one knew it was there, except for the two of them.

She turned her head again, following the sound of some whispered secret or another. With her dark profile set against the white and blue of the Winter Palace, he was free to admire the curve of her aquiline nose and the plump shape of her lips. Strong features. Regal features. You would not have found them among the nobility of the ancient Elvhen, who favored delicate noses and pointed chins, large eyes and small mouths. But the ancient Elvhen had not made her.

She was a product of this world. The world he had been forced to create and had hated with each step in its hollow realm. Millennia of elves fighting, surviving, fleeing, dying, carving out an existence in a world that should have been their ready inheritance, all funneled down to the happy accident of her birth, her creation. Solas hated the Dalish for the same reasons he hated the Orlesians—their arrogance in thinking they knew the world, knew their own history, better than any outsider might. But for all that he disliked the Dalish, they had done one thing right.

They had made her.

She was so beautiful. But that wasn’t the only thing that had drawn him in. She was kind and empathetic; she felt every emotion too deeply, raw and ragged, even as she was forced to suppress it all to maintain her solid facade as the Inquisitor. And she was stubborn, too, as immovable as a rock in a churning sea. She didn’t stop until a task was complete and someone got the aid they needed, whether that be healing a wound, clearing out bandits in a fortress, or saving a wayward druffalo. She sought wisdom and guidance when she needed it, but once her mind was set, there was no persuading her.

But she wasn’t reckless. If anything, she was patient, selfless to a fault, watching everyone else and planning ways to help them, often at the expense of herself. He recognized these traits easily. He shared them, or he had once, when the world was different. When the Evanuris ruled, and these traits were what he had aspired to. Kindness. Patience. Resilience. Selflessness. She bore these traits better than he ever had.

His stare must have been more piercing or intense than he intended. She turned her head, as if feeling the weight of his gaze, and their eyes locked through the panes of glass that separated them. He offered her a light toast with his goblet, a smile playing on his lips.

To your hunt, ma vhenan.

A hint of a smile flickered on her plump lips. She pretended not to notice his toast, turning her head away again. But then she gathered her hair carefully over one shoulder, bearing her neck toward him. Bearing the side that was, as of yet, blemish free. He saw her dark eyes flick back toward him, trying to gauge his reaction in the corner of her eye.

An open invitation, or a tease. Solas suppressed a smirk.

He wasn’t certain whether it was the wine or the atmosphere or some other terrible influence that was weakening his resolve, but the sight of her skin, offered so freely, tempted him almost beyond his control. He longed to pull her aside into some hidden shadowed corner and make a mark to match the one she already wore beneath one ear. To guide her away, his hand on her hip, fingers brushing over her bare waist, while the eyes of the court followed them and whispered about how dreadfully forward the Inquisitor’s elven serving man was being, to touch her so openly and boldly. Then to find a private corner away from all else and press her back against the cold marble of some column or wall, inhaling her surprised gasp as he closed the distance between them for a kiss, slipping his hands through the opening of her dress to the smooth planes of her back.

If this were any other party, if they were there for any other reason than to stop a madman’s agents from threatening chaos over an entire nation, he might give in to such fantasies. It would be all too tempting, once he had her there in those imagined, stolen moments, to lose himself to her henna-stained touch. To guide her fingers to the buttons of his coat and press in close, hiking her skirts up just enough to slip his thigh between her bare legs and leave her with nowhere to go, save closer to him. Her sex against him. Her perfect breasts heaving against him. Her panting breaths mingling with his.

They’d have to get rid of the halla antlers, of course, if he was going to make such ample use of the wall to satisfy them both. Pull them free from her hair and toss them aside as he caught the skin of her neck between his teeth again. A halla caught in the jaws of a wolf…

His smirk faded as the thought, unbidden, bitter, sarcastic, invaded his fantasy. What was that old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you? And now the fantasy was ruined, as reality crashed down around him. A reality of his own making.

Not that she had any way of knowing the irony. Here, she thought the Orlesian nobility were like wolves, crowding around her on the hunt for blood. If she had any idea who he was, who he had been, would she bare herself so openly to him? Would she look at him the way she did these days? With nothing but tenderness and care, and perhaps more than a little hunger of her own? No. If she ever truly knew…

There was no one here to warn her save himself. And he could not. It would risk everything, ruin everything, and it…it was too soon.

Even so, he could all too easily imagine the whispers that would follow her if his secret was known. Old Dalish warnings and snide comments from the ancient elvhen, allies of the Evanuris, mingled together in his mind.

See how the Dread Wolf stares at her, so lurid and open. See how his great, fanged jaws salivate for a taste of her flesh. Cavort not with wolves, young elvhen, lest you fall prey to their charms. For He Who Hunts Alone may devour you, if you let him draw close, and then where will you be?

He tightened his grip on his glass of wine and then, after a moment, set it aside. This masquerade brought too much of the old Solas out of him. All this courtly intrigue, this heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex, it all felt so familiar that he could easily conjure the sort of talk the elvhen would have said, had said, about him.

Some things never changed. The scorn was the same, it was only the words that differed. And here, just as it was then, the powerful preyed on the weak and boasted their victories prematurely, while others lay in wait for their chance to usurp, to upset the balance, to rebel and create change.

Like his Inquisitor, he supposed. For all his wine-muddled thoughts about wolves and halla, predators and prey, Iren was ultimately neither. Though she wore the halla antlers for the sake of costuming and carried herself with the elegance of nobility, and though she was on the hunt for agents of the Elder One to stop his plans before they even began, she did not fit so easily in these categories. She was neither halla, nor noble, nor huntress.

She was what she had professed to be from the start, when she had first introduced herself to him. A shepherd guarding her flock. A Dalish Keeper in training.

Therein lay the true irony. He should have seen it from the beginning.

“I am surprised you offered to stand watch,” he says, approaching her as she sits by the campfire in the midst of the Ferelden Hinterlands. After only two weeks of knowing her, she remains a mystery. Beautiful. Gifted in magic and in healing. Quiet, but stubborn. She is the bearer of the Anchor, a gift that should never have been hers, but which she has learned to use with surprising rapidity. But as with so many others in this world, she still seems a little unreal. Unfinished. Unrefined.

Yet he can’t help but be drawn to her, at least a little. The warm tones of her skin, the soft fall of her dark russet hair, the ring she wears in her lip that never fails to draw his gaze. The way she tilts her head, listening closely to his words when he speaks. The way her eyes flash with surprising anger when someone attempts to dissuade her from a path she has chosen to take. There are hints of cleverness within her he wants to see more of, despite knowing that what he ought to do is keep himself distanced and aloof.

At his casual remark, she looks up at him, the glow of the firelight warming her dusky skin. “Pardon?”

