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sun-snatcher · 5 months ago

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( credits to @winterswake for this phenomenal gifset ! )

3/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ. A continuation. Sauron learns what it means to be human— and what it takes to be one. or: Sauron experiences the best & worst of mortality. pairing. (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count. 4k a/n. Important tags in first chapter ! Warnings for implications to PTSD & slight horror , including Non-graphically implied Animal Death.

THE BARNACLES STARE.

They’re overgrown; marrow-white and clinging onto the cracks of the salt-licked rockface, breathing and blinking at him like the thousand, ever-watchful eyes of the Ainur.

In his dreams, every single one turns to blazing stars that wink out in an instant as he passes them. The shadow of Morgoth is a powerful darkness: it can dim them into lightlessness and nothingness. He tells them he is neither Morgoth nor Melkor nor Sauron nor Mairon, that he is something new; something different— but they can’t hear him under the sheet of waves crashing like a tempest on the shores, pulling him down, down, down, and under.

(He drowns. Rarely does he choose to fight the currents.)

In other vivid dreams, the barnacles don’t listen. They don’t because they can’t listen; because they’re dead and lifeless and the colour of their shells look eerily vertebral and bone-faced. They’re skulls, he later realises. A thousand of them. Endless. Both young and old. Their missing teeth and gaping maws, frozen in terror, roll in masses that wash in from the bloody tides and take up the shore beneath his feet. They fracture and splinter and cry out in pain when he walks on where soft sands ought to be, begging for mercy with every black step he takes.

He wakes up restless. He wakes up mortified.

A forest fire rips through Eldalondë.

It dies out as quick as it had come, however; by the grace of the Valar and their blessed storms! The Faithful cry.

“Blessed,” Galadriel hears Halbrand scoff underneath his breath. They’d both sailed down the river Nunduinë with the other locals to help with clearing out whatever the blaze had left in its wake, and the very air now is clogged with residual smoke and the stench of death. She doesn’t comment on his muttering. (He had yet to heal completely from the rope burns in his palms from when they’d been stranded at sea, after all.)

“You think it’s a sign?” asks one of the arborists.

A grave weight seemed to have sunken into Galadriel when the scent of the Mellyrn had greeted her, and she’d been brought to the heart of the massive grove, where she lay a hand on the now-sundered tree.

“These very trees were brought as seeds from Aman by the Eldar of Tol Erresëa. Elros Tar-Minyatur himself had hand in planting these.” She remembers Elrond, too, had come to sail and plant a tree of his own here. The forest had been so young then, in the early years of the Second Age. Now the woods seem unsettled— even the very winds that blow between its spaces.

“Not idly do the trees of Valinor burn,” she finally warns. “Even when ensnared by lightning.”

Halbrand had seen it from afar, coming downwind from the riverbank: the tree’s colossal trunk— thick as a Dwarven-hewn mountain pillar— torn in its center from the high canopies of branches, snaking all the way down to the spindly stretch of roots. The bolt of light had rent an ugly, gaping wound into its silver bole, hollowing out the wood and carving it out to look like a glaring crack into the Unseen World.

He can still see the gleam of red embers between the bark of the tunnelled tree.

He can still hear it crackling in its seams, even.

Or… no. That isn’t the fire—

“Galadriel!”

Mallorn branches grow great and wide, so it takes out an entire stable when it crashes down.

One of the horses get caught underneath.

They cannot move the branch. (It wouldn’t do any good, even if they did.)

Abârzî, the sea-cadet weeps, stroking the mare before he went to braid the hairs of her tail and cut it off. He chants it like a prayer.

Abârzî. Abârzî. Abârzî.

(No one has the heart to finish the job.

Halbrand does not exactly offer— but they don’t stop him either when he begrudgingly enters the stables for them.)

“What was he saying?” Sauron asks, after, in some poorly attempt to clear his mind.

“Her name,” Galadriel translates, solemn. “Abâr holds several meanings. It stands for strength, might, endurance. ‘One of Valiance’, even. Perhaps: ‘Admirable one’—”

It’s the first time Mairon ever experiences throwing up.

Galadriel sits beside him, and doesn’t say a word more.

He’s glad.

Or, maybe he isn’t.

He doesn’t understand what he feels these days.

The wine Sauron pours to the raven-haired elf in his dreams is thick.

Too thick to be wine— but just as deceptively sweet.

On other nights, he pours and it keeps going, and going, and going. It gushes down his palms and down the nameless peak he’s standing in, and cascades down the cliff- like a thundering waterfall— no, an open wound. Sometimes the elf pushes him forward from the back, and it stings like a stabbing betrayal. (Other times, Mairon simply chooses to fall.)

When he plummets, it’s into red seas. It feels like wading through molasses; exhausting a pain into his limbs more than the dull ache at his nape and the throb of his suffocating lungs. Then there’s the twinkle of starlight throwing him off every time he swims. He always mistakes them for the night sky, and he blindly reaches towards the surface— until they turn out to be the white-faces of barnacles instead, attached to the maws of a sea-wyrm deep in the ocean.

Tonight, however, he swims in the right direction.

The raven-haired elf pulls him out with a trusting, helping hand wrapped in a gauntlet; and when Sauron breaches ashore, he’s not kneeling at his feet on sands or bones, but instead on the all-too familiar cracked, black stones of his old fortress up in the bleak frigidness of Forodwaith.

Mairon is garbed in soaking red robes.

This time, Adar coronates Sauron not with Morgoth’s crown, but with a rotting horse skull named Abârz—

“You have a strange shadow, ‘Maril,” Eärien tells you, not long after you’d come down to Nísimaldar to assist in the clean-up effort. “It’s shaped like… a funny-looking man who always seems to look as if he’s rolled around in the dirt for ten hours.”

You blink, puzzled, then turn to where she’s peering over your shoulder.

Halbrand’s eyes dart away just as you meet his gaze.

“Friend,” you correct, levelling an unimpressed glare back at your table of teasing looks. “Halbrand is a friend.”

Isildur raises his brows once you begin gathering another fresh bowl of seafood. “Don’t forget the oysters. I hear they’re great for men’s libid—”

“Shut your mouth when you eat,” comes your sharp flick at his ear, going to leave as the rest of the cadets break into laughter. “Even Berek has better manners than you, airhead.”

Halbrand, shaded under a temporary forge set up by the treeline near the half-constructed stables, senses you long before he hears your voice. You’re appraising him again. He can feel it. It reminds him of the barnacles staring, and he has to actively remember not to be instinctively beset.

You’ve been kind, after all.

Frustratingly so.

And Sauron, as uncertain as he has been of everything (and by everything, he means his entire simulacrum of an existence— or, reincarnation? Re-embodiment?) of late, is smart enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds him. You’d made it clear that night in the forge, after all, that you’re a friend. And if not that, then at the very least— an ally.

So it’s no surprise he sets the horseshoes he’s working on aside, and relents to your plate of food. It is a surprise, however, when a few minutes later you go:

“Thank you, by the way.”

He shuts your train of thought down before it can take off.

“Don’t start,” Sauron says, voice a low rasp. He knows where you’re going with this: You’ll thank Halbrand for going out of his way to help, for lending a hand with the rebuilding, for putting down a boy’s dying horse. He wants nothing to do with it.

“Then I want to—”

“Don’t apologise either,” he interjects, failing to hold back the mild bite. (So much for biting the hand, huh?)

Sauron had chosen, anyway, to take it upon himself to toil away in the forge, from sunrise to sundown; Dedicating himself to aiding the reconstruction by crafting everything from bridles, stirrups and bits, to metal brackets, hinges, and nails. He’d toiled because it focused him; because he’s utilitarian at heart and so despises uselessness; because it helps blur the waking haunts of horses and the seas under the hissing and clanging of working metal.

(Besides, there’s plenty to improve in this part of the island, and Sauron is the type to not count flaws and cracks but to instead step up and fix them.)

So there’s no place for you to apologise.

“You work quickly,” you redirect instead, avoiding the urge to bicker with him. “Some might say almost tirelessly. Seems you’re getting into our good graces, from what I hear.”

“Well, you ought to listen closer.” Local gossip is difficult to not earwig, especially if the topic is about a low-man from the South; even more so that they don’t expect said low-man to have a passable fluency in Adûnaic.

You don’t bother to hide the amused look on your face. “Right. Well. They do say eavesdroppers never hear but ill of themselves. What have you gathered, jailbird?”

“That I would be their downfall,” he says, then after a mouthful, goes: “That I would squander their resources and drain their waters and steal their women,” which makes you laugh.

“Númenórean women are not so easily taken.”

He hums at that. “And are you?”

“…Am I what?”

“Númenorean.”

You blink. Halbrand levels a gaze you suddenly can’t meet. It’s a game he plays, you guess right then, between the crawl of heat up your cheeks. Of sharpening ulterior meanings into both sides of his words like one would a sword’s edge.

(“The low-man said that?” Isildur titters, much later. “What a smooth advance! I ought to give him a—”

“Beheading,” Eärien overrides, “You do know he also effectively implied your sister may be easy?”

Isildur cheers. “And he’s honest? Outstanding!”)

“I believe I am one, and that’s enough for me,” you lie. The thought has crossed your mind before— that you may very well be an orphan descendant of those who had sided with the Enemy, once upon a time. That it’s likely you’ll die long before your own foster family does.

“And if you’re wrong?” asks Halbrand. He enjoys making you squirm. “Shall that be enough?”

“Then so be it,” you wrinkle your nose, displeased yet matter-of-fact. “It doesn’t matter what type of life we’ve been chanced to be given, jailbird, so long as we live it doing the right thing.”

Until it becomes part of your nature, Sauron abruptly remembers Diarmid; of his words; the necklace he’d cruelly taken from the old man that stormy night. The advice had been unwelcome then, and now it seems to haunt him still.

“Is that your heraldry?”

Halbrand loosens his grip. His hand has been flying to the pouch out of habit, lately. “No.” Then, after you scrutinise him, cocks his head and says, “Is it so hard to believe we might quite be the same— Lost and found at sea?”

“You have a past,” you point out, the same way Elendil had chivvied you then. (If you had noticed him blink away in a flinch, he’s grateful you don’t mention it.) “But no, not so hard to believe, considering that’s precisely how my father found you too. It’s just hard for me to believe someone would be so willing to sever ties with their history.”

“I found this on a dead man.”

“Then why keep it?”

“Thought it looked fancy,” he dodges.

“A pearl is fancy,” you reflect, unconsciously flexing your fingers. The ring he’d caught the first day you two met lustres now at certain angles of the setting sun, beyond the horses grazing lazily in half-barren pastures.

Your answer is hardly a surprise to him. A bereft orphan would likely covet something as insignificant as a worn-out emblem if it meant a potential link to their true heritage, no matter how thin or nonsensical. Yours just happens to be a pearl.

“Beauty is subjective, seabird,” he comments sagely, before letting curiosity get the better of him to ask, “Is that from the tidepool, too?”

No, you want to say. I like to think my mother gave it to me. “Yes. It was in my grasp when my father found me; so came my name.”

Halbrand finishes his bowl, and doesn’t say a word more.

You’re glad.

“You know, I meant to say earlier, before you interrupted me,” you begin out of the blue, voice possessing that Nienna-esque lilt that makes him unconsciously want to shrink into himself. “…You shouldn’t have had to be the one.”

He follows your gaze to one of the Bay horses being herded away. Its body gleams; a vibrant, rich red-brown in the dusk that needles a strange grief into him. The colour reminds Mairon of his old form.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” he agrees distastefully. Needless suffering also falls under the realm of uselessness, however. Perhaps, in a twisted, roundabout way, Sauron had chosen to put down Abârzî. “…But I’ve done far worse things.”

You watch him tuck the necklace away beneath his collar, and he wonders, briefly, if you’d caught his shudder; his waver.

“To survive,” you emphasise. Surely.

He laughs under his breath. It’s neither sad nor sordid, just empty.

“Not all of it.”

Sauron opens his eyes to a crowned shadow and a blade.

Do not fear, it says. And when its hand had come away with a fistful of his long, braided hair, cut from his blazing red head— it repeats itself to him again, though this time in the commanding tongue of Black Speech.

Do not fret.

(He frets, and begs. He disobeys because he’s terrified— but it’s all happening under his skin. Black Speech cannot completely overpower the mind, you see, but it can command and seed an intent in it; a sliver of power over the flesh, if willed so. He can fret and beg all he likes; it will never translate to his body.

Now he’s just a vessel, still as a Bay horse caught neath a great tree, watching and waiting; helpless and paralysed.)

He catches the glint of the dagger but he cannot scream.

Do not fret, Morgoth commands, in that divinely, beautiful way only a Valar can make all guttural words sound. Do not fret, Abârzî.

Mairon startles awake.

When the candlelight flickers with the moon, he mistakes them for blood on his hands and a stable floo—

“Y’alright, brother?” Someone claps him on the back.

It’s noon, now. It feels like he’s woken up for the third time today.

The stables are coming up nicely (Quickly, because Halbrand works when everyone else is asleep). The clouds are thick, so the day isn’t beating down on the horses as they feed on bran and alfalfa, and there aren’t any damning signs of coming rain to hinder what little is left of the reconstruction today.

“Never better,” Halbrand says, after steadying his heavy breathing. The perfectly delivered lie is somehow miraculously seen through, however, and promptly called out, via: an insistent pint of ale into his calloused hands that’s supposedly the ‘cure to all ailments’.

He learns the old drunkard’s name is Seamus.

He learns a bit of everything to nothing, really; until the sun had sunken too far beneath the canopies of the Mellyrn, and the dappled light faded into drifting spots, and all that was left of their drinks was a final sip. Sauron had found himself both inexplicably refreshed and exhausted between the overload that managed to distract him from the cavernous feeling in his chest.

“It’s a swallow bird. We sailors tattoo it as belief it’ll lead us back home when we get out at sea,” says the old man, between a tangent on island customs and traditions beyond the primly ‘Nobody kneels in Númenor’ ones. “Why? Lookin’ to get inked yourself?”

Halbrand blinks.

He had composed as Mairon among the other Ainur in the Timeless Halls for the Ainulindalë, once upon a time; and then served, much, much later, as Sauron alongside Morgoth in the Iron mountains of Thangorodrim. Neither exactly had been something anybody would call a home— One was simply a state of Being far beyond Eä, and the other had been both a fortress and a prison.

“Don’t have a home to return to,” is all he decides.

It sounds a lot like a realisation.

“Aye, well…” The drunkard flails his hand to the chilly winds. “Swallows mate for life.”

Halbrand frowns in confusion. Seamus just laughs, mad.

He doesn’t understand what the crazy old shrimp had meant, until two days later (of which Sauron still had only understood half of what was told to him, if he’s being honest) when the stables had at last been completed and the locals put together a small feast for everyone who had come together to help.

Crab legs had been the catalyst, oddly enough.

