#the sun eventually stopped rising during the war in heaven

[muzzleroars]

i only say morning

[junghelioseok]

covenant.

↳ your best friend’s engagement forces you to reevaluate your own feelings.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | angst | werewolf!au | f2l!au ◇ 16.4k [1/1]

⇢ arguably also an arranged marriage!au, ft. kinda sorta dumbasses to lovers? a very, very late bday fic for the most beautiful man in the universe and my favorite funky lil dancer. ♡

notes: i started this in my drafts well over three months ago and all it said was “this ain’t gonna be on time for hobi’s bday i can feel it” and damn if past!me wasn’t right on the money!!! this has undergone three edits, going from 14.6k to 16.4k somehow, and i am going to lose my whole damn mind if i don’t just post it so here it is! hope you enjoy!

warnings: dom!hobi, alpha!hobi, bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), some grinding against hobi’s thigh, knotting, hobi’s got a big dick idk, also he’s in heat!!! but things eventually get really soft bc i love him and am a Soft Bitch™ 🤷🏻‍♀️

It’s going to rain.

You can smell it in the air and feel the damp chill against your skin, permeating through every layer of your clothing. The surrounding forest and all its occupants seem to be collectively holding their breath, waiting for the first drops to come. Even your footsteps, soft as they are against the loamy earth, sound much too loud in the hush that’s fallen. Dark clouds gather overhead, looming like an omen, and you silently reach into your purse to check that the umbrella you’d stowed this morning is still there. Vaguely, you wonder if it’s big enough for two.

Around you, the trees slowly begin to dwindle, until there’s only open sky above your head and a wide grassy expanse beneath your feet. A certain heaviness lingers in the air here—a low thrum of energy, born from the ancient magic that sleeps in the gnarled roots of the tree that sits in the center of the clearing. You can feel it prickling along your skin, raising gooseflesh and igniting your veins, and the closer you get, the stronger the feeling becomes.

At the far end of the clearing, you spot a small crowd of people, all clad in black. Your best friend—and your entire reason for venturing out today—stands amongst them in a tailored suit, his black tie snug at his throat and laid atop a charcoal gray shirt. He’s chatting with his father and a few other family members, seemingly calm and collected, but you can tell from the sloppy knot of his tie and the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket that he is anything but. After all your years of friendship, you can read Jung Hoseok like a book. His auburn hair is disheveled as if he’s been incessantly raking his fingers through it, and even at a distance, you can sense the turmoil in his aura, haloing him like the stormy clouds overhead.

Sensing your approach, Hoseok’s gaze flickers up to meet yours. He raises a hand in greeting and bids farewell to the people he’d been chatting with, picking his way over to you with a wan smile.

“Hey. You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you reply, reaching out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong as always, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in his grip. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, a sigh escaping his lips and dissipating into mist in the wintry air. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It just… it all happened so fast.”

“I know,” you murmur, twining your fingers together in quiet reassurance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi.”

“Thanks.”

Slowly, his gaze flits to the center of the clearing where the ancient tree sits, traversing from the leafy canopy all the way down to where the gnarled roots disappear into the dirt. In its shadow sits a polished wooden casket, and you squeeze Hoseok’s hand gently as he walks closer, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, you know,” he mumbles. “All these years of war, of negotiations and peace talks, finally seeing the Accords pass and the company flourish… and now he’s gone. Cancer. Just like that.”

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and you clasp his hand a little tighter. You know as well as he does that a healthy werewolf can live for well over a century, if not for the human genetics that remain susceptible to human weaknesses and disease. True immortality afflicts only the faeries and the vampires of your world—and even then, there are still ways that those folk can die.

“He lived a long life,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, grasping onto any semblance of comfort you can offer. Together, you and Hoseok come to a stop in the shadow of the tree, peering at the closed casket where his grandfather lays. “And it was a good, just life. Not all of us can say that.”

A lone, wet droplet falls onto the polished mahogany, and Hoseok hastily wipes his eyes, tilting his head skyward. “Not long enough,” he whispers. “He still had so much to do. I… I still have so much I wanted to do—to say. And now I’ll never be able to.”

You caress a thumb across his knuckles, the motion soft and tender. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Hoseok glances down at that, a glimmer of something manic and desperate swimming in his amber-flecked irises. “You could,” he says, grabbing both your hands and clutching them to his chest like a lifeline. “You could bring him back. You know how, don’t you?”