“I would not have expected one of the Dalish mages to be accustomed to the task,” he says, by way of explanation. “I suspect most of them sleep comfortably while their hunters do all the watching…and lose all the sleep.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” she says, smiling dryly. “In my clan, the Keeper, the First, and the Second each take one of the three night watches with the hunters. The Keeper always takes the first watch, then the First takes the middle watch, and the Second the third watch early in the morning. In Clan Lavellan, there is always a mage awake and relatively alert every hour of the night. Just so you know, the middle watch is the worst.”

He tilts his head. These Dalish clans never do the same thing twice, he’s found. “Fascinating. And what do you keep watch for? Bandits and wolves, like your hunters do? Or are you there to watch for demons?”

Her dry smile is still on her lips, but it shifts. “Any of it. Among other things.”

She twists a thick sylvanwood ring on her first finger, carved to depict a wolf flanked on either side by delicate elven figures. The elves face away from the wolf, as if marching toward a destination not depicted on the ring. He recognizes the scene instantly. A depiction of the Betrayal. Or at least, how the Dalish remember it.

It was a gift from her Keeper to guide her on the way to the Conclave, she had once told him, the first time he had noticed the ring. A reminder of the people she left behind. A people she hopes one day to return to and eventually to lead.

“Anyone can watch for bandits,” she continues. “But we were meant to watch for something else. Someone else.”

She twists the ring on her finger again. He knows the answer even before the name crosses her lips, a title he will never be able to escape, not even in death.

“Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. It is our job to keep him from leading our people astray.”

If she only knew…

No. It would shatter her. She would be left ashamed and embarrassed, or worse, betrayed. He would lose her in an instant.

He would never be able to tell her the truth. No matter how much he longed to. No matter how much he saw in her the traits and strengths and the determination that he himself had once exemplified in his early days of rebellion. If this were another time, another place, perhaps then he could bring himself to trust her with the truth. But those days were long gone. Elvhenan was gone. He had destroyed it.

How different would things be, would things have been, if she were there in the days of the Elvhenan empire? Would she have sided with him in rebellion, or clung to Sylaise as a devoted follower or slave? He doubted sincerely that she would be content in slavery, content to sit idly by while people suffered the whims of the powerful and the corrupt. If she had been born in the time of ancient Arlathan, if she had been part of his rebellion against the Evanuris, if he had been drawn to her in the days after Mythal, would she have been able to find a better solution that he could not see at the time? Would her wisdom have shown her better paths?

Would he even have listened?

That was the real question, and he knew the answer. He wouldn’t have. He hadn’t listened to the friends he’d had. And even now, seeing what world he had created, he wasn’t entirely certain that if he had the chance to go back and correct his mistakes he would choose any differently.

All this, to stop powerful tyrants and would-be gods…

“Solas?”

He blinked, drawn from his brooding thoughts by the sound of Iren’s voice. She stood now just a few steps away, waiting for him to see her. And as before, the world crystallized with her at the center. Everything made a little more real.

He softened his brooding expression as best he could. “Ah. My apologies, vhenan. My mind was…elsewhere.”

She fought a smile, but he could see it twitching at the corners of her mouth, her lip ring glinting in the candlelight. Unbidden, his thoughts were drawn there, focused and warm. He wanted to catch the ring between his teeth and tug gently at her lip while his hands pulled her flush against him. He wanted—but then she smiled, amused, and he realized how brazenly he stared at her mouth.

“I can guess where your mind was,” she murmured. “But…later. We still have work to do.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice even further. “No matter how much I might wish otherwise.”

“Indeed,” he breathed. Better that she thought his mind wholly distracted by her than to suspect him of other treachery. And, if he were honest, it was all too easy for his mind to turn, again and again, to the subject of her beauty, in praise of her figure, lost in fantasies of what he would do if he didn’t fear the consequences so much. He cleared his throat gently. Back to work. “How goes your search?”

“Something is happening in the servant’s wing nearest the ballroom,” she said, keeping her voice quiet, lest anyone try to overhear. “It has me worried about the elven servants…”

“You think they are involved?”

“I think they’re being killed, and that worries me.” She gnawed at the corner of her upper lip a moment. Then she forced a little smile, as if they were once more flirting, their words meaningless and shallow. “Can I interest you in a distraction soon?”

“You are already a distraction, ma vhenan,” he said softly, taking the risk, despite all the eyes and ears potentially turned their way, of taking her hand and lifting it for a brief kiss. “But I understand your question. I would be very interested. And I am ready whenever you are.”

“Good. The door in the next room, down the stairs, to your left. I’ll have it unlocked soon. Meet me there in a few moments.”

“As you say.”

“And…Solas?”

“Yes, vhenan?”

She hesitated, the first obvious sign of reluctance or even doubt he had seen in the time since they’d entered the grounds of the Winter Palace. Her hand was still in his. In her hesitant silence, she gave his fingers a fierce, firm squeeze, as if she were nervous and seeking reassurance.

“Nothing,” she said quietly. “I’m just…I’m glad you’re here with me. That’s all. I don’t think I could do all of this without you.”

And just like that, he remembered just how mortal, how fragile she was compared to the elvhen, the Evanuris, compared even to himself, weakened as he now was. This was not Arlathan. She was not one of the People. She was Dalish, part of a quickened race of elves who forgot everything and clung to legends and fanciful stories as if they were true history.

And he loved her. His foolish bleeding heart couldn’t help but love her. Try as he might to harden his heart, to remain callous, distanced, cold, neutral, he couldn’t. With her hand in his, drawing strength and courage from his touch, her warm brown eyes earnestly seeking his to convey not just gratitude, but love, her plump lips holding the hint of a smile meant just for him and no one else, how could he do anything but love her? As she was. Mortal. Dalish.

Real.

He wished he could be anything but the Dread Wolf in that moment. That he could be nothing other than an odd, wandering, elven apostate, a scholar of the Fade. That he could set everything aside and be what she needed him to be, nothing more, nothing less. That this night would end with a victory, in some form or fashion, and her hand once more in his as he led her to a private room to celebrate. No more danger of the Dread Wolf leading the Dalish Keeper astray. Just a man in love with a woman and proving his love with searing touches and whispered words. He would give anything to be just that, to be the man she believed him to be.

She saw the best in him. He wanted so dearly to live up to her vision.

Perhaps, for tonight, he could try.

Let there be other wolves. For one night, let him be as he began, simply Solas, and as he wished to become, a man devoted to his heart’s desire. His Inquisitor. His Iren.

He lifted her hand to his lips for another kiss, reverent and slow, a silent response to her remarks. Then he let her go, watching as she slipped her hand reluctantly from his and drew away; watching as the eyes of Orlesian nobles and elven servants alike turned to follow her as she left the room.