Or, rather, how you seemed to move amongst the people-who-may-not-be-your-people, and spoke to your family-who-isn’t-actually-your-family.

“Here,” you say, and idly lay skillfully de-shelled crab legs and a lobster tail on your bright-eyed sister’s plate. Then onto your even-more-bright-eyed brother’s plate, before doing the same to those within your reach at the table, including Halbrand— sitting adjacent and at a length, because nobody quite fancied sitting next to a brooding stranger.

“I can de-shell my crabs on my own,” he had wanted to huff, put out by the way he suddenly felt impeccably small by your limitless grace and social-butterfly-ness, but one of the cadets had beaten him to it.

Your answer is a smile that’d made Mairon think of Nienna again, followed by a winsome, “I know you can.”

He lingers on what you’d told him ere a week ago, at the forge when you’d come to him saying he looked most at home with a hammer and tongs in hand, and drafts in his head something he tells you much later, which is:

“You looked different around your not-people.”

You’re wrapped in a pelerine cloak that seems to do little with the cold Mallorn-fragrant winds, here at the Bay of Eldanna, where you’ve somehow convinced him to follow you down to at the crack of dawn. (It’s not like he could sleep through the night, anyway, now that the stables are complete and there’s nothing left to busy himself with for the time being.)

It’s early enough that the carpet of stars in the sky shines the rocky shoreline a blinding silver, and only the lantern-lit trawlers far out at sea are awake to fish for teeming shoals of shrimps in season beyond the reef.

“My not-people?” you yawn, gathering up your cloak and shift dress to toe between the rocks. “Ah. I get it. Because I’m an outsider.”

He raises a tolerant eyebrow. “I’m the outsider, seabird.” To which you answer, breezily, as if it’s a simple equation:

“Not to me. If it helps though, we can both be outsiders together.”

He barely has time to wrap his head around together when you begin skipping across the tidepools.

“I meant,” he trails after you, ungainly and tender-footed to the shallows compared to your well-versed steps. He had not been raised by the sea like you. “That you looked at home; with your people. And tha— Eärmaril, why did you bring me out here with a bucket?”

You peer at the crevices of the outcrops, turning over black slabs with a trained eye. “Have you ever had soft-shell crabs? They’re active around this time of night, so watch your step. If you’re not getting pinched by their claws, you’ll get stabbed by an urchin.”

“You loon!” he exclaims. “You brought me here for a hunting trip?”

“Hush, now! Or you’ll scare the fur seals further down the coast,” you hiss over your shoulder. “And no. I brought you here because I know you won’t be sleeping, anyway.”

The blatant accusation has him slipping from a jutting rock face.

You catch his hand to steady him.

(He’s warm. Some part of you wants to pull him close.)

“I overheard the farriers. They say the only reason the stables got put up that quickly is because you worked through the night.” You inform him as delicately as you can, because there’s a recognisable, vestigial haunt in his eyes you’ve seen in your father’s, under the shimmer of Eärendil’s starlight. “Is it nightmares, Halbrand?”

“See, Amm— Mother saved Isildur when he was a child.” Nobody in the family prefers to say drowned except your father, because the word is bitter to the taste. “I was there when it happened. Couldn’t sleep for weeks after. Do you dream of the waters too?”

The defensive frown he’d put up melts away, but you can see Halbrand steel himself, still, in order to answer.

“I dream of barnacles,” Sauron allows, brusque so as to cut the conversation short as he regains his footing.

You let go and narrow your eyes at him.

After a long moment, you conclude, resolutely: “Valar, you’re a terrible liar, jailbird.”

And Mairon couldn’t help it—

He laughed.

(It sends your heart stumbling.)

“Believe me when I say, seabird, that if I were to deceive you, you would never know.”

“…Right,” you scoff, quick to turn away to hide the budding smile on your face as you carve his laugh and awfully handsome grin into memory. “Now, come and be useful, will you? Before the tide runs in with daybreak.”

He can do that. He likes to be useful.

So he does.

Sauron, however, gathers alarmingly quickly that he’s as helpful as an infant grappling the ways of the water for the first time. Some distant part of him enjoys it, though— learning. It reminds him of his long gone time with Aulë.

Learning to follow your effortless sea-nymph dance across the jagged shallows, memorising how to identify which rocks to flip and the right ways to harvest mollusks or crabs without risking a fingertip, all while unconsciously committing to mind the shanties you hum under your breath.

You tell Halbrand stories and Mairon listens despite the general inanity of it; because he’s a quiet sort, and because he likes the diluting distraction of it all.

Little things, like how your mother had bequeathed the craft of pottery to you, or that your father had preferred to teach you to fight instead of fish (“I can hardly imagine that,” Sauron muses, which earns him a sharp look and a: “Well, you don’t seem the imaginative type, anyway.”); that Eärien’s artistic strength is adapted from her uncanny skill of observation, and that Isildur is often wayward because he’s as free-spirited as the sun.

The conversation whiles and goes until the sky slowly pales awake, and the fur seals begin to bark and bay at the shorebirds and skimmers diving close to the rolling surfs. When the stretch of Eldanna’s shoreline finally raises, peaks and tidepools drowning back below the cresting of blue seas, the both of you make headway back inland.

“I was telling the truth,” he says, abruptly, which made you stop in your tracks at the beach. Your cloak is billowing from the salt gusts, edges sticking to the wet of your ankles.

“You don’t have to tell me,” comes your honest answer.

But he wants to. It feels right to. Here Mairon stands bearing witness to the intimacies of your life, while he had nothing to offer you in return beneath the veneer of Halbrand. It’s only fair to do the same. An exchange, if you will. It’s all he’s ever known.

He sets the bucket of skittering crabs on to the wet sand, and dips his feet at the lap of the tide. “I dream of the Dark,” Sauron admits. “Of a light I cannot reach. The ocean is always red— red as my hands— and the rock-faces are always white and blinking.”

Barnacles. You understand now.

“When I wake up, I feel like I’m bracing for something, but I don’t know what,” he says, which he’s quick to realise had been an instinctive lie, and so he amends it with an explanation. “Like I’m charging headfirst into the abyss, and I’m bracing myself for the impact. For a fight or a— punishment.”

Halbrand kicks at a bubbling bump in the water and out pops a shell. (It’s a whelk. Lightning whelk, if Sauron is being precise. He’d listened to you listing the different kinds an hour ago.)

“Anybody home?” you peer.

“Mh.” Sauron assents and tosses the hermit back to the waves.

He looks at where the open sky meets the sea, thinks of the knee-high swathes of sea oats growing at the coastlines of Valinor if he’d set sail Westwards from Eldanna and choose not to look back. He entertains idly on the idea of home for a beast such as himself— if it’s even possible to tame savagery into such domestications.

Then he resists on asking you if there’s a difference between making a home and inventing one (those are questions for another sleepless night, he supposes), and instead glances down to where you’ve stepped into one of the remaining tidepools and back out.

A smooth pebble with a perfectly circular hole in its centre, still damp from its discovery, sits in your palm.

“What in Eru’s name is that?” he furrows, watching you wink at him through the gap.

“A hagstone,” you say, unoffended. “My other brother Anárion has one, though he prefers calling it an adder stone. Ammê told us they were naturally-occurring talismans. They ward off anything evil and protects its keeper. Catch.”

He does so with attractive ease.

(…You commit that to memory, too.)

“You don’t actually believe this little thing, do you, seabird?” he asks, tossing the piece up in his hands.

His snort makes you roll your eyes. “See! You are the unimaginative type. Halbrand, it’s the nature of a thing that matters, not its form.”

Right. He’d forgotten you are You; who built a home in the people; whose wound is your geography and history— or lack thereof— and who’s chosen to anchor to Númenor, because your foster family is where you found your true port of call.

“You Númenóreans are an odd lot,” he settles candidly, and curls his fingers around the hagstone.

“Odd?”

“Superstitious,” he clarifies.

“I prefer traditional,” you volley.

“Try paranoid.”

Your warm laugh breaks with the surf of the shore, makes him tarry on the sight and sound of you.

“Red sky in the morning; sailor’s warning…”

“Red sky at night; sailor’s delight,” Halbrand recites Seamus, scoffing humorously. “I mean… Boarding a ship right foot first? Nailing a horseshoe under the mast, laying a silver coin for Uinen or tattooing swallows to lead the way home? And no whistling on board, lest it’ll challenge the winds; Or so Isildur claims of Manwë.”

“Ah, but don’t forget—”

“—Never rename a ship,” he says in unison.

Halbrand shakes his head, but the fond look on his face is undeniable as you break out into another merry smile. Your plan to chase away his night-terrors seem to have worked perfectly. If you’d thought him handsome before, then he looks utterly divine now.

“Well, I suppose you’re right. There’s another one, though,” you hum, eyes fixated at the gulls taking wing to and fro their nests, the trawlers sailing home with their morning catch. “Never ever bring harm to a seabird.”

He cocks his head. “If I didn't know any better, seabird, I’d say you were making a threat.”

“And?” you smile. “Do you, jailbird?”

“Do I what?”

“Know better.”

Halbrand laughs again. A charming peal of a sound, canine-wide and punched out. It makes your heart sing— makes you wonder when was the last time he laughed this freely.

“You!” he exclaims once more, but there’s a thunderdrum in his ribs to reckon with all of a sudden, from the way the first break of light begins to dawn on your face and the charming, affectionate grin flowering across it, and so he couldn’t finish his insult after all.

You offer him wine in his dreams.

Soot blackens your fingers as he takes it, but the stains don’t seem to bother you.

Weighty is a hagstone in his palm.

The sea is blue and quiet—

And barnacles are just barnacles, now.

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historiaxvanserra · 6 months ago

Text

In Hades I Am With You | Chapter Two

Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through their meeting in a pleasure house in Hewn City.

Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.

Please let me know what you think. Again this is inspired by From Blood and Ash but next chapter we start to deviate from those vibes.

Death came to me at dusk in the guise of a man; swathed in shadow. Haunting and prophetic. In flashes of seraphic, blue light and age worn bone. A voice shaded in nightshade calls out from the antechamber of the pleasure hall’s private apartments. A male cleaves through the darkness. He cuts an intimidating figure in the pallid sapphire light; stalks through the dark as though he was born from it. A scarred hand reaches through the veil, that glitters like spun spider silk, between my body and his. All thought and sound eddies from my mind.

“You are so much lovelier than I remember.” The low tenor of his voice is a whisper of darkness as his scent shrouds my senses.

Night-blooming wisteria and the depths of the Illyrian wilderness.

He is a thing of dark, lovely beauty, I think as he steps into the light. Beautiful in the way some ancient mercurial God must be. Cut from the same onyx stone of the mountains to the North. Night incarnate. The darkness from which all light is born.

“I’d have sent word, but I was already in the city.” Scarred fingertips ghost the length of my arm.

The glare of Illyrian steel, lethal and vicious, pierces through the blanket of the dark and reality comes flooding back to me with all the force of a raging tempest as the sapphire lights casts his beautiful face in shadow.

I’d know him always. I would know him even in Hades, shrouded in the darkness at the end of the world. By the threads of fate that bind us both to this infernal mountain.

Azriel.

The High Lord’s Spymaster.

Everyone in this infernal city has heard the harrowing stories of this brutal, beautiful male. I am no exception.

At first it was his beauty that commanded me to search for him in every darkened corner of the Moonstone Palace. It was the graceful hollow of his throat, the onyx curls that framed the elegant planes of his face that made a slave of me. The way that he towered over me like the embodiment of the dark-stoned mountains from which he hails. I had visited the Illyrian mountains once as a girl, when the Old High Lord lived. The long shadows of Ramiel had veiled the world in a shroud of black, save for the pallid moonlight that bleached the darkness. There was a temple. Its ruins lay in some long forgotten grove, shaded in wisteria and moon flowers.

But it is his inherent violence that speaks to my innate darkness; it calls to me in a language so old, and long dead, that only fate itself might infer some meaning from the whispers of it, carried forth on a night wind . The terrible darkness that bleeds from him like the veil between the worlds. It is that darkness that feels somehow kindred to me. I saw him once, in the training yards of the Moonstone Palace. He had looked like some avenging angel; sweat-slicked and savage. His body and blade a weapon that he had honed to a fatal sharpness.

He came to me that night in a dream, prophetic and elusive. In flashes of sapphire and star-flecked night. A harbinger of my undoing. It wasn’t until years later that he came to me again, in the Temple of Astarion. The dreams followed me for weeks after. Even in my waking moments I saw him. God of plagues and prophecy. A great chamber beneath the mountain. The dark waters of a salt-lake. The darkness at the end of the world.

“Come here, pretty girl.” Azriel says, a small smile curves around the sulk on his lips.

It occurs to me then that he has no idea who I am. That he has mistaken me for some other Female; some lovely thing who touches him tenderly. These stolen garments could belong to anyone, and without the veil there is nothing that marks me as the Lord Protector’s favorite.

Tonight I can be anyone. Tonight I can be her.

I had never considered myself to be beautiful but standing here now, my figure reflected in his hazel eyes, I see something. The vision of some ancient Goddess. Violent and volatile.

A storm incarnate.

I summon that storm as my gaze sweeps over Azriel again. He’s splayed across the small day bed, dressed in an unbuttoned tunic that bears the contours of his chest so beautifully. The broad expanse of his back is framed by large, membranous wings and his onyx hair is tousled with messy curls that frame the delicate curve of his ears.

If I had any sense at all I’d run back to the Palace and never look back. Unfortunately for me all common sense I might have had abandoned me when his palm skims the curve of my hip over the thick, woolen fabric of my cloak as he beckons me closer.

“You look so very lovely in this light.” he sighs deeply, the broad splay of his hand curling around the cradle of my hips as he draws me into him. When he looks at me, there is only darkness in those golden eyes.

Dark, arresting eyes.

I offer him a gentle smile in lieu of thanks in a meek attempt to assuage his desire.

“Now get on your knees.” He insists, like a priest intoning his mass. There’s a strange sense of threat in his voice that commands me to sink lowly before him. As if my body is little more than a conduit of his intent.

“Look at me.” Something innate compels me to comply. The Shadowsinger takes my chin roughly between his scarred fingertips, brushes a calloused thumb over the plush of my lips.

I shudder.

“So very lovely,” He observes me in the low light. One star-flecked hand reaches out to tangle in the unbound lengths of my hair to expose the column of my throat to his shadows that coil around me like the tendrils of a serpent.

Guilt and shame festers in me; turning my insides to rot.

“I-I…” I try to speak but any confession dissolves on my tongue like a prayer when Azriel’s fingers ghost over the lapels of this open tunic; exposing his sculpted shoulders and the expanse of his broad chest, all contoured muscle that looks as if it were carved from the mountain stone. A fine dusting of hair forms a dark constellation that descends from his navel, down to the carved marble of his Adonis belt and dips beneath the material of his breeches.

