#so now you are on patrolling duty in the most boring part of the forest for the next 50 years probably

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Made for amazing Michelle as a thank you gift for her Buy me a coffee donation. Thank you so much for your support!🥰❤

[guardianofrivendell]

Reckless

Meludir x gender neutral reader

Requested: Yes! Anon asked: “Hello, can i please get a oneshot between meludir and reader where reader is injured from an orc attack and meludir is looking after them?”

Warnings: I tried to write something fluffy, I really did, just a normal fluffy kind of oneshot but the force of sarcasm and sass is too strong! 

A/N: I didn’t know Meludir that well, and there isn’t much information about him besides that he’s from the Mirkwood guard, so I just went with my own interpretation of his character. This was also a request that was long overdue (by now all of my requests fall into that category, I AM SO SORRY).

“I can’t believe we’ve waited so long,” Meludir chuckled, gently wiping the hair out of your face.  

You were both relaxing together at the edge of the forest, right at the other side of the bridge where the trees stopped and the palace grounds began. It was one of the more quieter spots in the kingdom, away from all the hustling and bustling of the palace, but still close enough so you would notice if something was wrong. Your sense of duty as a member of the Mirkwood Guard was never far away, even if you had some time off.

Meludir was sitting with his back against a tree, your head resting in his lap, your eyes closed. One of his hands was intertwined with yours and the other one was now lazily going through your hair. For a moment it felt like it was just the two of you, and time stood still. 

“Maybe we were a little too blind to see what was right in front of us,” you said in response, and brought the hand that was going through your hair to your lips to kiss it, marveling at the softness of his skin. “But I’m glad our eyes finally opened, Meludir. I don’t think I could have gone another day dancing around each other, meleth nin.”

Meludir hummed softly and placed a kiss on your forehead. “I could not agree more. Gi melin, mîr nin. An uin.” (I love you, my treasure, forever)

He then started singing to you, his voice soothing and barely above a whisper. You focused on the caresses of his thumb on your hand, and when his fingers started gently scratching your scalp, you felt yourself slowly slipping away. 

“Sleep, meleth nin. Sleep, my one true star.”

The high-pitched scratching of a chair dragging across the floor pulled you out of your more than pleasant dream. 

You desperately tried to focus on the last images which were still lingering in your mind but alas, the loving words sung by Meludir were slowly replaced with the soft thumping of a massive headache and your head was no longer resting on his comfortable lap but on a fluffy pillow instead. Which was also nice but, you know, not the same. 

Someone took your hand in theirs, followed by a soft squeeze. No, no, no, you weren’t ready to wake up yet! You weren’t done with that dream! Who needed the cruel reality where your best friend was just that, your best friend - with the emphasis on friend - while in your dreams he was your intended? So hello dreamworld it was! 

You tried to turn on your side so you could try and go back to sleep, but as soon as your right leg shifted just the tiniest bit, a shot of pain went through it, setting it on fire and making your body go rigid. 

Okay, so moving was a big no no. What happened to you?

You inhaled a little deeper to try and breathe through the pain, when the scent of herbs and starched linen filled your nose.  Wait a minute... The pain in your leg, the smell of herbs and linen…  This was not your own comfortable bed you were lying in! 

You were in the healing wing! 

Okay… Maybe you should open your eyes and check? Just to be sure?

But you were rather comfortable if you were being honest - if you didn’t count the slight throbbing in your head and your leg that was still hurting - and as long as your eyes remained closed, you didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of whatever happened to you. 

Better make the most of it and try and sleep some more! 

But alas… there was no rest for you when flashes of what had happened shot through your head, making you forget about the pain for a moment. 

You had been on a patrol through the deeper parts of the forest with your friend Meludir and a few other guards when you’d stumbled across a couple of spiders. Despite being far outnumbered by the vile creatures, you came out victorious, but you couldn’t prevent some of the less experienced guards from getting hurt. While you were taking care of their injuries, Meludir had spotted an orc pack in the distance. 

So of course you had to go after them… By yourself, leaving a very upset Meludir with the wounded. You’d deal with him afterwards. He will come around eventually, he always did. That’s why you were such good friends. 

You were all about impulsive decisions. It’s what made you join the Mirkwood Guard in the first place and usually that turned out for the best. This time? Hmm… not so much. 

You were caught off guard during the fight and suffered a stab wound in your leg because of it, there were simply too many Orcs for you to face alone. Oh you could almost hear Meludir’s ‘I told you so’! While you were distracted trying to get the dagger out of your thigh as soon as possible - afraid it was poisoned - one of the remaining Orcs saw its chance and charged at you. Your reflexes were too slow and you failed to deflect the hilt of his sword. That’s when the lights went out. 

“Y/N?”

Another squeeze in your hand. 

Seriously, how impatient can someone get? You were sleeping! Or trying to, your leg was still hurting after all. Didn’t they teach them how rude it was to wake a sleeping, injured person? Not good for the healing process! 

But the sounds surrounding you were getting louder, reverberating against the insides of your skull and making your head throb even worse. Guess that blow to your head actually did do some damage there. Better keep those eyes closed for a while longer, you thought. 

But you were also curious, and you couldn’t help trying to concentrate on the sounds closest to you. You could hear a voice talking softly to themselves, it sounded oddly familiar, it had sung to you in your dream not ten minutes ago. Meludir…

You suddenly remembered who exactly you were dreaming of a few moments ago. Oh Eru, you didn’t talk in your sleep right?!

“I know you’re awake, Y/N.”

Yeah, that was Meludir alright. You could almost hear the smirk coming through his voice. The hand covering yours was probably his too. 

Oh, he was not going to like this. He’s probably worried sick, or angry. Or both. Either way, you were in trouble. 

You opened your eyes a little to take a small peek. If there was even the slightest hint of anger on his face, you were going to pretend to be asleep for a little while longer.

Meludir seemed relaxed at first sight, his elbows were resting on his knees, his hands holding onto your left one. He was still wearing his uniform, covered with blood stains from the encounter with the spiders, and you noticed some black Orc blood as well. But he was unharmed, thank the Valar. 

His dark eyes were already staring at you as soon as your eyes met his, boring into yours with such an intensity that you couldn’t help but look away in shame...  Busted.

“I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” you tried to joke, trying to assess his current mood. He looked like he was relieved to see you awake. This might not be so bad after all.

Oh how naive could you be...

“Now that you’ve finally opened your eyes...” he began. 

The relief that was etched on his face slowly turned into anger. Uh-oh. 

“What were you thinking, Y/N?!” he whisper-shouted, smacking your arm. 

“Hey hey, no assaulting the injured!” you protested, grasping your arm.

“Your arm is fine! Wish I could say the same about your leg and your head,” he huffed.  

You rolled your eyes and let go of your arm. 

“Both are still attached to my body so clearly you are overreacting, Meludir!”

“I am overreacting? Who exactly went after an entire Orc pack by themselves?! You! And without even telling me, you just ran off!” he ranted, seeming to forget he was in the healing wing. “You could’ve died, Y/N!”

“But I didn’t,” you countered. 

Meludir rushed to stand, his swift movement unbalancing the chair. 

“But you could have! I could have lost you!” he snapped, his hands going through his dark hair in frustration. 

You didn’t know if he said that last sentence to himself or not, but this was the first time you saw him in such a state and you didn’t know what to think of it. 

You hated it when Meludir was angry at you. He just had to get it all off his chest, you knew that, but that didn’t mean you liked it when he yelled at you.

One of the healers nearby reprimanded him for raising his voice, and that seemed to calm the Mirkwood Elf a little. He looked at you apologetically.  

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, I was just- Never mind…” He took a seat on your bed this time, carefully as to not hurt your leg. “Tell me, how are you feeling?” he asked, taking a deep breath. 

Oh. Okay, we finally have worried Meludir. That’s a good thing. You could work with him.

“Killer headache and as long as I lie still, I should be fine. I’ll be back up in no time.”

“You had me- and us, you had us worried there, Y/N.”

Meludir’s hand wrapped around yours again. Weird, since when did you guys start to hold hands this much?

“Awww, you were worried about me?” you teased him, trying to ignore the strange feeling in your stomach when you looked at your joined hands.  

“Y/N, I found you unconscious and bleeding on the ground with Orcs leaning over you. Of course I was worried!” he raised his voice, his eyes wide in concern. “You were out for several hours!”

After a few seconds Meludir let go of your hand and sighed. 

You finally got a good look at him and you noticed his hair was messy, some strands sticking to the side of his head. He looked tired, you didn’t think you ever saw him tired before. He was a complete mess. Very unlike him.

The poor Elf had probably been at your side the whole time. Guilt started settling in your stomach.

“I’m sorry I made you worried,” you apologised, “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Meludir chuckled. “Yeah, we both know that’s not going to happen.”

You lifted your head a little to look around, and you were surprised to see the other beds empty. Where were the other guards?

“How are the others?”

“Some scratches and minor injuries, a few spider bites. Nothing the healers couldn’t fix. You were worse off than them,” he smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

You let your head drop back into the pillow dramatically, relieved to hear the others were fine. But something still bothered you.

You rolled your head to the side to look at him and pointed at his chest.

“Why is there Orc blood on your uniform?”

“Well, someone had to finish what you started.”

Is that a smirk you saw? The cheeky bastard!

“Oh, just you wait until I get back on my feet, I’ll happily remind you who’s the better fighter,” you challenged him. 

“That’ll take some time, the healers said you can go to your own chambers once you wake up, but…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead looking at you in apprehension. 

“What? What’s with the dramatic pause?”

“You have to stay off guard duty for at least two weeks. Orders from the healers and King Thranduil.” 

“What?” you gasped, and you winced when you sat up a little too fast and careless, hurting your leg in the process. Your hand flew towards your thigh and you saw Meludir’s hands doing the same. 

“Don’t hurt the messenger! Or yourself!” he joked, but you didn’t miss the slight hint of fear and worry in his eyes. Good.

“Meludir,” you whined, dragging out his name, “you don’t understand! I’ll die out of boredom!”

“Your wound needs healing, Y/N. You cannot use your leg and you need your rest.” 

He grabbed your hand and traced your knuckles with his thumb. 

“And in the meantime I’ll be there to take care of you.”

Oh. Oh.

Well in that case...

He squeezed your hand again, and smiled at you. It lit up his entire face, and you couldn’t help but mimic his expression. Maybe with him as your private nurse it wouldn’t be so bad after all. The prospect of being carried around by Meludir all the time made it all seem almost enjoyable. 

“But before I carry you to your chambers, I need you to explain something to me first, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, what is it?”

The corner of his lip twitched and his entire demeanour changed. 

“Why did you call me ‘meleth nin’ in your sleep?”

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[away-from-anthills]

chapter seven- 

A couple of weeks later, the sky felt wet with heat, despite the beautiful, almost green tinge that hung above White Hart Woods.

Russetfoot was uncharacteristically panicky, Antstar had to note, but the red tom was trying his best not to look the part. How could he not be, really? Stripedwing was due with their kits for that very night- and by Whitetooth’s estimations, given the size her abdomen had swelled to and peculiar instinct only medicine cats and queens could pick up, it would be a large litter. However, when Antstar had offered Russetfoot a break from assigning patrols, Russetfoot shook his head- this was his duty, he said, and his alone.

“Nightblossom, Juniperfang, Emberheart, Webwhisker, would you all go on the night patrol?” he asked. Nightblossom and Juniperfang were once part of the misshapen band of loners that Antstar had recruited; they had received proper warrior names- along with Birchshine and Lilystone- at a ceremony a few days prior. Antstar had given them purposely fancy warrior names, both to ease them into the Clan easier and to set himself apart. Good names make for good publicity in leader-speak, he had heard.

“I was already on the patrol in the morning,” said Juniperfang flatly.

“Oh- well- that’s okay! Would anyone like to be on the patrol?...”

He looked around, almost sort of aimlessly, until his eyes met with Sandwhisker’s. “I’ll join,” said the old pale molly.

“You don’t have to-“

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” She laughed a bit- her voice was tangy but slightly crisp, like an orange beginning to dry in the sun. “You and Antstar act so funny about me. You know, he was trying to get me to join the elders’ den just a week ago. I don’t think he understands. I don’t know how much life I got left-“ she shot a glance at the elders’ den- “-but I don’t intend spending the rest of it rotting around in camp.”

“It’s better than whatever the hell you’re doing,” joked back Talonscar, who was in an unusually light mood. “You’re gonna dry up like leather eventually if you keep runnin’ around, thinking you’re still a spring hen!”

“I’m surprised you haven’t turned into a bat with all the sleeping and lounging in caves you do,”

she shot back to them before walking off with the other cats who had been selected.

“You mad hare of a molly!”

“Lots of talk, coming from old ragged-ears!”

Why was Talonscar so cheerful? Antstar thought. Usually, they’re just sort of bitter and quiet. …Right! The Gathering! It’s tonight!

Besides the glimpses of ShadowClan and RiverClan on the borders- and, of course, the time RiverClan had helped them, although Antstar was trying his best to forget it- Antstar had not heard much of what the other Clans had been doing. It worried him, at times. ThunderClan could take on anyone in the forest and win if they wanted to, and SkyClan was too volatile to be left to their own devices. They shared no borders with his Clan, but Antstar sensed that if something were to happen, conflict could spread to WindClan quicker than the crow flies.

When the patrol returned, he decided, he’d round up the Clan to go.

Stripedwing’s cry cut through the air like a slightly-dulled knife. Antstar could not see much beyond the yellow grasses that lined the nursery, but he heard whispers of “They’re coming!” as the permanent queens huddled around. Cherrycloud left the nursery, bringing her kits with her, just as a panicking Russetfoot rushed inward.

“Why do we have to leave?” protested Amberkit.

“I was comfortable, and I forgot my moss ball!” added Brindlekit, with crumpled frustration only a kit could muster.

“Let Stripedwing have her privacy,” she said simply. “And I don’t want any of you getting in the way.”

Whitetooth leapt out of their medicine den, practically flying over their Clanmates. Within mere seconds they had slid into the den between Sparrowpetal and Houndnose’s flanks, and Antstar could hear them take authority: “Here, madam, lie down on your side. Marblepaw-“ they flicked their head out of the nursery entrance, towards where Marblepaw stood near a camp wall. “Bring me a stick of good size.” Then, they nudged Russetfoot out of the den. “With the queens and I, it is already crowded enough. Stay out here until I give you permission.” Russetfoot began to protest, but stopped mid-word and sat down. Rockscratch joined him, and the two brothers began to share tongues in order to keep Russetfoot’s mind off of the birth unfolding behind him.

Wait, realized Antstar. If Russetfoot will be with his mate, and Whitetooth will be busy with the birth…

The commotion felt as if it would continue forever, and Antstar- trying not to look overly nosy- kept trying to shoot glances into the den from where he was sitting. Then, after what must have felt like eons, Antstar heard a kit’s cry, and saw the faintest moment of Whitetooth holding a small, dark red bundle.

He felt the patrol arrive beyond him. For a second, he inched towards Russetfoot, but the expression on Russetfoot’s face gave him all he needed to know.

For a second, his mind wandered to Marblepaw.

But he could not let her escape her mentor.

 He felt lonelier than ever, walking to Fourtrees that night, despite half his Clan being behind him.

Russetfoot, his best friend and the cat he wished he was, was in camp, and Whitetooth was bringing his offspring into the world. How strange it was, Antstar thought, that the very same cat who had watched emotionless as Sparkthistle’s throat closed and her heart gave out was now prying out and beholding life. An end to one story, the beginning to another.

Then Antstar remembered. Whitetooth had no attachment to life or to death, to good or to evil. Their sole allegiance, it seemed, was their role as a medicine cat- no matter what that had entailed.

No sooner than he had arrived did he see Fourtrees open itself in front of him, like a pop-up book. The trees seemed taller than ever, looming over him; for a moment Antstar thought he saw pairs of eyes meet his gaze from the dark leafy branches. SkyClan was already here, as was ThunderClan; he could see the silhouettes of RiverClan cats on the horizon.

“I’ve heard Twolegs call this place Druid’s Hollow,” said Nightblossom to Lilystone, her yellow eyes pried wide with the new sights and sounds around her.

“What’s a Druid?”

“No clue. Some Twoleg nonsense, I bet.”

Antstar leapt up onto the Great Rock. He could see the medicine cats that had already gathered looking around with confusion.

“I hope they’re alright,” said Honeyfur, SkyClan’s medicine cat. He was large and rather oafish, but quite docile- a far cry from the other SkyClanners Antstar had interacted with, who shared Pigeonstar’s white-hot temper.

“They’re fine,” Emberblaze assured. “They’re probably busy. Russetfoot is gone too, so something must just be happening. Like how Rosettepelt wasn’t at the gathering a few moons ago because she was monitoring a sick apprentice. Things happen.”

“I do worry about Marblepaw, though,” Honeyfur added. “Poor little thing. Whitetooth treats her well, but she looks so lonely. Every time she looks at her mother it’s like she’s been abandoned all over again…”

Antstar had never pried into Adderthorn’s private life, but it was no secret her kits were unplanned. And Antstar had a working theory as to why- any time she was at a Gathering, her eyes were glued to a ShadowClan tabby who bore striking resemblance to Marblepaw and Twigpaw. He never said much about it- it was none of his business, and besides, one secret could spill another.

“Hello, Antstar.” He fell out of his thoughts to see Pigeonstar and Tatteredstar staring towards him. Antstar noted they were physically quite close to each other. Unusual- Pigeonstar almost always liked to keep a distance, as did Tatteredstar.

“Hi.”

“We heard about Sparkthistle’s passing from a RiverClan patrol,” said Tatteredstar, bowing her head. “Deepest apologies.”

“I- thank you.” He wanted to think about Sparkthistle as little as possible. Part of him worried: What if he told everyone about it on accident? What if-

Then, a calming, river-like scent flowed through the Fourtrees air, and Antstar turned to see RiverClan. From the Gathering rock, he noted, their numbers looked quite small, compared to ThunderClan and SkyClan’s. Tulipstar lead them, although she was hard to spot among them because of her size. She leapt up onto the Gathering rock and bowed her head, before turning to Antstar. “Did you-“

“- Yes, we buried her. Near the farm.”

“I’m so sorry about it.”

“Thank you.” He knew Tulipstar was trying to be nice, but the constant mentions of the cat he had in part killed made him feel dizzier.

“Now we wait for ShadowClan,” Pigeonstar huffed. “Always late...”

“Don’t complain,” said Tatteredstar, nudging him. There was a peculiar closeness to the two leaders this particular Gathering- not one of fondness, but definitely some sort of bond. Were they working together? And why?

After a few more minutes of small talk, ShadowClan finally entered the clearing. Antstar had to admit he looked forward to seeing Currantstar most of all. The tom was something of a reminder to him that there was hope for him. Currantstar was a paragon- not even Pigeonstar could find complaints with him, besides how he tended to be late at Gatherings. The ruddy-colored tom leapt up onto the Gathering rock, his eyes almost permanently in a calm, nearly half-lidded expression. He and Russetfoot were the cats Antstar wished he could be, instead of the reflection that greeted him every time he got himself a drink. Chatter continued to ripple through the clearing until Pigeonstar gave a yowl.

There was a long silence, until Tulipstar tapped Antstar’s side with her plumy orange tail. “You go first, Antstar.”

Right.

“Well- uhm- WindClan has been doing mostly well. My- uh…“ He looked around to see Pigeonstar and Tatteredstar, who were reacting to him with what was at best an expression of secondhand embarrassment. “My deputy Russetfoot and his mate Stripedwing are having their kits tonight, and that’s why my deputy and the medicine cats aren’t here. Also, we found a group of loners on the edge of territory and took them in; two elders and four warriors: Juniperfang, Nightblossom, Lilystone, and Birchshine.”

“Of course, the loner cat lets in more loners,” snickered a cat from below with a sharp SkyClan accent. Antstar pretended not to hear them.

“We have three new warriors; Spiderfoot, Coalclaw, and Sparrowpetal. Finally, you may have heard already- I know RiverClan has- but one of…” His breath was shaky. He took a moment to capture it again before continuing. “One of our warriors, Sparkthistle, tripped over the gorge and drowned in the waters below. RiverClan helped us locate her body, and we are thankful for their help.”

There was a murmur of condolences- but a rather half-hearted one. Sparkthistle was not a popular cat in other clans, either.

“It has been an eventful moon, but- but not one we can’t handle. I have nothing else to report.” He stepped back, catching his breath. Someday, he thought, he’d try to get used to this.

“RiverClan has been doing alright, but not as well as we hoped,” added Tulipstar. “There has been less fish in the water than usual, and it has been taking a toll on us. In addition, we worry about Greencough rippling through our clan. While all those infected are currently on the mend, it worries us greatly, as it is a stubborn illness to deal with. However, I have optimism that things will be on the mend. Owlpaw has become an apprentice; he is Squirrelface’s first.”