She had nothing to fear from them. She had already faced worse than an Orlesian court. Like so many other obstacles she had already faced and overcome, she would find a way forward, a way to help those who needed help, a way to stop the Elder One from sowing chaos. She would succeed, one way or another, because that was simply what she did. She could handle a few predatory glares and poisonous whispers, in light of all that.

She would be fine. She had grown accustomed to the company of wolves, for better or for worse, whether she knew it or not.

But for tonight, he would not be another among them.

#please don't ask me how long I've worked on this #i don't even know if I like it at this point lmao but it's done #and i want to post it #also look how pretty iren is!!!!#I love her!!!!!#solas #solavellan #solavellan hell #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #wicked eyes and wicked hearts #my inquisitor #my fic #iren lavellan #dragon age fic #dai fic #da fic

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basicallyasimpforfiction · 1 month ago

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simon ghost riley....

PART 1

THE GIRL IN JASMINE AND GOLD

Simon Riley hated weddings. He especially hated being flown across the bloody globe to attend one.

India—loud, sweltering, bursting with color and chaos—was everything he despised. The moment he stepped off the plane, the noise hit him like a punch to the head: shouting porters, car horns that never stopped, music blaring from every direction. And the crowds—people pressed together like sardines, smiling, talking, brushing past without apology. It set his nerves on edge.

So, of course, Soap was marrying an Indian woman. In Chennai. With three full days of ceremonies, rituals, and celebrations.

It was Day Two. The Nalangu ceremony—some sort of pre-wedding games and blessings—and Simon had reached his limit. His crisp cream kurta stuck to his back. He’d been dragged into three different group photos. Someone smeared turmeric on his face earlier. There was cardamom in everything.

Soap was in his element, laughing easily with the bride’s family, his smile wide and golden in the sunlight. Price and Gaz were nursing cold drinks under a cloth canopy, chatting like they were on vacation. Simon, meanwhile, lingered at the edge of the festivities, arms crossed, his skull mask tucked away in deference to the occasion—but his expression was no less unreadable.

Then he saw her again.

He’d first noticed her the evening before, at the welcome dinner. A young woman in a pale, silken saree—delicate threads of gold embroidery running along its border, draped carefully over one shoulder like a veil of moonlight. She hadn’t spoken much, if at all. Just smiled politely, murmured thank-yous, and stuck close to an older couple—her parents, likely—or hovered near a gaggle of aunts and cousins.

Sanjana. That’s what someone had called her.

Her eyes were always downcast in public, flitting upward only in short, uncertain glances. She didn’t laugh loudly or pose for pictures or jostle for food at the buffet. She folded her hands in front of her and stayed still, like she was trying not to take up too much space. Her hair was pinned into a low bun, jasmine flowers tucked at the side. She looked soft. Shy. Quiet—a word Simon rarely got to associate with this wedding.

And yet she’d been everywhere. Helping the older women carry trays of food. Offering water to guests. Fixing other people’s sarees. Always in the background, yet unmistakable once you noticed her.

He had noticed.

Maybe it was the way she stood apart, even in the center of things. Or the way she watched the world with large, solemn eyes—like she was absorbing everything and giving nothing away.

Either way, he'd been observing her for nearly a day now.

Then the opportunity came.

The late-afternoon sun had dipped low enough to cool the air, and most of the guests had retreated under the shade of the mandap tent. TF141 had found a quiet corner with their own stash of drinks and an empty fruit platter. Simon sat slightly apart, arms draped over his knees, watching the gathering from behind his usual stillness.

And then Tara, the bride, appeared—resplendent in her green silk saree and full of the kind of energy only brides could summon after hours of rituals.

She led Sanjana with her, gently holding her by the wrist.

“Sanjana, just check on the boys, yeah?” Tara said brightly, with the tone of someone assigning a harmless errand. “Make sure they’ve got water, snacks—whatever they need. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

Sanjana looked like she’d rather melt into the floor.

Simon watched as she stepped forward, silent and obedient, clutching the edge of her saree blouse with one hand like it gave her courage. Her bangles clinked softly as she moved.

She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Not even his.

But she was here now. Right in front of them.

He leaned forward, just slightly—enough to listen.

PART 2 TOMORROW GUYS PLESE LEAVE COMMENTS OR SUGESSTIONS TO IMROVE THE WRITNG THANH YOU!

#tf141 #ghost x oc #simon ghost riley #original fiction #indian wedding #military romance #awkward love #writing #fanfic inspired

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not-a-space-alien · 1 year ago

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Desperate Daybreak Chapter 4

In this chapter: Valen tries to get his hands on his late husband's will.

MMSS masterpost

DD masterpost

On AO3

Warnings for this chapter: Misgendering and dehumanization throughout, casual misogyny, references to domestic abuse

As a reminder, you can look at the Kithrara family tree here!

***

Valen kept glancing at Tessie out of the corner of his eye shyly. She was wearing bangles that jingled as she walked, golden bands that matched her nails. Valen recognized her look–it was as close to breaking gender norms as she could get without it being noticed. Everything was still well within the range of what a man would wear, but all together it was flirting dangerously with the border of being feminine: an unthinkable thing for a man to be. Valen had done it in the opposite direction, choosing the most masculine dresses, swapping out dangling earrings for studs, putting on the least amount of lace and bright colors that he could get away with, constantly fending off Priscus’s suggestions for more feminine clothing, shoes, accessories, nail polish, hats, hair styles.

He had so much to talk about. He’d never met another transgender person before, let alone another transgender vampire. He kept licking his lips nervously and starting to talk, only to shut down entirely, too nervous to think, stumbling along barely paying attention to where he was going.

“Eleanor has the will,” Tessie said, her shoes clacking on the tile. “Not the only copy, of course–I don’t trust her not to destroy it.”

Eleanor Kithrara, Xavier’s mother. Priscus’s grandmother. Valen swallowed. This was it. He’d been dreading coming face to face with the family, and Eleanor would probably have the most ample reason to be upset with him. “Of course.”

“Mistress!” Callidora came dashing out, falling into step behind them as they walked down the hallway. “Mistress, shall I put your thralls away in the human quarters while you conduct your business?”

Lex let out a little laugh. Ari scowled.

“Ah, no, no, that’s all right,” Valen said with a wince. “Callidora, you are a very sweet girl, but I must remind you. These are not my thralls, they are my associates. I’d like you to treat them as you would any important guest, all right?”

“A human guest?”

“No, no, same as a guest that was another vampire.”