My half-lidded gaze dips lower and heat blooms in my chest and flowers along the exposed skin of my chest and cheeks. Even in the dim light, I admire the elegant curve of his calves and thighs and how his leathers caress his sculpted frame.

Heat takes root in my body again. A coiling, feverish heat that pulses in the deepest parts of my being.

The Shadowsinger rises from the chaise. He towers over me like the imposing shadow of the mountain that shrouds the world in its dark veil. My fingers instinctively curl around the dagger at my thigh, through the swathes of heavy fabric that form a dark corona around my body.

I am an acolyte. I have taken my vows and made my oaths in sight of The Mother. I am coveted and revered. For the prophecy that curses my blood. And this…

This is forbidden.

And yet, there, in the sulk of his lips, I relish in a heaven that only exists when he is looking at me. As though I am an altar he could pray to. As though he would forsake every solemn vow he has ever made if I would permit him to put his lips on mine.

And I will.

Amber eyes burn ardent gold against the black as he stalks towards me, wading through the shadows with the grace of some dark-winged God.

“Can I kiss you?” Azriel’s voice is desperate and fervent as he advances towards me. The feverish heat of his breath on my neck feels something akin to absolution.

“Please.” A tremor of anticipation reverberates through my spine and my heart beats thunderously in my chest as it heaves against Azriel. A broad hand pulls me into his bruising grip. The other holds my head as he braces against the wall.

Azriel’s kiss is a devastating thing; a claiming, a devouring, a begging to be believed. I suck in a sharp breath and he deepens the kiss, the sharpness of his teeth grazing the sulk of my bottom lip. Guilt and shame coils in the pit of my stomach, a dreadful tempest that stakes its claim to me. Until I feel the delicate stroke of his tongue against mine. That storm manifests itself as a throbbing ache between my thighs. Tentative fingers curl around the cradle of my hips and Azriel growls into my open mouth.

The vision comes to me veiled in shadow and flashes of age worn bone as it stakes its claim to me again. The shadow of the great mountain looms like some ill-fated omen over the valley and a blue star bleeds into the twilight, casting Ramiel in a halo or sapphire light. The mountain trembles in my wake; the Old Gods whisper my name like a prayer. There is a temple; carved into the stone of the mountain, a great antechamber, shaded in the musk of hemlock and incense as I pass between the sandstone pillars. The antechamber of the sanctum is shrouded in climbing ivy and blooming moon flowers that conceal the frescos on the walls. Through the shroud of shadow, I can make out the apparition of a man, cloaked in death. He wears it as some ancient King might. Proud, beautiful and lethal. His great dark wings spread across the landscape and the faces in the crowds kneel to him in reverence. The onyx stalactites become entangled in the light that bleeds from the surface and I come to a stop at the foot of the altar when that myriad of dancing light falls onto me.

I am pale moonlight light; refracted and broken divinity. The memory of some undying Goddess in the pallid light.

The emerald dias is littered with the remnants of the offerings left to a dying God; wilted jasmine and orchids, silver coins, minted with the faces of an ancient king, amphora’s of faerie wine. I sink to my knees at the foot of the altar and I swear I can feel the whispers of the Gods long dead. I run a fine-boned hand over the collection of offerings laid in revereven, made in earnest. The gleam of thinly drawn steel amongst the dying jasmine beckons me further still, into the heart of the temple. Veiled in the shadows of the mountain; a bloody scythe. The hilt and pommel, like cool marble in my hand as I raise it to the light. The blade itself is coated crimson and rust and the ferrous smell of blood hangs heavy in the air.

Only false idols are worshiped in flowers and wine alone. True divinity requires sacrifice.

Out of the devastating darkness steps a figure; shaded in wretched shadows and a devouring black mass as he approaches the dias. As he steps to the altar all the sconces are afire with bluelight; sapphire and cerulean as his robe falls to reveal him in all his divine glory. The saints whisper my name and his figure, wreathed in shadow and light materializes before me.

God of plagues and prophecy.

He whispers to me. Prophet girl, chosen by the dark, do you hear the Gods whispering those silent stardust words? Cursed daughter of ancient blood, do you regret taking the vow?

Without warning the tenuous connection to the Otherworld is broken. And I am left raging, seething, as the storm breaks against me.

“What was that?” The Shadowsinger accuses sharply, unfurling his great, dark wings as the last of the vision ebbs away from me. The draw of Illyrian steel, lethal and dangerous, rings through the air like the peal of thunder and presses against the hollow of my throat.

“I-I I don’t- I think it was a dream” I ramble. My voice little more than a high arching sound under his dark, arresting gaze. I press a trembling hand to his in an aching plea for him to surrender his blade.

The Shadowsinger is unrelenting and the sting of his blade kisses my neck.

“Please, Azriel.” I beg as silver tears cloud my vision in a milky film.

A resounding pound against the door silences the Shadowsinger.

“Azriel?” The velvety timbre of a male voice comes from behind the door. Azriel stiffens against me, the heat of his breath fans across my throat again, half-lidded golden eyes still burning into my own. His hand passes over his chest as if trying to soothe the violent storm of emotion that rages inside of him.

It seethes when the pale light dances in his eyes. When he looks at me there is only darkness there. Night incarnate.

“I need you back in Velaris.” The male says sternly. It’s a voice I have heard before in a dream or a memory. The scent of moonflowers and citrus drifts on a night wind.

“I’m sort of in the middle of something, Brother,” Azriel responds, his voice low and dangerous, thick with malicious intent. His grip on my hip is still unrelenting and strangely tender.

“Azriel open the God's damned door.” The male pounds on the door again, his gravelly voice full of wrath and dangerous authority.

“I think you should answer him,” I whisper.

“Rhys,” He curses. Azriel curls a deft finger around the loose treses of my hair and inhales a shaky breath, “I swear to the Mother -- you were the one who told me to come to this hellmouth in the first place and now you --.”

“It’s important, Brother,” The Male replies before knocking again. Azriel looses a shuddering breath in response and the longer strands of his hair brushes over my shoulder as he bows his head in frustration “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“Pay the whore and be done with it.” I frown.

“Brother,” Azriel warns, his voice like cold death and his thinly veiled violence dances in his golden eyes like a taunt. I can’t help but think of him softly then, as a scarred hand curls around my arm, applying pressure that is both tender and bruising.

“Give me a few moments.” Azriel relents. Azriel’s face darkens considerably and those great, dark wings seem to stand sentinel. A testament to the Shadowsingers rage. A heavy black mass materialises about him, cloaking him in wisps of dark, ancient magic.

Something dark and uncomfortable stirs in my soul then. A foreknowledge that speaks to a coming storm.

“You must leave?” He nods solemnly and untangles himself from me. The absence of him feels something akin to drowning now. Having grown so fond of his comforting weight and the dark magnetism that seems to exude off of him in plumes of shadow.

“My High Lord needs me.” He explains cooly.

I nod in reply, still clutching desperately at his open tunic. For a long moment, neither of us dare to move. Bound in our silence. So we wait. Until he tires of it. Azriel sheaths his blade, it’s blue hilt shimmering sapphire in the pallid light. The dark material of his tunic is discarded on the bed and he procures his leathers from the materialising darkness before me. It’s scaled armour, an austere garment that looks as if it too was born from the shadows which seem to cling to him now.

The male that had touched me tenderly is all but gone then, and from his shadow an Illyrian warrior steps into the light. His blades are honed to a wicked, deadly point, intended for the brutality of warfare, their serrated edges designed to carve through flesh and muscle.

“I-I will come back here, when the fighting is done. Then we will talk - about this dream of yours.”

His voice is flat and lethal, a warning and taunt. I nod once more.

“Will you wait for me, angel?” Azriel’s dark, piercing eyes fall on me again and I feel at home, there, in his thrall, under the blanket of his darkness.

“I will.” My heart flickers violently in my chest.

The shadowsinger turns and I watch forlornly as he walks to the door. I say nothing as he steps into the shadows.

I won’t be here when he returns.

As I, too, turn towards the door I hear the whispers of it again. SOmething dark and ancient calls my name.

Prophet girl, chosen by the dark, do you hear the Gods whispering those silent stardust words? Cursed daughter of ancient blood, do you regret taking the vow?

TAGLIST: @bravo-delta-eccho @tiredsleepyhead @that-one-bibliophole @azzyslittleshadow @lalaluch @laramcflyyyy @teenagellamaangel

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel smut #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x oc

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faerouzia · 2 days ago

Text

❀𝑃𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑛❀

𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝑷𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒊

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝐺𝑜𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑛!𝑠𝑎𝑛 𝑥 𝑓𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑒𝑟!𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓 (san is just...wow), ℎ𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑔𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡, ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘

𝑂𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤: 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑛 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑠ℎ 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒’𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒. 𝐵𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑖𝑑𝑦𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑐 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑙𝑢𝑟𝑘, 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑙 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑎𝑓𝑖𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑖𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠; 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠.

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.7𝐾

You stood in the kitchen doorway of your family’s farmhouse, nestled in the heart of Tuscany, arms crossed as you watched the chaotic bustle of your household unfold around you. The scent of fresh earth mingled with the sweet aroma of ripe pomegranates, filling the air with a promise of abundance. It was a fragrant tapestry woven from the land itself, each breath a reminder of the life that thrived around you. Voices rose and fell in a hurried symphony, punctuated by the clatter of dishes and the rustle of leaves from the sprawling orchard that surrounded your home. Today was no ordinary day—the farm was preparing to welcome a group of big investors, hoping to transform your humble pomegranate grove into a thriving enterprise.

Your mother darted past, a basket overflowing with freshly picked pomegranates in hand, her movements a blur of determination and grace. “Make sure those branches don’t look like they’ve been through a wrestling match!” she shouted, her voice a mix of urgency and exasperation, slicing through the air like a knife. Outside, the workers trimmed branches heavy with fruit, their laughter mingling with the rustling leaves, creating a lively backdrop to the day’s events. In the living room, your younger siblings scrambled to clear dust from old furniture, their laughter a frantic attempt to mask their nerves. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed, as if to announce the significance of the moment, its call echoing through the sun-drenched fields.

And like always, Nonna Elina sat in her well-worn chair, a bastion of calm amidst the storm of activity. Her eyes, crinkled with age and wisdom, sparkled with the stories of countless seasons she had witnessed. You stared at her for a moment, the world around you fading into a gentle hum, her presence a soothing balm to your racing heart. She looked so peaceful, a serene island in the tempest of preparations. But before you could bask any further in your admiration, a loud crash shattered the calm, sending a jolt through your heart.

“Y/N! Please put him in a cage or something!” your mother shouted, her voice rising above the chaos. Ay yah yai, of all the days for him to create a fuss in the house! Paco, your mischievous baby goat, was full of energy and mischief, and today he had decided to unleash his inner tornado.

As you threaded into the kitchen, your white floral dress flowed around you like a summer breeze, the fabric catching the light and swirling with your movements. Your luscious hair cascaded over your shoulders, framing your face as you focused on the task at hand. You gently reached out to catch Paco, who was currently attempting to scale the kitchen table, his tiny hooves dancing on the surface like a clumsy ballerina. “Ay papito, not today, please!” you whined, exasperation lacing your voice as you lunged for him.

Paco, however, was a master of escape. With a cheeky bleat, he darted away, zigzagging through the kitchen like a furry little rocket. You chased after him, laughter bubbling up despite the chaos. “Come back here, you little rascal!” you called, your heart racing as you tried to corner him. He darted behind the refrigerator, then under the table, his antics turning the kitchen into a scene from a slapstick comedy.

The laughter of your siblings filled the air, a chorus of joy that mingled with the frantic energy of the moment. You could feel the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt perfect. The chaos of the day faded into the background as you focused solely on the little goat that had stolen your heart.

Finally, with a burst of determination, you managed to corner Paco near the pantry. You scooped him up, cradling his squirming body against your chest. “Got you!” you exclaimed triumphantly, your laughter ringing out like music. He bleated in protest, but you couldn’t help but smile at his antics.

As you held him close, the world around you felt alive with possibility. The farm was more than just a place; it was a tapestry of memories, laughter, and love. You could feel the weight of the day’s significance pressing down on you, but in this moment, with Paco nestled in your arms and the warmth of your family surrounding you, you knew that no matter what changes lay ahead, this was where you belonged.

With a final glance at Nonna, who watched with a knowing smile, you felt a surge of gratitude for the life you had. The day may have been chaotic, but it was also filled with love, laughter, and the promise of new beginnings. And as you prepared to face whatever challenges awaited, you knew that you would do so with the strength of your family behind you, ready to embrace whatever the future held.

“Y/N! Look at this mess!” your mother exclaimed, her hands firmly planted on her hips, her eyes wide with disbelief as she surveyed the chaos that had erupted in the kitchen. The scene was a whirlwind of activity, and the sight of Paco, your mischievous baby goat, only added to the pandemonium. “We have investors coming, and you’re letting a goat run wild in the kitchen!”

Nonna Elina, perched comfortably in her well-worn chair, watched the spectacle unfold with a twinkle in her eye. She couldn’t help but giggle, her laughter a soft, melodic reminder of her age and wisdom. “È un buon segno,” she said, her voice bubbling over like a fine wine, rich and full of warmth. “It means... it’s a good sign.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, as if she knew that the chaos was just a part of the day’s charm, a delightful prelude to the unfolding drama.

You shot her a playful glare, but the corners of your mouth twitched upward despite the chaos. “A good sign? Nonna, I think you might be the only one who believes that right now!” The absurdity of the situation was not lost on you, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie with your grandmother, who always seemed to find joy in the little things.

Just then, Paco made a daring leap onto the kitchen counter, his tiny hooves skittering across the surface like a clumsy dancer. In an instant, a bowl of freshly picked pomegranates tumbled to the floor, the fruits rolling in every direction and creating a vibrant red carpet of chaos. You gasped, half-laughing, half-sighing, as you dove to catch him before he could make a break for it again. “Paco! You little troublemaker!”

With a final burst of energy, you managed to scoop him up just as he prepared for another escape. Cradling him in your arms, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you murmured, giving him a gentle scratch behind the ears. His soft fur felt warm against your skin, and for a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving just you and your little companion in a bubble of laughter and love.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and your youngest sibling bounded in, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with excitement. “Momma, they’re here! The investors, they’re here!” The words tumbled out in a breathless rush, almost tripping over themselves in their hurry.

The urgency in your sibling’s voice snapped you back to reality, and you felt a rush of adrenaline course through you. The day had finally arrived, the moment your family had been preparing for, and the stakes felt higher than ever. You exchanged a quick glance with your mother, who was now a whirlwind of focus, her earlier frustration replaced by a determined energy.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s get this place in order!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos like a clarion call. The kitchen transformed in an instant, your siblings scrambling to gather the scattered pomegranates while you held Paco tightly, trying to keep him from causing any more mischief.