There was a cheer for the little dark brownish-gray tom, who sat next to his mentor near the front of the crowd. Antstar looked at Squirrelface, who he had recalled as the son of Redfeather, the cat who had helped WindClan find Sparkthistle’s body. He was her spitting image, albeit visibly younger, and his eyes glowed with the pride and the daunting experience of one’s first apprentice. There was something slightly haunted and hunted, however, behind that pristine red-furred expression- and given what Antstar recalled having been told about his youth, he figured there was something more to what Squirrelface saw in his apprentice.

Currantstar stepped forward. “We in ShadowClan have been doing pleasantly. The charred remains of the fire from a couple of moons ago have given way to new life, and prey is returning to normal levels. Besides that, however, we have no news to report.”

Antstar shot a glance into the ShadowClan crowd to see their reactions to their leader- something he had neglected to get a good look at before. But what he saw shocked him. Despite how flawless he had thought Currantstar to be, ShadowClan’s denizens were looking at him with scorn. A calico and a golden tabby in the first row were trading whispers of insults about their leader with each other, and a white molly with pale gray patches seemed too hurt to even look at him. Even Whitestone, Currantstar’s deputy, seemed to regard his leader like he was the aftertaste of a rotten piece of meat. But why? From what Antstar saw, everything Currantstar did was perfect…

But he had no time to ruminate on it, as ThunderClan and SkyClan stepped up to the plate.

“ThunderClan,” Tatteredstar announced, “is having an unprecedented number of kits. In addition to Sootyspots and Sleetwhisker’s litters, Foxbriar had her own litter of three just a quarter-moon ago: Spanglekit, Turtlekit, and Maplekit. We also found a stray abandoned litter on the border, which Sleetwhisker has taken in as her own to raise: Seedkit, Yarrowkit, and Ryekit.”

Antstar soon realized why she might have taken in the abandoned kit litter: Sure, it would be against Code otherwise. But she was also using them to boost population numbers for whatever point she was going to make here. Thirteen kits had more persuasion power than ten.

And then it began to hit Antstar. If Tatteredstar was using them for that… back when he had been taken in as a kit… Did Shalestar-

“Thirteen kits is a massive number- not one I myself have seen since I was young. But if we are to raise them, especially in the upcoming fall… we are going to need plenty of territory.”

Antstar began to see where this was going.

“That’s why,” Pigeonstar stepped in, “I and Tatteredstar have struck a deal. We will share more territory than usual for the upcoming six moons. SkyClan will provide more territory for ThunderClan to hunt upon, and ThunderClan will be our allies in battle in exchange.”

Tatteredstar, however, seemed unpleased that Pigeonstar had interrupted her. “However, even with our alliance we are uncertain of if we will have enough.”

Their gaze turned to Tulipstar, who suddenly looked like a flower between stones, trying her best to blossom.

“And you will recall, Tulipstar,” Tatteredstar continued, “that our deal has run out, now that we are on the brink of leaf-fall.”

“I- yes.”

“So we will be asking if we can have Sunningrocks. From you.”

Antstar watched as Tulipstar suddenly struggled in place. She stammered, looking for something to say; she struck a glance into the crowd of RiverClan cats behind her. “I am aware, Tatteredstar, our deal has run out. But is SkyClan’s grounds not enough for you?”

No reply. The clearing was so silent that one could practically hear a shrew think.

“You have asked for Sunningrocks. But with my Clan already on the brink, with illness and hunger mingling among us and with Sunningrocks being our current best hunting spot… I can’t in good conscience grant you it.”

“Well, well,” said Pigeonstar. Tatteredstar however only flicked her ears in response.

“If you will not let us have Sunningrocks, I am afraid we will have to resort to more extreme measures. I would not want this for us- your Clan is outnumbered.”

Tulipstar turned to Antstar and Currantstar, a flash of desperation peppering her jade green eyes. For a moment, Currantstar stepped forward, only for sharp cries of anger to ring out from his Clan.

“What has RiverClan ever done for us?”

“Don’t sacrifice us to them to make peace, you son of a bitch!”

“Oh, now the fickle coward’s going to tell us about how important loyalty and unity is!”

Antstar still couldn’t wrap his head around why ShadowClan seemed to detest Currantstar so much. For a second, he opened his mouth to defend him, but he realized it would only make matters worse. The damage was done, and Currantstar stepped back, bent over as if he were about to fold into himself and be gone. Antstar turned to see Pigeonstar’s teal eyes and Tatteredstar’s wearier yellow ones burn into him like comets upon the Earth.

And yet…

He had to make a decision here. Tulipstar’s guidance was invaluable to him. He couldn’t let that go.

“I’ll fight with RiverClan,” Antstar butted in. “Or rather, we will. They have been a close ally for many moons.”

He looked to WindClan, who seemed hesitant but open about the idea. He caught Molethroat hesitantly eyeing the bulky ThunderClan warriors. Even Toadpool, stalwart as ever, looked slightly uncertain. But the younger warriors, like Spiderfoot and Juniperfang, burned with ambition; the courage only a cat under two years old could truly have.

“Thank you, Antstar,” said Tulipstar, the tenseness leaving her body like a slowly-draining water spring. Pigeonstar seemed insulted, but Tatteredstar remained absolutely still, analytical as always, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two leaders against her like a clock pendulum.

“Fine, then. We shall battle at noon a week from now. If RiverClan and WindClan win, we will let you keep Sunningrocks. And if we don’t…” She narrowed her gaze- she did not need to finish the sentence.

 Antstar made no conversation on the way back, his ears pinned flat against his head. Would WindClan hate him for what he had chosen? He hoped not. Most WindClan cats seemed to like RiverClan, after all. Was he overthinking?

The gorse flowers that marked home were a welcome sight. Antstar wanted nothing more than to rest in his den and sleep- it was like the other leaders had drained his energy.

But he would not get rest, as Rockscratch greeted him immediately straight to his face. “There’s seven of them!”

“Seven of-?” Antstar attempted to ask, but he was cut off.

“Seven kits! I’ve never seen a litter so large! Oh, Russetfoot’s going to have his paws so full…”

Seven? Antstar tried his best not to look nervous. That meant seven warriors, yes, but also- seven mouths to feed, seven apprentices to track and train… With Cherrycloud’s litter, that meant WindClan nearly had enough kits to rival ThunderClan’s supposedly massive amount.

Whitetooth greeted Antstar, smelling of kit fluid and freshly-nursed milk. “There’s seven of them, yes. Most of them are strong and healthy, exception being the runt of the litter, but that’s usually the case. The parents are very tired, they’ll show you them tomorrow.”

“How will we manage seven kits?”

“Same way we always do, my friend,” Whitetooth reassured. “They have excellent name choices, too. There’s Rustkit and Aphidkit, the dark red tabbies; Runningkit and Dewkit, the gray tabbies; Wheatkit, the fawn tabby…”

Antstar already felt his head spin with all these new names.

“-And Mousekit and Thistlekit, the brown tabbies. Thistlekit is the runt and the weakest of the litter, but I assure you he is not as weak as he may seem.”

“That’s…”

“It is a lot, yes. An unusual amount. We are very glad fortune has smiled on Stripedwing, as she seems well. We have enough queens to care for the lot of them.”

Antstar nodded along, making a mental note to himself to reassign Goldenpaw’s mentorship to Webwhisker. She had originally been Shadeflower’s apprentice, but she had drifted away from queenhood and Shadeflower clearly had her paws full.

“Do you have any concerns, Whitetooth?”

Whitetooth thought for a moment, but simply shook their head. “No- not that I know of.” Their eyes narrowed. “But if you ever need anything, you know who to ask.”

Away they slunk to the medicine den, Marblepaw greeting them at the entrance. Even from the other side of camp, Antstar could see a glint of fear in her sunset-colored eyes.

Part of him wanted to do something.

But a larger part of him was wise.

Antstar barely has turned around, however, before another Clanmate of his greeted him with bright yellow eyes. It was Stoatslink, looking unusually alert even for how alert he was. He was a rather stiff, sinewy fellow, with a snout that was round and exaggerated like a bull terrier’s. His fur was short and white but very coarse to the touch, always flattened against his body to the point you could often see his muscles peek out beneath them. His eyes were small and often at a squint, yet they still were the yellow of gorse in full bloom.

“I have to talk to you about something, Antstar. It’s beginning to worry me…”

Antstar nodded, and Stoatslink motioned for them to leave camp together. Something terrible and black and cowardly began to bubble in Antstar’s belly as he remembered who he had often once seen Stoatslink with…

 It was a peaceful night, now that the clamor of the birth had died down and cats were falling asleep one by one. He could hear Birchshine and Emberheart chattering in the distance as the two cats took up the night watch, and, faintly, the soft hoots of the first owls to awaken.

“I know RiverClan said Sparkthistle drowned.”

Immediately, Antstar felt nauseous.

“But I can’t help but think something else happened. I mean, hunting out on her own? In the dark of night, just before a storm?” He shook his head.

“I think something else had to have gotten her… and they used the gorge as a cover-up.”

Antstar felt as if his heart was pulling itself apart, into smaller and smaller pieces. He wanted to crawl into himself like a snail into its shell. Part of him wondered- should he already give himself up? Should he tell? Should he also say Whitetooth-

“Now, I don’t think it was anyone in the Clan.”

Relief sprang across Antstar, although it felt fleeting.

“I trust Whitetooth. I think they’re telling the truth. Besides, Sparkthistle had her enemies outside the Clans. She’d go over and pick on the barn cats when she was feeling restless. She’d get into spats with them. I tried to warn her not to, but she was on a path to self-destruction. Not even the will of StarClan could stop her.”

“So…” Antstar tried not to fidget in place. “What do you think happened?”

“I could see her going out on her own.” He looked off into the distance sagely, and Antstar could see the gears of his mind turn like a polished watch. “I think a loner cat- one she would have been enemies with- came across her and had enough of her. They probably strangled her, given the lack of blood, and then threw her into the river to cover their tracks.” He clicked his tongue. “And the storm would act as a perfect curtain, washing away the scent.”

Antstar wasn’t sure if he should have felt hidden, safe, just escaped from his own doom; or exposed, just an inch away from his downfall.

“I think that’s a bit of a reach.”

“It might be, Antstar. But I worry. Sparkthistle was on her way to Hell, no matter what anyone- including myself- said otherwise. But there’s the off-chance that this stranger had a vendetta against our very Clan.” He looked back to camp, where his daughters, Milkpaw and Goldenpaw, were falling asleep trading gossip and sly insults about the other Clans with Twigpaw. “I worry about my kits, I guess, that’s all. I wouldn’t want them to suffer that fate. Or lose me to whoever this stranger might be. I was Sparkthistle’s closest thing to a friend, after all. They already lost their mother… I can’t bear the idea of them having a warrior ceremony after all.”

There was a long silence between them, punctured only by whispers from beyond.

“I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong and she really did fall over into the gorge like that. But if I see anything suspicious… I’ll tell you about it.”

Away the wiry white tom went into camp to sleep, and Antstar found himself alone once again, surrounded by his own Clan.

[thistleclaws-hatred]

Chapter Seven

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“You’re not hitting hard enough,” Silverhawk shook his head at the younger tom. 

Thistlepaw looked at Silverhawk, “I can’t do it any harder!” He retorted.

“You’re just not trying hard enough. Let me demonstrate again,” Silverhawk sighed. He went over to the other side of the clearing and faced Thistlepaw. In a single movement he dove underneath the apprentice and hit the back of his forepaws, and, anticipating Thistlepaw’s twist to defend himself, he moved backward and hooked his claws into Thistlepaw’s fur, flinging him to the ground.

Thistlepaw stood back up, shaking out his fur and ignoring the sharp pains where Silverhawk’s claws had dug in. He nodded at his mentor and crouched, sizing up the larger tom. Thistlepaw lurched forward quick as a snake and hit the back of Silverhawk’s forepaws. Silverhawk turned to grasp Thistlepaw’s scruff but the ThunderClan apprentice had dodged out of the way and dug his claws into Silverhawk’s fur, pushing him into the dirt and raking his hind-paws across his stomach.

Silverhawk shoved Thistlepaw off of him and purred, “Much better if your claws had been unsheathed that would’ve been the end of the battle. Next time RiverClan tries to take Sunningrocks, those mousebrains won’t know what hit them.”

“RiverClan will never have Sunningrocks. When I’m the leader of ThunderClan, I’ll make sure those fleabags stay off of our territory!” Thistlepaw spat.

“Leader of ThunderClan?” Silverhawk asked, amused.

“I’m the best choice! Pinestar only has one or two lives left and Sunfall will be the leader for a while, he’ll go through at least one deputy and by then I’ll be a warrior!” Thistlepaw explained.

“There are no other good choices?” Silverhawk questioned.

“Few are so willing to risk life and limb for every ounce of territory. I would be willing to lead ThunderClan to greatness, where every part of ThunderClan’s territory, belongs to ThunderClan!”

“Who else would be a good fit?”

Thistlepaw stopped to think, gazing blankly at Silverhawk, “Adderfang would be a good leader. Windflight too, he’s loyal and brave.”

“What about Bluefur?” Silverhawk teased.

“What about her? She doesn’t deserve to be the leader of ThunderClan. She’s already shady as it is,” Thistlepaw growled.

“Keep your head clear, and you’ll be the leader of ThunderClan in no time.”

“Your training is making me into the best warrior ThunderClan has ever had!” Thistlepaw curled his tail high over his back.

“When I’m through with you, you’ll be the best warrior in the forest,” Silverhawk smirked.

--

Thistlepaw awoke to the feeling of Featherwhisker nudging him awake.

“Good, you’re awake,” Featherwhisker stepped back from the apprentice and went back to his herb organizing, “You were fidgeting in your sleep.”

“I was dreaming of the forest,” Thistlepaw sighed, stretching his sore muscles out in front of him. His puncture wounds stretched awkwardly and sent a shiver of pain down the tom’s spine.

“Well, good news then,” Featherwhisker smiled at Thistlepaw, “You can go out into the forest now. I want you to start strengthening your muscles back to where they need to be. Although,” he paused, looking at Thistlepaw, “It doesn’t seem as though your muscles atrophied at all.”

That’s because Silverhawk keeps me in tip-top shape! “That must be a good thing, yes?” Thistlepaw asked, heaving himself to his paws.

“Very much so. Tell Adderfang that you can return to some of your apprentice duties. Cleaning out the elders’ den, helping in the nursery, and maybe hunting patrols. No chasing after squirrels or rabbits though,” Featherwhisker warned.

“I doubt we’ll find either of those in this weather, but thank you Featherwhisker!” Thistlepaw purred happily, leaving the medicine cat den proudly.

Adderfang was by his side in an instant, his dark eyes looking over Thistlepaw, “Any updates?”

“Featherwhisker says I can return to some of my apprentice duties. No battling training though and no strenuous hunting,” Thistlepaw answered.

“Then no border patrols either,” Adderfang flicked his ear, “But you must be feeling really cooped up after being in the medicine cat den for a moon. Why don’t you go for a walk around the forest, then you will rest for the rest of the day.”

Thistlepaw bit back his groan of irritation. He was hoping to do some actual training today, but a walk outside of the camp was better than nothing. He dipped his head to his mentor and left out the gorse tunnel.

For the first time in over a moon, Thistlepaw was fully able to feel the cold winds of leaf-bare. The frost clung to the trees and forest floor, dead leaves and snow scattered about. The wind smelled of the river and frost. Thistlepaw fluffed up his pelt, relishing in the fresh breeze that flowed through his thick pelt.

He turned towards the river, craving nothing more than a fresh drink. He prayed to StarClan that the river wouldn’t be frozen over by the harsh weather. Thistlepaw sank into the snow when he veered off the most traveled path, the cold flakes sticking to his whiskers. Not even the sun shone above him, just gray clouds.

The river wasn’t frozen, much to Thistlepaw’s pleasure. He sat at the riverbank, trying his best to ignore the pain in his shoulders and flank. Is that my dog wounds or did Silverhawk do that to me? He licked briefly at the wounds he could reach, trying to soothe the tight skin around them.

The fresh river water tasted like heaven to the apprentice as he took a long drink. He relished in the fresh air and peacefulness of the forest around him. Not even RiverClan was out to disturb the peace.

The snow creaking down the river was the only indication Thistlepaw had that he was not alone. He tried to scent the air, but the frost killed every scent around him. He stood and looked down the bank, seeing a lithe shape moving into the forest.

Thistlepaw narrowed his eyes and focused on the cat in front of him. They didn’t see him, but he could clearly make out their gray-blue pelt. Bluefur! He growled to himself and looked over the RiverClan border. A dark brown pelt faded into their territory, but Thistlepaw had seen them.

He watched Bluefur disappear into ThunderClan territory before walking over to where she had emerged from. Down where the river was shallower, the surface was frozen solid. Thistlepaw could make out Bluefur’s pawprints on the layer of snow that covered the river. “She was on RiverClan territory...But why?” He whispered.

He looked back over the border but saw no signs of life. Snarling, he went back to the ThunderClan camp.

----

Thistlepaw was ordered to lay down for the rest of the day. Apparently, he had opened a small wound on his lower spine, but the cold had numbed his pelt to the point where he couldn’t feel it.

Thistlepaw sighed loudly as he laid back down in his nest, resting his chin on his paws. He tuned out Featherwhisker talking to him and narrowed his eyes as Bluefur walked past. Only a sharp claw in his shoulder told him that his zoning out wasn’t appreciated.

“I know you’re irritated, but I’m trying to make sure you’re healed properly so that you go back to training as soon as possible,” Featherwhisker shook his head.

“As soon as possible sure is taking a long time,” Thistlepaw held back a growl.

“I know. Dog attacks are never fun and you’re lucky to be alive,” the medicine cat stressed.

“I should’ve never been attacked! It’s not my fault the dog got me!” Thistlepaw’s fur stood up along his spine. Several members of the clan had turned to look at Thistlepaw arguing with Featherwhisker.

Featherwhisker ignored his outburst and went back into his den without another word.

“You don’t need to snap at Featherwhisker, he’s just trying to help you,” Snowfur’s calm voice sounded above him.

Thistlepaw looked up at the snowy she-cat and sighed, “I know. I’m just frustrated and bored. My own sisters won’t keep my company and you can only do so sparingly because of your warrior duties.”

“The more you stress yourself and your wounds, the more time you will spend healing. Try to focus on something else, maybe see if you can help out in the nursery. Robinwing kitted two nights ago,” Snowfur sat next to him, resting her tail along his.

“She did?”

“One she-kit and a tom,” Snowfur purred happily.

“Wow. Fuzzypelt must be happy,” Thistlepaw commented, looking over at the nursery.

“New life is always exciting, but with the cold weather, everyone is a little stressed for the kits,” Snowfur looked down at Thistlepaw.

“Are they sick?”

“The tom started coughing this morning, Featherwhisker already gave him some medicine. I’m hoping he pulls through.”

“Me too,” Thistlepaw said. The apprentice suddenly remembered Bluefur down by the RiverClan border and thought to share his sightings with Snowfur. He kept them to himself in order to save Snowfur and Bluefur from a confrontation. Thistlepaw would confront Bluefur about this later by himself. 

No loyal ThunderClan cat would ever go near the RiverClan border alone. Who was she meeting? Why was she meeting them? She’s betraying ThunderClan! His mind raced with a million thoughts, his claws digging into the hard ground and his tail bristling.

Thistlepaw saw Bluefur a moment later enter through the gorse tunnel, she had a pair of thin mice in her jaws. Hunting...hmmm.

Thistlepaw stood to go confront the she-cat but was stopped by Nightfang going over to join Bluefur by the fresh-kill pile. He hissed quietly and froze, narrowing his eyes at Bluefur and was shocked to see the blue-gray cat glaring right back at him.

--

“Why was she glaring at me?” Thistlepaw spat at Silverhawk. “I have done nothing wrong. She’s the one who’s been running around the RiverClan border!”

“Perhaps she suspects you of disloyalty. Or maybe she saw you at the river and she plans to blame you for being down there,” Silverhawk suggested.

“Blame me?” Thistlepaw stopped his pacing and looked at the gray tom. 

“Someone else could’ve seen pawprints on the river. Bluefur could say she saw you down there and blame you for those pawprints,” Silverhawk shrugged.

Thistlepaw lashed his tail angrily, “She must be stopped! She’s the traitor!”

[hungline]

houses divided (and then united)

pairings: namjin, side jihope and taegi  genre: fluff, mild angst, hp au, teenagers au, rated t  warnings: confrontation of stereotypes, fem!taegi  words: 3873

summary: Namjoon is pining after Head Boy Seokjin, but he might have to rethink his ideas about Houses first. 

"What was that?"

Seokjin's response to Namjoon's worrisome question is a mere chuckle. Namjoon frowns, quietly offended that his concern is not being taken seriously, but there are more pressing matters at hand and so he decides to save it for later.