Callidora’s face screwed up, like she was thinking very hard. “Um, all right, Mistress, if that’s what you want.” She turned towards Lex and Ari and said very boldly, “Would you like some refreshment, then? We have custom cocktails and multiple thralls to feed from.”

“...That’s the spirit, Callidora, but not quite that far, all right?”

“Sorry, Mistress! I want to do my best for you, even if it’s strange!”

Valen laughed a little. Callidora really was clueless, but she was so eager to please it was hard to stay mad at her. Lex and Ari probably would find it more upsetting than creepy, but Valen knew to keep his expectations low. He patted her hand, which she watched with wide, adoring eyes. “Thank you, Callidora, I do appreciate it. Tell you what, why don’t you go prepare a room for me to overday in? A guest bedroom, not the master suite where Priscus and I used to sleep.”

Callidora gasped. “But Mistress! The sheets in the guest suites are only 800 thread count cotton! The silk sheets in the master bedroom are much more comfortable and befitting someone of your-”

“That’s all right, Callidora, I don’t mind-”

“But you deserve the best!”

Valen smiled and bit his lip, trying to hide his laugh. “If it bothers you so much, dear girl, why don’t you swap out the sheets, then? I would like to sleep in the guest quarters, all right? That’s all.”

“Right away, ma’am!”

Callidora scuttled off. Tessie watched her go with a bemused expression on her face.

“Sorry,” Valen said, continuing their pace down the hallway. “It’s so dreadfully difficult to get anything done here because of everyone fussing over you.”

“I’d heard it was like this here, but I had no idea it was really that bad,” Tessie said, amused. “The Tessandrax family is only a minor noble family, so we have the 800 thread count cotton in our master bedroom.” She threw a hand over her forehead and dramatically feint-swooned. “The horror!”

Lex and Ari broke into laughter.

“I don’t even know the thread count of our sheets at home,” Ari said. “Probably, like. A hundred.”

“One,” Lex said. “It’s just one big thread.”

The two humans giggled.

“Regardless of linens, I do find the bed I choose to be in the most comfortable of all,” Valen said, blushing a little.

Tessie nodded. “Yeah… I can imagine.”

“I used to think I hated co-sleeping… turns out I only hated sleeping with Priscus.” He hated sleeping next to Priscus, but also sleeping with him–and now he liked sleeping next to Lex and Ari, so he often found his mind wandering to if he would like to sleep with them… but that was unspeakably obscene, so he would always tamp that down to keep it inside for as long as he lived.

“I’m glad you got out of, uh…” Tessie smiled sadly. “I mean, at least I don’t have to worry about unwanted pregnancy. I know it’s complicated, but…”

“Oh.” Valen shuddered. “I truly can’t think of many things I would like less than being pregnant. Motherhood is a wonderful thing, but only if you choose it.”

“Yeah.” Tessie sounded glum. Valen wondered if she was also experiencing this in the opposite direction, but she cleared her throat and waved the topic away. “We’re meeting Eleanor in the study. Can you remind me, uh, which direction? This mansion has so many rooms…”

“Oh! Of course. Here, it’s this way.”

Valen pulled a turn to the right. More grand hallways, these ones carpeted.

“You two just hang back and let me and Tessie handle this, all right? There’s a… certain way you have to speak to them.”

“Absolutely,” Ari said. “I love shutting the fuck up.”

“They’re not going to be happy, I bet,” Lex added.

“They really aren’t,” Tessie said. “The rest of the family was going to try simply not contacting Valen at all.”

“What!” Valen said, horrified. “Were they hoping to wait me out? Try to claim I forfeited the inheritance by not showing up?”

“Exactly that. I caused quite a few problems for them by managing to track you down. They’re quite upset that you showed up.”

“...I can hear that,” Valen said. Banging and shouting could be heard as they drew near the study. Eleanor apparently wasn’t doing much studying there–based on the sounds, she seemed to be mostly destroying anything that was within reach.

Here we go. Valen straightened his cravat.

Tessie opened the office door just in time for a dictionary to come flying out, flopping sadly open spine-up at Valen’s feet.

Valen peeked his head in. “Eleanor, you really shouldn’t mistreat books this way, you know, each volume is a sacred-”

Eleanor had a feral look in her eye, petticoats wildly astray and hair out of order as she grabbed a desk lamp and hurled it at Valen. Valen pulled his head back out, but he needn’t have bothered–the lamp merely crashed against the wall, shattering into a million pieces instantly as Eleanor’s superior vampiric strength practically vaporized its fragile form.

“You utter bitch!” Eleanor screamed. “You scheming, utter, horrible bitch! You took my boys from me! My Xavier! My Mordecai! My Priscus! My little Sebastian!”

A volley of quills were thrown next, sticking haphazardly into the wall, twanging with their points stuck in.

“Mrs. Kithrara,” Tessie said, still standing well out of the danger radius. “When you are quite finished with letting your emotions out, there are serious matters we need to discuss with you.”

“I won’t talk with the likes of her!” Eleanor started pulling all the encyclopedias off the shelf, tearing pages from them. “She killed my sons! My grandsons! My fine young men! They were all I had left of my beloved Viscardi! Centuries of maternity to build my family of fine young men gone! For her greed and foolish perversion! We should have never trusted anyone from such ill breeding!”

Tessie and Valen waited for Eleanor to burn herself out clawing at the encyclopedias, until she simply dissolved on the floor in manic sobs.

It was at this point Valen noticed Elvira sitting primly in the corner with a porcelain cup and a decanter. She was dressed in the black, lacy, elaborate attire of a widow–ah yes, she’d been Mordecai’s wife, so she was also recently widowed. Unlike Eleanor, she seemed completely unbothered by everything going on.

Valen dared to venture in. “Good evening, Elvira.”

“Good even, Valen, dear.” Elvira took a sip from her cup–humans would have called it a teacup, as she lifted it from a little saucer, but it had blood in it, of course. “Would you care for a spot of refreshment? I have this most wonderful cocktail of A-negative from that blood bank in Noffalk Heights. Wonderful mixtures they make, there. Almost as good as fresh from the source. Delightful little treat for when your thrall isn’t convenient. It makes it hard not to overindulge between feedings, but I do have to watch my figure.”

“Thank you, Elvira. I shall pass today. It isn’t proper to feed in the study.”

“I know, Valen, dear, please do forgive me. It’s improper times, though, you know. My husband has just passed away, so I’m indulging in a bit of impropriety.” Her cup clinked as she lifted it again for another sip. “All the same, though, you really should pay your husband the proper respect by putting on a mourning outfit, you know. The color is right, but the style is completely wrong.”

Valen had completely forgotten about the expectation that he wear the widow’s gown until just then. He was dressed in his usual long-sleeved black outfit. Propriety forbade Elvira from saying much more than that, though–even just calling Valen out on it directly was bordering on scandalous. “Forgive me, Elvira.”