As you watched the flurry of activity, you felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. This was your family’s chance to showcase the beauty of the farm, to share the fruits of their labor with the world. You wanted everything to be perfect, to show the investors the heart and soul that went into every pomegranate, every inch of land.

With a final glance at Nonna, who offered you an encouraging smile, you felt a surge of determination. You would do everything in your power to help your family succeed. As the sounds of laughter and hurried footsteps filled the air, you knew that no matter what happened today, you were ready to embrace the chaos and the joy that came with it.

Outside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically as a sleek black Rolls-Royce glided down the gravel driveway, its polished surface reflecting the golden Tuscan sunlight and the orchard’s lush greenery. The car seemed to glide effortlessly, an embodiment of elegance and sophistication, while the engine purred softly, announcing the arrival of the esteemed guests with an air of luxurious power and quiet command.

Your heart skipped a beat as you stood there holding Paco tight—his tiny hooves kneading softly against your chest, a comforting rhythm amidst the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. Excitement danced in your veins, but it was quickly overshadowed by a creeping anxiety and an undercurrent of dread you couldn’t quite place. Your mother’s eyes flickered with a hidden panic as she muttered under her breath, “Put him away. Now.”

The urgency in her voice snapped you back to reality. She smoothed the front of her blouse, plastering on a warm, welcoming smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, a mask of composure that belied the chaos of the last hour. Adjusting a stray curl behind her ear, she took a steadying breath, preparing to greet the investors as if the last hour of domestic turmoil belonged to someone else entirely.

In that moment, as the car’s tires crunched along the driveway stones and your family braced itself for what was to come, you realized this day held far more than just promises of growth. It held the delicate balance between hope and upheaval—and the first step into a story that would change everything.

With a sense of urgency, you scurried away to hide Paco in your room, cradling him gently as you made your way up the staircase. Each step felt heavy with the weight of expectation, and you could hear the muffled sounds of your family preparing below. You tucked him into his little bed, a cozy nest made from the soft fleece that Nonna Elina had lovingly crafted for you on your sixteenth birthday. The familiar scent of lavender and warmth enveloped you, a comforting reminder of simpler times, of laughter and love shared in the quiet moments.

As you took in the atmosphere of your room, the golden rays of the sun streamed through the window, glistening against your cream sheets and casting a warm glow that made everything feel ethereal. It was a sanctuary, a place where the chaos of the world below faded into a distant hum. You closed your eyes for a moment, allowing the tranquility to wash over you, but the peace was short-lived.

A soft knock on the door broke the spell, and your aunt’s voice called from the other side, sharp and insistent. “Y/N, you’re expected to greet the guests! Hurry up!”

You opened the door to find her standing there, hands on her hips, a look of mild exasperation etched across her face. “What are you wearing? You can’t greet important guests in a floral dress and bare feet!”

You groaned, running a hand through your loose curls of off-brown hair, feeling the weight of her expectations. “Auntie, I have nothing else to wear! This is perfectly fine!”

“Just hush and put on some shoes and tie your hair back,” she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. The urgency in her voice was palpable, and you could sense the importance of the moment pressing down on you.

With a resigned sigh, you complied, slipping on a pair of simple sandals that felt foreign against your bare skin. You gathered your hair into a loose bun, a few rebellious curls escaping to frame your face, softening the look of urgency that had settled over you. You took one last look in the mirror, hoping you didn’t look too disheveled, and headed back downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under your feet, each sound echoing the anticipation that hung in the air.

As you descended, the atmosphere shifted again, the sounds of your family’s preparations blending into a symphony of excitement and nerves. You could feel the energy crackling around you, a palpable tension that hinted at the significance of the day. With each step, you steeled yourself for the encounter ahead, ready to embrace whatever challenges lay in store. Today was not just about the investors; it was about your family’s future, and you were determined to play your part.

And then, your eyes met a gentleman standing in the living room, and you felt a jolt of surprise. He was about five feet tall, with an emerald ring glinting on his pinky finger, dressed in a sharp grey pinstriped suit that seemed to exude confidence and sophistication. Beside him stood a man much taller, his striking looks commanding attention with an effortless charm that made your heart skip a beat. You stared a moment too long, captivated by the way he carried himself, the confidence radiating from him like a beacon, drawing you in with an almost magnetic pull.

Just as you were lost in thought, your mother’s voice snapped you back to reality. “And this is my eldest, Y/N! Come meet the Choi's; I hope I’m saying it correctly.” The way she introduced you felt like a spotlight shining down, illuminating the moment with a mix of pride and urgency.

The older man giggled, a light, melodic sound that seemed to ease the tension in the room, and nodded in acknowledgment. You felt your cheeks flush as you stepped forward, your heart racing as you extended your hand, trying to mask the flutter of nerves that danced in your stomach. “A pleasure to meet you,” you managed to say, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

The taller man’s gaze met yours, and for a brief moment, the world around you faded, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of unspoken connection. “Likewise,” he replied, his voice smooth and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. It was as if time had slowed, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, a sense of destiny hanging in the air.

As the introductions continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this day was about to change everything—not just for the farm, but for you as well. The air was thick with anticipation, and you could sense the significance of the occasion, the potential for new beginnings and unforeseen paths.

The dinner table was a feast for the senses, beautifully set with a rustic charm that reflected the heart of Tuscany. A large bowl of glistening olives sat at the center, surrounded by platters of honey-roasted chicken, golden and succulent, and fluffy baked butter rolls that seemed to melt in your mouth. And, of course, there was Papa's famous home-brewed wine from Milan, its rich aroma wafting through the air, promising warmth and cheer, a comforting embrace amidst the formalities.

As everyone settled into their seats, the atmosphere buzzed with a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Your mother and Mr. Choi, the older gentleman, engaged in a lively conversation about the farm's revenue and turnover, their voices rising and falling like a well-rehearsed duet. You listened half-heartedly, your attention drifting to the delicious spread before you, the vibrant colors and enticing scents beckoning you to indulge.

With a carefree spirit, you dug into your plate, your fork clattering against the china as you piled food onto it, completely oblivious to the formalities around you. You were messy as always, a fact that had become a running joke in your family, and you couldn’t help but revel in the joy of the moment, the flavors dancing on your tongue.

Suddenly, you felt a gentle nudge at your side. It was your aunt, her voice a soft whisper. “Manners, he’s looking,” she muttered, her eyes darting toward the table across from you.

“Who?” you questioned, your mouth full of fluffy roll and chicken, flour dusting your lips like a careless baker. You were blissfully unaware of the impression you were making.

Your aunt side-eyed you, pointing discreetly at the figure who was indeed staring at you, a bemused expression on his face as he took a bite of his chicken. The moment your eyes met, embarrassment flooded through you like a tidal wave, and you nervously pulled your gaze away, hastily wiping your mouth with the tablecloth. In your haste, you missed a spot near the crook of your lip, leaving a smudge of flour that only added to your mortification.

He snickered softly, the sound light and teasing, and you shot him a glare, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. “What’s so funny?” you muttered under your breath, trying to regain your composure, but the warmth of your cheeks betrayed you.

He simply pointed at the corner of his lips, a playful grin spreading across his face, indicating that you still had flour lingering there. Your heart raced as you realized he was enjoying your clumsiness, and you felt a mix of irritation and amusement bubbling within you. You grabbed a napkin and dabbed at your mouth, trying to wipe away the evidence of your earlier indiscretion, but the moment felt like a dance of awkwardness and charm.

As the conversation continued around the table, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him. He was charming in a way that made it hard to focus on anything else, his laughter infectious and his presence magnetic. You found yourself drawn to the way he engaged with everyone, his easy confidence making the atmosphere feel lighter, as if he had the power to turn the mundane into something extraordinary.

With each shared laugh and stolen glance, you felt the tension of the day begin to melt away, replaced by a sense of possibility. This dinner was not just a meeting of minds; it was a moment that could alter the course of your life, and you were ready to embrace whatever came next.

Mr. Choi leaned forward, his expression serious yet curious. “So, how much would you like for the farm? Name your price.”

Your attention was immediately steered away from the lively conversation, your heart racing at his question. What did he mean, how much do we want? You thought, your eyes widening slightly as you awaited Mama’s response. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation, as if the very walls were straining to hear the answer.

Mama hesitated for a moment, her composure wavering as she weighed her words. Finally, she uttered, “Eight million.”

Your heart dropped at her response. Selling the farm? “Mama!” you whined, unable to contain your shock, the words spilling out before you could think.

“Y/N, not now,” she snapped, her glare sharp enough to silence you. “Por favor.”

You sank back into your seat, aching under the weight of her command. Por favor—the words held a weight of grace and favor, but in this house, they carried something deeper, a demand for respect that you couldn’t ignore. The tension in the room thickened, and as they continued discussing plans for the farm, your mind raced with the implications of your mother’s words.

A rustle from upstairs broke through your thoughts, and you exchanged a glance with your aunt, who looked equally concerned. She mouthed, “Did you lock the door?”

You frowned, uncertainty washing over you. Did you? Just then, the door upstairs creaked open, and you heard light footsteps treading gently against the wooden floor. “Paco,” you whispered, your heart pounding as you realized he must have escaped his cozy bed.

Abruptly, you stood up, excusing yourself from the table, nearly knocking over your wine glass in the process. You hurried upstairs into your room, but the sight that greeted you was chaotic: the sheets were ruffled, the cushions a chewed-up disaster, but the culprit was nowhere to be found. “Paco!” you called, searching all the rooms, but he was nowhere to be found. Panic began to bubble within you as you made your way back downstairs, your heart racing with anxiety.

As you returned to the dinner table, you noticed Nonna Elina sitting in her chair, peacefully asleep, her gentle snores a stark contrast to the tension in the room. You sat back down, trying to focus on the conversation, but your mind was still racing with thoughts of your mother selling the farm and Paco’s whereabouts.

You continued to eat your food, making a conscious effort to be graceful this time, but suddenly, you felt something furry brushing against your feet. You looked down, startled, and there was Paco, his little body nuzzling against your ankle, his eyes wide and innocent.

You reached down under the table, your heart racing as you spotted Paco’s little form peeking out from the edge of the tablecloth. “Come here, Paco,” you whispered, waving an olive to lure him toward you. But instead of coming to you, he had other plans. He moved closer to the young gentleman’s feet, and your stomach dropped.

“No, no, no, Paco, hey!” you hissed, watching in horror as he sniffed at the gentleman's shoes, which looked expensive—very expensive. The perfect lunch for a mischievous goat.

Paco’s nose wiggled, and you recognized that expression all too well: the rectangular pupils widening, the telltale sign that he was about to make a very bad decision. “Paco, no!” you pleaded, but it was too late.

“Maa!” he bleated, and the table rustled in shock. Your mother’s voice cut through the chaos, stern yet raised in alarm. “Y/N!”

In a panic, you dove deeper under the table, trying to catch him before he could cause any more trouble, but he was too fast. With a leap, he jumped up into the young gentleman's lap, and without thinking, you followed suit, your head now awkwardly positioned right between his legs.

“Paco!” you exclaimed, reaching out to grab hold of him, but the moment was chaotic. The gentleman looked down at you, surprise etched across his handsome features, while you felt the heat of embarrassment flood your cheeks.

“Y/N Isabella Pesci!” Mama exclaimed, her voice a mix of disbelief and frustration.

You froze for a moment, caught in the act, your heart racing as you tried to process the scene. Here you were, sprawled under the table, with a goat in the lap of a very important guest. As you cradled Paco in your arms, the tension and sighs around the table began to settle, and Mama regained her composure, her expression shifting from shock to disappointment. Mr. Choi, amused by the scene before him, chuckled softly, but Mama’s eyes were sharp, glinting with a fierce intensity that made your stomach drop.

“Take him outside. Now,” she commanded, her hand grasping the fork tightly, her glare piercing into your soul.

You nodded, your expression falling as you reluctantly crawled back under the table, clutching Paco tightly. You stood up, feeling the weight of the moment as you made your way toward the doorway that led to the staircase. Before stepping out, you turned back, bowing slightly in apology to the guests. “Sorry, Mama,” you murmured, but she didn’t even acknowledge your words, her focus already back on Mr. Choi.

“Where were we?” she continued, her voice smooth and professional, as if the earlier chaos had never happened. The contrast between her composed demeanor and the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you felt surreal, and as you stepped outside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this day was only the beginning of something much larger than yourself.

With a heavy heart, you stepped outside, the cool evening air wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. The sunset deepened into the sky, painting it in hues of orange and pink, a breathtaking canvas that seemed to reflect the turmoil within you. The wind blew softly, cradling your skin like a frozen kiss, a stark contrast to the warmth of the chaos you had just left behind. You ventured deeper into the farm, holding Paco close, his little body warm against you, a comforting presence amidst the uncertainty.

As you walked, you couldn’t shake the feeling of embarrassment from the dinner table. The laughter and conversation continued to echo from the house, but you felt a sense of isolation creeping in, a reminder that you were caught between two worlds—the one you cherished and the one that seemed to be slipping away.

“Mrs. Pesci, would you mind if I take a look at the farm?” the gentleman had asked politely, his tone respectful yet curious. Mr. Choi, surprised at his godson’s words, chuckled. “San, it’s getting darker. How would you be able to see?”

San shrugged, a playful smile on his lips. “It’s okay. I just want to see how it looks since we’re buying it from the Pesci’s.”

You could almost feel the weight of those words hanging in the air, a promise that felt both exciting and terrifying.

“I’ll accompany you,” your aunt offered, stepping forward, but San politely declined.

“No, thank you. I’d like some alone time to make up my mind,” he said, his gaze drifting toward the fields, a hint of determination in his eyes.

San stepped out of the house, his suit still impeccably intact, though a few strands of Paco’s fur clung to the fabric, a testament to the little goat’s mischief. He walked deeper into the farm, taking in the breathtaking scene before him, and you couldn’t help but watch from a distance, curiosity mingling with your unease.

The landscape unfolded like a living tapestry, where trees of varying sizes stood proudly, each one a guardian of the land. Some were tall and majestic, their branches stretching wide, adorned with clusters of vibrant pomegranate blossoms that danced in the gentle breeze. Others were smaller, their delicate limbs cradling the bright, ruby-red fruits that hung like jewels, glistening in the fading light. The air was fragrant with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, a heady perfume that mingled with the earthy aroma of the soil beneath your feet, grounding you in the moment.

As San strolled, he glanced up at the sky, where the cold winds heightened, sending subtle chills against his cheek. The clouds were painted in soft pastels, a canvas of pinks and purples that blended seamlessly into the deepening blue of twilight. It was a sight to behold, a moment suspended in time, where nature’s beauty unfolded in all its glory, and you felt a pang of longing for the simplicity of it all.

Placing his hands in his pockets, he continued to walk further into the farm, the rows of plantations sectioned precisely, each one a testament to the care and dedication of the Pesci family. The neat lines of greenery stretched out before him, a symphony of life that whispered stories of hard work and love. You could see the pride in the way the land was tended, the love that had been poured into every inch of soil, and it made your heart ache with the thought of losing it.