The noise comes again. The scuttling of movements across the newly polished corridor floors. Namjoon turns to the noise, barely catching the end of a cloak as he does.

"Hey!" Namjoon says in as loud of a whisper as he can. "Someone is right there!"

Seokjin shrugs his shoulders and steps forward in the direction that Namjoon is pointing, only to grab Namjoon by his robes and shove him forward. "Look."

"Stop it!" Namjoon whispers again. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get you to look. That's not someone, it's someones," Seokjin says calmly, a bored expression on his face.

Namjoon swallows down his fear and looks back in the direction of the sound. He hears giggling now and hushed whispers. And is that? No, it can't be.

And yet, when Namjoon steps forward and peers into the corner, it is exactly that.

Gryffindor Fourth Year Hoseok Jung and Slytherin Third Year Jimin Park snogging without a care in the world.

Namjoon feels his ears heat up when Seokjin laughs.

"Afraid of gays now, Namjoon?" Seokjin says.

Hoseok and Jimin have either noticed they have an audience and don't care or are simply too wrapped up in one another to realize they've been found. Either way, Namjoon is now irritated as he turns on Seokjin.

"Of course not. What kind of ridiculous thing is that to say? Don't you know that I'm gay?" Namjoon snaps, his tone short of furious.

Seokjin just shrugs, his Head Boy badge gleaming in the light of the lanterns. "I'm gay too. No need to get your knickers all up in a twist."

"That's a horrid thing to say. Just because you're gay doesn't mean you get a free pass for saying slide sexist remarks like that. If you told Yoonji that, she’d slap you to the Forbidden Forest and back," Namjoon sniffs, trying his best to keep his end of the argument logical when really all he wants to do is run down the corridor, hollering and screaming.

It's no secret that everyone fancies the Slytherin Head Boy Seokjin Kim and as much as Namjoon would like it to be, it's no secret that he fancies the Slytherin King as well. And now, he knows for certain that Slytherin Head Boy Seokjin Kim is into blokes.

Still, as a fifth year Prefect pining after a sixth year Head Boy, Namjoon doesn't very well think his chances are all that grand. Really, he should be focusing on dealing out a punishment on Hoseok and Jimin, not having an internal meltdown. But Namjoon has always prioritized certain things over others.

"You know, I kind of envy them." Seokjin's voice brings Namjoon out of his thoughts, pushing him towards the situation at hand.

Seokjin sighs, a little wistfully if Namjoon is not mistaken and he's henceforth distracted by Seokjin's pretty, pretty mouth.

"Why do you say that?" Namjoon is grasping at straws here.

"They don't care about their house rivalry. They're just...together. I wish I could do that," Seokjin explains and Namjoon.

Namjoon blinks, completely flabbergasted.

"What."

"What?" Seokjin blinks back at him.

"You...what?"

Seokjin rolls his eyes and steps forward, tapping Jimin on the shoulder and clearing his throat loudly enough that neither boy can pretend they don't hear him. "Hey. If you two don't go back to your common rooms, I'm going to deduct points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin. Yes, Jimin, I would take points away from my own house. Get a move on."

Namjoon watches as the two grumble, join hands and run past the corner coming to a stop at the end of the next corridor and sharing a kiss before they part ways. Seokjin turns back to Namjoon with a smirk before he's whisking off in the opposite direction, not waiting for the younger to catch up.

"Wait!" Namjoon yells after him, debating whether to run or speedwalk.

He decides to just speed walk, knowing that if he ran, he'd fall flat on his face and that's something Namjoon very much does not want to do in front of his crush. Seokjin keeps walking, slowing his pace by only a margin.

"Were you serious back there?" Namjoon asks, still a bit far from the elder.

"Serious about what? Deducting points from my own House? Of course not," Seokjin scoffs.

Namjoon almost trips on the ends of his robes and rights himself quickly, panting a little as Seokjin continues to walk down the corridor at a brisk pace. "You know that's not what I meant."

Seokjin stops suddenly, grunting when Namjoon slams into him from behind and grips the wall beside him to keep from falling on his face. "Geeze, can you at least watch where you're going? I might have broad shoulders, but that doesn't mean I can support your weight on them."

"I'm not even on your shoulders! What are you talking about?" Namjoon asks, out of breath and stepping away from the elder.

"What are you talking about? You supposedly had a question and now you're assaulting me instead!"

"I didn't assault you!"

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Seokjin responds, beginning to walk again.

Namjoon stares after him, confused on whether he should follow or not. They're supposed to be roaming the corridors as part of their Head Boy and Prefect duties, but Namjoon never expected them to do it together if he was being honest. Generally, the Head Boy and Girl would do patrols together. Instead, Namjoon is here with Seokjin while Yoonji is roaming the dungeons and lower floors with Head Girl Joohyun Bae, or Irene as most of the Seventh Years know her as. Namjoon still isn't sure that he likes this arrangement.

Seokjin looks back over his shoulder with an annoyed expression aimed at Namjoon and Namjoon hurries after him. They're quiet for awhile, shoes squeaking against the floor and robes billowing around them. Namjoon admires Seokjin's shoulders and has to agree that though they're broad, Seokjin wouldn't be able to support Namjoon's weight. Not that Namjoon was thinking about sitting on Seokjin's shoulders anyway, he's just thinking about what's already been pointed out to him.

"About before, I really do admire them though." Seokjin's voice cuts through the air, interrupting the silence that had been surrounding them for the past three corridors.

Namjoon nods, keeping his eyes on the corridor in front of them. "I don't. Their house rivalry would get in the way a lot of things. It'll probably be the reason they break up actually."

Seokjin scoffs. "You're such a pessimist. Let those two have their happiness. Being in opposing Houses doesn't mean anything when it comes to love between two people."

"I'm only being realistic! We're all very young and I don't see how a relationship that begins when we're children will last until we're adults. As teenagers who are easily influenced by social standards and our fellow peers, it's more than likely that either Hoseok or Jimin will let what their Houses say about each other get in the way of their feelings and break things off."

Seokjin stops in his stride, turning to face Namjoon as the younger pauses as well. "I see why you got bumped up a grade now. But I don't think it's your place to say that of those two. Their relationship is their own and the only thing we have to worry about when it comes to Hoseok and Jimin is making sure they aren't having nightly rendezvous while we're on patrol. Got it?"

Namjoon nods, not saying a word as Seokjin glares at him, the elder's gaze intense. Namjoon would be lying if he said he wasn't a tiny bit afraid of what the elder would do to him if he pissed him off. Still, he knows that Seokjin isn't through with this topic yet.

"And anyway, I can't believe you'd use a House rivalry as your reasoning. You do realize that being Sorted into Houses is actually the stupidest thing Hogwarts can do, right? We're categorized into Houses for certain traits we possess that are similar to others, only to be judged for those same traits from other Houses. This only further allows stereotypes to control our lives and limit us from seeing people for who they really are, not the House they come from. We use Houses to judge the type of character a person may have while not actually paying attention and forming a judgment by ourselves on the person's actual character. It's pretty demeaning when you think about it."

And Namjoon, he can't argue with that. He knows Seokjin is right. He should've thought of this himself really, but Namjoon doesn't always see every side of things the first time around. It's, well, a bit refreshing to see this perspective about Sorting.

Namjoon blinks, a bit entranced by Seokjin. His reasoning is solid and all Namjoon can even think to say is, "Shit. You're right."

Seokjin laughs, a high-pitched sound that resembles windshield wipers and Namjoon is smitten. But he's also embarrassed, he didn't mean to say that out loud after all. Still, Seokjin's laugh is definitely worth it.

"Come on, Genius. Let's finish this patrol," Seokjin chuckles, his face wrinkled in laugh lines as he starts to walk again.

Namjoon follows after him, fighting back a smile as he thinks about how pretty Seokjin looks and sounds like when he laughs.

  “So,” Yoonji says as she slides in beside Namjoon at the Ravenclaw table the morning of the Slytherin vs Ravenclaw Quidditch game. “When are you going to tell Seokjin you like him?”

“When are you going to tell Taeyeon you like her?” Namjoon shoots back, not bothering to look up from his eggs as he continues to eat.

Yoonji scoffs. "I already did."

Namjoon looks up, surprised. "When? What did she say?"

"That she likes me too, is in love with me, wants to get married and adopt seven dogs and name one after you 'cause you're hopeless and will never confess to Seokjin, yadda yadda ya," Yoonji replies, inspecting her nails as Namjoon eyes her warily.

"Okay, besides all that other stuff, did she really say she likes you back?"

Yoonji smiles and nods. "Yep. We're official now. Going to announce it after the match."

Namjoon blinks. "Won't people be upset? I mean, this is a match between your Houses after all."

"Fuck what other people say, they can all go to bloody hell for what I care. You need to get your head out of those clouds and confess to Seokjin already. You've liked him for, what? Two years now?" Yoonji says in a rush, a hint of anger underlying her tone.

Namjoon shrugs, going back to his food. "I don't think he's interested in me either way."

Yoonji rolls her eyes. "Yes, that is totally the reason he asked everybody in Slytherin about you."

"He did what?"

"Keep up, would you? This isn't rocket science. He asked around about you. He is obviously interested."

Namjoon shakes his head. "No, that can't be it. He probably just wants to get dirt on me to get back at me for the argument we had the other night."

"Joon–"

Whatever Yoonji may have been about to say is interrupted when Taeyeon plants herself beside Yoonji and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Hey, love," Taeyeon says, before noticing Namjoon and smiling at him. "Hey, Joon."

"Hey, Tae," Namjoon nods, returning back to his breakfast once more.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, Tae. Had to talk to Joon here about growing a pair," Yoonji apologizes to her girlfriend.

Taeyeon only laughs, smoothing Yoonji's dark hair back. "It's fine. I'm well aware of Namjoon's predicament."

Namjoon looks up, startled. As far as he knows, he's only ever told Yoonji about his crush. He isn't sure how a Fourth Year in his own House figured out he's taken a fancy to the Head Boy. Or maybe it was just Yoonji blabbing her big mouth again.

When Namjoon glares over at Yoonji, her expression is blank, carefully calculated and Namjoon groans.

"Never trust a Slytherin," he mutters to himself, then immediately blanches when he remembers the point that Seokjin brought up about Houses reinforcing stereotypes.

“We’ll see you at the pitch, right?” Taeyeon asks as she stands, taking Yoonji up with her and drawing Namjoon out of his thoughts.

Namjoon nods absently. “Yeah. Sure. See you there.”

Taeyeon nods and begins to walk, holding her hand out for Yoonji to take. They join hands and Namjoon gazes after them, a bit wistful, imagining how Seokjin’s hand might feel held in his own.

"Namjoon, Tae told me to come get you."

Namjoon jumps what feels like a foot into the air when Third Year Hufflepuff Jeongguk Jeon taps his shoulder and speaks. His voice is quiet and calm and Namjoon turns to face him slowly, doing his best to calm his nerves as he comes face-to-face with Jeongguk's patient expression.

"Taeyeon sent you to fetch me did she?" Namjoon asks, his brow quirked up in a question.

Jeongguk nods. "Something about making sure you grow a pair and confess to a certain Slytherin Head Boy."

"Does literally everybody know about this?" Namjoon groans, running a hand over his face as Jeongguk laughs.

It really doesn't help that Namjoon has only just noticed that said Slytherin Head Boy in question is gazing at him from the nearly empty Slytherin table. Namjoon looks away quickly, offering Jeongguk a smile as the younger boy offers him a hand up. Namjoon takes it and mutters a thanks, doing his best to remember what he knows about Jeongguk.

There's a tiny beat of silence between them when Namjoon stands, abandoning his almost finished plate of food, and the two realize that their hands are still joined together. Jeongguk blushes and quickly releases Namjoon's hand, shooting him a shy smile as he quips his head in the direction of the Entrance Hall.

"We should get a move on. Taeyeon said I have to bring you to where she and Yoonji will be sitting."

Namjoon nods, falling into step behind the Hufflepuff boy as they navigate their way past a group of rowdy Second Years from Gryffindor. It's as they walk, that Namjoon feels a heavy set of eyes on him and vividly remembers the first time he heard of Jeongguk's existence.

It wasn't an important event, but still, a Second Year Hufflepuff making the Quidditch team, breaking Namjoon's high score on the end-of-the-year Potions exam and successfully keeping Peeves from dropping Dungbombs on a class of Second Year Hufflepuffs and Slytherins during their History of Magic class are all things that made Jeongguk stand out. Hufflepuffs aren't very known for bringing attention to themselves, most kids who don't fit in with any other Houses always end up there anyway.

Jeongguk though, he holds a little bit of every House within him. The cleverness of a Ravenclaw, the persuasion of a Slytherin, and the competitiveness of a Gryffindor.

Namjoon is still quite confused how Jeongguk even ended up in Hufflepuff anyway, but considering what Seokjin said about Sorting, maybe he should just let go of those certain ideas he's placed upon Houses. Seokjin is right, a person's House forces people into thinking a certain way about them and when they don't fit that image, suddenly that person is strange and abnormal.

Seokjin is right and Namjoon feels like a complete jackass now.

A hand grips onto his arm, pulling Namjoon out of his thoughts and he's spun around only to find the same boy who's been plaguing his mind and making him rethink his entire way of interacting with students from other Houses.

"Hello, Namjoon." Seokjin's voice is low and quiet, doing an outstanding job of preventing anyone else but Namjoon from hearing him. "I was wondering if you could spare me a moment to talk?"

Namjoon looks back at Jeongguk who's turned around to stare at them, his wide eyes boring holes into Namjoon and Seokjin. Seokjin still has a hand on his arm standing much too close than what is normally accepted and either hasn't noticed yet, or he has noticed and decided to do nothing about it. It's not like Namjoon is complaining either way.

"Er, yeah, okay," Namjoon hears himself say, looking back over his shoulder to wave Jeongguk along. "Gukk, I'll catch up with you in a minute. Tell Tae I'll be there so she doesn't send a search party."

Jeongguk's expression is unreadable, but when Namjoon offers him a grin, Jeongguk shoots him one back immediately. "Alright. I'll save you a seat. See you soon!"

Namjoon watches Jeongguk run off, only pulled back to the matter at hand when Seokjin starts dragging him in the opposite direction. "Wow. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere more private. I don't know if you've noticed, but we both tend to accumulate a few stalkers wherever we go," Seokjin responds easily, eyes set on whatever path he's put before him.

Namjoon follows silently behind him, barely breaking a sweat in order to keep up with the elder's pace. They walk in the direction that Namjoon came in, but instead, take the stairs leading to the dungeons where the Slytherin common room resides. Namjoon pats himself on the back for not falling flat on his face yet and it must have something to do with the fact that Seokjin's hand has readily slid down Namjoon's arm, now encircled around his wrist, and it doesn't surprise Namjoon when Seokjin's fingers interlace with his, his palm warm and strong against Namjoon's own calloused one.

What does surprise him is when Seokjin breaks into a run, not stopping once to look over his shoulder and see how Namjoon is doing. Namjoon struggles to keep up, almost tripping on his robe a few times before Seokjin skids to a stop and easily slides them into a broom closet, closing the door quickly and quietly behind them.

"What–"

"Shh," Seokjin mouths as he clamps a hand down on Namjoon's mouth.

Namjoon stares at the older boy, eyes widening when rapid footsteps run past them, continuing on down the corridor until they eventually fade away. Seokjin drops his hand and takes a step back, giving Namjoon as much room as he can in the tiny space they've enclosed themselves in.

"How did you know someone was following us?" Namjoon asks, it being the first thing he can think of to break the silence.

Seokjin only shrugs, smiling at Namjoon as he does. "Someone is always following me, but this time, it was one your admirers."

Namjoon sputters. "My admirers? I don't have any admirers."

"I beg to differ. I know of everyone who would like to date you, and let me tell you, the list is very, very long," Seokjin responds, a sour expression on his face. "Of course, they all have to get in line, because I'm at the top of the list."

Namjoon blinks, completely dumbfounded by Seokjin Kim once again. "What?"

"I. Like. You." Seokjin says his words carefully, emphasizing each word as he speaks as if he didn't, then Namjoon wouldn't understand what he's saying.

But Namjoon really doesn't understand what he's saying at all. "What?"

Seokjin laughs and takes Namjoon's hand. "I've been meaning to tell you for awhile, but I like you. I fancy you. I want to snog you in between classes and hold your hand during Quidditch games and take you out on dates in Hogsmeade."

"You...like...me?" Namjoon asks carefully, struggling to find the right words to say.

"Yes, bonehead. For one of the smartest people in this school, you don't seem very bright."

"Hey!" Namjoon exclaims, blushing when Seokjin immediately shushes him for being too loud. "There's no need for any of that. I'm just...surprised."

"And why would you be?"

Namjoon shrugs, averting his gaze. "I don't really expect the person I'm crushing on to confess to me before I can. I mean, I don't really expect anyone to confess to me ever."

Seokjin shakes his head, smiling with amusement twinkling in his eyes. "You must not pay attention to your surroundings then. I can tell you as a fact that wherever you go, there's always someone following close behind, in the hopes that you'll finally notice them."

"I don't really believe, but whatever you say, I suppose," Namjoon responds, his fingers twisting into the ends of his robe's sleeves nervously.

"Anyway, back to the more important matter at hand," Seokjin says, still smiling as he waves his hand. "So I like you and apparently, you like me as well. So, what should we do about that?"

Namjoon blinks. "Er–"

"I'll tell you what we could do about that," Seokjin interrupts him. "We could snog in this broom closet and then hold hands to the pitch. We could agree to start seeing each other exclusively and gradually work our way up to snogging and holding hands if you're not that kind of person who jumps into things. Or, we could do nothing at all and agree to just be friends."

Namjoon considers his options, already knowing his decision as soon as Seokjin had uttered it.

"I think I like the first option best," Namjoon whispers, thankful for the low lighting of the broom closet they're standing in, hoping that the darkness hides his blush.

Seokjin's smile is bright in the relative darkness, coming closer as Namjoon finishes speaking and before he knows it, Seokjin's chest is pressed to his own. Hands grip his waist and bring him even closer to the elder. They're about the same height, with Namjoon being only slightly taller than the elder, but he knows that with time, he his height will soon overshadow that of the Head Boy's.

"Yeah, I like that one best too," Seokjin breathes and Namjoon swears he can feel Seokjin's lips moving across his own, a tiny bit of space in between them.

Namjoon's arms circle around Seokjin's neck, pulling himself closer to the elder. Their chests bump against one another, both sturdy and strong and Namjoon smiles as Seokjin's lips envelop his own. The elder's lips are soft and warm, plush against plush, and Namjoon loses himself in Seokjin.

  "Bloody hell, he actually did it," Yoonji whispers to Taeyeon as Namjoon and Seokjin stroll onto the pitch, hand-in-hand with swollen lips and considerably noticeable mussed up hair.

Taeyeon laughs and stands up, waving her arms to catch Namjoon's attention. Namjoon smiles as he sees her, turning to say something to the Head Boy before they both make their way towards the stand that Taeyeon and Yoonji are sitting at.

"I knew he had it in him," Taeyeon says as she sits down, grabbing hold of Yoonji's hand again. "It's about time anyway. I'm still upset about Hoseok and Jimin getting together before you and I did though."

Yoonji laughs, pressing a kiss to her girlfriend's cheek. "Trust me, you're not the only one."

[snowbellewells]

Let the Reins Go Loose

This is a new experiment for me, but I am attempting to write a bit of a daddies bonding one shot for Wish!Hook/Rogers and David/Charming.  I didn’t do much writing that actually followed along with the season 7 storyline while it was happening. (Not that I didn’t like it, I was just doing more straight AU or imagining what could be happening with CS back in Storybrooke.)  However, if all of the realms are now joined, I could see Wish!Hook and his daughter (and Robyn) spending some time with our original cast in Storybrooke. I can also imagine Rogers/Wish!Hook and David Nolan becoming mates and having a lot in common, just as Charming did with Killian Jones before him.  So, I offer you this little bit of papa angst and friendship/understanding for Captain Charming Friday – though it’s really more of a Rogers Charming brotp (if that’s even a thing! ;)

“Let the Reins Go Loose”

By: snowbellewells (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

 Chuckling lightly, Joel Rogers shook his head in happy disbelief watching the three horses and their young riders cantering through the tall grass in the late spring meadow.  Tilting his head back to savor the light breeze caressing his face and tickling through the short tufts of his dark hair, the man both a former detective and former pirate, still enjoyed a comforting distant hint of salt sea air in the gust, even though they were some distance from his beloved ocean waves.

The other man standing just to his right clapped a strong hand to Rogers’ shoulder companionably, offering a brilliant smile as well to his new friend.  “See? Didn’t I tell you not to worry?” he offered in that deep, jovial voice, an assured resonance that allowed the former police officer from Hyperion Heights a glimpse into just why an entire realm’s subjects would follow this man as King without hesitation.  Though Dave Nolan bore none of the selfish, cruel, and egotistic traits of most other rulers in Hook’s long experience over two lives’ worth of memories, there was a certainty, a leadership, that radiated from the shepherd-king and which one inherently trusted.  “I had a feeling she’d be a natural.”