He turned his attention back to Eleanor. This woman was responsible for generations of unspeakable evils… yet Valen couldn't help feeling a little bad for her. She'd just lost half her family. “Eleanor.”

“You killed them!”

“I didn’t kill them, I promise you.”

Eleanor stopped, as though she hadn’t expected Valen to deny it. “Uh?”

“I had nothing to do with it, I promise you.”

“Well why not?!”

“Wh…? Did you want-”

“Of course not! But then, who did?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I was just as surprised by it as you were.”

Eleanor started crying again, and she came over and pulled Valen into a hug. Valen let it happen stiffly. “There there,” he managed to say.

“I missed you, Valen, dear, I did.”

You certainly didn’t seem like you would have missed me last time I lived here. He gave her an awkward smile, knowing he couldn’t convincingly lie to say the same.

“But you’re here now and that’s what’s important. Family sticks together.” You are not my family, Eleanor, you really aren’t. “How were your grand adventures? Traipsing around the world? You’re so daring for a young lady, you know.” I have facial hair. Look at me. For God’s sake.

“Quite daring,” Elvira echoed, a touch more wry, with another look at his outfit.

Valen cleared his throat. “They’ve been quite illuminating, Eleanor-”

“You will call me Grandmother, won’t you?”

“...They’ve been quite illuminating, Grandmother. I’d like you to meet my associates.” He gestured to Lex and Ari. “Alexis Lynn and Ariana Newton.”

Lex gave a sheepish little wave. Ari stared Eleanor down like a bull.

Eleanor looked at them disdainfully. “Associates, is that the politically correct term for them these days? You’re not one of those left-wing extremists pushing for human supremacy, are you? I’ve never heard such a ridiculous notion. They think humans are better than vampires! And all kinds of ridiculous things like, like it being wrong to drink blood. You did always get upset seeing humans brought in, but I know you’re more sensible than that, at least.”

Valen bit his lip. “No, Grandmother, of course not.”

Eleanor clicked her tongue. “And what have you dressed them in?”

“It’s so you can’t touch us,” Ari huffed, and Lex elbowed her so hard she let out an ow!

“I should have suspected your thralls would be so ill-trained, Valen. It’s because you don’t use persuasion on them, you know. You’re not seriously going to bring that foolishness back into this house at a time like this, are you?”

“Valen’s humans are besides the point,” Tessie said, expertly sidestepping an obvious trainwreck in progress. “We have to discuss the will, Mrs. Kithrara.”

“Oh, the will.” Eleanor sniffed, dropping her demanding demeanor in favor of the pitiful one she’d had earlier. She opened a desk drawer and withdrew a very long scroll. “You will, of course, be signing the property back over to me, won’t you, Valen?” Ah, there it is.

Elvira gave a little laugh like a windchime. “Since when has anyone in this family ever given up anything like that willingly?”

Eleanor shot her a glare. “It’s a family affair, of course, and Valen’s not really in any sort of position to be a leader to this family, are you, dear?”

Losing his temper, Valen swiped the will out of her hand unceremoniously. “Priscus seemed to insist I was a permanent, full member of this family when he refused to divorce me over and over,” Valen snarled, and then eased back to continue: “Well, we should honor his wishes, shouldn’t we? I’m sure there was a reason he left it to me. Let’s see what the will says, shall we?”

Eleanor glowered. “Yes, I suppose. You’ll be expanding the family soon anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.”

Like hell I’m expanding the family. Whatever that means. Priscus was dead; there was no way he would be impregnating Valen now, and if Eleanor thought he was going to remarry some distant cousin or something, she was in for a nasty surprise.

He unfurled the will.

“There’s an included letter before all the legalese,” Tessie said. “Priscus wrote it in the event of his passing to be handed to you. You should read that first.”

“All right.” Valen unrolled the scroll all the way to the top.

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

PRISCUS KITHRARA

I, Priscus Victor Salem Kithrara, being of sound mind and judicious power, not acting under duress or the influence of my lessers, do declare this document my instructions for my postmortem affairs in the event of my untimely demise.

This document is to be bestowed upon my beloved wife, Valen Octavia Kithrara (Valen Octavia Astra) and headed by the following message:

Valen, I weep that we shall never meet again. I only hope you will be taken care of in my absence. You are the smartest woman I know, fierce like an unbroken mare, full of grandiose ideas and in possession of an imagination of the likes of which those in my family could only dream. Rare among your sex, I know deep down you are capable of achieving immortal greatness. You will be the blood baroness of a new era of the harvest web, when the time comes.

Therefore, towards that aim, I bequeath the entirety of my earthly possessions to Valen Kithrara, up to and including, should such a stipulation be necessary, the entirety of whatever portion of the Kithrara estate to which I am legally entitled, the property grounds, the blood processing facilities, and all the humans therein. With this power, you will do something truly remarkable for the Kithrara family.

And for the family it shall be: My greatest wish has always been to help you reach your full potential, as a sacred mother to this illustrious family. To that end, the details of which are enclosed further in this document, I have made use of this wonderful new technology in development to collect a cryopreserve of my seed, which can be revivified and used for an intrauterine insemination. The bequeathment of power and property outlined in this document is therefore contingent entirely upon your subordination to your role as my wife and the mother of my children; you will bear my heir within ten years of my demise, to carry on my legacy, the offspring of which will inherit the estate when he comes of age. This will be the ultimate honor for both of us and our family legacy.

I love you, Valen, my little turtledove always and forever.

Priscus

***

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shaadidukaanseo · 3 months ago

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Explore beautiful silk thread bangle designs for brides, with modern and traditional styles perfect for weddings. These intricate and vibrant bangles will add a unique touch to your bridal look.

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valayaa · 2 months ago

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sanguinesorcery · 7 months ago

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// What are Fariah’s favorite sensations (smell, taste, fabrics, sights) ?