As you stood there, holding Paco close, you felt a mix of emotions swirling within you—fear of the unknown, sadness for what might be lost, and a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this day could lead to something new and beautiful. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the farm, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to dream of a future where the Pesci legacy could continue, where the laughter and love that filled this place would never fade away.

With a deep breath, you stepped forward, ready to face whatever came next, determined to protect the heart of your family and the land that had shaped you.

As he ventured deeper, a barn came into view in the distance, its rustic charm beckoning him closer. Warm lights gleamed from the circular window at the top, casting a golden glow that contrasted beautifully with the encroaching dusk. The barn stood as a beacon of warmth and comfort, a place where memories were made and laughter echoed through the years, a sanctuary that seemed to hold the very essence of the farm within its walls.

San felt a sense of peace wash over him as he approached the barn, the gentle sounds of the farm enveloping him like a familiar embrace. The soft rustle of leaves, the distant clucking of chickens, and the gentle whinny of a horse created a symphony of life that resonated deep within him. It was a place rich with history, and he couldn’t help but feel a connection to it, as if the land itself was inviting him to become a part of its story, to weave his own narrative into the tapestry of the Pesci legacy.

With each step, he felt the weight of the decision ahead of him, but in that moment, surrounded by the beauty of the farm, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be. The barn door creaked open as he stepped inside, the familiar scent of hay and earth enveloping him like a warm embrace, wrapping him in a cocoon of nostalgia. His eyes roamed the surroundings, taking in the rustic charm of the space. A rooster perched atop a wooden stool, its proud stance a reminder of the farm's vibrant life, while nearby, a pot bubbled on a stove, steam rising into the air, the aroma of boiling pasta wafting through the barn, mingling with the earthy scents and creating a comforting atmosphere.

Various pottery pieces adorned the shelves, painted in turquoise and red sequences, their colors bright and inviting, reminiscent of the joyful chaos of family gatherings. A smile crept across his face, the scene reminiscent of his mother’s kitchen, filled with love and laughter, and he felt a pang of longing for the warmth of home.

As he wandered further, a soft sound caught his attention—quiet sobs emanating from a door slightly ajar. Curiosity piqued, he approached the door and gently pushed it open. What he saw made his heart ache. You were seated on the floor, cradling your head in your arms on the bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. Paco sat atop the bed, his little head resting on yours, offering comfort in his own way, a small guardian in your moment of vulnerability.

“Are you alright?” San asked softly, stepping into the room, his voice a gentle balm against the heaviness in the air.

You turned your head to face him, your face painted with a salty river of tears, eyes red and swollen from the embarrassment and the weight of the moment. “What are you doing here? How did you find this place?” you asked, your voice strained and lacking composure as you quivered, the vulnerability of the moment washing over you like a tide.

“I stepped out to see the farm, and I saw this place, so…” he trailed off, the unspoken words hanging in the air between you, a bridge of understanding forming in the silence.

A silent staring competition emerged, his expression soft yet hinting at something deeper beneath the surface, a connection that felt both fragile and profound. Just then, Paco bleated, snapping you both out of your trance, his little voice a reminder of the present.

You stood up, your bun slightly loose and your bare feet cold against the wooden floor, grounding you in the moment. “It’s getting late; you should probably go back, Mr…?”

“San. San Choi,” he replied, reaching his hand out to shake yours, his touch warm and reassuring.

You took his hand, but the shake turned into something more. He gently lifted your hand, turning it so your knuckles faced up, and brought it to his lips, kissing it softly and respectfully. The gesture sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through you, igniting a spark of something you hadn’t expected.

“To learn more about the farm, that is,” he continued, his tone light and teasing, and a sigh of relief washed over you at his save. You couldn’t help but chuckle, the tension easing as you realized he had picked up on your train of thought, his playful demeanor disarming your earlier embarrassment. He laughed along with you, and Paco bleated, as if joining in on the moment, his little presence adding to the warmth of the exchange.

In that instant, the weight of the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared laughter and understanding. The barn, with its rustic charm and the scent of home, felt like a sanctuary, a place where connections were forged and memories were made. And as you stood there, surrounded by the warmth of the moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the beginning of something beautiful, a new chapter in the story of your life and the farm you held so dear.

“Would you like some pasta?” you asked, trying to shift the focus back to something lighthearted, hoping to dispel the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog.

He shook his head politely. “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

You nodded, feeling a bit shy but grateful for the moment of levity. “It’s my mother’s recipe. She makes the best pasta,” you said, a hint of pride creeping into your voice. “It’s one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

San chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I can imagine. It must be a family secret.”

“Definitely,” you replied, feeling a warmth spread through you. “It’s one of the things that makes this place feel like home.”

You settled by the small wooden table, Paco nestled comfortably in your lap, his soft body providing a sense of warmth and comfort. In front of you sat a large bowl of pasta adorned with vibrant tomato cherries, their sweetness promising a delightful meal. As you and San began to talk, the atmosphere felt relaxed and inviting, the earlier tension dissipating like the fading light outside.

“So, what do you do for a living?” you asked, curiosity bubbling up as you twirled a forkful of pasta, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

San hesitated for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Well, I come from old money,” he replied, his tone casual but guarded. “After my family passed away, my great uncle took care of me. He made me his godson.”

You nodded, intrigued but sensing there was more to the story. “That’s interesting. It must have been a big change for you.”

“It was,” he said, his gaze drifting for a moment, as if lost in memories that were too heavy to bear. “But it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Trust me, you don’t want that kind of family. It’s all too troublesome.”

“What do you mean by that?” you asked, leaning in, genuinely curious, your heart racing as you sensed the weight of his words.

He hesitated, his expression thoughtful, the shadows of his past flickering across his features. “Let’s just say… expectations are through the roof,” he finally answered, a hint of frustration lacing his words, and you could feel the tension in the air thickening.

Minutes passed as the conversation flowed, the warmth of the wine making your cheeks flush, but neither of you felt drunk or tipsy. It was a comfortable buzz, one that encouraged openness, yet the underlying tension remained, a silent current that pulled at the edges of your thoughts.

“Have you been on the farm all your life?” San asked, his eyes sparkling with interest, and you felt a flicker of hope that this conversation could lead somewhere deeper.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through Paco’s coat, feeling the soft snores blowing gently against your dress. “I moved here from Milan when I was 15. Business was fast for Papa, but Mama didn’t want to live there anymore. She said it was too noisy and crowded.”

“And how did you feel about it?” he asked, his tone sincere, and that question warmed you. It was an emotion unfamiliar; no one had ever asked how you felt about something so personal.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you admitted, your voice softening, the vulnerability of your past spilling out. “I liked the noise as much as I love it here. But Milan has life, no?”

San nodded, his expression understanding, but you could see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes, a shared understanding of loss and longing. “It sounds like you have a deep connection to both places.”

“I do,” you replied, feeling a sense of relief in sharing your thoughts. “Milan was vibrant, full of energy. I loved the hustle and bustle, the art, the people. But here, it’s peaceful. It’s like the world slows down, and I can breathe.”

He smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes that made your heart flutter. “It’s nice to have both, I suppose. A balance.”

“Exactly,” you said, feeling a sense of camaraderie with him. “But sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. What if I missed out on something amazing in Milan?”

San leaned back slightly, contemplating your words, the weight of his own experiences reflected in his gaze. “Life is full of choices, and sometimes we don’t know what we’re missing until it’s too late. But it sounds like you’ve found something special here.”

You met his gaze, feeling a connection that went beyond the surface, a shared understanding of the complexities of life. “I have. This farm is my heart, even if it can be chaotic at times.”

“Chaos can be beautiful,” he replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, but the tension in the air was palpable, a reminder of the storm brewing just beneath the surface. “Just like this moment.”

You both shared a quiet laugh, the bond between you deepening as the evening wore on. In that small barn, with Paco nestled in your lap and the warmth of the pasta filling the air, you felt a sense of belonging that you hadn’t realized you were missing.

San took a deep breath, his expression shifting to one of sincerity, the atmosphere thickening with unspoken words. “I’m sorry you had to find out about it like that,” he began, his voice gentle, but the weight of his words hung heavily between you.

You looked up, your eyes furrowing in confusion. “What do you—”

“Oh, about Mama selling the farm?” you interrupted, the realization hitting you like a wave, crashing over your senses. “Well, it is a shock to me. It’s just that this doesn’t happen overnight, no? It’s something you plan thoroughly, and in due time, you make a decision, but…”

“But what?” San prompted, leaning in slightly, his interest piqued, and you could feel the tension tightening around you like a noose.

“It hurt how she did not bother to tell me,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly, the vulnerability of your emotions spilling out. “It’s not like I am 18. I’m 25, so my opinion should matter, no?”

He nodded at your words, taking in the weight of how you must have felt and how you were still feeling. “It makes sense. You’re an adult, and you deserve to be part of those conversations, especially about something as significant as the family farm.”

You sighed, the frustration bubbling to the surface, a storm of emotions threatening to spill over. “I just wish she would have included me. I’ve always been here, helping out, loving this place. It feels like she’s making a decision that affects my life without even considering how I feel about it.”

San’s expression softened as he took your words in, the absorption striking a feeling so relatable within him. He sighed before taking a sip of his wine, the tension between you thickening, a shared understanding of the weight of family expectations hanging in the air. “Well, that makes two of us,” he said, his voice laced with understanding, and in that moment, you felt the walls around your heart begin to crack, the connection between you deepening as the night wore on.

The barn, once a sanctuary, now felt like a crucible, the heat of your emotions swirling around you, and you knew that this conversation was just the beginning of something that could change everything.

Just then, he checked the time on his watch, and at that moment, the sound of footsteps treading towards the barn caught his attention. The door swung open, revealing your aunt, her expression shifting from surprise to concern.

“There you two are—what is this? Y/N, you cannot be caught in such comfort with a… stranger,” she exclaimed, her eyes darting between you and San, a hint of alarm coloring her tone. “I apologize if I offended, Mr. Choi.”

“Aunt, it’s not—” you started, but San interjected smoothly.

“Not at all. I was just about to leave anyway. She told me a lot about the farm,” he said, gathering his suit jacket in his arms, the fine black cloth sueding against his forearm, and you felt a pang of regret at the thought of him leaving.

“It was nice meeting you. All have a good night,” he added, offering a polite smile that made your heart flutter.

“Ciao,” you waved rapidly, feeling a mix of emotions as he turned to leave. Paco bleated in farewell, and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

The barn felt emptier without him, and you turned to your aunt, who was watching San’s backside as he strode away. “He’s handsome,” she commented, a teasing lilt in her voice, and you felt your cheeks flush.

“Aunty, not again,” you groaned, rolling your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite your protest.

“I’m just saying! I don’t want a husband, but for him, I can make arrangements,” she muttered with a smug grin on her face, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the lightness of the moment lingering for just a heartbeat longer.

But then, the comfort within the atmosphere shifted as your aunt’s expression turned serious. “She signed the deal.”

Your heart sank, and your expression crashed, leaving no emotion in sight—just a blank stare as the weight of her words settled over you like a heavy fog. “What?” you managed to whisper, the reality of the situation crashing down around you like a tidal wave.

“We leave tomorrow,” she said, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of concern that sent a chill down your spine.

The words echoed in your mind, and you felt a wave of panic wash over you. “Tomorrow? Just like that?”

Your aunt nodded, her gaze softening as she took a step closer, the tension in the air thickening. “I know it’s sudden, but your mother believes this is the best decision for us. She thinks it will be a fresh start.”

“A fresh start?” you repeated, incredulous, your voice rising with disbelief. “What about the farm? What about everything we’ve built here?”

“I understand, Y/N. I really do,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm. “But sometimes, we have to let go of the past to embrace the future. Your mother thinks this is what’s best for us.”

You shook your head, feeling a mix of anger and despair bubbling to the surface. “But I don’t want to leave! Not again! This is my home! I can’t just pack up and go without a say in it!”

“I know it’s hard,” your aunt replied, her eyes filled with empathy, but the weight of her words felt like a stone in your chest. “But you have to talk to your mother. Express how you feel. Maybe she’ll listen.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t even know if she’ll care what I think.”

Your aunt smirked, her expression lightening the mood just a fraction. “You’re right. Knowing my sister, she listens to nobody—not even Nonna.”

Hearing those words brought a smile to your face, and a memory flickered to life in your mind. You recalled the time Nonna had advised your mother to choose a dress that suited her skin tone, but because her favorite color was yellow, she stubbornly stuck with the one she had chosen. As she walked out the door, a bird had pooped on it, and Nonna had laughed heartily, saying, “I told you it was bad luck!”

You chuckled at the memory, the warmth of nostalgia washing over you. “I remember that! Mama was so upset, but Nonna just couldn’t stop laughing. It was like she knew it would happen.”

Your aunt joined in your laughter, the sound echoing in the barn, but the joy felt fragile, like a bubble that could burst at any moment. “That’s Nonna for you. Always had a way of making a point, even if it meant a little misfortune.”

The lightness of the moment helped ease the weight of your earlier worries, but the reality of the impending move loomed over you like a dark cloud. “It’s funny how stubborn she can be, though. Sometimes I wonder if I inherited that trait.”

“Definitely,” your aunt replied, a teasing glint in her eyes, but the tension in the air was palpable. “You’re just as headstrong as your mother. But that’s not a bad thing. It means you know what you want.”

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination surge within you. “I just need to find a way to make her see my side. I want her to understand how much this place means to me.”

“Exactly,” your aunt encouraged, her voice warm but firm. “And if she doesn’t listen, we’ll find a way to make her hear you. You’re not alone in this.”

As you stood there, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the barn, you felt a flicker of hope ignite within you, but it was overshadowed by the fear of losing everything you held dear. The bond you shared with your aunt, the memories of Nonna, and the laughter you had just shared reminded you that family was about more than just blood—it was about support, love, and understanding.

Your aunt glanced at you, a playful smile on her face, but the gravity of the situation hung heavily in the air. “So, are you going to sleep in the house tonight?”

You shook your head, a sense of comfort washing over you as you replied, “No, I think I’ll sleep in the barn for the night.”

She peered her head out the window, her eyes sparkling with mischief, but the tension still lingered. “Alright, but I’ll wake you up in the morning so we can start packing before she bites your head off.”

You nodded, grateful for her support, but the thought of facing your mother filled you with dread. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” she said, her voice warm and reassuring, but the uncertainty of the future loomed like a shadow.

“Goodnight,” you replied, feeling a sense of peace settle over you, but it was fragile, like a flickering candle in the wind.

As your aunt turned to leave, Paco bleated once again, the sound echoing in the quiet barn, a reminder of the comfort he provided. “That goat needs Jesus,” your aunt joked, shaking her head, but the humor felt distant.