You shake your head sadly, hating the way his frown deepens as you free yourself from his grasp. “That’s forbidden magic, Hobi. That’s necromancy. You know I can’t do that.”

Hoseok’s entire body sags, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a heavy sigh. Instinctively, you step forward to wrap him in a hug, and he loops his arms around your waist automatically, pulling you flush against him. “I know,” he mumbles into your hair. Then he huffs out a dry chuckle, humorless and deprecating. “Fuck. I’m a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Instead, you hold him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in long, slow motions—the same way his mother used to do during bedtime. His heart thuds erratically in his chest, fast and frenzied like a caged bird, but lulls as you continue your ministrations, settling into an even rhythm once more.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few moments, his warm breath caressing your cheek. “For coming today. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You can do anything, Hobi,” you reassure, running a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw when he raises his head to look at you. “With or without me. But… you’re welcome, all the same.”

Your presence at this funeral is unusual, and both you and Hoseok know it. Werewolf packs tend to keep their rites and ceremonies private, and the Gwangju pack is no different. Led by Hoseok’s father, and his late grandfather before him, the werewolves of the city have rapidly risen to prominence and power, aided in large part by the founding of JungTech. The company, started by Hoseok’s grandfather, began as a small operation in a battered old warehouse, but quickly grew to become one of Gwangju’s biggest corporations after the signing of the Accords twenty years ago. The peace treaty marked the start of a tenuous coexistence between humankind and Shadowfolk, and, together with your fellow witches—along with the werewolves, vampires, and the few fair folk who decided to leave their homes deep in the forests—you migrated into cities all over the country to forge new lives.

It’s proven easier for some. While the wolves of the city have found tolerance—acceptance, even—you have not fared quite as well. Humans, you have found, tend to fear the ancient magic that runs through your veins. Though nothing you’ve faced comes remotely close to what your ancestors faced in centuries past, you remain wary of those who take a little too much interest in your abilities.

You’re a bit paranoid, your familiar, Bast, has remarked on more than one occasion. But it’s justified, so I suppose it’s all right.

As if sensing that your thoughts have turned to him, Bast stirs in the back of your mind. You feel him yawn and stretch lazily before there’s a tug on the soles of your feet, as if the force of gravity has suddenly, inexplicably doubled. Then he’s materializing—morphing out of the spot where your shadow would be if the sun were shining, taking the form of an inky black cat with sharp, golden eyes. Hoseok perks up when Bast loops between his ankles, and immediately squats down to scratch behind his ears, a small smile settling across his face as a low, content purr rumbles up from beneath his fingertips. From elsewhere in the clearing, a single howl rises up into the air, forlorn and wavering.

It’s starting, Bast says in your head. At the same time, Hoseok straightens to his full height, fiddling with the hem of his black jacket and looking over at you tentatively.

“Sounds like they’re getting started,” he says.

You nod. “I should go.”

Hoseok opens his mouth as if to protest—as if to say no, stay—but you know better and cut him off with a single raised finger.

“I’ll go,” you murmur. “This is a private rite, and I don’t want to break centuries of tradition by overstaying my welcome. Go join your pack, Hobi.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Without a doubt.”

Your parting gesture is to reach out and grab his hand, tucking a little drawstring bag into his palm and closing his fingers over it. “Valerian root and chamomile,” you tell him gently, taking in his rumpled collar and the dark bags beneath his eyes. “Make some tea tonight. It’ll help.”

Hoseok swallows and nods, his features softening as he gazes down at his hand cupped in your smaller ones. He looks like he wants to say something, but another howl interrupts, disrupting whatever thoughts he may have had. Instead, he nods again, murmuring a soft goodbye before turning on his heel to join the rest of the pack gathering around the raised casket. You turn as well, leaving behind the ancient clearing with Bast trotting by your side.

Up above, the heavens finally open, drenching the dirt path beneath your feet with rain. And behind you, the single howl is joined by dozens more, echoing mournfully up into the weeping sky.

///

You’re in the middle of straightening out a display of dittany when the kettle begins to boil, emitting three short, shrill whistles accompanied by a long stream of whirling steam. When silence falls over the shop once more, you wander over to where the kettle sits—atop a small wooden end table next to an old wardrobe. It’s an old relic that’s been passed down through generations of witches in your family, wrought out of silvery metal and suspended in an iron frame above a single lit candle. The flame is glowing pink, flickering in a nonexistent gust of wind, and you smile. Quietly, you grab two teacups from a nearby shelf.