Requested Canons from @gloryseized

Sight ::The profound sapphire of the blue hole depths just outside the archipelago to the south-east, where the clear blue-green turns dark and deep ::The way the stars look over the oceans to the west, without the lights of the capital to obstruct the never-ending clusters so to look at the night sky makes you feel suddenly very very small ::The swirl of the lighthouses, a bright flash above with the flick of smaller lights in the off-beat, the way the islands light up in rippling waves at dusk ::The third flaming eye of Katya's War Aspect forehead on the relief in the main foyer, the way it stares and glimmers in its gilded details with its halo of fire ::Ygnapani's grinning gaze of a Thousand Eyes from the mists of the Clouded Isle, where the Tigress Goddess is mostly obscured otherwise

Sound ::The wind through the hollow channels of bronze of Shrayak On the Mountain, the droning shriek as the cast panels vibrate with the wind through them ::The clapping waves against white-sand shores, coupled with the smell of brine and the feel of water only slightly colder than the air caressing toes and ankles ::The delicate chime of metal bangles, of tiny coins and bells clacking against each other ::The haughty drone of Ildra in the morning, signifying all is well, the musical dissonance of Markesh in the afternoon in stealing from the kitchens again ::The rustling comforting clack of the leaves of the corpse-eater as it twines and twirls and echoes in both the audience hall, and in her memory, to remind that all is well still

Smell ::Styna's Tears, the precious little white flowers fragrant and sweet, mixed with the deep earthy Leviathan's Blood incense pouring from the censors throughout the Imperial Palace ::Soft rose oil, used in everything from incense to body care ::Metallic rust that only comes with one thing, acrid and foreboding ::Saltpeter, the reek that permeates and reminds of the cost of progress ::Ginger and turmeric, a familiar comfort used in such a number of staples that it is home and it is hearth

Taste ::Brine, salty yet somehow spiced indeterminately in their corner of the world, a reminder of home and a fond memory ::Coconut, a subtle sweetness that recalls the rurals, a fine treat for a job well done, a gift for being there when needed ::Honey rolls stolen from their racks in the kitchens are sweetest, dripping and gooey like the way Kalla Tilvyar used to meld in and out of shadows for his little Princess ::The bitter taste of adrenaline tearing apart rational thought in the need for more, more, more ::The stench and sting of spent gunpowder that clings in her nose and deep in her throat until there is nothing left but to heed the call

Touch ::Raw silk threads pulling between fingers stained, a roughness smoothing slowly to sturdiness, a reminder of the people who make it ::A small warm hand in hers, many small hands gripping and grasping until laughter and weight prove she is no match for such tenacious pups ::The soft coolness of pearls and cowrie rolling against the skin of her neck, draped from extravagant headwear or molded into the cuff that shows her sacrifice to the world ::The way the Aeroglaive silks its way through fingers with its gentle pulse, like metal made water, a warm familiarity ::The weight of the dress, the cultural staple, the Clouded Isle style of gathered silken layers, heavily embellished so it swirls in mesmerizing patterns, the Goddess Skin, the draping crown; the weight of her station, of her sacrifice, of her existence

#Answered #gloryseized #Prompted Canons #these are fun~#thankee for this!! :D

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candycryptids · 4 months ago

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What kind of gift does your OC like to give? Something store-bought or handmade? (Was it expensive?)

Lev's answer to this question is -> [Here] <-

Tangy likes to make Handmade gifts for people, or at the very least, she'd like them to be customized to suit whoever she's giving them to. Her favorite is woven bracelets, with charms or beads (she has to buy those; carving them herself just wasn't working out so good for her. It's so tiny.... but she gets them from local artisans wherever she's traveled to! So they tend to vary wildly in style.)

This does mean F'lhaminn has several bracelets, from Ul'Dah (turqoise beads, brown leather strip braid, she got the beads at a discounted price after helping with deliveries for a few big names in town.), and Ishgard (has lovely metal adornments that suspiciously look like a spring that's been partially stretched, and a couple washers. Made with black, red, blue velvety fabric, very slender design.) and Doman (orange and green silks, has several Doman coins woven into it), and Gyr Abania (has Ananta style gold worked pieces in the shape of fangs and a couple wooden beads with Rhalgr's mark on them, uses red silk threaded through the holes in a latticed-golden bangle, probably the one Tangy spent the most money on) and- well, you get the idea, surely-

Of course not everyone likes wearing bracelets.... she'll also gift things like Pretty Rocks she found while adventuring, an excellent cut of meat (if she thinks they'd know how to cook it properly; she certainly can not.) or, honestly, frequently as common as her handmade gifts is "I saw this and it reminded me of you, so I bought it, and now it's yours :)"

[Iron Inquiries 🪶]

#ffxiv Tangy #2sday Answers #ty for the ask AND for your patience in me taking a bit to answer ahaha 😅#I really thought about this one lmfao. tangy may paint but she doesn't really think they're good gifts #who has a place to store a painting????#or display one even ahaha

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disproportionatelysculpting · 2 years ago

Text

RUFESCENT

The thread of Destiny ain't red, It's drenched in blood. Fate isn't loved, it is carved with pain.

ADVIKA

'Why are you here?' her voice is icy cold, no hint of regret but shock. I wasn't supposed to witness this. She is sitting at the head of dining table looking at me with horrified look. From the same chair she hated the most, the chair her father sits on, or I should say used to sit on. I cannot believe this is her, wearing a pink silk lehnga, finely plated dupatta falling of her shoulder like waterfall and jeweled with finest craftmanship. My heart skipped a beat with her beauty but she looks caged beneath all of the fancy apparel. I wanted to caress her, she was like an angel, my best friend, my... but Who is she now? what could have happened... why are they all like this?

'Come sit, have some tea' she says simply, pointing to the empty seat as if there is nothing wrong. I watch across the table, the crown prince, Divy, is sitting on the other end just like any other normal day, but today is not normal, there is death surrounding this premise. I don't know what to do. This place is suffocating me. 'Advika, you alright?' he asks with a concerned look and I make my way and to take my seat beside him, the only clean, empty place left in this room. 'Yuvraj' I bow to pay my respect, and he nods. I take my seat and I look around but there is no server in the sight. An errie feeling surrounds the room, making it harder to breathe with each moment.

She walks up to us with a fine bone China kettle, with blue fine floral cravings on it and pour tea for us. Her hands stained with blood, still delicately wrapped around the ceramic, few of her bangles are missing, others are jingling as she moves. She puts the kettle down, with her fingers printed in red on it. 'I hope you like it' she says with a smile, the smile that used to make my heart flutter, today it made me fear her. I take in a gulp trying not to show that I am scared, it will break her heart if she knows that. 'wh-what happened here?' I look at her face as her smile fades into a straight line 'nothing' she takes a sip of tea, from her cup, the cup that has blood splattered on it. She puts the cup down, her lips have stained its edge 'I had my reasons, but you were not supposed to see this.'

My hands are shaking, how can she be so calm... there are 3 corpses of people we knew, dead and cold. 'Did you...' I close my eyes trying to not say the wrong thing, but I need to know 'did you... kill them?' 'It was food poisoning, a mistake.' Divy says without looking up. It wasn't and explanation, it was an order. He was not speaking as a friend, but as the person of authority. I feel sick in my stomach. 'why' I muttered 'WHY?' I shouted this time 'Dhriti. what happened'

DIVY

'It was food poisoning, a mistake.' It was the alibi we agreed on, me and Dhriti. But I couldn't look up to Advika as I said it. 'why' she muttered, 'WHY?' she jolted herself on her feet, pleading for truth. 'Tell me, what happened to make you do this? I want to be by your side I need to know' Dhriti stands up and walks towards her 'Adi...' she gives her a smile, a fake smile, a smile for hope to not ask her anything.