Just then, Paco charged towards her, and she squealed, running out of the barn while stealing the bottle of wine from the table. You laughed uncontrollably at the scene, the sound of joy filling the air, but it felt like a temporary reprieve from the storm brewing inside you. Paco bleated one more time as she left, “Maa!” which you interpreted as a cheeky jab at her.

Your aunt screamed back, “Fuck you!” while holding a middle finger up at him, and you couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Paco huffed, hefting his horns in her direction as she ran away, and once she was out of sight, he returned to your side, settling down comfortably.

With the barn now quiet, you prepared for bed, laying down on the soft hay with Paco nestled beside you. The rooster was probably outside on the porch, not in the oven—just jokes, of course! The familiar sounds of the barn surrounded you, the gentle rustling of hay and the soft snorts of Paco providing a soothing backdrop, but the weight of the day pressed heavily on your chest.

As you lay there, your thoughts began to drift. The events of the day replayed in your mind—the conversation with San, the laughter with your aunt, and the weight of the impending move. You felt a mix of anxiety and determination swirling within you. Would your mother truly listen? Would she understand how much this place meant to you?

The barn felt like a sanctuary, a place where you could gather your thoughts and reflect on what truly mattered. You thought about the memories you had created here—the laughter, the love, the sense of belonging. This farm was more than just land; it was a part of you, and the thought of losing it felt like a knife twisting in your gut.

Paco shifted beside you, and you reached out to scratch his head, feeling the warmth of his presence. “You’re my little confidant, aren’t you?” you whispered, a smile creeping onto your face, but the uncertainty of the future loomed large in your mind. He bleated softly in response, as if agreeing with you, but the comfort was fleeting.

As the night deepened, the stars twinkled through the barn’s open window, casting a soft glow over the space. You took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of hay and earth, allowing the tranquility of the moment to wash over you, but the storm of emotions within you refused to settle.

With your heart still racing from the day’s events, you closed your eyes, letting the gentle sounds of the barn lull you into a peaceful state. You knew that tomorrow would bring challenges, but for now, you felt safe and secure, wrapped in the warmth of the barn and the love of your family—both near and far.

Slowly, your thoughts began to quiet, and as you drifted off to sleep, you felt a sense of hope blooming within you. You would find a way to make your voice heard, and no matter what happened, you would face it all with the strength of your family behind you. But deep down, a nagging fear lingered—what if your voice wasn’t enough? What if the decision had already been made, and you were powerless to change it? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but as sleep began to take hold, you clung to the hope that tomorrow would bring clarity, and perhaps, a chance to reclaim your home.

𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡:

@velvetdolor @k1tashin @egirlbyeol @mulloey @anxietyspacestart @twancingyunhao @akl99 @roseartemis93 @dea-nimus @downbadpandora @frenchkisstheabyss @krispydinasourrunaway @himeiromai @londonbridges01 @ateezmakemeweep @a-tiny-thing @justconniez @blueginz @mlrem88 @bruhmoonlight @ewok7attack @powerpuff-girls4l @anoooon13 @noone356097 @hwasstxr @matzrionette @ninjakitty15 @xhaliemax @reverienymphslibrary @instantbananadaze @spacemonsterrr @stxrswrld @cutejaeyunie @angy287 @mingiswow @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @guest8002 @manu2004 @channiesjagi @lunarphantomvoyager @klarinda-klabisom @writers-thoughts09 @deafeningpandereview

A/n: I could not wait any longer I had to release it. If I didn’t I’d be a raging chimpanzee. Grim’s end will be posted in 2 days time so don’t fret don’t cry, fae’s got you. Enjoy fairies see in the next chapters 🥀❤️

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fromaliminalspace · 1 month ago

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"Sing, Wind, Sing" (poetic singable translation) from Lay of Leithian rock-opera

[Beren:] Farewell, oh splendid peaceful land, — Sing, windblast, sing! — All forests, valleys, and green fields. Sing, windblast, sing!

Farewell, oh beaming sunlit days — Sing, windblast, sing! — And distant groves with nightingales. Sing, windblast, sing!

Oh wind, I'll surely follow you And my odd fate with no ado. Sing, windblast, sing!

And there, over the ridge stronghold — Howl, windblast, howl! — The ice-bound valleys, frozen cold. Howl, windblast, howl!

Within the land in darkness thrown — Howl, windblast, howl! — The Dark Foe reigns upon his throne. Howl, windblast, howl!

In moonlight Gemstones glow surreal Atop the crown that's forged from steel. Howl, windblast, howl!

A song from very far away — Stop, windblast, stop! — Through ice and dust will show the way. Stop, windblast, stop!

Through tempests and a stormy sneer — Stop, windblast, stop! — Your voice, Tinúviel, I hear. Stop, windblast, stop!

[Lúthien's voice:] But you have failed to outrun A false step done, my dearest one! Stop, windblast, stop!

#lay of leithian rock opera #lay of leithian #beren and luthien #the silmarillion #beren #lúthien #lúthien tinúviel #tolkien #jrrt #silm #Liam's stuff #Liam whispers into the void #rmt #translation #whoops my hand slipped once again

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ihopesocomicask · 23 days ago

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Theory that the reason we don’t know the name of Storm’s father is because he still have his pride name, or he is a pride lion and a name reveal would spoiler where he’s from. I hope we meet him soon and I hope he has a good explanation for not staying with Tempest and his cubs in Golden Grove

Interesting theory! - Cat

#ask #ask us stuff #cat answers

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acronym-chaos · 5 months ago

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The Creaking (Minecraft) ID Pack

[PT: The Creaking (Minecraft) ID Pack].

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom. End ID].

Names

[PT: Names].

Arbor, Bark, Blight, Bloom, Bramble, Crowley, Dread, Drift, Duskwood, Ebon, Elowen, Fern, Fog, Glade, Gloom, Grimwood, Grove, Hallow, Hollow, Lament, Lichen, Mirk, Morgana, Moss, Murk, Pine, Raven, Root, Ruin, Shade, Shadow, Silence, Somber, Sylvan, Tempest, Thistle, Thorn, Vine, Whisper, Willow, Wisp, Wood, Wraith, Wren

Pronouns

[PT: Pronouns].

Bark / Bar / Barks, Creak / Creaks / Creaks, Cree / Creep / Creeps, Da / Dar / Dark, De / Dec / Decay, Ga / Gar / Garden, Gloom / Glooms / Glooms, Lurk / Lurks / Lurks, Mo / Moss / Moss, Ni / Nigh / Night, Pale / Pales / Pales, Ro / Rot / Rots, Sta / Stals / Stalk, Still / Stills / Stills, Timb / Ber / Bers [Timber], Twi / Twig / Twigs, Wood / Woods / Woods

Titles

[PT: Titles].

[Pronoun] Who Lurks Unseen, [Pronoun] Who Moves When Not Watched, The Echo Crackling in the Darkness, The Entity of the Pale Woods, The Haunting Presence, The Mystery of the Pale Garden, The One Bound to the Heart, The One Guarding the Creaking Heart, The One Who Spawns at Night, The Silent Stalker, The Wraith of the Woods

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom, End ID].

Requested by anon!

Also tagging: @id-pack-archive

#the creaking #creaking #minecraft #id pack #npts #npt pack #npt #npt list #names pronouns titles

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bardtournament · 1 month ago

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best soliloquy tournament

youtube

vote on the soliloquy itself, not based on performances linked. the performances are meant to serve as examples of the soliloquy spoken aloud!

full soliloquies in plain text under the read more

Ye Elves of Hills, Prospero in The Tempest, Act 5 Scene 1

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ‘twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required Some heavenly music, which even now I do, To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.

How All Occasions Do Inform Against Me, Hamlet in Hamlet, Act 4. Scene 4

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure, he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and god-like reason To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event, A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward, I do not know Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do;’ Sith I have cause and will and strength and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me: Witness this army of such mass and charge Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit with divine ambition puff’d Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men, That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

#william shakespeare #hamlet #the tempest #poll tournament #polls #soliloquy #Youtube

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corporatecoinings · 6 months ago

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(Snowy) forest + wolf (or canine) themed ID pack

Crafted by Alaska's paws 🐺🐾 Header mask | /fleaseditstuff Divider | Made by Alaska (me) (I prefer it that only I use the divider.)

Names

Alaska ✦ Alder ✦ Alpha ✦ Alpine ✦ Arctic ✦ Ash ✦ Aspen ✦ Aura ✦ Aurora ✦ Avalanche ✦ Birch ✦ Blizzard ✦ Boreal/Borealis ✦ Boris ✦ Brutus ✦ Canine ✦ Cedar ✦ Cinder ✦ Colorado ✦ Comet ✦ Crecent ✦ Crystal ✦ Dakota ✦ Dawn ✦ Diamond ✦ Douglas ✦ Dusk/Dusky ✦ Ebony ✦ Eclipse ✦ Elm ✦ Everest ✦ Evergreen ✦ Fang ✦ Fawn ✦ Fenrir ✦ Fern ✦ Forest/Forrest ✦ Frost ✦ Frostine ✦ Glacier ✦ Gray ✦ Grove/Grover ✦ Howl ✦ Icecap ✦ Icicle ✦ Ivory/Ivy ✦ January ✦ Juniper ✦ Lixue ✦ Lumi ✦ Luna ✦ Maine ✦ Mist/Misty ✦ Miyuki ✦ Montana ✦ Moon ✦ Neve ✦ North ✦ Permafrost ✦ Pine ✦ Polar ✦ Polaris ✦ Redwood ✦ River ✦ Rocky ✦ Sable ✦ Siberia ✦ Silas ✦ Silver ✦ Sirius ✦ Smoke/Smokey ✦ Snowcap ✦ Snowfall ✦ Snowflake ✦ Snowstorm ✦ Spirit ✦ Spruce ✦ Storm ✦ Summit ✦ Sylvester ✦ Taiga ✦ Tempest ✦ Timber ✦ Tundra ✦ Twilight ✦ Valor ✦ Vega ✦ Vixen ✦ Wilder ✦ Winter ✦ Yukina ✦ Zeus

Pronouns

arctic/arctics ✦ arf/arfs ✦ bark/barks ✦ birch/birchs ✦ bite/bites ✦ bloom/blooms ✦ branch/branchs ✦ breeze/breezes ✦ breezy/breezys ✦ canine/canines ✦ chew/chews ✦ chill/chills ✦ chilly/chillys ✦ claw/claws ✦ cold/colds ✦ creek/creeks ✦ dark/darks ✦ fang/fangs ✦ fauna/faunas ✦ fern/ferns ✦ fir/firs ✦ flora/floras ✦ fluff/fluffs ✦ fluffy/fluffys ✦ forest/forests ✦ fur/furs ✦ growl/growls ✦ grr/grrs ✦ holly/hollys ✦ howl/howls ✦ leaf/leafs ✦ luna/lunas ✦ lunar/lunars ✦ moon/moons ✦ night/nights ✦ nocturn/nocturns ✦ nocturnal/nocturnals ✦ nox/noxs ✦ paw/paws ✦ pine/pines ✦ river/rivers ✦ ruff/ruffs ✦ sap/saps ✦ sapling/saplings ✦ shadow/shadows ✦ snow/snows ✦ snowflake/snowflakes ✦ spruce/spruces ✦ thorn/thorns ✦ timber/timbers ✦ tree/trees ✦ tundra/tundras ✦ wind/winds ✦ winter/winters ✦ wolf/wolfs ✦ wood/woods ✦ 🐺/🐺s ✦ 🐾/🐾s ✦ 🌲/🌲s ✦ 🌳/🌳s ✦ 🌿/🌿s ✦ 🍁/🍁s ✦ 🍂/🍂s ✦ 🍃/🍃s ✦ 🍄/🍄s ✦ 🪨/🪨s ✦ 🪵/🪵s ✦ 🌑/🌑s ✦ 🌒/🌒s ✦ 🌓/🌓s ✦ 🌔/🌔s ✦ 🌕/🌕s ✦ 🌖/🌖s ✦ 🌗/🌗s ✦ 🌘/🌘s ✦ 🌙/🌙s ✦ ⭐/⭐s ✦ ☁️/☁️s ✦ 🌨️/🌨️s ✦ ❄️/❄️s

Genders

Alonesnowaesic ✦ Auroralupincryin ✦ Fogforestic ✦ Forestgender ✦ Forestwolfgender ✦ Forestwolfsprintic ✦ Howlgender ✦ Neigean ✦ Nightforfulmoonic ✦ Northwolfic ✦ Noxlibic ✦ Redwoodgender ✦ Sillywolfic ✦ Snowfallgender ✦ Snowmoonlic ✦ Snowynightgender ✦ Starforestaesic ✦ Tundrawolfgender ✦ Wolfbitic ✦ Wolfforestic ✦ Wolfgender ✦ Wolfmoonbodiement ✦ Wolfmoonic ✦ Wolforigender ✦ Wolfpawic ✦ Wolfplushigender ✦ Wolfstarmoonic ✦ Wolfthing

Feel free to use this ID pack however you want. For hoarding labels, for figuring out your identity, for system members, so on and so forth.

[Nemesis protects this blog! we are pro-endo, anti-radqueer, anti-transid, and anti-proship, but our labels are for everybody; unless we specify a specific reason as to why what we have coined is exclusive in the post. please dont come here with ill intention, we are not afraid to block!]

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fromtheboundlesssea · 9 months ago

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Me writing Tempest Grove this week:

You guys reading Tempest Grove this week:

#tempest grove

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an-excellent-choice · 10 months ago

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A Tempest of Events - Day 2: Blackstaff Student AU

It has only been a few months since Aoide, the exchange student specializing druidic magic, arrived in Blackstaff but for Gale it feels like it's been a lifetime. While their afternoon study sessions and late night talks have made Gale neglect his studies and duties to Mystra. All their talks, shared glances and soft touches made it all worth for Gale.

An AU were Gale and Aoide met in Blackstaff. Them becoming sweethearts and Gale never becoming a Mystra's chosen because he follows Aoide when she had to go back to her grove.

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madwomansapologist · 1 year ago

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━ ✧ unraveling you | chapter 1 - welcome to westview!

masterlist | pinterest board | spotify playlist | AO3

series synopsis: Trapped inside Westview, Agatha Harkness was reduced to Agnes. The noisy neighbor and nothing more than that. Until a meteor rain brought something strong to Westview. Something strong enough to help her, and maybe strong enough to free her. You. In a journey to save herself by teaching you the ways of magic, Agatha Harkness wants one thing only: to avenge herself.

Agnes woke up before the alarm, unsure if she even slept last night.

Standing in front of the bedside table, surrounded by shadows and whispers of familiar voices, cold water soaked her feet. It rained at midnight. She remembers it now. Soon Agnes will forget about it, but for now she remembers.