Not two seconds later, the door of the old wardrobe creaks open, revealing the familiar face of Kim Seokjin behind it. A fellow witch and a good friend of yours, Jin has made a name for himself as a baker, running a café in Seoul that offers all sorts of confections—both with magical properties and without. His hair is dyed a muted dusty rose—a stark contrast to the casual black hoodie and jeans he’s wearing—and you reach out to push a stray lock back from his forehead in lieu of a greeting.

“Your hair’s pink again,” you remark. “I like it.”

Jin grins, his plush lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth. “Thanks.” Carefully, he steps out of the wardrobe and shuts the door behind him. A beat of silence passes, and you take the opportunity to select a canister of tea leaves. You don’t miss the flicker of solemnity that settles into Jin’s features, though, listening as he clears his throat before voicing the question that is undoubtedly the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“So. How’s Hoseok holding up?”

Jin has never been one to mince his words. You suppose you appreciate that about him.

Quietly, you lift the kettle out of its stand and beckon for him to join you at the little wooden table at the front of your shop. It’s tucked neatly into the nook carved out by one of the two bay windows on either side of the front door, flanked by two well-worn, mismatched chairs. Atop it sits a pile of books—everything from ancient remedies to common household spells.

One book in particular always sits open—a detailed list of all the herbs and plants you carry in your shop, along with the various concoctions you’ve created with them. Hellebore, the spine of the book reads, and it’s the same word that graces your storefront in flowing, golden text. An apothecary of sorts, you spend your days dealing out potions and remedies to those in need, both human and Shadowfolk. You do your best to help, for all the times modern medicine has come up short and left someone wanting.

“Honestly? I don’t think he’s been sleeping.” You set the teacups down onto the table and fill them both before handing one over to Jin. “I saw him this morning, at the funeral. He looked exhausted.”

Jin’s brows disappear behind his pink hair. “You went to the funeral?”

“I didn’t stay,” you clarify, taking a sip of your tea. “Just wanted to drop by, say hello, and pay my respects.”

“Werewolves are a private bunch,” Jin remarks. “I’m surprised.”

You shrug. “Hoseok wanted me to be there. So I went.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything further, and neither do you, lapsing instead into a comfortable silence that’s broken only by the occasional sip of tea and the clinking of china. Your gaze wanders, drifting over to the front door of your shop, painted a cheerful green and set with a flowery stained glass window that throws kaleidoscopic rainbows across the cream walls and dark wooden floor. Sunlight streams through the wide bay windows, illuminating the interior in warm, hazy gold. On the other side of the room, Bast is curled up, fast asleep on his favorite plush bench beside the glass door that leads to the greenhouse, perfectly haloed by the sun.

“Must be nice being able to fall asleep anywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jin hears you anyway, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, where’s Adam? Did he stay home?”

Jin nods, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wardrobe. “Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on the café. Told me to say hi to you for him, though.”

You giggle at the thought of Jin’s familiar, a long-haired sheepdog with a stubborn streak the size of the Nile and blatant disdain for following orders—especially those that come from Jin himself. “Keeping watch, or trashing the place?” you tease.

“With my luck, probably both,” Jin admits with a sigh. “I should probably get back there soon. He ate all the egg tarts last time.”

“Bring him with you next time,” you advise. “Bast will keep him entertained.”

He grins. “I don’t doubt it.”

Finishing off the last of his tea, he stands up and taps the rim of his cup, murmuring a soft cleaning spell under his breath. You smile gratefully as he replaces it back onto the shelf with the others, and stand to walk him back over to the wardrobe. Opening up the creaky door, you watch him clamber inside, standing amongst the hanging coats and the single pair of shoes on the bottom shelf.

“See you later,” you murmur. “Give Adam my best.”

Jin nods. “See you.”

He shuts the door, and you watch the flame of the candle once again turn a soft, roseate pink. It flickers briefly, dancing in an invisible breeze, before reverting back to the color of regular fire, signaling Jin’s departure. Quietly, you clean your own teacup and return it to the shelf.