Rogers cocked an eyebrow quizzically at his mate, before turning his attention back once more to his Alice, Robyn Mills, and Dave’s son Neal, enjoying their horseback riding in the large field just at the edge of the deep woods – the marker where Storybrooke melted into the old Enchanted Forest on the east and Arendelle’s borders to the north. “And just how did you ascertain that?” he questioned playfully.

The sandy-haired deputy (part-time these days) looked more at ease than ever, spending most of his time as a simple country farmer with some sheep to tend, watched the riders loping and criss-crossing before them as well, eyes almost misty and voice far away.  He sounded thoughtful and deeply sincere when he answered,  “Let’s just say she reminds me of someone else who was much the same.”

Rogers swallowed hard over the lump that had formed seemingly from nowhere in his throat.  “Your own daughter, Dave?” he husked, voice a bit raspy while he clarified. “…Your Emma?”

David merely nodded, clearly not trusting his voice for the moment.  He didn’t meet the dark haired man’s all-too-intuitive gaze, as for the moment he was putting up a valiant fight not to shed real tears in front of his new friend – and also somehow a version of his son-in-law – at the usually buried emotions that had risen quickly to the surface without warning as he’d been observing his now teenaged son and the two young women he had bonded easily with. Somehow the ghost of his beloved daughter, whom he had never gotten to see at this age had floated once more into his mind’s eye. Though he and Snow had enthusiastically gifted Neal with his first mount, a shaggy brown pony affectionately named Cocoa and still with them, retired to pasture and often found lazing under a shade tree in the paddock’s corner with Wilby the Second by his side, for their son’s eighth birthday and shown him every detail of how to feed, groom, saddle, ride, and cool down his steed with as much delight as the boy himself, none of that painstaking care could erase the fact that he hadn’t been able to do the same for his eldest until she was his own age and a mother herself.  When he had finally taken Emma riding, it was only after her repeated, determined insistence that there was no need (probably only overcome by her husband’s gentle persuasion that ‘one never knew; it might come in handy’ and the leering jest he didn’t realize his father-in-law had overheard about the ‘pleasant bonus that the rocking motion one enjoyed in a full canter wasn’t unlike that of other, more enjoyable activities’ – to which, at his winking nod, Emma had capitulated and agreed to give riding a try) and that she didn’t require any help.  Painfully, David had to watch without offering the fatherly assistance he could have and see her frustration turn into anger as several attempts at mounting the horse led to a fall flat on her backside in the dirt and a hot, sweaty, irritated Sheriff seated in the saddle, and it wasn’t until a frightening moment of nearly being dragged by her startled horse when Emma dismounted with her wrist somehow tangled in the reins, thumped into her steed’s side with enough force to spook him and send him skittering with her still connected – his heart had been in his throat and David was still thanking the gods that he’d been lingering close enough to latch onto the spooked creature’s bridle before it could take off in earnest – and the resultant sprained wrist that left Emma on desk duty and forced to watch he and Killian take on the more physical jobs in the sheriff station for nearly two weeks, that Emma had finally accepted his instruction willingly and mastered riding.  Though he wouldn’t take back the time it had allowed him to spend with her – they had less now that Killian and she often patrolled together since he’d joined their Storybrooke “force” as a second deputy and he’d gone part-time to be home when Neal returned from school in the afternoons, handle the evening farm chores, and help Snow in the evenings as she often had numerous papers to grade along with older students and more complex subject matter – thankful for once that the princess moment he had imagined for his daughter could be somewhat recovered from the pile of so many forever lost, David couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would have been to teach her as she should have been: an eager, trusting child on a pony just her size, handpicked specifically for her, and in a world where riding was necessary and had daily, obvious use.

He shook his head free of the encroaching, unwanted melancholy thoughts at the sound of Rogers’ voice breaking through, a resigned bit of sadness tingeing his words, “ ‘Twill never really go away, will it?” Alice’s father asked softly, having clearly waited until his child had looped around closer to him with a wide, ecstatic smile spread across her face, eyes alight as she called out enthusiastically, ‘Look, Papa!  We’re riding!  Isn’t it wonderful?!?’ and then rode away again, before speaking.

Blinking, David forced himself fully back into the present, chuckling as he saw Alice nearing Neal and Robyn again and Neal attempting to impress both young ladies by galloping full speed right to the edge of the trees, only to stand on the moving horse’s back, right up to a sturdy, low-hanging branch and swing into the tree in one fluid motion. His mount was well-trained and used to his antics, merely turning when he felt his rider’s weight gone and trotting back to where Neal could drop onto his back lightly once again.  Both Robyn and Alice whooped and clapped at his antics, causing Neal to flush brightly even as he grinned and offered them a seated partial bow.

Shaking his head, David knew he should once again warn his son not to become overconfident and lose care when riding, but he couldn’t say too much, when he knew he had probably practiced similar tactics when he and Snow had taken to the forest long ago, on the run from – and then fighting back against – two dangerously powerful usurper monarchs.  Instead, he turned his attention back to Rogers’ query.  “What won’t go away?” he asked, though he sensed he was already well aware of the answer.

The other man’s gaze fell to his feet, swallowing deliberately before replying, “The regret… the sense that you failed your child, that she had to get by on her own, without you… without anyone.  And though…” he licked his lip, as if needing to pause and moisten them again, gather his thoughts and emotions before he could continue, “…though you would have given anything to be there when she needed you… it doesn’t change the fact that you missed so much – too much – of her life.”

David nodded, shielding his eyes with his hands as he gazed out to the tree line and somewhat into the setting sun.  Though the sandy-haired royal was squinting and not directly meeting his eyes, the recently retired detective could work out the real reason easily enough and took no offense.  Both of their emotions were far too close to the surface, and perhaps Dave sensed neither of them need bear the full scrutiny of the other’s eye while they made confessions held so close to the heart – not when each had possibly found comfort in the only other listening ear who could possibly understand the burden he carried.  Losing a child – knowing that child was still a young, vulnerable little girl, left alone in the world to fend for herself, when as a father both of them felt charged with protecting her – was a sort of pain one didn’t shake.  It wasn’t easily purged nor commiserated with – unless one found another person who had made a similar such sacrifice.

When the prince did speak, his words were quietly measured as though offered with much careful thought and the wisdom of experience.  “Do I ever know what you mean there,” he offered with a gentle shake of his head, hand lowering to his side before continuing, “Still, no matter how much we might wish it, we can’t go back.  None of us can change our pasts, for better or worse.  All we can do – and we can aim for – is to be here for them now; really live in the present and hope to give all they need as young adults.  There’s no way to make up for what we missed in their childhoods, but we can appreciate the moments we still have.  I told Emma that once – even if I can’t help but have regrets and forget it myself sometimes.  Life is made up of moments – good and bad – and the good ones aren’t all gone.  Even quiet, simpler moments are worthwhile, and that’s what we have more of before us now, if we’ll take them.”

Rogers nodded to that thoughtfully, silent other than the quiet affirmation, and his eyes focused somewhere off in the middle distance, partially watching his mostly-grown daughter happy and at ease, and partially in his mind or memory, in a time that could no longer be reached. “Aye,” was the simple response he offered when he seemed to return from his reverie.  “I believe my counterpart here, your son-in-law, even mentioned that to me when last we spoke in town.  Your daughter must have taken your advice to heart.  He said they’ve made it a bit of a family motto – to live for those moments.”

David Nolan offered a small smile, the pleased expression lighting his visage as he nodded along with what his new friend told him.  It was infinitely good to know he had still managed to impart a little fatherly wisdom to his grown child.  No matter how old Emma was or how long he lived, he would still endeavor to do so when he could. Even if, much like the young people they watched reveling before them, calling to each other uproariously and laughing in the gentle early evening breeze, he mostly had to loosen his grip, let his eldest have her head and find her own way in the world, it was never an easy task for a doting father to manage.

Giving one more small, pragmatic quirk of the mouth toward his new mate, David turned and raised his arm, giving the motion to come in for the evening to the youths before them, watching with pride as Neal read his signal, wheeled his steed around, and began to lead his companions back in a race across the pasture.

It was at least some small comfort to see the light of understanding in his companion’s gaze – those startlingly blue eyes displaying the same amalgam of bittersweet melancholy and gentle pride as the three riders drew near that David knew must haunt his own.  He supposed that if he must let go, it was better to have another father at his side struggling to do the same and experiencing a matching sense of pain and reward that came with allowing one’s children to grow up and fly free.  Though the time they could hold them close and shield them from the world had been stolen from them – and it was tempting to cling too tight in response – it was a process, releasing that hold and turning them loose… made all the more treasured in those moments when their offspring chose to return.

Tagging a few I hope will enjoy: @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @flslp87 @hollyethecurious @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @branlovesouat @jennjenn615 @celestial-fire-writer @gingerchangeling @laschatzi @jackieorioncat @duathadun @blackwidownat2814 @winterbaby89 @revanmeetra87 @ultraluckycatnd @bromfieldhall @flipperbrain @capswantrue @kiwistreetswan @wordsmith-storyweaver @psymplemind @snidgetsafan @linda8084 @bmbbcs4evr @aloha-4-ever @scientificapricot @laughswaytoomuch @vvbooklady1256

[chosenkeepersworld]

Hollow

Original Work

Word Count: 2119 words

Date Posted: February 28, 2021

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d but I hope you guys still like it and as always every comment and critique is appreciated.

They could hear the screams as the people ran past the small group of little girls, who could only watch in horror as the flames spread around them. They could see creatures flying above them, people falling from the sky and the soldier assigned to keep the island safe running forward to meet them, weapons raised.

Lila whimpered into Lia’s neck causing the older girl to clutch on to the small body even tighter. Lia turned to Rissa who tightly clutched two younger girls “What do we do?” Rissa asked, her body shook and her dark eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Lia couldn’t help but look at her friends, the girls she considered her sisters, Kali was looking up at the eldest girl with the same concerned look in her eyes and Zairin was clutching Rissa’s hand rather tightly, biting her lip as she looked around her.

Being the eldest was often difficult, Lia felt the weight of the title even more now. Her sisters needed her.

“We have to find somewhere safe.” Lia choked out “This way!”

The young girls made their way through the chaos, evading as many people as they could. The two eldest girls guided the younger ones the best they could, their goal was the Gate House. Once they were there, they would be able to send each other to their proper homes.

A rush of relief came over Lia once she caught sight of one of their teachers ushering other Keepers-in-training inside. The older woman lifted her head and saw the small girls, all of them looking exhausted.

She raced towards them and smiled sympathetically as she huddled them close“You did so well in getting here girls. Come now, let’s get you inside and then home.”

They only made it up the steps when the forest behind them exploded.

A pair of bright hazel eyes stared up at the ceiling, the owner of these eyes could feel tears that flowed from them. She reached up and wiped her eyes then stood to go about her morning routine. Once she was ready to leave, Lia looked in the mirror one last time. An image flashed in her mind, the faces of four other girls who she could no longer see.

Lia squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image to go away. It was not the time to think about them now, the emptiness in her chest made itself known. The aspiring actress rubbed her chest in an effort to ease the feeling.

It had been years since she’d seen them, so dwelling on the ache in her chest would only make problems for her and Lia did not need that for this morning. Not when she had auditions to go to, not when she had to make a living for herself. With that thought running through her head Lia straightened her posture and went out the door.

In another place, much farther away, a young woman walked the streets, weaving through the crowd while keeping her head as low as possible. She headed toward the small cafe, hunting for breakfast, as part of her daily routine. After breakfast was work, home, eat and sleep until morning where it would start all over again.

Rissa grimaced to herself. There were times when her routine became boring and predictable, she even heard her coworkers talking about her. The way Rissa lived was not as exciting as everyone else’s, for a long time she was never interested doing more outside of her comfort zone.

But Rissa was not a teenager anymore, she was out in the world trying to make it as an adult. What she’s been doing was not working anymore and she needed a change. The raven haired young woman smiled to herself, a little more energized by thought of moving forward.

Rissa went on with her day, a little happier, a little more open. It changed her perspective, even the people noticed something was different about their normally reclusive coworker. Rissa’s new mood lasted for a while, she slowly came out of her shell, putting more effort in her relationships with the people around her and putting more effort on herself. And since a few of her coworkers invited her to have a drink with them, Rissa knew it was working.

Rissa entered the restaurant, she immediately spotted her coworkers at the bar, already laughing and drinking early into the night. Rissa grinned and took a step forward to join them but caught sight of a group of young girls sitting in a booth in the corner of the restaurant. In a flash Rissa no longer saw strangers but the face of her lost friends.

Tears sprung into her eyes and her chest began to ache. Rissa reached up to rub her chest, turning to go into the bathroom instead of joining her coworkers.  She needed time to compose herself, but upon seeing her reflection she briefly wondered if she should have stayed home today instead.

Katalina adjusted her umbrella as the rain continued to pour down. She stared up at the gates she’d known her whole life and could only continue to feel unsettled as they opened. The emptiness of the large house could only amplify the loneliness she felt.

“Welcome home, Miss Kali” Caroline, their family’s head maid, came from the kitchen to greet her with a gentle smile on her face.

Kali smiled back “It’s good to be home, Caroline. Is mother here?”

“Asleep in her room, miss”

Of course she would be. Kali sighed “Thank you, Carol. I’ll be in my room if you need me.” she made her way up the grand staircase, pausing to stare at the dark, empty hall before walking down to enter her room. Much like the rest of the house it had always felt too big, much of the space was taken up by things that never really held anything of significance for the young brunette, it only meant to display how much money her father had.

Her father…

Kali shook her head, pushing the image of the man far from her thoughts. It did nothing for her to think of him, anything related to him only made her sad or stressed her out. It was better not to think of him and only think of the future, a future surrounded by people who cared about her...if she found them that is.

Kali quickly ran herself a bath, she just wanted to short reprieve before starting on her school work. There was still a lot she needed to do before she needed to do.

But maybe after a short nap…

They were in the meadow again. Classes and training were done for the day but they didn’t want to go home yet, they didn’t want to wander around town either so their meadow was the only option. Kali laid on the grass, eyes closed, simply enjoying the cool day surrounded by her friends. The raven haired girl craned her neck to check on the others and found them in the same position, lying on the grass with their eyes closed, enjoying the peaceful day. Kali allowed herself to smile, a soft expression coming over her face as she returned to her original position. Her bright blue eyes closed once again, drifting off as a soft breeze blew over them.

The blue eyed, brunette jerked awake. She was still at home, in the tub where she drifted off. The water had cooled causing Kali to sigh. ‘It was time to get out anyway’ she thought to herself.

Upon leaving the ensuite bathroom Kali immediately spied the tray on the coffee table. It had her dinner and favorite dessert, the brunette smiled at the sight but it immediately went away when she realized what it meant. Kali glanced at the clock and sure enough it meant that he was home and she would be an unwelcome presence if she were to join her father for dinner.

But what else was new?

An image flashed in her mind, of four other girls at the dinner table laughing together as they shared a meal. One of the nicer memories of her childhood.

Kali reached up to finger the necklace she wore, the only physical  reminder she had of them. Her friends, sisters, now lost to her. She sighed before moving to start her homework, she just needed to be patient and maybe one day, once she freed herself from this home, she could find the one thing she had been longing for.

Zairin’s smile was tight as she continued to listen to the people in her father’s court continue to complain about their petty, little grievances. There was nothing she could do, of course. She was a princess of her father’s kingdom.

Her duties were always the same, host and attend parties and festivities, and be the sweet, little princess everyone expected her to be. Following every order made by her father until she’s sold off to whoever gave her father the best deal.

She loved her father, he was a kind man who only wanted the best for her. But that usually meant ignoring what she wanted. She wanted to do more for her kingdom, it was why she left home when she got the chance.

She wanted to be more than just a princess.

Her father called to finish the morning session and told the other members of court to return after lunch. This prompted the young princess to make a quick get away, using the rest of the court as a distraction. Zairin could hear her father yelling out her name, and Zairin, unable to help herself, snickered.

She made her way into the gardens, her safe place within the palace. It was the only place Zairin felt at peace nowadays, the palace was often stifling and being under the open sky was the only place where she did not feel tied down. It often puzzled her parents, her guard and maids why their princess preferred the outdoors rather than the comforts inside.

But Zairin had for a short time lived in a place that was close to nature, where living under the heat of the sun was normal.  It reminded her of an island and house that she lived in with four other girls. Girls so different from what she was used to, they were who Zairin felt the most comfortable with.

The princess sighed as she sat on the stone bench.

Just a few minutes out here and she’ll come back in.

Lila grinned at the sight of her friends sprawled out in the living room. Tonight’s patrol had been tiring, there were multiple creatures out tonight and with only the three of them available tonight it had been difficult.

The brunette couldn’t help but sigh considering some of the creatures had escaped them. Their fearless leader was out of town for family business thus patrol had fallen on them and it only went as well as it could without The Chosen One to take on the most of the fighting.

“Can someone hand me an ice pack? I’d get it but my legs don’t want to cooperate with me” Penny moaned, face down on the couch. “You’re a witch aren’t you? Can’t you just magic yourself an ice pack or something?” Gabe asked, slumped down on the single-seater.

“I’d love to but my body said ‘no’”

Gabe angled his head to face the only other person in the room “Lila” he whined but said nothing else. The brunette sighed but obliged the two. Lila couldn’t help but smile, even when the work was difficult or when the danger was close it was easier because she knew she had her friends with her. And she would do anything to make sure that nothing happened to any of them. Not like-

Lila shook her head, as if trying to shake the thought as fast as possible. She wasn’t ready to think about them, it hurt too much knowing they were out there somewhere but the brunette would never see them again.

But if she were given the chance, for even a moment, she would find a way to see them again.

Lila sighed once more and returned to her friends.

That night, as each girl slept, there was tremor that shook up everything in sight. With it was an energy that had not been felt in years. It was ancient and powerful, and it affected the chosen in many ways.

Each girl dreamed of the same thing that night. Standing on a foggy cli#ff, they could barely see anything, except for four cliffs and the silhouette of unfamiliar yet familiar strangers.

[thinktosee]

“The Army Ain’t No Place for a Black Man:” How the Wolf Got Caged

Drawing by Nathaniel St. Clair. Courtesy CounterPunch 

Foreword by David’s father

This is an essay by Mr. Jeffrey St. Clair concerning the life of the bluesman, Chester Burnett. It is a story about a man who struggled for his identity and dignity under very trying circumstances. A man who, all things considered, believed in himself, in the unique rhythm within each individual, and which also defines us. 

I read the story on CounterPunch yesterday. It moved me, to say the least. I wrote by email to Mr. St. Clair right away, requesting his kind permission to reproduce the story on David’s memorial blog. He replied promptly. 

We are very thankful to Mr. St. Clair and to CounterPunch for this privilege. The story of Chester Burnett is one which I am sure David would have empathized. Each an artist in his own right. And each a believer in his uniqueness. 

It is our hope that this story will help inspire the millions of Chester Burnetts of the world.

“The Army Ain’t No Place for a Black Man:” How the Wolf Got Caged

by Jeffrey St. Clair            May 24th, 2019      www.Counterpunch.org

From his locked room, he could hear the trains rattling up the tracks, one every half hour. They reminded of him of home, back on Dockery Plantation, when he played on the porches of old shacks with Charley Patton, blowing his harmonica to the rhythm of those big wheels rolling along the rails. Those northbound trains were the sound of freedom then.

Now he was in the mad house, where grown men, their minds broken by the carnage of war, wailed and screamed all night long. Most of them were white. Some were strapped to their beds. Others ambled with vacant eyes, lost in the big room. Chester just stood in the corner and watched. He didn’t say much. He didn’t know what to say. Sometimes he looked out the barred window across the misty fields toward the river and the big mountains far beyond, white pyramids rising above the green forests.

The doctors came every day, men in white jackets with clipboards. They showed him drawings. They asked about his family and his dreams. They asked if he’d ever killed anyone—he had but he didn’t want to talk about that. They asked him to read a big block of words to them. But Chester couldn’t read. He’d never been allowed to go to school.

The doctors asked all the white men the same questions. Poked and prodded them the same way. Let them sleep and eat together. Left them to comfort each other in the long nights in the Oregon fog.

Chester would play checkers with the orderlies and sing blues songs, keeping the beat by slapping his huge feet on the cold and gleaming white floor. Men would gather round him, even the boys who seemed really far gone would calm down for a few minutes, listening to Wolf growl out “How Long, How Long Blues” or “High Water Everywhere.” It was odd, but here in the mad house Chester felt like an equal for the first time.