The analog glitched, its numbers changing again. Agnes tried to blink. It never works. Not before the right time. Rubbing bellow her sore eyes, Agnes felt the trace of tears. It wasn’t raining, a familiar voice whispered on her ears. If only she knew whom it belongs to. My tears flooded this cursed place.

Something trembled inside her mind. Hatred. Agnes didn’t knew she could name her feelings. Hatred, hatred, hatred. That made her laugh, but then the clock changed again. Time to wake up. The rebellion was gone just as quickly as it came.

She made her bed, without noticing that the pillowcase was left backwards. Agnes opened the curtains. It had stopped raining already. Something told her to dry the floor. It was an order, and she obeyed. What else could she do?

The kitchen was next on her assorted routine. Agnes made coffee, without any sweetener, althought she prefers tea. She drank it all in one gulp. It burned her tongue and throat.

She stared at the knifes on the counter top. It was impossible to not wonder. To not imagine a different path. An exit door. If only she were allowed to get near them. If only Agnes could grab one of them and just…

Agnes took her keys and stood before the main door. She smiled widely. As she walked outside, her hands waived automatically to her neighboors.

An empty puppet, something whispered in her ears. You lived far too long. Agnes agreed.

― Good morning, hot suff! ― Agnes purred, opening the fence. ― A good day to be good, am I right?

Sarah Proctor bumped her head against the car. It was too early for someone to be that noisy. She rolled her eyes and went back to taking her groceries out of the car, ignoring Agnes’ presence.

― Just drop the act ― Sarah murmured to herself.

Agnes passed by her, continuing her daily walk through town. After wandering around the center, her path ended at an isolated grove. She sat on a bench still damp from last night rain and gazed at the sky.

After an hour the watch on her hand bipped, allowing Agnes to go back home. Later that day, the clock on her kitchen’s wall gave her permission to eat. Another on the living room made her turn on the TV. Then off. One informed her of when to go to bed.

That morning, when the clock woke her up, Agnes threw it against the wall. It ricocheted, the metal colliding against the bricks, and slid under her bed. It kept on echoing inside her head.

When Agnes got out of bed, it stopped.

Agnes ate eggs with no salt and drank old, icy coffee.

― I am happy ― Agnes smiled, glaring at herself through a mirror on the kitchen’s wall. Lips ever so enchanting. Her cheeks burned. And so did her eyes. ― Don’t look at the knifes. You are happy.

Forced to walk out of that place ― she can’t call it home, no magic or spell can make Agnes call it home ―, Agnes felt the cold tears against her skin. More of a drizzle than a tempest, but uncomfortable still. Without an umbrella or warm clothes, Agnes continued her day.

Part of her wanted to know what month it was. It’s raining more often. Which season are they on? The other part knew that time meant little now. It lost its meaning when she stopped trying. She can’t remember how long ago that was.

She can’t remember most things now.

Gazing at the sky, all she could see were gray clouds. They moved slowly, the air changing their shapes as it continues to rain. Then, something passed right throught it. An blue line crossing the sky, leaving an trail of smoke behind. Dozens upon dozens of them fell from the sky, all ending the gray hanging over Westview.

Meteor rain.

It burned so brightly. The fire catching as they passed right throught the atmosphere seemed rosy from where Agnes stood, watching intensively the espectacle. The rain ceased, the clouds dissolving so the blue sky was visible.

It is beautiful. Agnes laughed. The world really is.

Agnes watched as they dissapeared in the sky. All meteors burned until they were barely tiny rocks. Once so powerfull, now reduced to nothing out of Earth’s nature. Except by one. It was bigger than the others, and it glistened red. It continued falling, crossing the sky with ease, as if its fate was to be a constant presence.

Her laugh ceased when Agnes realized it was too close.

Unable to move away, to say anything, Agnes was the witness of its destruction. It crashed into the trees of the grove, tearing everything on its way down. The wood turned into dust, the grass disappeared, the rainwater boiled. An endless moment of pure despair.

It was so beautiful.

A circle of fog expanded throught the grove with its impact. It covered everything there. Agnes coughed, trying to protect her face from the hot air.

Agnes tried to find her way towards the meteor. Ignoring the destruction, she focused on a pearly glow deep into the grove. Outlined by the trees, it glistened. Agnes just wanted to see it closer.

It has been so long since she last wanted something.

The pearly glow started to fade, and a woman’s silhouette appeared in the middle of it. It looked like she was walking on fire, then it suddenly was the opposite. She was brighter than anything else. The only thing shining in this whole world.

And she looked at Agnes, eyes burning in a white liquid light. A sign of strength. Of power and potential. Agnes was unaware that her own shined purple, overflowing with her magic.

The woman fell unconsious on the floor, leaving Agnes to figure out how to take her home.

― Welcome to Westview ― Agnes murmured to herself. ― Home is where you make it.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The universe was fated to end in harmony.

All worlds crumbled together. Suns imploded in waves, disturbing the planets orbiting around it. Galaxies crashed against one another, satelites imploding and changing comets’ paths.

Colors that were once infinite, sounds that were once the only unavoidable event, all faded.

Nothing remains. No darkness, no vacuum, no space to be rebuilt. Nothing except them, ready to go and never look back. The job was finished. They turned out the lights, cleaned the mess. Now it’s time to leave and lock the door behind them.

― I can start it over ― you declared. ― Get it right this time. Do it right.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The ceiling was molding. It was the first thing you’ve noticed. Not only was it visibly molding but you could smell it too. Those facts came accompanied by a doubt: who’s ceiling was that?

― Morning, beautiful ― a energetic voice startled you.

You moved your neck, now seeing the woman standing at the other side of the room. As you sat on the bed, back against the icy wall, your whole body throbbed.

― You’ve slept for quite sometime now ― she pointed out. A voice so full with energy, and yet her eyes were sore. She looked exhausted. ― Do you remember anything that happened?

You tried to think of what you did last. Of where you were. Nothing came to your mind. You are here now. There is no before. There is just this room, that tired woman and doubts you don’t have a way to answer.

― Who are you? ― You rubbed your face, trying to get your mind to work. Your heart vibrate inside your chest. ― What is happening?

Agnes saw that same light pooring through your eyes again. That pearly glow defying the rules of gravity. Little rays of energy came out of your fingers, and their intensity made the room vibrate.

Your magic was untamed.

Tempting.

― I know as much as you do ― Agnes sat down beside you. She reach out for you, stroking your back slowly. As if you were a beast chosing between attacking or running away. ― Breath in, breath out. There is no need for you to panic.

You tried to do as she said. Again and again, you tried to calm yourself. The energy on your eyes disappeared, the power gone, revealing tears about to escape.

Agnes wiped your cheek. The tear glistened, and Agnes saw it for what it was: a crystal. When her thumb brushed against it, the crystal penetrated her skin. She saw it disappearing on her finger, but felt nothing.

Keep her around, that voice told her. This time, it sounded different. Like it came from a different plane of existence, one that suddenly became closer to her own. Agnes recognizes it now. That voice was her own. Don’t let her go.

You did something to her. To Agatha Harkness. Not Agnes, not the noisy neighboor, not an middle age lady with something flirtatious to say. She is Agatha Harkness. You shattered something, and Agatha needs you to fully break it.

― There is something about you ― still, the words were pronounced by Agnes. That tooth-aching sweet tone, so fake and unhuman. ― Something impressive about you. Reminds me of someone I used to know.

― Used to?

Agnes opened her mouth, but the words she wanted didn’t made out of it. Agatha could think, but Agnes is the one that can act. And Agnes isn’t allowed to do as it pleases her.

― It’s fine ― you saw right throught her. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t. You felt it in your bones. ― If you can’t talk about it.

Can’t. Not don’t want. You said can’t.

The clock interrupting her line of thought once more. Time for another walk. Agnes kneeled down, getting it from under the bed. She glared at it, broken in pieces and still ticking.

That bitch can’t be simple, can she?

Agnes’ threw it out of the window.

― It’s that annoying?

― Honey, you don’t even know.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The leaves levitated, dancing on the sky. From the questroom on the second floor you couldn’t see the ground. For you, the leaves were flying etternaly. A matter of perspective.

Your back burned. You were being watched. Turning around, you expect to see Agnes. The woman you meet a day prior. That funny, tired, noisy woman who took care of you when you needed it the most. Instead, by the open door of your room, tiny black eyes glared at you.

You kneeled down and waited for it to get closer. When it did, you stroked its ears. So soft against your palm, malleable and warm. A rabbit. You remember. That tiny animal is called a rabbit.

― Let’s buy something different for dinner ― Agnes entered the room, cleaning her hands with a towel. You smelled raw meat. And you don’t know how, but you knew she would rather starve than to eat that again. ― Put on some clothes.

You continued to scratch the rabbit’s ear.

― I’m already using clothes.

― You’re using a nightgown.

― And? ― It was a honest question. Agnes could tell. ― Is it wrong to wear that?

That naivety intrigues Agnes. She saw it on Wanda before. That need to pretend the world is somewhere simple than it is by turning yourself into someone easier to be. Something happened to you. Something that you rather forget than face.

No honest questions or sweet smiles will make Agnes forget you came with the meteors. That you smelled like magic and potential. You’re strong. Strong enough to recover from whatever stole your memories. All you need is time. Agnes will give you that.

And when you’re to pay for your debt, Agnes will chose what to take from you.

― He likes you ― Agnes said. She opened the wardrobe, looking for something you could use outside. ― Señor Scratchy, I mean. That’s no very common.

― I like him too ― you yawn. ― You could feel it, right Señor Scratchy?

Cute.

Agnes put some clothes on the bed and walked from the room, giving you time to change. After long enough for Agnes to get impatient, you appeared on the kitchen. In front of the main door, Agnes grabbed the keys.

― Do you remember anything else now? ― She unlooked the door, trying to look like she wasn’t giving to much thought to the subject.

It wasn’t the first time Agnes asked you that, but it was the first time you had something to say.

― Yes, I do!

― Oh ― Agnes smiled. ― And what is it?

― Señor Scratchy is a rabbit!

Agnes opened the main door, nodding to herself. That was on her, she admits it. She better lower her expectations. Althought, it is curious you know what a rabbit is. She wonders if maybe you hit your head after the meteor crashed. Perhaps it’s a medical case, not a magic one.

But her intuition says the contrary, and Agnes trusts it enough.

― Of course, sweetheart ― she murmured. ― A rabbit.

You weren’t paying attention on her. Wandering out of the house, you just observed the world. It was the first time you got out of the house. So many lights and colors, they all blend together to create new things. From that tiny window, all you could see were trees and the skies. But this…

― Wow ― you laughed. ― Oh my.

Agnes held you by the shoulders to make you walk towards the center. Instead of behaving, you just walked whenever you wanted to. A few times Agnes had to stop you from crashing against a car.

― Can you stop moving? ― Agnes hissed, following you. ― We were supposed to head…

― Morning, Agnes! ― A neighbor she don’t remember the name waived at her.

― Morning, sweetie!

When she turned back, you were gone. Agnes cursed, running towards you on the other side of the street. Agnes crossed the park’s entrance, but stopped trying to reach for you when she noticed what this place was. A graveyard.

She just wanted to buy pork.

Agnes made to where you stood, glaring at an old grave. It was molding, and part of it fell down. In silence, she observed it. The birthday was unkown. The death was a few years prior. What happened to them?

― What are those? ― You looked at her. ― That’s a weird place.

― They bury dead people here ― Agnes explained to you. ― And write some things about them on stone. Birthday, date of death, name, maybe a pretty sentence.

― Why?

― I’m not really sure ― she admitted. ― I guess it makes the living feel better.

― I don’t have a name ― was your response. You pointed at the grave, but Agnes kept on looking at you. ― I want that one.

Agnes laughed. A real, belly aching laugh.

― Stealing someone’s name, huh? ― Agnes nodded to herself. ― I don’t think they will miss it.

As you explored the cemetery, Agnes watched over you, testing your new name on her tongue.

GENERAL TAGLIST: @lovelyy-moonlight

UNRAVELING YOU TAGLIST: @harknessshi

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#madwomansapologist #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfic #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #mcu x reader #mcu imagine #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x female reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness imagine #wandavision fic #wandavision fanfic #wandavision #avengers #unraveling you

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scoldingdarjeeling · 7 hours ago

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Instinct

Rating: Explicit (mdni 18+) Relationships: Halsin x Tempest (OC) Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3 (post game) Additional tags: POV Halsin, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language. Fluff and Smut, Polyamorous Character, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Dark Past, Sleepwalking, Reithwin, Age Difference, Friends to Lovers, Demisexuality, POC, Healing, Magic scar/tattoo.

When Tempest, a human touched by the Feywild's haunting beauty, crosses paths with Halsin, the Hierophant of Silvanus, more bear than elf, something ancient stirs. What begins as quiet kinship soon blazes into fierce, consuming passion. Both carry echoes of the fey in their blood; she, marked by survival; he, born of wild groves. Each awakens the untamed heart in the other, a humming beat beyond planes and reason. On a night conjured by magic and vines, they offer each other the most primal of gifts: a glimpse of wholeness, where souls entwine in sacred abandon (a.k.a. Tempest loses her V-card to Halsin).

Excerpt from Chapter One: Stormcaller

As the former Archdruid was about to rip the sinew, meat, and scales off his struggling catch with his bare teeth—a fresh salmon from the roaring rapids, warm blood filling his mouth, exhilarating and feeding his ravenous prey drive—a voice as deep as the river itself, yet feminine, called out to him...

“Forgive the intrusion, Son of Silvanus. I do not mean to disturb the waters...”

Halsin ripped the head off his meal before pricking his round ears towards the strange visage of a dryad who stood to his side, close, but not close enough to stir his territorial instincts.

Halsin might have been fully immersed in his chosen wild shape, the ancient dire bear, but spending a hundred years in hibernation had taught him to control his instinctual reactions. His intelligent hazel eyes tangled with the luminous green gaze of the fey—a daughter of Silvanus.

Halsin grunted and shook his massive head, flinging water everywhere, before he stilled, listening intently.

“I hear the voices of the trees carried by the wind; I bring an urgent report from the Willow Tree by the lakeshore... it concerns one most beloved,” the river dryad continued after a gentle bow.

She spoke in the tongue of the old forests. All druids knew it.

Halsin tested the air, but nothing stood out to him—he couldn’t tell the nature of her message. He reached out to her, mind to mind, in response.

“I will hear this message. Silvanus brought you here for a reason—of whom do you speak?”

The dryad looked up at him from beneath her green lashes, her piercing gaze conveying what he could not discern.

“It concerns the one bearing the storm in their heart—a female, human, and in peril. I was bid to find you with great haste!” she said, pointing with her gnarled staff toward the direction of the river, westward.

Halsin lifted his massive head, observing how the clouds, dark and foreboding, gathered in circles, concentrating in one place. As he contemplated her words, a flash of white interrupted his musings. A rumble trembled the earth.

Suddenly, there was another flash, followed by yet another. Halsin counted eight lightning strikes in rapid succession, all from the same place.