The remainder of the afternoon passes with few customers, so you opt to close down early and head to your apartment, located up a short flight of stairs on the second floor of the shop. You’re rifling through the refrigerator for dinner ingredients and humming softly under your breath when your phone suddenly rings, Hoseok’s name lighting up the screen in bright white text. “Hey, Hobi,” you say, swiping across the glass to answer. “What’s up?”

On the other end of the line, Hoseok exhales shakily. “Can you come over?”

You blink, glancing at the darkening sky outside. “Now?”

“Yeah. Fuck, sorry. I know it’s late, but I really… I really need to talk to someone. I—” His voice cracks, and your heart sinks. “I need you.”

“Say no more.” Straightening up, you shut the refrigerator door and tug off your apron. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten yet?”

Hoseok sighs. “No.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” you decide, already glancing around for your purse. “See you soon, okay?”

Bidding him farewell, you don your coat and head out the door, locking up behind you. Hoseok lives downtown in a sleek, modern penthouse that’s normally a twenty-minute walk away from Hellebore, but after stopping by the restaurant on the corner for food, you opt to catch the bus instead. Fifteen minutes after you hang up the phone, you are rapping the bronze knocker on Hoseok’s front door, a paper bag and a bottle of wine in hand.

Almost instantly, the door is flung open. Hoseok stands in the threshold as if he’s been waiting there, his auburn hair wild and his eyes even wilder. His aura is turbulent, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You raise the bag. “I brought dinner.”

“You’re the best,” he sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

Hoseok’s apartment toes the line between modern and cozy in a way that only Hoseok’s apartment could—with lush green plants and plushy, earth-toned furniture to offset the cold impersonality of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the stainless steel kitchen. Flicking on the kitchen light, you set the food down on the granite countertop and grab two wine glasses out of the cabinet. Hoseok sidles over as you pour a generous helping into each glass, rifling through the silverware drawer for utensils.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, popping a box open. “I’m starving. Thanks for bringing dinner.”

You brush off his gratitude and hand him a glass, raising yours so you can clink it gently against his. Quietly, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine, with Hoseok grabbing the food and you grabbing the bottle of wine to bring into the living room. You help him clear off the coffee table and arrange the food, then settle onto the couch beside him, sipping your drink in silence and patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Years of friendship have taught you that he’ll talk when he’s ready, and you’re content to wait as long as he needs.

Sighing, Hoseok tips the rest of his wine back into his mouth before setting the empty glass down with a soft plink. “So,” he begins, not quite looking you in the eye. “My dad and I had lunch today.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. He takes several more seconds to muster up the words, and when he finally finds them, they’re exhaled in a tumbling rush. “He told me that he’s pleased with how I’m running JungTech. It’s been over a year, and things are going well… so he wants to expedite my takeover of the pack. In two months, he wants me to take over as the alpha. And…” He swallows. “He wants me to settle down.”

Perturbed, you blink. “What?”

Hoseok finally looks at you, his expression frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He wants me to get married, {Name}.”

Comprehension doesn’t settle in right away. But when it does, your jaw drops to the floor, landing somewhere alongside the ornamental persian carpet and a stray sock that has no doubt jumped ship from Hoseok’s laundry.

“W-what?” you manage after a few long seconds of gaping at him. “Why? Why now? That’s so… that’s completely out of the blue.”

Hoseok shakes his head, a few shaggy strands of auburn hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. “It’s not, actually. He’s been talking about it for a long time—trying to arrange something with one of the other pack families. It’s tradition, you know? Mating within the pack, keeping the bloodlines pure through marriage. The difference is that Pops always talked him out of it. Always said I was too young, that there was no rush, that I should wait for someone I love, my true mate...” He sighs, heavily. “But he’s gone now. And Dad’s decided that he’s done waiting.”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t, because you know it’ll hurt, but the question comes regardless—leaving your lips in a near whisper. “Who?”

Hoseok takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. “Do you remember Im Nayeon?”

You do. You’ve known Nayeon almost as long as you’ve known Hoseok—the three of you having attended the same schools starting from elementary all the way up until Hoseok left to attend university in Seoul. Admittedly, you were never close—and if you were completely honest, you always found her to be a bit disingenuous for your tastes. Nevertheless, you often found yourself at the same events—parties and gatherings you attended at Hoseok’s request, and that she was privy to due to her family’s high-ranking status within the Gwangju pack.

“I remember,” you tell him, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. “Does… does she know yet? Have you met up with her?”