'This is me. This is my truth' she looks at the bodies, one of her father’s, the man of power and greed, my father's most loyal confidante, or so I thought. Other of my uncle, who pretended to be the most caring person in the world for me... and his son, my cousin, who tried to touch Dhriti with his perverted thoughts. And then at me, I smile at her giving her the courage she needs. 'I can't explain you anything more.' 'This is not you' Advika's voice is strong but her hands are trembling on edge of table, she is trying to hide it from Dhriti. I can do nothing but see my friends in this misery, Dhriti forced me to not say anything about why this happened. Things have complicated and there was no other way, she said she will handle it on own.

'You... why are you pushing me away? I-' ' Advika. Meet my fiancé, Divy.' Advika's hand stop shaking and loosen their grip. It seems like her world just shattered; I am the person who made her life crumble. I should have stopped Dhriti but I was late and powerless. ' You are joking right? right? Dhriti you cannot do this to me. Divy this is a prank, right? You guys are trying to make mood lighter, no?' 'it's not a joke Advika, I am sorry' I say and she falls back on the chair. Dhriti is standing still, calm and cold like a stone. She had changed, this is not the girl I knew, but so is everything. I don't know who to trust anymore and what's the truth, but Dhriti was right, they wanted me dead and they tried to ruin her life. We had no choice but to do this. A pact to carry this sin with us for sake of our lives.

ADVIKA

I feel like the whole world around me has turned upside down 'you can't do this to me' my voice is breaking; I don't care anymore she is my... my love... she cannot marry him. 'I did nothing to you' she says calmly, her voice that soothed me is breaking me more, why is she doing this to me. 'What about us? did it mean nothing?' My eyes are blurry, my tears might be falling but I can feel nothing. My insides are growing cold, I don't know what to expect anymore, her words are like thorns, pricking my body with each word. I know her she must have had her reasons but this... this is not acceptable to me... being left in dark like every time.

DHRITI

'This is not you' her voice is strong and sweet, but her words, they are full of confusion and pain, I hate me, I have to hurt her to keep her safe. She cannot be tainted with this side of world; this castle is not safe for her. She needs a simple happy life, far from this place royal politics. People here are filthy and disgusting she cannot be here. I have to hurt her. 'You... why are you pushing me away? I-' I am sorry Jaan ' Advika. Meet my fiancé, Divy.' I say and I bite my tongue wishing I could swallow my words back. I hit her in most vulnerable place, I am a monster. ' You are joking right? right? Dhriti you cannot do this to me. Divy this is a prank, right? You guys are trying to make mood lighter, no?' She is agitated, I made her like that. 'it's not a joke Advika, I am sorry' Divy says.

Life is unfair to us, we three are at a place that reeks of blood and suffering, we will have to walk the path of misery now.

'You can't do this to me' her voice is breaking, I nearly caressed her hairs but no, I have no right to comfort her with these bloody hands. 'I did nothing to you' I says calmly, trying to provoke her. 'What about us? did it mean nothing?' she is crying, my words are slicing her apart and I can feel the pain too but I... I have to hurt her. 'What us? there was nothing between us'. I am keeping up my voice cold and calm, I cannot let me be weak. Her eyes go wide listening to my words, she stands up face to face to me. Her kajal has traced her tears path. Her eyes are black like the Bindi on her forehead, her lips are trembling, the ones I kissed are now shaking because of me. Her hair is a mess flowing all over her shoulder and face, I wish I could to tuck them. She is wearing a yellow kurti, yellow... like her... she is embodiment of purity and love, she is made to be warm, not dark unlike me. She is staring at me, her eyes bleed pain. 'What did you just say?' she asks her sweet voice is now bitter, I made it like that. 'There was nothing between us.' She grabs my arms 'there was nothing?' 'no' 'then what about all those promises? you said you will never leave me, you will fight the world to be with me, that you... you loved... me... was it all lie?' 'Promises are made to break' I say with a smile. 'But- what about our love?' I close my eyes and take in a deep breathe. I wish the earth parts and swallows me before I say this.

ADVIKA

'Promises are made to break' she says with a smile. She always said she doesn't trust promises but she will try to keep them. She was right. 'But- what about our love?' I know what she is doing, she is trying to protect me by hurting me. And I want to be hurt too, hurt enough to hate her, hurt enough to leave her in misery alone. I want to hear how toxic she could get, how long can she keep her façade. Her eyes are closed, she takes a deep breathe 'I never loved you.' liar 'you were just a fling for me, just because we shared some moments doesn't make us important.' She removes my hands; her palm has been always calloused but it was rough today yet warm. ' Things have changed. I am the new lord of Ekaja province and you are the only alive niece of our empress, in the first line of heir for your Turvi clan now.' She tucks in a strand of my hair and I flinch on her touch 'You are a guest here, you came to learn how royal families work, soon you will turn into a fine skilled woman and return to become new ruler Turvi, along with your..' she takes in a gulp trying to lift off weight of her words, but what is the use anymore '..your husband or wife.' what is the point of that, that was her place.. not anyone else's? dreams are broken, words are said, I am hurt. She leans in and I take a step back. Her body stops like a shock just passed in her; a realization hit her. She gives a small smirk and leans in near my ears 'we were nothing, I never loved you princess Advika, you were just a distraction for me.' and she walks away standing in front of the portrait of her family. I want to trust her, trust everything she said now. My throat is in a chokehold, I want to scream, cry, yell at her to stop playing these mind games with me but the person in front of me, isn't the one who was mine.

Dhriti in front of me is cold, cruel, burning like coal seething rage and violence, with a dagger around her waist and cuts on her hands far away from the one I fell for, she was meek but in soft way, warm inside trying to become a good person always, stronger than any sin, whose touch felt careful, scared to break anything but this is not her, my love wouldn't have said such things to me, but its working, her wish to hurt me is working. She always knew what to say at right times. My eyes are burning from trying to hold back the tears, I turn to Divy, he is sitting still like a statue, his eyes are red. He looks up at me and a tear escape his eye, so does mine. He doesn't speak anything nor do I want to hear him out, he... he was here he did nothing… he let Dhriti become this. No matter she wouldn't have killed my father and brother without a valid reason, but what was it that she can't tell me. I know my family isn't best but what could have done for her to.. to kill them..