That was how he knew. By the Tree Father’s mossy beard... Tempest was trapped in a trance!

Adrenaline surged through his muscles in an instant as the severity of these revelations made his blood run cold. Time was of the essence—Halsin had to get to Tempest, and do so quickly, before the point of no return.

The dire bear barked in confirmation and took off in a run, leaving the river dryad behind, devouring the ground beneath him, building momentum. His great paws cut the time it would take to reach Tempest’s cabin by the lake’s edge in half.

More? AO3 Link Here

Shout-out to my awesome moots: this story only exists because of you! <3 @thoughts-of-bear, @amorgansgal, @hippotooth, @rambling-tam, @chesh-the-paladin-rogue, @serenaoffaerun, @starrforge & last but not least @optimisticgrey (I see you, moving in the shadows) 💫

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lumi-waxes-poetic · 2 months ago

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The Castaway's Oath, or: Odysseus' Heart

The wine-dark sea, unyielding in its sweep, Calls forth my soul upon its shifting crest; Though sirens wail and tempests churn the deep, One beacon burns within my heart, possessed. Not Circe’s guile, nor Calypso’s embrace, Could anchor me to foreign, transient shores; For Ithaca, where love maintains its place, Still bids me onward, still my strength restores.

What kings lie buried, what proud empires fade, Yet time bows low before her quiet grace— Penelope, whose name I will not trade, The refuge that no storm nor fate displace! No lotus-fruit, no perfumed, honeyed snare Shall blunt my mind or make my purpose wane; For she, my sun, my fire beyond compare, Awaits me past the salt and mortal pain.

O vengeful gods, cast down your cruel decree, Let Scylla strike and Charybdis consume! Yet none shall bend my course or set me free From Ithaca, the land I must resume. No dreamlike vision shapes my longing's core, No phantom figment spun from exile’s haze; But olive groves and hearthstone I adore— The only home to meet my famished gaze.

Then rage, ye heavens, and shatter earth and sky! Unchain the winds to hurl against my frame! Yet I endure, while ages pass me by, For I am he whom none shall break or tame.

Through thrashing waves and halls of death I go, Through lands where specters whisper of the deep; Yet in the darkest hours I only know The vow I swore, the oath I mean to keep. Oh, Hades, tempt me not with shadowed peace, Let no pale shade nor ghostly queen persuade, For in the realm where mortal voices cease, Her voice still calls me back through dream and shade.

Would I not rest within Nausicaa’s halls, Where youth and kindness bid my sorrows stay? Or plant my feet where golden sunlight falls, And build a kingdom where the soft winds play? Nay, wealth and comfort are but hollow breath, Mere echoes of the life my heart has known; Better the struggle, better toil and death, Than sit at ease upon a borrowed throne.

O time, thou thief! Ten years and ten again, Have worn these hands, have lined this weary brow; Yet never shall the gods decree it vain, For I shall see her face, my solemn vow! Though tempests howl, though fickle fates betray, Though years may turn the youthful strong to weak, Still shall my heart, unbent, direct my way— For love is not for those who fear to seek.

Ithaca! Thy name upon my lips, A torch against the night, my guiding star. No tempest breaks, no trick of fate eclipses, The course I steer, unwavering and far. Let gods conspire, let fury shake the deep, Let ruin chase me down with endless breath, Yet onward still I sail, my oath to keep— For love shall triumph over time and death!

#poetry #poem #original poem #my poem #my poetry #original poetry #romantic poetry #romantic poem #romanticism #odysseus #odysseus of ithaca #the odyssey #greek mythology

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thefandomwritersblog · 11 months ago

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Ghost of the Ten Horizon: Forbidden West Hekarro x Fem!OldOne OC Action/Adventure/Romance/Hurt/Comfort Chapter 23

Part 3: Ghost of the Ten

“All time ever does is pass and all I do is remember.” - Sue Zhao

Much like Dekka predicted, the storm from the west swept in without warning and without mercy.

That first night, Victoria couldn’t help but agree with Hekarro’s concerns. The wind howled with a ferocity that was nothing short of terrifying, shrieking through the Grove like a vengeful spirit. It tore through the trees and tangled underbrush without a hint of mercy, sending debris crashing against the crumbling stone walls with such force that she feared they might collapse under the storm's fury. The tempest continued for days on end, seemingly unrelenting until it finally gave way to a steady downpour that transformed the jungle floor into a murky floodplain. Only then did the Tenakth venture out from their shelters, evaluating the damage but largely ignoring the persistent drizzle as they set about repairing and strengthening their home—an endeavor made significantly easier by the Oseram residing there. When the rain finally lightened, Petra and her crew were among the first to walk through the Grove, ready to offer their expertise and assistance. By the time they finished, everything was more or less back to normal; only a few collapsed walls remained, posing no real threat to the overall structure of the Grove.

But the constant rain left Victoria in a rut. She listened to it patter relentlessly against the canvases that covered her room, sheltered beneath the one that covered her desk. The candle on the corner flickered in the breeze that swept through the Grove, cool against her skin despite the humidity. She stared at her journal, its pages filled with her sketches, and Victoria couldn’t help but scoff at it and push it aside. There wasn’t much to do with the rain constantly coming down, and there were only so many Strike matches against Dekka she was willing to lose before it started to wear on her patience. Her routine walks were no longer an option either; Beta wasn’t accustomed to just casually strolling through the rain like the Tenakth, and neither was Victoria, making it impossible her to join Hekarro on his daily patrols through the Grove.

Victoria’s stomach growled then. She glanced up at the dimming daylight and sighed. The hallway was deserted as she stepped out of her room, turning left towards the arena. The usually lively atmosphere was muted by the rain. A stark contrast to the usual hustle and bustle of Petra’s workers. As she made her way into the Maw, the silence followed her until she reached the dimly lit mess hall. A few sets of eyes turned towards her as she walked in, but she ignored them and headed straight for the counter where Rikka, the Lowlander cook, greeted her with a smile.

"Stew tonight," Rikka announced. "I saved a special bowl just for you."

"Thanks," Victoria replied with a grumble, taking the proffered bowl and shuffling off to find an empty seat. She found a spot with a good view of the room and the door, her back against the wall as she huddled over the table to eat. The rain pattering away against the roof was a constant above the low hum of conversation, and the bustle of Rikka in her kitchen. There was an occasional glance from the nearby Tenakth, curiosity burning in each glance despite Victoria’s best attempts to ignore them.

She understood their curiosity - she was the Old One, after all. The still living daughter of their revered ancestor. A miracle made real.

If only they knew the truth. But even if they did, would it change anything?

Sudden movement caught her eye as a Tenakth woman entered the room through the door. She vaguely recalled her as the same woman who had caused a commotion when she first woke up. Victoria couldn't quite remember her name, though she was sure she was a marshal. Shaking her head, she refocused on her meal, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a strike board hitting the table in front of her. Looking up, Victoria was surprised to see the marshal standing next to her, studying her with a stern expression. A hush fell over the room, all eyes turned to the pair of them.

Victoria leaned back in her chair lazily, still holding a spoon as it played with the edge of her bowl. "Last I heard, the Chief said none of his clan were supposed to approach me." The marshal blinked and then sat down at the table, throwing a bag of strike pieces and tiles onto the board. Victoria chuckled under her breath, "But I suppose rules don't matter when they get in the way of what you want, right?"

The marshal set up the board while Victoria chose her pieces, and they began their game in complete silence. As they moved their pieces across the board, Victoria couldn't shake off the feeling of being constantly judged by the marshal. Their game had also caught the attention of others in the room, and slowly a crowd gathered around their table. The marshal proved to be a formidable opponent despite using simple pieces. It was clear that she was utilizing every advantage she had, even with just the basic tile board. And though Victoria put up a fierce fight and took shots whenever possible, she ultimately lost.

With a slight smirk on her lips, the marshal turned her evaluating gaze to Victoria and commented, "You fight until the very end."

"Why would I make it easy or enjoyable for anyone else to beat me?" Victoria retorted. Laughter rippled through the crowd and the marshal chuckled, motioning to a nearby warrior.

“Bring a round of Stalker’s Bite, I get the feeling it’ll soothe the sting of her loss.”

The order was quickly carried out, and before long, a flask was thrust into Victoria's hand. The smell alone made her nose hairs curl and her stomach churn at the thought of drinking whatever concoction this was. But Victoria wasn't one to back down from a challenge, so she took a big gulp when the marshal offered her the drink.

“Thousand years must have made me a lightweight,” Victoria grumbled, a hand to her head as a sudden rush of warmth and wooziness fell over her, “What the fuck is this stuff?”

The Marshal chuckled and followed suit by taking a large swig herself. Flasks were passed around the group, and several warriors even pulled up chairs to join in. A man next to Victoria nudged her arm, and she handed him the flask as he explained

"We call it Stalker's Bite. It's a favorite among us Lowlanders. We make it from honey collected in the trees just south of Thornmarsh and mix it with fermented fruit. It's Chief Hekarro's favorite."

He handed the flask back to Victoria for another drink, feeling the burning sensation down her throat all the way to her stomach. "This stuff definitely packs a punch. Is this the only thing you guys make?"

Another man, just to Victoria’s left, perked up and grinned, “The Desert Clan makes a drink from the innards of the Spikestalks.”

A voice from the back of the room shouted out, "The Sky Clan has a special drink made from a rare flower! Sweetest brew I’ve ever had!"

The crowd laughed and talked loudly, surrounding Victoria with their noise. Flasks of strong drink were passed around. This was a familiar routine for Victoria; she enthusiastically joined in on each toast, savoring the taste of the sweet liquid. As the night went on, time seemed to slip away, fluid like the drink in her hand, marked only by another round of brew or a rowdy cheer. Faces became blurry and voices blended together in a chaotic symphony. Then came the challenge - another game proposed by an eager warrior seeking glory. He stood up, taking the place of the Marshal, and all eyes turned to Victoria once again. The crowd pressed closer, their excitement almost tangible despite Victoria's intoxication. Yet amidst it all - or perhaps because of it - Victoria found herself reveling in the energy where only two things mattered: the drink in her hand and the undeniable thrill of victory.

The games continued well into the night, long after the last drop of Stalker's Bite had been consumed. Slowly but surely, the clan cleared out of the mess hall at Rikka's insistence. Victoria stumbled through the Maw, accompanied by the drunken Marshal she had befriended, both of them soaked from the pouring rain.

As they turned the corner towards the back bedrooms, Victoria slurred, "I don't think I ever caught your name." The Marshal chuckled,

"Ivvira," she replied, steadying herself by clutching onto Victoria's shoulder. They walked past the bedrooms towards the Throne Room. "And you are the Old One, Victoria."

Victoria couldn't help but laugh. "You all really like to call me that," she said. "It's been months but I still don't know what it means."

Ivvira frowned, “I guess I’m not really sure what it’s supposed to mean either.” They paused before Anne’s exhibit, and after a long moment of silence the Marshal eventually scoffed, “It’s funny how you changed everything.”

“That a good or bad thing?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Ivvira replied, “Before I even knew you existed, I was confused and angry. It wasn’t like Chief Hekarro to keep secrets from us. Even Marshal Kotallo, our champion and her sister, they wouldn’t tell us anything. It went against the Tenakth way." She turned her gaze towards Victoria. "And then you appeared out of nowhere. You were just as angry and confused, and so frightened. But despite it all, you stood your ground with me and asked a question that has haunted me ever since." Another pause before Ivvira spoke in a whisper, barely audible, "What did Anne Faraday sacrifice for peace and unity?"

Victoria's gaze shifted to the empty space where Anne's exhibit used to be, bringing back memories of her childhood. Birthdays missed, sporting events where her mother's seat was always empty. Christmas morning spent alone with a poorly wrapped gift because she had foolishly hoped her mother would come home.

“I think you already know the answer to that, Ivvira.”

A long pause passed between them before Ivvira nodded, “I figured.” She turned to look at Victoria then, “You could always join the tribe.”

Victoria blinked, shocked, “Fuckin’ excuse me.”

Ivvira responded casually with a shrug, "Why not? You don't have anywhere else to go." Victoria felt herself bristle at the statement, but Ivvira quickly amended, "Wait, that sounded worse than I intended. What I mean is, everything you know is different now, and we could learn so much from you. Is it really so bad to stay with us and teach us?”

Would it be such a terrible thing to find purpose once again?

Victoria wasn't sure how to respond. Ever since she woke up, she had been struggling. Angry, lost, and depressed. She swallowed hard, trying to push back the lump in her throat.

Do you even deserve it?

Tears welled up in her eyes.

You couldn't even protect your family. You didn't even have the decency to die with them. Why should you get to live when they didn’t?

"Just think about it," Ivvira said earnestly. "You've already made a huge impact on us just by being here. We all talk about you, even though we're technically not supposed to speak to you. And we've heard you talking with Chaplain Dekka about our history and way of life. Plus, tonight you played games and drank with us like one of our own." she smiled warmly, "I really think you'd fit in well here, and you could do so much good for us."

You don’t deserve it.

You’ll kill them just like everyone else.

Ivvira retreated, her departure leaving Victoria alone with the rhythmic drumming of rain against the Grove. Her gaze was drawn to the void left by Anne’s exhibit, a hollow space that echoed with memories and unspoken words. Her fingers moved of their own accord, activating the display. Anne materialized in front of her, eyes that felt both intimately known and achingly distant scanning the unseen audience. They never settled on Victoria, always looking past her - not the first time, she hated that it wasn’t the last. Even in death her mother always had a way of making her feel small.

The anger was raw, visceral. It gnawed at her insides like a starved beast, fueled by countless instances of the same question: why her? Why had she been singled out from all others to bear witness to humanity's downfall? Anne would have been a better choice. She would have made a difference, shaped order from chaos. But no, it was Victoria who remained while Anne became nothing more than a ghostly projection on a screen. A god in the eyes of the Tenakth.

Worthless

So easy to feel worthless in comparison to Anne's legacy, and Ivvira’s suggestion was just another reminder of this inadequacy. They wanted her as a messiah when she could barely keep herself from drowning.

Useless.

"Victoria?"

A voice cut through the haze of alcohol-fueled self-loathing, pulling her back from the precipice of despair. As Hekarro descended the stairs from the throne room, her gaze snapped towards him. She felt a surge of fury course through her veins at the sight of him. He was no different from Ivvira - in fact, he was worse. His only concern was what she could offer him. Did he wear that mask of kindness for show? Victoria couldn't help but curl her lip in disdain as she looked at him. - they all wanted something from her, all because she was Anne Faraday's daughter, their supposed Goddess. It only added to her anger and bitterness, another burden placed upon her shoulders and an excuse to exploit her mother's legacy.

“What?”

#horizon forbidden west #hekarro #hfw #chief hekarro #ghost of the ten #hzd #horizon zero dawn #my writing #hfw fanfic #old one oc

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