The mental hospital at Camp Adair was located just off of the Pacific Highway on a small rise above the Willamette River in western Oregon, only a few miles south from the infamous Oregon State Hospital, whose brutal methods of mental therapy were exposed by Ken Kesey in One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. Camp Adair had been built in 1942 as a training ground for the US Infantry and as a base for the 9th Signal Corps. The big hospital was built in 1943. Its rooms were soon overflowing with wounded soldiers from the Pacific theater.

Chester Burnett, by then known throughout the Mississippi Delta as Howlin’ Wolf, had been inducted into the Army in April 1941. Wolf didn’t go willingly. He was tracked down by the agents of the Army and forced into service. Years later, Wolf said that the plantation owners in the Delta had turned him into the military authorities because he refused to work in the fields. Wolf was sent to Pine Bluff, Arkansas for training. He was thirty years old and the transition to the intensely regulated life of the army was jarring.

Soon Wolf was transferred to Camp Blanding in Jacksonville, Florida, where he was assigned to the kitchen patrol. He spent the day peeling potatoes, slopping food onto plates as the enlisted men walked down the lunch line. At night, Wolf would play the blues in the assembly room as the men waited for mail call. Later Wolf was sent to Fort Gordon, a sprawling military base in Georgia named after a Confederate general. Wolf would play his guitar on the steps of the mess hall, which is where the young James Brown, who came to the Fort nearly every day to earn money shining shoes and performing buck dances for the troops, first heard Wolf play.  Still it was a boring and tedious existence.

For some reason, the Army detailed the illiterate Howlin’ Wolf to the Signal Corps, responsible for sending and decoding combat communications. When his superiors discovered that Wolf couldn’t read he was sent for tutoring at a facility Camp Murray near Tacoma, Washington. It was Wolf’s first experience inside a school and it proved a brutal one. A vicious drill instructor would beat Wolf with a riding crop when he misread or misspelled a word. The humiliating experience was repeated each day, week after week. The harsher the officer treated Wolf, the more stubborn Wolf became. Finally, the stress became too much for the great man and he collapsed one day on base before heading to class. Wolf suffered episodes of uncontrollable shaking. He was frequently dizzy and disoriented. He fainted a number of times while on duty, once while walking down the hallway.

Barracks at Camp Adair, 1942. Photo: Ben Maxwell (Salem Public Library). Courtesy CounterPunch

“The Army is hell!” Wolf said in an interview in the 1970s. “I stayed in the Army for three years. I done all my training, you know? I liked the Army all right, but they put so much on a man, you know what I mean? My nerves couldn’t take it, you know? They drilled me so hard it just naturally give me a nervous breakdown.”

Finally in August 1943, Howlin’ Wolf was transferred to Camp Adair and committed to the Army mental hospital for evaluation. The first notes the shrink scribbled in Wolf’s file expressed awe at the size-16 feet. The other assessments were less impressive, revealing the rank racism that pervaded both the US Army and the psychiatric profession in the 1940s. One doctor speculated that Wolf suffered from schizophrenia induced by syphilis, even though there was no evidence Wolf had ever contracted a venereal disease. Another notation suggested that Wolf was an “hysteric,” a nebulous Freudian term that was usually reserved for women. The diagnosis was commonly applied to blacks by military doctors who viewed them as mentally incapable of handling the regimens of Army life. Another doctor simply wrote Wolf down with casual cruelty as a “mental defective.”

None of the shrinks seemed to take the slightest interest in Chester Burnett’s life, the incredible journey that had taken him from living beneath a rickety house in the Mississippi Delta to the wild juke joints of West Memphis and to an Army base in the Pacific Northwest. None of them seemed to be aware that by 1943, Howlin’ Wolf had already proved himself to be one of the authentic geniuses of American music, a gifted and sensitive songwriter and a performer of unparalleled power, who was the propulsive force behind the creation of the electric blues.

Howlin’ Wolf was locked up for two months in the Army psych ward. He was lashed to his bed, his body parts examined and measured: his head, his hands, his feet, his teeth, his penis. The shrinks wanted to know if he liked to have sex with men, if he tortured animals, if he hated his father. He was beaten, shocked and drugged when he resisted the barbarous treatment by the military doctors. Finally he was cut loose from the Army, discharged as being unfit for duty. He was probably lucky he wasn’t lobotomized or sterilized, as was the cruel fate of so many other encounters with the dehumanizing machinations of governmental psychiatry.

“The Army ain’t no place for a black man,” Wolf recalled years later. “Jus’ couldn’t take all that bossin’ around, I guess. The Wolf’s his own boss.”

Sources.

Moanin’ at Midnight: The Life and Times of Howlin’ Wolf by James Segrest and Mark Hoffman

It Came From Memphis by Robert Gordon

Integration of the Armed Forces, 1940–1965 by Morris J. MacGregor

Camp Adair: The Story of a World War II Cantonment: Oregon’s Largest

Jeffrey St. Clair is editor of CounterPunch. His most recent books are Bernie and the Sandernistas: Field Notes From a Failed Revolution and The Big Heat: Earth on the Brink (with Joshua Frank) He can be reached at: sitka@comcast.net or on Twitter  @JSCCounterPunch .  

[we-were-legends]

“Champion’s dawn”

Chapter 50 - “Burned paths behind me”

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Middle spring passed by in a blink of an eye. The faint beginning of summer announced changes in weather and maybe even violent storms.

Despite evrything, Oropher remembered the feast after the hunt with pleasure. He got to know Mirdan's daughters – two misfits, playful in conversation but with grace of the Ladies. Cennan also introduced her son and daughter, though those two were much younger and they didn't enjoy the feast at all, calling it boring. Oropher couldn't fully blame them.

But there were two things that brought Oropher a bit on edge. First of which was Raeg – Esgar told him casually at some point that he had met the councillor and they had a truly interesting conversation. Obviously, Esgar didn't acknowledge the danger about it, but Oropher knew better and he knew that Raeg didn't do anything without a purpose.

The second thing which put Oropher in unease was the King. Since Oropher brought Esgar with himself, it became obvious for everyone that they came together as a pair. But for some reason Oropher knew that Elwe was not pleased about it. He didn't know if it was because Esgar was an ellon, but he doubted it. Most likely the King didn't look with kind eye at the member of House Elmo, his beloved brother, to bond himself with someone like Esgar. Somehow, Oropher knew that if he had appeared with Rivalt instead of Esgar, the King would have had no objections as it went to their relationship. But as far as Oropher was concerned, not even the King could tell him what to do with his heart and life.

However, it was long after the hunt and the feast, though it was still a topic widely discussed in conversations on the court. But for Oropher it was high time to resume his duties and once more he took paperwork in his own hands. Quite a lot of it gathered on his desk and he wanted to be finished with it much quicker than the last time.

For a moment Oropher thought about Celeborn who left a the beginning of spring to the forest of Neldoreth. His destination was the Northern Tower that was under command of Dalgaran Egnassion, younger brother of Mablung. As many noticed, it was long since Delgaran send a falcon to Menegroth and neither the city send a messenger for a long time. It was a natural decision that someone will be send from Menegroth and now it was on Celeborn's shoulders to hear what Delgaran had to say.

Also, Oropher thought about Arvellon. They left together with Celeborn, but surely after all this time they already set their paths apart and Arvellon followed Bressil to the far eastern side of the forest of Neldoreth. Oropher knew all of them were ready to take such duty and during all their preparations and trainings their leading oficer, Alagos, didn't show even slightest concern about their progress.

And finally Oropher saw on his own eyes that Aglaron and Arvellon called a ceasefire. There may be even friendship between them and from what Oropher saw their divisions also started to grace themselves with more warm feelings as they got to know each other better. Oropher was glad that is ended like this. After all, this is who Arvellon was – although he was a formidable warrior he always preferred to choose compromise over mindless fight and he was able to gather many allies who will follow him to battle in the future. Oropher wished to see him grow for a commander such as Galadhon, maybe even a greater one.

As it went to Aglaron, then even Galathil one time joked around that Arvellon now had a new friend and from now on his old cousins will always be a second choice. Oropher watched them tease each other, while he was eating dark grapes that lied in a huge plate. But their teasing ended quickly when Erthor and Edwethon walked into the room after finished council meeting and they shot them a single glare – no arguments and weapons at the table. Since they broke both of those rules, they new better than to continue it.

Loud squawking brought Oropher back from his thoughts. A falconer passed by his office and went to Mablung's cabinet, talking silently to the hawk that sat on her hand.

'General, a missive to you from Commander Delgaran.' the falconer said to Mablung and Oropher despite himself perked up his ears, but Mablung said only his thanks and the falconer crossed the short corridor again before she was gone from the building.

Oropher managed to focus back on his papers only for a few moments before he heard a chair being sharply pulled back and fast footsteps were heard on a wooden floor. He rised up his eyes to see Mablung who almost passed by his office, but then walked inside when he noticed that Oropher was inside.

'Cougar's division was attacked in the northern part of the forest.' Mablung said immediately and Oropher got up, feeling a hand tightening up on his throat. He took a small paper from Mablung's hand who continued. 'There are wounded, some very severly, but no fatal casualties. Nothing more is written.'

'Let me ride there.' Oropher said and Mablung didn't think long about it.

'Take your soldiers and go. I will tell Egnaspen and Haerdin to send patrols immediately. And I will tell the King what happened.' Mablung said as he already walked out of the office. 'Send a falcon as soon as you know the situation!'

'I will!' Oropher said as he gathered his swordbelt and attached it to his waist in a hurry. He didn't bother to take a coat since he will wear armor anyway.

All other duties stopped being important at this moment. Their soldiers were attacked and by the time falcon arrived to Menegroth there may already be some fatal casualties. And Celeborn was with them. What about him?

'Call my division, we are moving out at once! Meeting point at the Gate!' Oropher called to the soldiers he passed by and then he turned to the others. 'Ready the horses!'

Soldiers didn't even bother to salute, but went immediately to perform those orders. Oropher entered the armory and he opened a cabinet where he held his armor. Efficiently, with skilled perfection he put it on himself, after it he gathered bow and two quivers – one he attached to his waist, the other one he will have at the saddle.

He left the armory and immediately went to the stable – horses of his division were ready and waited for their riders on the small courtyard in front of the building. Oropher jumped on Huro and turned the steed immediately on the road towards the Great Gate. From the back of the horse he saw his soldiers coming towards the stable from different sides of the fields. Oropher had to hold back his own impatience – he needed to give a bit time so his division will gather their own equipment and horses.

He bid Huro to gallop and in no time he was near the Gate waiting for his soldiers to arrive. He couldn't stay in one place and the horse sensed his nervousness – Huro walked back and forth with energetic pace while Oropher got back in control of his thoughts. Despite the threat that fall on them, he was responsible to lead his soldiers and get them safely to the Tower – at the Tower he will be in charge to help the injured. He was in no place to let his thoughts overwhelm him.

Taranir and Orthon entered the courtayrd and stopped their horses in front of him. On their heels was Saida who lead her stallion to them.

'Orders?' Taranir prompted while Saida chastened her horse to behave and stand still.

'We are riding to the Nothern Tower. From there we will get in control over situation.' Oropher said. 'Cougar's division was attacked in the forest. Delgaran send the missive to Mablung, so the wounded are already under his care and protection. From the Tower we will plan our further steps.'

Nelledir galloped towards them with Halloth on side. At the same moment Oropher noticed Galadhon entering the courtyard with clear mix of anxiousness and fright on his face. Tidings run fast – by now Mablung surely informed the Council about what happened and the wind carried it to every corner of the city.

'What's the situation?' Galadhon asked immediately, precisely as always, but as much as Oropher wanted he couldn't say much as he didn't know himself a lot.

'Uncle, I don't know. That's why I'm going.' Oropher said turning horse towards Galadhon and he leaned down to put hand on his uncle's arm. 'The missive stated that they are all in the Tower and they are taken care of. There was nothing said about Celeborn.'

The rest of his division appeared – Alagos on lead with Amrun and Tinnu beside him. To Oropher's surprise Faron also answered this call. Only when Oropher looked at them once after the other, he realised that his young soldiers reported for their duty and Oropher felt no doubts to let them join.

He looked down at Galadhon once again and took his hand that still rested on his uncle's arm.

'We will ride day and night. As soon as I will be there I will send a falcon. I promise.'

'Be careful.' Galadhon said and stepped away letting Oropher turn his horse and Oropher gave the signal to open the Gate.

'Ciryion's division was attacked in the forest! We are riding to the Tower to see the situation!' he called to his soldiers. 'Keep your eyes open! Divisions will be send after us to hunt down whatever lurks in the forest, but we are going into unscouted territory! Who knows what we will meet out there.'

Briefly he looked at each of his soldiers and his eyes fixed with Faron's.

'Faron, maybe-' he started, but his soldiers shook his head.

'I am strong enough to go with you. Trust me with this.' he said Oropher nodded, recognising well his serious and confident tone. Faron would have stayed if only Oropher would have ordered him, but Oropher trusted his soldier and he knew that Faron was able to estimate his own strength – if he was not ready, he wouldn't have showed up.

As soon as the Gate opened they formed an array and immediately springed their horses to gallop. As soon as they passed the gateway, Oropher took the lead and bid Huro to gallop even faster.

They passed by the friendly trees at the verge of the forest and Oropher quickly noticed that they were agitated. Their branches turned all around and wind sounded with countless whispers and gasps, while the ground shook with trembling roots. Maybe that's why they were so quiet previously when they were coming back from the hunt – the trees probably sensed something in the air, but they were not able to precise exactly what. Now all of them knew, but if they knew for sure – this Oropher will find out as soon as they will be at the Tower.

From Menegroth they moved north, surely taking the same route as Celeborn and Arvellon did before. In no time they crossed the river where shallow waters of Esgalduin allowed it, and only then they fully entered forest of Neldoreth. Sounds of hooves echoed in the forest and everything that was once on their path fled quickly upon hearing their approach. Though Oropher didn't really look all around it was not hard to notice all the animals fleeing deeper into the forest, escaping the danger, and birds often spooked and flew from one branch to another.

The forest was clearly restless and the animals mirrored anxiousness of trees. Sometimes Oropher even sensed that some trees were desperate in telling them something, but he couldn't afford to stop and listen closely. Besides, he couldn't understand them so well to know perfectly what they were saying.

After a long while of gallop Oropher slowed their horses to trott to save their strength. Though, the tenstion was clear in the woods, nothing indicated that the enemies were still around. The trees didn't behave as if they were – if the yrch and wargs were still in Dotiath, the trees would rise in great anger and track down the beasts, leading Oropher and his division towards them. But so far Oropher sensed nothing of this sort, the trees were vigilant and reached up branches to hear more closely what their distant kin in other corners of the woods were saying through the wind. Only brief shivers stated that they were not asleep.

'They want to talk to us!' Faron galloped closer to him, and Oropher turned eyes away from the chestnut tree that seemed more agitated than other trees around. 'Some of them know about something.'

'I sense their unease, but I can't understand them well enough. And I can't waste time to stop and reach out to them' Oropher shook his head. 'If you are able to, try to find connection with them while in the move.'

'I will try, but I can't sense them so well as the ones in Ossiriand. But if I will learn anything I will let you know.' Faron said, then he glanced at Oropher cleverly. 'You should try as well. Not now, buy maybe in the Tower when everything will settle down. They know who you are and that your House rules over Doriath. They want to speak to you.'

Faron was confident in saying it as he knew that Oropher was able to reach out and hear the trees. Every Eldar was blessed with great understanding of nature, but those were the trees that were especially beloved by them - and they were loved in turn. But only few of the elves were truly able to hear their thoughts and find true connection with their hearts. Some elves were not even able to learn it - they didn't feel enough understanding for their own spirit and it blocked their way of seeing the core of another spirit. But Oropher knew how to do it - Denethor tought him, long ago, and thanks to his teachings Oropher was able to hear all that wished to be told him and in turn, he was able to form thoughts into words that passed by between him and the spirit tree.

'Our top priority is getting to the Tower and examine the wounded.' Oropher said. 'If there there will be a bit of time, then maybe then I will try. I learned that it's not wise to dismiss the will of a trees.'

With this Faron slowed his horse and came back to his place in the array and Oropher gave signal to gallop forth. He meant what he said – they will ride as fast as their horses will allow them with full knowledge that they will still probably overstrain them. But Oropher knew that they couldn't affort to wait – Dalgaran wrote that some soldiers were sevelry injured and if that was the truth then they needed to be taken to Menegroth as soon as possible so they will receive all the necassary help.

And the fact that he didn't know a thing about Celeborn put him on edge. It was always Oropher who left the city for countless travels and duties and it was always his family who was worried about him. Oropher could always perform his orders with knowledge that everyone in his family was whole and safe in the city, but now the sides had changed and Celeborn's fate was unknown to Oropher.

The worst possible feelings were the wait and uncertainity while expecting the loved one to be back home from duty, but Oropher felt this same mix - this uncertainity what he will see when he will arrive to the Tower and anxiousness if Celeborn was alright. Last time he felt this way was during the war. After countless clashes and battles Oropher always looked out for his family to come back. He waited for Celeborn and Galathil to come back, for his father, for his uncles, for Thala, for Celduin, for Denethor. Not everyone came back home whole and safe and their loss was like a scar.

After some time, Taranir joined him on lead and Oropher looked to the side at his friend.

'If we will keep up the tempo we will be in the Tower at next sunset!' Taranir called to outshout the wind caused by their fast gallop and Oropher nodded at those words.

'That's my plan! But our horses will need a lot of rest after this!' he said. 'Mind Halloth, Tinnu and Amrun if you can!'

Taranir nodded, knowing what he had in mind. Their young soldiers left the city for the first time and though Oropher felt no doubts to let them, their first duty outside the city should have looked different. They were ready, there was no denying it, but such things should be done step by step while right now they were thrown on the wild sea.

Oropher gave a signal to kept moving forward and when they rode into sandy path they released their horses in even faster gallop. Night fell on them faster that Oropher expected, but on the other hand that meant they were getting closer to their destination. Still, they should keep their vigilance – they didn't know if there are some wargs till lurking in the woods and those beasts had better night vision than horses. Oropher sincerly hope they won't meet any of those foul creatures on their way.

Moonlight tried to peer through branches, but it was not enough to light up a path for them. But despite the darkness, Oropher followed the road with ease and when the first weak beams of sunlight appeared, they rode into much wider path n the northern parts of the forest of Neldoreth. They were almost there.

Faron sounded a horn to let the Tower know they were approaching and in a moment they heard an answer sounded in middle tone.

When they passed by the bend in fast gallop the wooden gate was already open to allow them entrance and they rode into the tower like a strong tide. They slowed their gallop, but didn't stop until they reached the main courtyard and only then they dismounted, letting the soldiers of the Tower take care of their horses.

Oropher barely managed to look around and give orders to his own soldiers, when an elf was already going towards him and it was no one other but Delagaran.

'General!' Delgaran called when he was close enough. 'First things first. The state of some wounded got even worse than it already was. Their condition is stabile for now, but they should be taken to Menegroth as soon as it's possible.'

'Start gathering wagons from nearby settlements, maybe some of them can even give us horses.' Oropher said. 'My soldiers will help as soon as they will examine the wounded and after their talk with your healers. In the meantime, I will send a falcon to the city, maybe Mablung will send one or two more divisions to aif us.' he sighted. 'I am glad all of them are alive. Thank you for your assistance.'

'It was pure luck our soldiers appeared there on time.' Delagaran said, but his voice was grim. 'But let's not fall in such relief. State of the wounded is very serious, some of them won't be able to continue their duty.'

Oropher let out a breath in a hiss and he shook his head. So it was as serious as he expected.

'Let's go and see.' Oropher said and Delgaran lead them towards the infirmary, while his soldiers walked close to him expecting orders. 'Check the state of the wounded, we need to know how many wagons we should prepare and how many medications, herbs and bandages we need. We also need blankets, food and water.' he started. 'As soon as you will do that, later on you will ride to nearby settlements. Try to gather as many useful things those elves can spare us. Time is crucial and we have to do everything to get the wounded to the city.'

They entered the infirmary. The building was wide and clean, each room was separated and fitted one bed. It provided privacy and peace which the soldiers needed to rest and heal.

'Gathon will brief your soldiers.' Delgaran said and without further ado Oropher's soldiers were left with the healer to gather information that Oropher required. And Delgaran's eyes turned once more on Oropher. 'Do what you must. All of my soldiers are at you disposal. I already send some of them to scout the area, now I will dispose my units and start sending them to the settlements.' he nodded to his own words. 'Once you will be done here, join me and we will plan further steps.'

Oropher nodded at those words, knowing that they have a lot of planning to do. Taking all the wounded soldiers to Menegroth will require a lot of resources, mostly wagons and draft horses, and they have to make sure that the wooden wagons will be as much comfortable as possible. And of course medications, bandages, food and water - all of that was essential to make their way as peaceful as possible. Oropher will have to ask Mablung to send two or three more divisions for their aid.

But among all of this, now he couldn't hold back himself more from asking w he wanted for all the time he was at the Tower.