DHRITI

There is silence in room, I look at my family's portrait wondering where it all went wrong. If Maa never left us, if my brother and his wife didn't get killed in that accident, if my father never turned his sorrow into greed, maybe today I wouldn't have had blood on my hands, I would be playing with Advika's hair while she read me poetry, have duels with Divy and Manas, dance and sing with Bhabhi and cook with Maa and papa would be helping out by sitting there telling stories like we did 5 years ago... Everything changed that month. My world crashed and today I put end to all of my past misery to haunt me and for new ones to come. I sacrificed my love and life in the most barbarous way possible. The silence is broken with the jangles of her Payal, the familiar noise I always looked forward to. Advika. I am brought back to the room as she grabs and pushes me on the wall.

'Why did you do this?' her voice is full of anger, rage. why is she still here... why is she making me do this to her... 'I had my reasons' 'what reasons' she walks close to me, her eyes are red, it's making me weak. I look away from her face. 'You should go now, princess of Turvi.' she puts a hand on my waist and other on side of wall. 'Look at me. DHRITI.' my name sounds foreign coming from her mouth today, I look at her, her face is closer to me. Her lips are pink, she must have been biting them, her cheeks are red, from rage. This is the girl I love, who flinched on my touch moments ago now trying to reach my dagger to threaten me. Just to know the truth, I wish it wasn't complicated. No matter how much she loves me, she cannot live with me, I have her family's blood on my hands. 'This is a crime scene princess, you shouldn't be here.' she finally pulls out my dagger and puts it on my throat, I wonder if it’s from love, or hate, or just confusion. I let out a laugh, she is holding it wrong way, she barely learned weaponry. She lived in peace, until now... I ruined her. I hold her hand and move the dagger in right position. 'This is the right way meri j..' no, no, no. ‘...princess'

ADVIKA

She lets out a laugh, maybe it’s funny for her. I have a dagger on her throat and she laughed. Her laugh is still pure, warm, childlike. Her lips curve perfectly, I might have kissed her if things weren't how, it is now. She puts her hand on mine, I strengthen my grip around the dagger. She positioned them diagonally on the side of her neck. 'This is the right way meri j..’...’...princess'. She is still holding onto my hands, her skin is warm, or maybe it’s the blood that is dripping painting my hands red. 'TELL ME.' I shout, demand as I put the dagger but deep in her neck, but far enough to not leave a wound. 'go away princess' she shouts and there is thundering outside and I flinched again. 'I murdered your father your brother and my father. What can I say?' I pull back the dagger and step back. She is not going tell me, then let it be. As I backed away I saw a tiny glimpse of her persona slip away and hurt in her eyes, getting red.

DHRITI

She steps back, her face is calm, she is finally letting go of me... It hurts, my cuts hurt, my heart hurts, everything hurts now. She is accepting my silence; she won't chase me now... I pushed her away... I hurt her and I am in more pain now... I smile, smile because she will be free now, she will have her own peace and she will get a safe place, her kingdom of own. 'You are pathetic.' she says calmly looking towards the bodies. I deserve this. 'Congratulations for becoming the lord, becoming something, you hate. You are pathetic, pushing your love away, keep your secrets. I respect that but I thought you trusted me more than this' she is laughing now and wiping off her tears. She turns away to walk out of this room. I want to stop her, hug her and tell her everything, I want her to know I had no choice but do it this way. She reaches for the door and then walks back to me. I want to speak but I can't, I cannot beg her after everything I did. She holds my face and the tear I was holding on floods my eye, blurring my sight. She pulls my face and leans in for a kiss. This was not comforting, or warm. But a bitter cold kiss, a kiss of goodbye. She pulls away 'but I still trust you and I love you; I hope you remember that my... my... Dhriti.' and she walks off the room. I listen her payal fade away and my tears start to fall.

DIVY

Dhriti falls on floor as soon as Advika walks out. She is crying silently holding her chest, staining all her clothes with blood. I rush to her and hug her. She wraps me around her arms and starts wailing out loud, screaming her pain. All of her façade melts away with her tears and moments pass, the smell of blood grows stronger than the flowers in the room. I wish I could take their pains away.

We are sitting on the floor, she is still weeping in between. 'Thank you' she whispers, her voice is weak, unlike how she was earlier. 'I didn't knew Advika was coming back today' I say 'me neither, she wasn't supposed to see this bloodshed.' 'Why didn't you tell her the truth? Why did you asked me to be quite and then became the bad person for her?' 'What choice did I had? lie her or tell her truth and ask her to be with me? after this all. that her family and mine wanted to marry me off to that disgusting creature, or that they wanted to wage a war on us, or that I killed them to protect me and her and make her life hell, crown prince.' crown prince, a reminder for the weight I carry with this title. This is just the start of all the sacrifices we will make. 'So, what next?' 'We will let the rumours float that I killed them all for few days, then announce our... marriage... and irradicate the chances of rebel, you will take the throne and rule Nayantara, our empire for better.'

'I meant about you and Advika...' 'oh... I will let her go...' 'I can tell her everything, I will make sure she comes back.' 'don't, She knows that there is a reason, she will come back if she knows everything. But I cannot let her see me and remind her that I took her family away from her, whatever reason it be.' 'you are sure about all of this? leaving her, marrying me, sacrificing your life this way?' 'I killed them' she looks up 'there is no going back.' 'But you don't have to' 'I have no other reason left to be alive anymore, if I don't do this... I..' she is crying again, I rub her back. I wish Manas was here, he would know what to say... better than me.

'We will be fine.' 'Yeah, we will be' she wipes her hands on her lehnga and then her face with her dupatta and smiles. She has been so strong every time. even now after everything.

DHRITI

'We will be fine' 'yeah, we will be' I say, and ask him to tell Mr. Charan to manage cleaning of this place and to leave me alone for a while here.

We will be fine, we will be fine, we will be fine. fine. It's fine. I am falsely believing in the lie. I lost her, I have no family to go. I just have this dumb friend of mine I have to help until kingdom is stable and then... I can be lost in time. I wish this time passes soon. I am sorry, my love. I walk out of the room, the room where my love left, where I made graveyard for my happiness and birthed pain.. I am sorry. I drag myself out in the garden and it starts to rain, it washes over my clothes, blood and tears. I am crying again. I scared her, I am a monster for her, she flinched on my touch, she... won't love me anymore. 'I am sorry' I keep screaming out 'I am sorry', I am sorry'

'I am sorry, I am sorry'... and It's raining. This is my fate, craved out of flesh and pain. My destiny is red, not from love but made of blood.

#ekaja-> sounds like Aik-a-JAA #zeuge writes #OC DHRITI #OC ADVIKA #OC DIVY #dhritixadvika #rufescent

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