'What of my cousin?' Oropher asked without even caring that it sounded absolutely unrelated to anything that they spoke about. 'What of Celeborn?'

Delgaran stared at him and his first confusion turned into understanding. He nodded at Oropher's words, but he remained a bit in thought.

'Lord Celeborn.' he started with serious voice, far from eased one, Oropher noticed. 'He is not well.'

'What of him?' Oropher asked more persistently and Delagaran sighted.

'Wargs jagged him mercilessly, almost teared off his arm.' he finally said. 'Hopefully, it can be saved with right treatment and strong medication. And he suffered a severe fall, most likely he was crushed by his own horse. But his back is well, so of this there is no need to worry, but some bones are cracked.' he shook his head. 'Come, I will take you to him.'

After hearing all of this, Oropher followed Delgaran with heart in throat. All that was just said crossed Oropher's mind like a lightning and imagination oh what happened and how he will see Celeborn only made it worse. But he followed Delgaran who slowly walked the small corridor of the infirmary. He passed by first five or six door and he stopped at the next one. He turned to Oropher who looked at him, waiting for anything more the commander would say.

'He didn't wake up yet.' Delgaran finally said. 'But healers assured me that he will. He will stand up from it.'

'Thank you.' Oropher said and without thinking much he opened the door, walking inside the room where his cousin was.

Candles on the small shelf and table were enough to illuminate the room. And even while being at the entrance Oropher could easily see bruises on Celeborn's face and neck. As he got closer, he noticed that Celeborn's left arm was tightly bandaged and Oropher recognised a strong scent of young ferns that cleaned the wound and fastened healing. Blood was still visible here and there, but Oropher had not pulled away the blanket to see the wounds on Celeborn's chest and waist. Warg's bites were terrible to heal and long teeth caused great bleeding – he didn't want to see it.

Oropher sat on the edge of the bedding and looked at Celeborn's face. He was a bit pale, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. His head was also bandaged around forehead and purple-green bruise around it only strenghtened the guess that Celeborn had to hit something hard when he suffered a fall.

He sighted and delicately patted Celeborn's healthy arm before he put blanket more tightly on him. That such thing had to happen. Oropher shook his head at lone thought of it. But what mattered most is that Celeborn was alive and Oropher should just wait until his cousin will wake up.

Still, Oropher had to write about all of it to his uncle – Galadhon had a right to know what was happening with his son and Oropher knew better than leave him with own thoughts and unsaid words. All the more that in a long time Celeborn will stand up fully from his injuries.

But Oropher was not blessed with more time alone with his cousin. Oropher heard someone entering the room and he turned to see who it was, but his irritation fell low when he noticed those were the healers who arrived.

'My Lord, I kindly ask you to wait outside.' the elleth said as she walked into the room with two assistants at side. 'We will change the bandages and apply new medications.'

There was no discussion with the healers and Oropher knew it. Besides, he wanted the best for Celeborn and the healers were doing their work. He got up from the bed and allowed assistants to approach Celeborn. They already started to take away the bandage on his forehead and removed blankets that were in a way, but the leading healer turned to Oropher.

'His state is hard, but stabile. Treatment is working as well.' she said. 'We have to wait until he will wake up.'

'Thank you. Inform me of any changes.' he said after he nodded at her confident words and he slowly started walking out of the room. 'I will work around with my soldiers.'

With those words he was gone and he closed the door after himself. With head weighting down with the tragedy that fell on them, he went back the corridor of the infirmary to check what his soldiers already knew. Then he will write a missive to Mablung and Galadhon.

He walked out of the infirmary and he already noticed Taranir. Seeing him out, his friend approached him immediately and there was a bit of worry in his eyes.

'How is Celeborn?'

'Not well, but treatment is working and it's going for the better.' Oropher said and sighted, all of sudden very tired. 'What have you learned from the healer? Do we know something about the wagons?'

'We need more time with the wagons.' Taranir said. 'And Ciryion's division...well, it doesn't look good. We definately need aid from Menegroth. Mablung should send us at least two divisions with first-hand items, healers and their medications. I bet they will know what to bring.' then he sighted delicately. 'Right now we are waiting for any of Delgaran's soldiers to be back from nearby settlements, we will see what tidings they bring. And I sent Halloth, Amrun and Tinnu to check on the horses. They are a bit lost among all of this.'

'Maybe I shouldn't have allowed them to come.' Oropher muttered, but Taranir shook his head.

'Don't treat them like whelps. They are able bodied soldiers.' he said. 'They want to help and they are doing fine while facing such tragedy. I just don't want to overstrain them.'

'Then I'm glad to hear it.' Oropher said and this was probably the best information he heard in a while. As much as such information can be good. 'I will write to Mablung then join me for the talk with Delgaran.'

Taranir nodded, but their conversation barely finished when no one other but Delgaran walked close to them.

'Oropher, a word.' he just said and Oropher nodded at Taranir, leaving his friend to his own work, while he moved after Delgaran who lead them closer to the grey wall of some building, so they were hidden beneath its shadow.

'We should be careful with sending the soldiers back to the city.' Delgaran said with more quiet voice. 'I was just informed that Norgalad had a collapse and they were not able to tell me if he will be well.' he paused for a moment. 'Silef has jagged chest and waist. Wargs treated her very roughly, but as for now she is in quite good shape. Arth has clawed face and he lost right eye, also serious bites on neck and legs. His one leg is broken and those wounds will fester. Ciryion lost arm up to elbow and the wound heals very slowly, it still bleeds.' he shook his head. 'They may not survive the ride back to Menegroth.'

'Queen's assistance is needed in all those cases.' Oropher said will full confidence. 'But if the healers will be strongly against it, then those most wounded will stay here, while we will take the others back to the city. We will try to make this travel as fast and comfortable as possible, but time is crucial.'

'We can spare few healers to ride back to the city with you. They will also start preparing medications and herbs.' Degaran said. 'I send first soldiers to the to the settlements, but I keep waiting for my patrols to be back. Though I suspect that the enemy already left our woods, some lone wargs may still lurk somewhere.' he looked around. 'I wouldn't be surprised. The forest is full of tenstion and trees are anxious.'

Oropher felt it too during all their ride through the woods. Faron sensed it as well and he took it to heart, so maybe Oropher should too? Everything that was happening in the forest couldn't be unseen by trees unless a powerful spell was casted on them. Maybe it was worth to reach out to reliable witnesses – the trees knew for sure what had hapened.

Oropher shook his head at lone thought about Ciryion's division. Whatever attacked them must have been much more numerous and well armored. Oropher doubted it was a planned trap – the enemy had never done that as it would have taken a lot of magic and spells to make the trees unaware of what was happening. Also, it was highly unlikely that it was an attack of opportunity. Ciryion's division travelled throught the heart of the forest which meant that the enemy's forces must have passed through Doriath as well. And it ended in a clash.

Oropher rubbed his forehead and sighted deeply. It was so long since the enemy was spotted in the forests of Doriath, their patrols didn't even reported single fresh tracks. And Oropher hoped that this peace will last for long centuries. Now, he knew that it was a peace before the storm – the enemy once more decided to reach out and shorten the way through the plains by passing Doriath's territory. But could Oropher be sure that those yrch wanted to just pass through Doriath? Maybe those yrch that attacked Ciryion were scouts and some bigger attack was planned? When it will be set into motion? Should Oropher alarm Mablung so he will get the soldiers all ready and vigilant?

He couldn't possibly know this, but maybe he should take few soldiers and ride to the place where Ciryion's division was attacked. Actually, Oropher was surprised that the trees didn't sense the enemy that walked so far into the forest. Usually they were informed on time of any movement of enemy's forces, yet now, the trees didn't sense a thing. This indicated strong magic. Maybe Oropher will learn something in the place of battle and how the yrch passed by the woods without being spotted.

Oropher focused back from his thoughts upon hearing the thunder of hooves. Few riders rode into the courtyard in mad gallop, looking around in search of their commander. When they spotted Delgaran next to Oropher they approached closer without bothering to dismount.

Oropher immediately noticed specific look on their faces, nervous, full of tension and gleaming eyes with sparks of fright. Their horses were all sweaty and breathed heavily, surely they were forced to run for all the way. When they were close enought they started to speak, but their words turned Oropher's blood to ice.

'Commander!' one rider called immediately. 'There was a battle in far eastern part of the forest!'

The spilt of overwhelming calm lasted a blink of an eye and this was a blissful moment when Oropher didn't realise what it meant. Among all that was happening he didn't even think once about it. Because it couldn't happen.

'All that is left are cinders. Bodies are scattered all around, but there was no living soul.' the second rider continued, great sorrow spilled with his every word.

At the same time Oropher's heart froze and stopped dead, but his blood warmed up impossibly going to his head in a wave of panic. Weird feeling in his throat couldn't be compared to anything.

'Hold down the units travelling to the settlements!' Delgaran said immediately. 'Prepare them for the move out-!'

Delgaran barely managed to say it to the soldier when Oropher interrupted him, getting to the closest rider and holding him tightly by uniform. He needed more information, more answers, maybe even denial.

'Where exactly?' he asked, but his questions spilled mindlessly from his mind, not even waiting for riders's answer. 'Was it beyond the dens? Beyond the stream? How many of them were there? Tell me someone was left alive!'

'Not yet beyond the stream, but close to it. It happened on a wide clearing...all the bodies are left there.' the elf said, a bit confused how Oropher could know of this, but of course he knew. He spoke with Bressil about the route they will take through the wild forest of Neldoreth.

'Tell me there was someone alive!' Oropher demanded with itching throat and shaking hands. His heart pumped so powerfully in chest that it pained him. It pained horribly.

'If there had been, we wouldn't leave him out there.' the rider said quietly and Oropher understood perfectly. They came back alone after all.

'Oropher, what-?' Delgaran placed a hand on his arm and pulled him away from the rider. Only then Oropher shok off from this stance and his mind focused on something else entirely - on immediate action.

'Arvellon, he was there! With Bressil and Aglaron!' he called as he already freed himself from Delgaran's hand and he walked towards the place where they left their horses. 'I'm going there! Now! Right now!'

Delagaran was saying something behind him, but waves of panic and chain tightening on his through prevented him from thinking about anything more than Arvellon. Everything fixed now on a sigle purpose - to find Arvellon.

As soon as he got to the horse, he jumped on its bac and immediately he bid the steed to gallop. He did it with no second thought nor informing anyone of what he was doing. He didn't see it, but Taranir was aware about the commontion. His friend was just behind him and he already called the rest of their team with a short but loud whistle. But Oropher didn't wait for them, he didn't even wait for Taranir - he raced forth only speeding up his horse to faster run and in a blink of an eye he passed by the half closed gate to the Tower. He didn't see it, but his soldiers got to their own horses and springed immediately after him, one after another, with no array or second thought.

A battle. All cinders and bodies. Only those words bounced back and forth as Oropher lead his horse blindly through the forest to the east. Taranir called to him, but Oropher didn't hear him.

He heard thunders over the hills and lightnings flashed somewhere far on the dark sky. The storm was gathering, but it didn' even cross Oropher's mind to go back. He kept fastening his horse, desperately trying to deny what he heard from the riders. He tried to deny what he was doing now, it would only make more real all the thoughts that crossed through his mind.

Maybe it was just exagerration. Maybe he mindlessly rode out for nothing. Bressil's team was prepared to take down few wargs, they were ready for-

Oropher stopped sharply as soon as he arrived to the small clearing. Huro foamed up and breathed heavily with a strain after such long run, but Oropher kept looking around easily seeing that the rider was right. He was right to say that all what remained were cinders.

There was no living soul around. Overwhelming silence was only interrupted by rising thunders. All too well Oropher recognised the view if front of him. It was a scenery of lost battle.

'Arvellon!' he called as he pushed the horse to gallop inside the clearing. Huro minded his steps and tried to avoid puddles of thick mud, but Oropher blindly turned his horse all around to see even a blink of movement, some weak sign.

His heart bumped so painfully hard that he was already too warm in his armor. And his throat tightened only more, though he tried to swallow this desperately. It was not the end. But the last words of the rider were all too vivid now - if there was someone alive they wouldn't have left him out here. And Oropher could clearly see that there was no one who survived.

He rode closer to the bodies and looked at each of them. Bloody shreds of elves lied deep in the mud, open gleaming eyes stared up to the sky. Horses lied beside their riders, often crushing them with weight and the ground was all dark around them. Open bodies spilled vitals on the grass, rising terrible smell in the air. Some of the bodies were half eaten and naked bones were noticed immediately. Sometimes, the bodies were so mangled that it was hard to recognise which part was an elf or a horse.

And he couldn't find Arvellon. Oropher went there and back staring at terribly mauled bodies and he couldn't find him. All the panic, stress and fear mixed in one showing off in shivers and nervous pulling on his horse's dark mane. Then he noticed a known form, laying on the side, under the body of half-eaten horse. He rode closer, just to see a terribly bitten face of Bressil, barely recognisable. Oropher turned his eyes away, overwhelming sorrow rising in his heart. Just as he did that he noticed dead body of Falch and Nadhor lied right next to him.

All of them payed with their lives, why Arvellon should be spared?

Oropher shook his head cut off those thought. He will find Arvellon and bring him home. There was no other option. It couldn't be any different.

Then a sudden flash got Oropher's attention. Like a hunting dog, he turned to the object he noticed and bid his horse to trott closer. He rised up a sword from a mud. With red handle, a bit curved at the tip, and wide steel at this beginning. Arvellon's sword. He was always so proud of it.

Oropher once more looked around, at all the bodies that could possibly be on this clearing. Some of them were taken. There was not enough bodies. Bressil's team was more numerous than this. And Oropher held on tightly to this thought - he will get Arvellon from those who took him.

First large drops of rain started to fall and Oropher got a sword to the sheet at his saddle, then he jumped back on the horse. He turned to his soldiers who in the meantime were looking for any survivors.

'Were did they go?!' he called to Alagos who immediately looked up at him. 'Where?!'

'West, towards the Tower!'

This was all Oropher needed. And knowing what was coming, his soldiers quickly mounted their horses to follow him, since he didn't wait for them again. And Oropher cought a trail with ease. Large battalion of heavy armed forces passed by the woods, making out deep tracks. Trees on the path were dead. Without leaves and without a soul.

For Oropher only one thing mattered - the enemy took some of their soldiers hostage and Arvellon may be among them. He needed to find him and bring back home.

Blindly, he followed the trail that lead him with huge curve around the Tower. It was clear the wargs were running, in haste to leave territory of Doriath. Thunders were now heard above their heads and followed their every step, rain poured from the sky like a waterfall. Leaden clouds overwhelmed the sky and covered the land with darkness. It was hard to know if it was even a day or night, but Oropher tirelessly forced his horse to gallop still. To follow the trail that started to slowly blend in the mud.

After a long time of impossible effort and stress, Oropher stopped at the verge of the forest. He looked on the distant plains to see even slight shape of enemy's forces, but he noticed nothing. And rain made it only worse.

Blending trial only showed him to move north and that's what he did. With no more moment of rest he left the Girdle and rode into territory full of danger. His soldiers barely managed to catch up to him when he already moved forth. But they followed, as they always did.

It was not the end. Oropher will get Arvellon from whatever took him. He will get him back safely to Menegroth. It was not the end.

Rain was mercilessly blinding him, wet armor and clothes weighted down on him, his horse was sinking in the mud, barely rising legs from exhaustions, but Oropher forced it to further effort. He will get through the wide plains before Ered Gorgoroth if he will have to, he will get once more throught the Mountains of Shadow. There was no stopping him now.

It felt as if days had passed since they left the Girdle. They were riding north, towards Ered Gorgoroth and rain kept pouring down with heavy, all too big drops. And soon there was no trail to follow.

Oropher slowed his horse to trott, desperately looking down on the ground to see even slight shape of warg's trail, but he looked in vain. All around him was a deep mud and every trace that was once there was entirely lost.

Long ago he let go of pulling away hair that sticked to his face. He had water everywhere and not a single piece of his clothing or equipment was spared from the rain. His horse was all soaked as well and stepped from one leg to another to not sink in the bog too much.

Getting himself together, Oropher decided to turn north-west. Even the enemy's forces didn't pass by Ered Gorgoroth and they had to change their direction. And the probability was great that they rode west.

But before Oropher pushed his horse to gallop, Taranir rode close to him and blocked his way with his own steed. Only then Oropher realized that there were only two of them on wide plains.

'Where are the others?!' he called to outshout the loud rain falling down to the ground. 'We have to ride forward!'

'I turned them back!' Taranir said and he cought Oropher's arms almost desperately. 'Oropher, I beg you for everything that that is worth! We have to turn back!'

'No!' Oropher immediately shouted, rage rising up in him. 'I won't, I can't! I won't stop now!'

'We have to go back!' Taranir said once more and he stubbornly held Oropher arms, their horses bucked and snorted and conflicting signals, but Taranir didn't let Oropher pull away.

'Let me go!' he finally snarled with wrath. 'Go back if you want! I can even order you to go! I will go alone if I will have to!'

'Oropher, please-!'

'I can't leave him out there!' Oropher shouted furiously, but he didn't even realise how desperate his voice sounded like nor he didn't fully comprehend the meaning of words he just said out loud. He almost managed to pull away from his friend. 'I cought a trail and I will follow it!'

'Look around! There is no trail to follow!'

At those words, Oropher closed his eyes and refused to look around on the mud. It would only confirm what Taranir just said. There was only bog all around and a wall of rain.

'We lost their tracks.' Taranir said quietly, but Oropher shook his head and still held his eyes tightly closed, his throat tightening even more. He couldn't see it, he didn't want to look at this mud around. And he slowly felt it creeping into his heart. It was a sense of defeat. Horrible, cruel defeat. His failure. All that he was saying to himself before, his promise to bring Arvellon home was lost to heavy rain.

Taranir embraced him and brought close to himself, as much as it was possible while being on horses, but despite the rain and thunders around Oropher heard clearly his quiet words.

'I am sorry. I am so sorry.'

Only then he stopped fighting Taranir and his throat pained so much he couldn't hold back tears. He realised it was the end. When he cried on the plains before Ered Gorgoroth, he knew this was the end and he won't bring Arvellon back home.

[dawnstruck]

building empires [3/4]

 “You trust too easily,” he warns calmly, “One day, someone you love will offer you their hand and stab you with the other.”

“But not this day,” Damen knows.

“No,” Laurent agrees, “Not this day.”

Lamen Arranged Marriage AU [Read on AO3]

xvii

Damen's fall is made up of mild weather and anticipation for ships from Vere. Sometimes, they bring with them envelops that carry the royal seal and then Damen's friends hoot and holler while he just shoves them off and disappears to the privacy of his chambers.

In the beginning, their correspondence is characterized by Laurent's adherence to proper decorum and manners. Gone are his teasing tone and his love for wholly inappropriate topics in truly inappropriate moments. Instead, it is as though they are little more than acquaintances and this ink on paper nothing but a courtesy call.

Prince Damianos,

I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I find myself in good health, though just two weeks past Auguste was hassled by a somewhat tenacious cough from which he has mostly recovered.

At first, Damen finds himself floored by the superficiality of the words, the absolute lack of affection. He has to pull the book of poetry from his shelf to remind himself that he had not imagined the Laurent from last year, the one who would tear at his hair at having to entertain such mindless small-talk. The one who had put a promise like fire into Damen's heart and then left to let the forest burn.

But Damen, not allowing himself to be hurt by how easily physical distance seemed to have estranged Laurent from him, just sits down to compose an answer.

Dearest Laurent,

I thank you for your concern. I am well, apart from my left foot which a mare happened to step upon when Nikandros spooked it with a particularly ill-timed fart.

Laurent, fortunately, is quick to rise to the bait.

Damianos,

on behalf of kyroi Nikandros I have conferred with the royal physicist. He recommends ginger, fennel seeds and chamomile tea as reliable treatment against stomach gas. Please send him my well wishes.

Laurent,

Kyroi Nikandros refuses your well wishes and instead challenges you to a duel upon your next meeting. I hope you are not neglecting you sword-fighting.

Damen,

On the morrow, Auguste and I will leave for border patrol. It is my first time accompanying him, but there have been reports of bandits waylaying travelers along the mountains, so he thinks it will be as good a time as any for me to learn.

Your lessons, it seems, will come in handy soon.

My dear Laurent

Border patrol sounds exciting until you are actually spending weeks on the road and plucking various kinds of flora and fauna out off your hair and clothes at all times. Nevertheless, I am glad to see that your brother finally acknowledges as an equal. I think your year apart might have made him understand that you are nearly a man fully grown.

Dear Damen,

Auguste and I have returned from border patrol. I did not get the chance to fight any bandits myself,  though I do find that it has been a valuable lesson. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that Vere consists of more than just Arles and its forests. The past weeks have truly reminded me of how vast and wonderful our kingdom truly is.

Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself missing Ios and it's milder climate. We've had the first snowfall, and my uncle who was on a visit to Patras will now have to spend the winter there as the sudden change in weather has made the mountain pass inaccessible.

I am drowned in duties and responsibilities, and my father claims it is to prepare me for the throne but I believe he is just growing lazy. Perhaps he wishes to abdicate early and hopes to merely push the crown onto me as soon as possible. I managed to wrestle a promise from him though that, if I perform my tasks well, I shall be allowed to return to Arles in the spring.

Please ask your father and brother whether they are amenable.

Yours truly,

Damen

Laurent does not bother with explicitly writing out whether he is looking forward to seeing Damen again, apart from sending along his father's agreement to once more welcoming Damen in Vere. But, after a year spent with Laurent personally and several months pouring over his fine handwriting, Damen has grown rather apt at reading between the lines.

I wish winter would come to an end. The snow bores me and the sky, even if not overcast, is never quite as blue as the Akielon sea. I keep counting down the days to my nameday when the crocuses will finally bloom.

Yours,

Laurent

xviii

The gods were fickle creatures indeed if, after centuries of animosity, they made it so that an Akielon prince would one day end up looking forward to spending time at the Veretian court.

But here Damianos is, strong winds in their sails and carrying them across the sea at a pace that is still not quite quick enough for his liking.

He shouldn't be this eager, he thinks, shouldn't be this obvious about it. But he had practically begged his father for permission to spend another summer in Arles, and Theomedes had relented easily and with a knowing smile.

“Yes,” he had said, “Go meet your foster brother.”

It had been a pointed reminder of how, throughout the winter, Damianos had still insisted on how he and Laurent were only technically engaged and that nothing was settled yet. Old habits died hard, after all, even if everyone had oft rolled their eyes at his tiring vehemence.

It was true, though. Much could change in the course of half a year. Maybe Laurent had outgrown his childish affections for Damen which had been rather fragile to begin with. Maybe they would be able to remain friends but never to turn it into anything more than that.

Damen had promised himself that he would arrive without any expectations regarding Laurent's attitude toward him. The boy had always been unpredictable and Damen deemed it best to not get his hopes up.

His determination, however, is tried as soon as they make it into the harbor and step on land.

Once more, the princes of Vere have come to welcome him, side by side, just as when Damen had first met them all of two years ago. Who would have thought that Auguste's harebrained idea would one day land them here?

“Prince Auguste,” Damen greets the crown prince first, ever aware of the proper decorum the Veretians like to insist on, “It is a joy to finally meet you again.”

“Likewise, Prince Damianos,” Auguste returns courteously, but then his gaze is already slyly sliding over to where his brother is more or less patiently waiting.

Laurent has grown a couple of inches, Damen notes, and he stands almost as tall as Auguste now, though he is still clearly more boy than man. Yet the months of separation now make Damen very aware of every single change, of the blue-blooded pallor that has returned to Laurent's eyelids and how his hair is tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“My prince,” Damen says, “It's been too long.”

“I welcome you to my birthplace, heir of Theomedes,” Laurent says in flawless Akielon, coyly glancing up between his lashes.

And just like that it's as though no time has passed at all. A warm smile spreads across Damen's face, but there is another, more subtle, heat deep in his belly.

For a long moment, the two of them just simply at each other. There is no kiss, not in front of Auguste, and Damen feels just a little bit bad for wishing they were alone.

“I brought you some oranges,” Damen says, because it seems like the most innocuous thing to say, “And a cook who knows how to make orange cakes.”

Laurent's smile is the tiniest thing but it's there if you know where to look for it. And Damen does know.

“Then we best get them all to the kitchens,” Laurent says, “I would love something sweet for dinner.

ixx.

Laurent, despite Damen's initial starstruck impression, seems more austere than he did back in Akielos. He's tightly laced up again, in dark velvets and fine brocade, holding himself with impeccable grace as he shows Damen to the quarters he already had been using during his first visit two summers ago.

While once upon a time Damen had thought him a flighty forest sprite, he is now as frost upon a young leaf, cool on the outside but with promise of spring lying just underneath the surface.

As he follows Laurent along the corridors, he allows himself to fall behind by just half a step, allows himself to let his gaze trail over the intricately woven laces that run down the narrow line of Laurent's back. Damen finds himself struck by the thought of how it would be to actually undo all those same laces, tugging them free from their eyelets and pushing the smooth velvet off of Laurent's shoulders to get to the silken skin underneath. He does not fool himself in to believing that he wouldn't make a terrible mess of it, and yet he dreams of that slow sensuality, of undressing Laurent bit by bit. Of messing up that strict perfection.

Damen takes a deep breath and wonders whether they would need that chaperon after all.

Laurent is sixteen now, still too young in prudence's eyes, but it's not like Damen's fantasies are being fueled by good reasons.

“I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction,” Laurent tells him when he leaves him to rest and freshen up after the long journey.

“I do,” Damen says. His gaze lingers a little too long.

But, then again, so does Laurent's.

A bath, a nap, and a small snack bring a greater ability to show restraint. Dinner brings more surprises.

Damen had not noticed before, distracted by his other observations, but much like Laurent, Auguste, whom Damen hadn't seen in even longer, had changed as well. The most overt part is that he had cut his hair short.

“Less of a hassle in the winter,” Auguste laughs when he is questioned, “It takes too long to dry and even longer to make it look presentable.”

Yet Damen cannot help but take quiet notice of the dark shadows that are painted underneath Auguste's eyes, wonders what might be keeping him so occupied. There are no pressing political matters on a larger scale that Damen is aware of, but the Veretians in their pride have always been extremely circumspect of letting news about their own home-made struggles make it across the borders.

As a friend Damen wants to ask, but as a prince he knows that it is not quite his place.

He also cannot help but notice how Laurent and Auguste seem to have grown even closer. Sometimes, while they converse, the brother will throw each other looks. There is no lull in conversation, so it's almost imperceptible, but Damen still can tell that there are a thousand words that go unspoken between them. Unspoken but not misunderstood.

So it was not just the border patrol that had made Auguste view his little brother as an equal or at least as something more than a child. Damen just cannot quite figure out what it is.

He tries to think nothing of it at first, but then it turns out that he is not the only one who thinks so.

“They are hiding something,” Jokaste notes idly, under the guise of plucking at the seams of her dress.

While Nikandros had opted to remain in Akielos this time, Jokaste had insisted on coming along instead. She claimed she wanted to improve her Veretian and that she wished to see young Laurent again, but everyone could tell that she was merely hoping to expand her territory. Damen had tried to tell her of the Veretians dislike of out-of-wedlock male-female relationships, but she had turned up her nose at him.

“I'll just have to marry one of them then,” she had said confidently and, upon reconsideration, added, “And there are always deviants.”

So now she was here and she was fluent in the language of intrigue which Damen could barely understand a few words of.

“Do not press for answers,” Damen warns her, “We are guests here.”

“My prince,” she tells him slyly, “We do not press for answers. We stumble upon them in opportune moments.”

And then she turns to Auguste and politely asks him to point out the various dignitaries in the dining hall.

“I have no memory for faces,” she claims with an embarrassed smile, “And an even worse one for names.”

“Of course,” Auguste says in mild surprise, “Please, feel free to stop me if I start to bore you.”

“Oh,” she says, “You could never.”

Across the table, Laurent cocks an eyebrow at Damen. Damen, however, can do nothing but shrug.

xx.

While Jokaste attempts to unravel the mysteries of the Veretian court, the answer – or at least part of it – presents itself earlier than expected.

Ironically, it happens as Laurent and Damen are having a sparring match. Damen has to keep his guard up because he had almost forgotten how Laurent's style of fighting ignored any code of honor. It's a challenge but also a welcome reprieve from making nice with the various nobles as is expected of both of them. If they are to reign together one day, they need learn how to leave a good impression on people and forge connections. As of now, the nobles were King Aleron's subjects and, potentially, his opponents. One day they would be Auguste's and, to a lesser degree, Damen and Laurent's.

Just when Laurent shows the first signs of tiring, his footwork getting a bit sloppy, Jord joins them on the field.

“My prince,” he says. His voice is quiet, but there is an edge to it. Immediately Laurent raises his hand to signal an end of the match. Both he and Damen lower their weapons.

“What is it, Jord?” Laurent says and he, too, sounds just the faintest bit alarmed.

“Your brother wishes to speak to you,” Jord tells him.

And there should be nothing to it, no worry, no unease, yet Laurent's shoulder tense almost imperceptibly.

“I will see him at once,” he says and Jord gives a tight nod.

“Laurent,” Damen says and nothing more. Laurent turns to look at him, considering.

“You might as well join me,” he decides at length, “This pertains to you, too.”

Damen does not understand what that means. He tries to make sense of it as they set aside their practice swords and make their way back into the palace proper. Both Jord and Laurent march along the hallways with exact steps, the sounds of it echoing off the walls. Whereas the soldier is obvious in Jord's gait, though, Laurent walks as if the soles of his feet alone could intimidate the earth into doing his bidding.

His low ponytail brushes against the back of neck, single strands catching in the sweat damp skin, but other than that he is the epitome of poise and perfection. If you knew him, however, could tell how unsettled he truly was.

The answer as to why presents itself once Jord has led them to Auguste's chambers. Up to this point Damen is naive still, merely expects some minor inconvenience, something only Veretians would get their feathers ruffled over. Then he sees the blood.

“What on earth-,” he gasps.

On the floor is a man, face-down and motionless. Judging by the amount of blood in a puddle underneath him, he must be dead.

“Auguste,” Laurent says, as though the sight of a dead body does not faze him much. His eyes are only on his brother. “Are you alright?”

“I've been better,” Auguste allows. He sits sunken down on an armchair. His face is ashen, his hair disheveled. “But I am unharmed. Mostly.”

He lifts his left arm to reveal a shallow cut along the biceps. It's nothing much to worry about, but Laurent immediately grabs a pitcher of wine of a table, liberally pouring in onto the wood. It soaks the white fabric of Auguste's tunic, but most of it trickles down to the floor where it joins the blood, red veins reaching out across the dark wood floor.

“Someone attacked you,” Damen concludes. It's obvious but his disbelief still makes that reality difficult to grasp. “In your own chambers.”

“Yes,” Auguste nods; then he motions fore Jord, “Show him the blade, please.”

Jord nods and pulls a long jagged dagger from within his jacket, handing it hilt-first to Damen.

Damen accepts it, staring at it with wide eyes.

“Is that an Akielon dagger?” Auguste asks. It does not sound like an accusation, just like the prince is honestly trying to ascertain facts that he already knows. So Damen curbs his instinctual denial and remains just as calm.

“Yes,” he says, weighing the weapon in his hands, “And of good craftsmanship, too.

Few would be able to afford such a blade. It was typically given to young adolescents upon some sort of great achievement, a boar they killed or a girl they bedded, whatever happened first. Nikandros had one. Damen did, too. It had been given to him by his father when he had first managed to beat Kastor in a sword fight.

“But that man is not Akielon,” Damen adds, his gaze dropping to the corpse. He can't see the man's face but his coloring is far too light. That observation would not absolve all the blame but it was as good a place as any to start.

“I know this was not your doing,” Auguste says as though reading his thoughts, “Nor that of your countrymen. This was obviously not just an attempt on my life, but also a ploy to put the blame onto you.”

“But why?” Damen cannot help but ask. He feels like a boy. The world and all its intricacies make little sense to him.

“To destroy the pact between Vere and Akielos,” Auguste says with certainty, “To sever your engagement to Laurent. To make us go back to war as though peace had never happened.”

When voiced like that, it does sound rather plausible. And yet there is still much confusion left.

“But who would want such a thing,” Damen wonders, “And of your own people, too?”

“There are many,” Auguste knows, “Some more persistent than others.”

He exchanges another of those unnerving looks with Laurent then, a silent conversation that Damen is not privy to.

“Has something of this nature happened before?” Damen wants to know. The three other men seem entirely too blasé about the whole ordeal.

“Occasionally,” Auguste hums, “Their attempts are getting bolder but also more inelegant. It's hard to believe that they honestly believed this one might come to fruition.”

Veretians, Damen decides, are absolutely mad dogs. Maybe Nikandros had been right after all.

“Why is the king not raising security measures then?” he asks, “The palace-”

“The king does not know,” Laurent cuts in, “And you will not tell him.”

Damen whips around to stare at him, but Laurent's eyes are diamonds.

“But-,” he tries anyway.

“This is Veretian business,” Laurent tells him, “And we will keep it that way.”

“It is my business if they try to drag Akielos into it,” Damen says, fiery, “It is my business if they try to kill my friend and my future brother-in-law. It is my business because you asked me to come along to see this.”

“I brought you here because you need to learn,” Laurent says and he is all ice, “You need to understand.” “Damen, please,” Auguste says, “Promise to not tell our father. It may seem inadvisable to you, but we have our reasons. This... is for the best.”

His face is earnest, his voice tired. This is not the first time this has happened. Auguste knew more than Damen did. And though Damen does not appreciate being kept out of the loop, he has to trust the brothers' judgment. Sometimes, that's how friendships worked.

“I promise,” he says, even though the words as ash in his mouth.

If he were honest with himself, Damen does not want to see for Laurent for the rest of the day. Laurent, of course, has other plans.

“Come,” he says as though speaking to a dog and then leads him down into the courtyard. Damen follows, reluctant.

Laurent waves over a stable boy and gives curt orders to have their horses prepared. It's not overly surprising. The prince had always favored going for a ride when he needed to clear his mind.

It doesn't take long for the stable master himself to bring out a stallion for Damen as well as Laurent's horse.

He smiles when he sees that it is the mare named Ios which he had given Laurent as a parting gift on their last day in Akielos.

“She is serving you well, then?” he asks, quiet pride in his words. “She is,” Laurent agrees as he swings himself up into the saddle. For a moment, he stills.

“Orlant knows his way around horses,” he says then, “He told me that, going by her stature and her coloring, she must be a mixed breed.”

“Her parents were a Veretian stallion and an Akielon mare,” Damen says, “She combines grace with endurance. Like you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Laurent snorts and then tugs at the reins to make Ios turn towards the gates.

“My prince,” the stable master says in warning. He does not sound too adamant about it, though, probably used to these kinds of escapades.

“Leave us,” Laurent says simply.

“The king will not be happy about you riding out alone again.”

“I'm not alone,” Laurent replies, sending a quick look at Damen.  “Let's ride,” he says and they do.

They ride across the plains and the fields and up to the outskirts of the forest until their horses are covered in sweat. Only then does Laurent pull the reins and jumo out of the saddle. He does not bother to tether Ios somewhere. The mare is trained well enough to not run away, but Damen is not so sure about his own steed.

He slings the reins of the bridle around a low-hanging branch, gives the horse a pat on the rump and then turns around to where Laurent is pressing his back against the trunk of a tree, leaning his head back and breathing deeply. Looking for liberation.

Damen takes a step but then stops himself. He is not sure whether he is welcome and, especially in Laurent's state of agitation, he does not wish to overstep his boundaries.

Laurent seems to think differently, watching Damen with thoughtful eyes.

“Come closer,” he says, and Damen does.

The sparse grass tickles his toes through his sandals and then Laurent reaches out, running his fingertips over Damen's collarbone. Damen's nostrils flare.

“Closer,” Laurent demands until there are merely a few inches separating them.

Suddenly, there is a skin-warm blade pressed against Damen's pulse. He stills.

From this angle, he cannot see the weapon but he knows that it must be the stiletto that he had gifted Laurent last year, on the day when something minuscule had changed between them. Laurent's eyes, however, are indefinitely sharper.

“You trust too easily,” he warns calmly, “One day, someone you love will offer you their hand and stab you with the other.”

“But not this day,” Damen knows.

“No,” Laurent agrees, “Not this day.”

He pulls pack, smoothly sheathing his stiletto once more.

For a long moment, Damen looks at him.

“I wish you weren't so jaded,” he says, “I wish you wouldn't use your smiles as swords.”

“You are a little to late for that,” Laurent says and, as though to prove a point, smiles.

xxi.

Two weeks later, the king's brother who had been off on a visit to Fortaine returns to the court. He brings with him a number of presents and two deer he shot on the way, and subsequently a small feast is arranged for the evening.

Laurent who had loosened up a little since the attempt on Auguste's life is back to being sullen. Damen has trouble pinpointing the reason, but he suspects it must have something to do with being surrounded with so many people once more. Laurent had never been a friend of crowds in the first place; knowing that among those people might be some who wished his family ill certainly did not improve his mood.

At another table, a group of pets has gotten up to entertain their masters with a rather vulgar sort of dance. It involved a lot of bending and spreading and touching each other. In fact, calling it a dance would be gracious. The Veretians titter and laugh, making small-talk with each other while their eyes keep straying back to their naked pets.

Damen looks away. He does not care for having his appetite spoiled.

Unwillingly, he finds himself reminded of how, little over a year ago, Laurent had danced for him. No naked skin, no coy smiles. Just Laurent, the beat of the music and a song of fulfillment. He wonders whether, one day, he will get to see him dance again.

Do distract himself from his somewhat indecent thoughts, he tries to merely talk to Laurent instead, though it proves to be a challenging endeavor. Their conversations have been stilted since that afternoon at the edge of the woods, since Auguste has slit his would-be assassins throat and sworn Damen to secrecy.

Damen finds himself missing the easy companionship of Nikandros and their friends, the kind that consisted of wine and sordid stories but that had them risking their lives for each other in battle. In Vere, it's as though betrayal might lurk around every corner.

And Damen trusts Laurent and Auguste, but he does no longer feel the same ease around them as he used to. There is something else going on, something bigger, and yet they treat him like a child who might ruin the surprise if he were told any of the details.

Unexpectedly, someone else comes to his aid, though.

The king's brother approaches their table with a winning smile and an inviting gesture. “Prince Damianos,” he says cordially, “We haven't had much chance to talk yet. I apologize for my rudeness.”

“You are a busy man and therefore forgiven,” Damen tells him, “I hear you have been traveling a lot.”

“I have,” the man agrees, “Longer than I was hoping to, to be honest. The Patran winter kept behind the mountains for too long. And after that I needed a little vacation.”

“You went to Fortaine, did you not?” Damen asks. He has been trying to brush up on the names of the surrounding fortresses and those who hold them. It was in expectation of becoming son-in-law to the king, but also because he felt like he needed to be prepared in case if any other intrigues.

“Yes, councilor Guion has a son just a little younger than Laurent,” the king's brother explains, “I'm sure they would get on well. He would make a fine squire. I actually invited him to court to see whether the life here suits him.”

Laurent viciously stabs the meat on his plate with his fork, obviously less than enthused by the idea.

“Squiring does make men out of boys,” Damen agrees.

In Akielos they followed similar practices, and he had hated and loved every minute of his own time attending a young kyroi. Alcibiades had been a beautiful man and he had instructed Damen in more than just the art of fighting. Even when Damen grew older and eventually left his service, their friendship remained a deep one, different from his rambunctious brotherhood with Nikandros, as weathered and mature as only old lovers can be. Alcibiades had fallen in one of the battles leading up to Marlas, though, and it had been one of the reasons why Damen had so resented the idea of a peace treaty.

He frowns, displeased by being reminded of his grief at such a moment. Maybe Laurent's uncle notices because he makes a point of moving the conversation into a different direction.

“Fortaine is actually well known for its winehills,” he tells Damen, “Though they don't much distribute it anywhere but in Vere. I've brought some along with me. Would you care for a taste?”

“Of course,” Damen says, never one to turn down a drink. It is also the surest way to bring back some levity to his thoughts.

So the king's brother waves his pet closer, a dark-haired, green-eyed beauty, and has him pour three goblets of wine, one for Laurent, too, though the prince only accepts it reluctantly.

“A toast,” his uncle proposes, “To our continued relations.”

So they toast and clink their goblets. It's good wine and Damen drinks deeply. From the corner of his eye, he can see how Laurent takes a sniff of the wine and only wets his lips a little. He has never had much of a taste for alcohol and Damen had suspected it being due to him still having a child's palate, but considering that Laurent is older now it might be that it is just his dislike for losing control that keeps him from indulging too much.

Damen has barely lowered his goblet that the pet is already there to top it off again, and then he continues to talk to the king's brother about expanding trading routes and rising export rates.

Eventually, Laurent's uncle excuses himself to talk to some other people, and Damen settles back to watch the people around the hall. His gaze keeps straying back to where Jokaste is talking to Auguste.

Damen would think it another of her perfectly polished seduction attempts, but she keeps making animated gestures and when Auguste says something she objects immediately. Once, she opens her mouth just as she is lifting her goblet to her lips and a bit of wine spills down her chin instead. She wipes it away with an impatient wrist, but some drops must travel along her neck and into her cleavage because that is where Auguste's eyes follow them.

Damen smiles to himself. It's an unexpected development but not an unwelcome one. Jokaste might profit from someone who challenges her in ways she had not foreseen. Auguste is not a schemer by any means, but he is witty and eloquent. They would keep each other on their toes, that much is certain.

They'd be a lovely sight, too, all that blonde hair and their lithe bodies, her skin just a shade darker than his, and it's easy to imagine Auguste powerfully moving between her thighs, his buttocks-

Ah. Damen stops himself. Imagining his fiancé's brother having sex is probably not the best idea.

And yet it is difficult to rein his thoughts in once more. He does not blush easily and it is fortunately not very visible with is dark coloring, but now he can feel himself growing hot. He can feel himself growing aroused, even, and that should not happen just because of some pretty ideas.

He wipes a palm across his face and then reaches for the water pitcher. Maybe he should lay off the wine for now; it must have been stronger than expected, though it had been exceptionally sweet and flavorful.

“Damen,” Laurent says from next to him, “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Damen claims, yet when he turns his head he is hit by sudden dizziness. He steadies himself against the table and, when he can see clearly again, he lifts his gaze to Laurent.

Laurent who is more beautiful than Auguste and Jokaste combined, whose lips are red and who looks at Damen with such undivided attention that he might think himself a god.

“Dammit,” Laurent curses under his breath. There is a furrow on his brow, but it just makes him more lovely. It gives life to a kind of perfection that might otherwise be mistaken for a statue.

“Laurent,” Damen says. His voice sounds faraway in his ear, as though he had spoken underwater.

“Damen,” Laurent says urgently. His hand has come up to fist in the front of Damen's chiton, pulling him closer. “Damen, kiss me.”

It sounds like the kind of good idea that will turn into a bad idea but, in his current state of mind, Damen cannot find anything wrong with that.

So he kisses him, first on the lips and then, angling his hand to the side, opening Laurent's mouth with his, pushing his tongue in, running it along the back of Laurent's teeth, before daring to go further, finding Laurent's tongue in turn. And they kiss like they spar, with Damianos trying to be bold but courteous, while Laurent does not hesitate to fight dirtily.

He puts a hand to the Damen's naked knee and then lets it slide up till it rests against the inside of his thigh. Damen's cock twitches in his loincloth and he gives a low moan.

A second later, Laurent is gone.

“Come,” he says, having risen from his seat and offering Damen his hand, “Let's go.”

“Where to?” Damen asks, though he would follow him anywhere.

“You chambers,” Laurent say, and so they leave together.

xxi

The next day, Damen wakes feeling slow and sluggish. It's not the ringing headache and nausea of too many cups of wine and he finds himself vaguely confused by that. And anyway, he did not have much to drink and he can handle his liquor, so he wonders what else could have affected him like that.

He blearily remembers the feast and the polite chatter and then Laurent appeared and everything got a little hazy. Damen frowns, blinks, pushes his curly fringe out of his face and rolls over in bed.

“You are awake,” Laurent says as though he had been for a long time.

Damen does not quite fall off the mattress but it's a near thing. He holds on to the sheets and tries to make sense of what happened, how Laurent could have ended up here in bed with him.

Laurent kissed him. Laurent kissed him and that he knows, that he could never forget. But everything else is a blur.

Damen's heart is racing. His previously phlegmatic blood pumps through his veins, sending his thoughts into chaos.

They didn't. They couldn't have. He knows this, but he also knows that underneath the sheets he is naked, just as Laurent is naked, and his body is aching all over but not in exactly unpleasant ways.

“Laurent,” he croaks, asking for an answer, but hoping for a lie.

In that moment, the door bursts open.

This time, Damen startles so badly that he does fall out of the bed. His tailbone aches from the impact, but that's the least of his worries.

A group of six men swarms into the room, immediately assessing the situation. By their insignia Damen can tell that they are the men of the king's brother.

“Prince Damianos of Akielos,” one of them says and for a Veretian he is unusually unperturbed by Damen's nudity, “I hereby accost you for indecent behavior and improper conduct with Prince Laurent.”

Too many things have happened in the past minute for Damen to really make sense of anything at all. He only knows that he is in deep, deep trouble. The denial is more instinctual than anything else, like a boy caught red-handed when stealing food from the pantry.

“We didn't do anything,” he says. He thinks. He cannot know because has never had a gap in memory like this.

But his claim goes ignored.

“Dress him,” the head of the group instructs the rest, “We can't have a barbarian parading around the throne room naked.”

Damen does not resist.

Everything happens very quickly then. Veretians do not care about sex outside of wedlock, as long as it is kept between same-sex couples. However, pre-marital sex is a different matter if the deed is done between spouses. Even if it is between same-sex couples.

It's all quite confusing and frankly, idiotic. But it is the law and Damen has broken it. And, more than that, he has dishonored the pact and defiled the prince.

He is brought to the king and made to kneel, an act of humiliation considering he is royalty himself, but that is the least of his problems now.

To make things worse, Auguste is present as well, standing by his father's side, arms cross in front of his chest. Damen resists the urge to bow his head in shame.

He also does not allow his eyes to follow Laurent who strides into the room and quickly makes his way up to the throne. A hassled servant is following him, trying to properly tie the laces at his back. It's another grim reminder of how, mere minutes ago, the prince had been naked and in bed with the heir of Akielos.

And then it begins. Damen is not quite sure what to expect. A trial maybe, or the farce of one. Perhaps he will be lucky and they will only annul the engagement and send him on his way. Perhaps they'll behead him. Perhaps they'll declare war. It's difficult to tell.

Damen has known Aleron to be an austere king but a kind man. Since there initial meeting at Marlas, this is merely the first time Damen has truly been confronted with the former.

At Marlas, he had been given Laurent. Today, he would lose him.

Aleron's face is as clouds before a thunder storm, dark and yet deceptively calm.

“Have you touched my son?” he asks plainly. The words seem to echo of the tall walls.

Damen clenches his fists. He wants to speak the truth, but it is not within his grasp. So he settles for the closest thing.

“I... I do not recall.”

If Aleron is surprised or outraged by that reply, he does not show it.

“My brother tells me that this morning you were found in Laurent's chambers and, what's more, in his bed. Does that rejuvenate your memory?”

Nervously, Damen licks his lips.

“I can account for this morning,” he says with care, “And for last evening. But not for the night that lay in between.”

“You would use your drunk stupor as an excuse?”

“I offer neither excuse nor justification,” Damen says, “Merely what little I have: a sincere apology and my deepest regrets.”

Regrets are all he has now. The thought that he has taken Laurent, that he has potentially forced himself upon him turns his stomach. And he knows himself, he knows he's been rough with slaves before, even if they were willing. Laurent would not have known how to defend himself, might not have wanted to cause a scandal, might have just gone along with it and-

“Father,” Laurent says suddenly. He has shooed the servant away, his laces still half-undone, his hair a mess. And he must mean well, but his appearance might just be Damen's death sentence.

“Father, listen to me,” he pleads nevertheless, “You misunderstand. It wasn't his fault-”

“Laurent,” Aleron says gently, touching a palm to Laurent's cheek, “You are confused. What he did to you-”

“I wanted it,” Laurent insists, “I- I seduced him. And I drugged him.”

Damen's head jerks up. Why would Laurent-

“Chalis,” Aleron says slowly. He looks over at Damen, as though trying to find proof, dilated pupils, labored breath. “But why on earth would you-”

“I love him, father,” Laurent says, a tremble to his voice, “I do not wish to be parted from him. He told me he would rather hold off the wedding for years to come. But I cannot bear it, I want to be his husband now.”

The world is spinning. Maybe there truly is some chalis left in his system. And yet. And yet Damen can tell that there must be more to it.

He would almost believe Laurent's words, almost wants to believe them. But he knows Laurent to be a good actor. And to be much more composed when he comes to his true feelings. This is nothing but a script he must have composed in his head on his way down into the throne room. And King Aleron is his audience.

For a long, long moment, the King of Vere is completely silent, merely looking at his youngest son's desperate face. Then, he slowly turns away.

“I apologize, Prince Damianos,” Aleron says evenly. The storm has thundered. The clouds are bereft. “Unexpectedly, it seems that you were the one wronged in this scenario. There are no words to apologize. My son will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary.”

And just like after a storm, the tension in the air has left. All that's left is damp soggy earth and a lingering darkness.

“There is no need,” Damen hears himself say, “I wish it had happened under different circumstances. But I take no offense in his actions. He is my fiancé.”

King Aleron looks surprised. His back is very straight.

“You still wish to uphold the engagement?” he clarifies.

“Of course. Akielos does not follow the same conventions as Vere,” Damen says, “So let us not throw away two years of commitment for one thoughtless night.”

Aleron frowns, “I welcome your leniency. But there is still the matter of propriety in the eyes of our people.”

And this, finally, is what makes Auguste speak up for the first time.

“Have them marry right away then,” he says and everyone turns to stare at him. Absurdly, Damen finds himself reminded of that day in the tent when Auguste had first proposed this reckless scheme.

But it worked once, did it not? It might work again.

“Laurent wants to marry Damen now, Damen wanted to marry Laurent eventually, we want them to marry to avoid a scandal,” Auguste explains, “It's the easiest solution.”

“That-,” Aleron says but does not get very far.

“Yes,” Laurent says quickly, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

He does not lose his head that day, but his fate is sealed anyway.

xxii

Once the decision has been made, everyone descends into madness.

Damen is not even given the chance to speak to either Laurent or Auguste once more, before he is put on a ship and sent back to Ios.

There he is expected to ready everything for his upcoming nuptials and that brings its fair share of problems with it. Royal weddings were already outlandish enough, but it would be even worse now that everyone would feel the need to compete with Vere.

There is also the small matter of having to explain everything to his father.

In the beginning, Theomedes is somewhat cross with him, as is Nikandros. Less than Damen's disgrace, they lament their own failure to prevent him from committing any social blunders. Nikandros especially seems to blame himself for not having accompanied Damen to Arles in order to keep an eye on him.

It is Jokaste who explains matters to them, outlining how starstruck Laurent had been with Damen upon their reunion, how Damen had remained steadfast in his insistence upon marriage, and how the boy eventually must have grown desperate enough to ply his fiancé with chalis. It's a horribly exaggerated account of things, one that no one who actually knows Laurent would believe, but eventually everyone accepts it.

Anger quickly turns into exasperation but no one quite seems to grasp the severity of the situation. As Akielon is so lenient in regards to sexual relationships of all kinds, they do not understand that their prince's cock had almost led them into ruin.

Then there is the confusion about what Laurent's official title is to be and it causes quite some discussion among various advisers.

They've had ruling queens in the past whose husbands were considered consorts, but the specific Akielon term does not apply because Damianos is neither crowned yet nor a woman. It would also be an insult to eventually start referring to Laurent as the queen, though Damen imagines he would be quietly amused by all the trouble he is indirectly causing with this conundrum.

In the end, it is Theomedes who comes up with a term, a word that is put together out of the roots for left hand, originally a military term for a second in command, while using an ending that is used as an endearment between spouses. The king is incredibly proud of himself and Damen doesn't have the heart to tell him that it sounds slightly confusing and as though the leader of an army were fucking one of his captains on the side.

Still, it is better than nothing, and out of the Veretians the only one who might be able to deduce the questionable origin of the word would be Laurent himself.

A courtier from Arles had been sent along to organize the wedding with Veretian standards. They quickly run into a wall, though, when Damen is told that one of the traditions is the consummation of the marriage under witnesses' eyes.

“This is still the Akielon court,” he insists, “We are getting married because the deed has been done. Why do you need more confirmation?”

Other than that, he lets them prepare whatever they want. There is one other demand he makes, namely that there will be no slaves serving the king's table. He cannot entirely ban them from the feast, but he does wish to accommodate Laurent at least in that regard.

Before he knows it, two months have passed and summer solstice is upon them. The longest day of the year brings with it sails on the horizon and familiar sunburst banners.

Laurent comes across the sea as the prince of Vere. And he will stay as Akielon's future king.

xxiii

The entirety of the royal family of Vere arrives in the Akielon capital. It's a historic first.

A procession is led by King Aleron, down from the harbor and up to the palace. The sunburst banners are carried through the street for an occasion other than conquest and the citizens strew flower petals to declare them welcome.

Laurent is riding on his mare Ios, his blue cape draped over her haunches. The golden circlet upon his brow glistens in the midday sun. It's startlingly different from when he had left last fall, a boy not yet at the cusps of manhood. He's a prince now, no doubt, and royalty is in his veins.

Damianos meets him upon the marble steps of the palace and undoes the clasps of his cape. The blue fabric falls from his shoulders, a symbolical denouncement of his forefathers' colors. They do not speak. Even if he wanted to, Damianos finds himself struck silent by Laurent's brutal beauty.

He takes Laurent's hand and begins to lead him up the stairs. At their backs, the people cheer.

There will be songs written about this moment. They will talk of love and fate and the gods' favor. They will lie.

xxiv.

Much like Damen's hasty departure from Arles, Laurent's arrival in Ios is marked by how little they see of each other.

Damen recalls some Veretian make-belief of spouses not being allowed to lay eyes on each other before their wedding, lest they risk bad luck, but he cannot help but think that this is mostly his own fault.

In the short shared moments, Laurent had seemed so strangely intangible. Yes, Laurent had changed since his year in Ios, but he had also changed in the two months since their wedding had been announced.

Such a short amount of time could not change someone to such a degree. Which meant that the only explanation lay within their ill-advised night together.

Damen wonders whether Laurent regrets his decision to drug him, whether their wedding was happening too quickly after all. He wonders whether he had hurt Laurent that night, whether Laurent had underestimated the effects of chalis. He wonders whether their marriage will be doomed from the beginning.

It must be the biggest most significant marriage of the century. Kingdoms have not be united like this in quite some time. The fact that the entirety of both royal families are attending is also quite spectacular.

“I will not miss my son's wedding,” Aleron had said pointedly, after mentioning that his brother had advocated it against it.

The feast, therefore, will be elaborate, but the ceremony itself is a rather straightforward thing. Damen has no patience for outdated words and dull prayers.

Instead, after calling on the gods and asking for their blessing, the high priestess merely wraps a length of red silk around the princes' hands, tying them together, Damen's left and Laurent's right so they would be able to sit side by side. They would remain like this for the rest of the evening, and then Damen would tie it to the outside of their bedroom door so that no one would accidentally disturb their wedding night, an Akielon tradition that had sounded very exciting and bold when he had been a boy but that now seems almost vulgar to him.

The silk whispers across the vulnerable skin of his wrist, binding his pulse to Laurent's. The priestess speaks of their hearts beating in tandem now, of their hearts one day ceasing at the same time. She speaks of the breath of life, too, and how it is exchanged between lovers.

Damen almost misses his cue and then it takes him a moment until he can make himself move.

Laurent, though, looks at him, very calmly. It's all the encouragement, all the challenge Damen will get.

He leans in, ducks his head, and chastely kisses Laurent on the lips. Four kisses now, four kisses that Damen remembers. One for surprise, one for goodbye, one for lust, and one for forever.

He pulls back, lingers, a mere centimeter between their lips, before he actually straightens up again.

They are properly married now, but the ceremony is not yet over.

Laurent kneels and with poised fingers the high priestess removes his golden circlet. Damen, in turn, then crowns him with a laurel wreath made of gold, officially recognizing him as a member of Akielon royalty and making Laurent second in line to the throne until Damen produced an heir. If he still believed Vere were out to get Akielos under their control, this might be it.

Laurent rises with all the grace of a young god and Damen knows he never stood a chance anyway.

xxv.

Laurent eats gracefully, even with only his left hand at his disposal. Damen, having to accept all the well-wishes and presents they receive, repeatedly has to stop himself from speaking with his mouth full.

Among the first influx of guests is Laurent's uncle. He has a servant deliver a few rare books he acquired during his travels, doubtlessly intended more for Laurent. It's a thoughtful present but something about the exchange is strange.

They look at each other for a long moment. Then Laurent moves his hand so it is resting on top of Damen's.

“Thank you, uncle,” he says and offers a small smile.

“I am happy for you, Laurent,” the king's brother says. He sounds like it, too, but for some reason Damen finds himself losing his appetite.

Kastor is next, with a sullen expression and then a strain to his smile, even as he welcomes Laurent to the family.

“By brother needs good council,” he tells Laurent, “I pray you will guide him well.”

Then it's a long throng of Veretian nobles and Theomedes' kyroi.

“You kiss like a maiden,” Makedon tells Damen bluntly, “I hope you don't fuck like one.”

“He doesn't,” Laurent says and Makedon's eyes widen a little because everyone knows the wedding had been set so suddenly due to their illicit night together but so far no one had outright acknowledged it.

“Always has to have the last word, that one,” Makedon grumbles and stomps away while Damianos carefully coughs up the olive he had nearly choked on.

After that, the evening is surprisingly pleasant. The food is good, the wine plenty, and the entertainments entertaining. There's Patran fire-spitting, Akielon drums, a group of singers from across the sea, white patterns painted onto their dark faces. A dozen half-naked women perform a Vaskian fertility dance that has Damen nearly laugh out loud because no matter how pleased the gods were by the performance, Laurent would not end up overly fertile either way.

Eventually, Makedon gets out the griva again and Theomedes challenges Aleron to a drinking game.

Damen takes it as the unspoken permission to finally make his excuses.

Were this any other night of him leaving a feast early, he would claim other commitments, of having to rise with the sun for whatever reason, but now his excuse is his husband tied to him by a red string.

They leave the hall, under whistles and cheers and provocative comments. Damen does not rise to any of them.

In the past two months, he had dismissed all slaves from his service, finding them other masters, but now he sends away the attending servants as well. When they are gone, he loosens the silk from their wrists and puts it in its proper place at the door frame. Then he turns the key in the lock, blessed silence and solitude. Safe for one exception.

Laurent stands by bed and, in the low light, he seems less severe than he did the rest of the day. He looks younger, softer, and for the first time in a while Damen feels the unequivocal instinct to protect him from all evils.

“We are married,” Laurent says and he sounds slightly surprised, the past hours little more than a strange dream.

“Yes,” Damen agrees.

“This is our wedding night.”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” Laurent says and gives a small nod as though that small detail had somehow slipped his mind.

His wedding costume is even more elaborate than is usual clothes. It must have taken an hour to even get into it and Damen does not know whether he can be as patient removing it. He steps behind Laurent and begins there, slowing undoing all the laces at his back, just as he has imagined for quite a while now. Bit by bit, Laurent's pale skin is revealed to the candle light, and Damen drops kisses to the nape of his neck, warm and lingering.

He moves on to his arms, bares his wrists, kisses them, too. Then, he can finally push the doublet off Laurent's narrow shoulders. There are no more freckles left on them, one winter in Vere having faded them all, but they had many Akielon summers yet ahead of them.

Gently, Damen pulls him over to the bed. Laurent sits, scoots back on the mattress. He is shaking.

“Laurent,” Damen says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He has undone his peronai and the silken chiton has slipped off him and to the floor. Underneath, he wears nothing but his loincloth while Laurent is still dressed in his trousers and slippers.

With one hand on Laurent's ankle, he removes first the right, then the left slipper, carelessly dropping them to the floor, too. When he looks up again, Laurent is quietly crying.

Upon seeing the tears, everything in Damen grinds to a stop – his affection, his ardor, his arousal.

All he knows is that this must be the proof to the fears he had previously tried to bury. That he had hurt Laurent during that night two months ago and that Laurent only insisted on their marriage to avoid a political scandal. He was responsible like that. He'd rather throw himself to the wolves than let some ill befall his kingdom and, by extent, his father and brother.

“Laurent,” he says, his hand jittery, not knowing whether his touch would be a comfort or an offense, “Laurent, please. I will not do this without your permission. If you want me to stay away, we will never speak of this again, I will never try to touch you and-”

“You big oaf,” Laurent chides. There's a hiccup caught in his voice or maybe a sob. “I just don't want it to be something we have to do.”

Oh. Damen had not considered that. To him, sex was something that you either wanted almost always and, if you didn't want it, it was to be considered rape. The fact that Laurent might want him still, but not right now, not under these circumstances, not when things were still so new and emotions running high, had not even occurred to him. It seemed that, for all the ways they had come to understand each other throughout the months of their engagement, there were yet many things left to learn for their marriage.

“For tonight,” Laurent says and he is calmer now, though there are still tears upon his cheeks, “I would like to merely lie with you.”

It's a good idea. Certainly a better ending to the night than Damen had come to expect. So he settles against the many pillows and waits while Laurent struggles out of his constricting pants, tossing them aside.

Damen himself is still mostly naked and Laurent is obviously a little flustered by that, his gaze slightly averted. But he rests his head against Damen's chest anyway and their hands hesitantly tangle with each other.

“You are very warm,” he says into the silence. Perhaps he has no other words. “Yes,” Damen agrees because he certainly doesn't.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Laurent adds, listening, “You are nervous.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to do right by you.”

“You are,” Laurent says, “You already are.”

The candles burn down by they fall asleep long before that.