Hoseok nods. “She was there this morning, at the funeral. We talked a little bit and got coffee after, but… this is all happening so fast.” Slowly, he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, a sigh escaping his parted lips. “But there’s nothing I can do, right? It’s enough that Dad’s somehow talked Mom into the whole thing, but now he’s gotten the Council on board too. Did you know that Nayeon has an uncle on the Council? It’s insane, right?”

“Insane,” you agree in a whisper, doing your best to ignore the way your heart is splintering at the edges.

“You know, I always thought my Dad pressuring me was bad.” Hoseok buries his face in his hands, peering at you from between his splayed fingers when you hum in acknowledgment. “But this? The entire Council on my back? This is way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else there is to say. Your ribcage feels like it’s been split open and filled with burning coals, weighing hot and heavy on your insides.

Hoseok has dated in the past, of course. You both have—chasing that elusive, fluttery feeling called love and never quite being able to catch it and hold on. Hoseok’s last relationship fizzled long before he graduated from university, having lasted only about six months. You distinctly remember meeting the girl during one of your frequent visits to Seoul, at a small party hosted by Hoseok and his friends. By your next visit, however, things had already ended. He never really told you why the breakup occurred either—only that the relationship never would have lasted in the long run.

Perhaps foolishly, you chose not to pry.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask softly. Reaching out, you take ahold of his hand and tug it into your lap, threading your fingers into the gaps between his. The gesture is familiar and comforting, like cocoa in front of a lit fireplace, and you can’t even begin to fathom the idea of another person sitting here and holding his hand in your stead.

“Just talk to me,” Hoseok entreaties, squeezing your fingers. “Distract me. What’s going on with you?”

You hum, swallowing down the lump in your throat and letting your head fall onto his shoulder as you pick through the events of the past week for the most interesting tidbits. “Bast has been bringing me dead rats lately,” you finally say, nose scrunching at the memory. “You should see the size of them—they’re almost bigger than he is. And they smell like the sewers, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where he’s getting them from. It’s horrid.”

Hoseok huffs out a stilted laugh. “Sewer rats? Gross.”

“It’s not all bad, to be honest,” you tell him, nestling a little closer to the warmth of his body. Hoseok keeps his apartment chillier than you’re accustomed to, and you’re beyond grateful for the furnace-like heat he gives off naturally. “The bones are pretty useful. The tails too, provided you don’t tell people what they actually are.”

His laugh is much more genuine this time. “Tricky little minx,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

You ignore the uptick in your heart rate at his approval, grateful that he can’t see your face as a pulse of heat flushes your cheeks. Instead, you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Hoseok smells like the forest—fresh and woodsy, with a slight floral undercurrent from his fabric softener. It smells like home, and you smile when his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulders.

“Jin came by today,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” The monosyllabic response rumbles through his chest.

“Yeah. He asked about you, too. You should probably text him later.”

Hoseok hums a confirmation, and, satisfied, you cuddle a little closer to him. You pull at the afghan he keeps laid over the back of the couch, laying it comfortably over your lap as he rests his head gently atop yours, his ear pressed to your crown. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to the rhythmic thud of his pulse—solid and steady, backed by the soft hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic on the street far below.

It’s comfortable, sitting with him like this. Comfortable, stroking his arm with your fingertips, in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Ever so gradually, Hoseok’s breathing evens out, and you briefly think that you could stay like this—encapsulated in this delicate, iridescent bubble of contentment—for the rest of your life.

You know the thing about bubbles, though? Bast remarks dryly in your head. They burst.

I know, you sigh.

I know.

///

There’s something soothing about taking inventory—something calming in the repetition of walking down the aisles of Hellebore and restocking the shelves one by one. You’d woken this morning to an apologetic Hoseok making pancakes in the kitchen, his residual heat and woodsy scent lingering on the blanket tucked around your body. After a harried breakfast and a promise to text you later, Hoseok rushed off to the office.

You, in turn, returned to your shop, where you grabbed every ounce of cleaning supplies you possess and scrubbed the place from top to bottom, foregoing all of your usual dishwashing charms and dust-clearing jinxes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the events and revelations of last night, and you’ve thrown yourself wholeheartedly into all the chores you need to complete.

“Almost out of rosehip oil,” you mutter, eyeing the half-empty vial and making a note to extract more from one of several plants in your greenhouse. “Low on valerian too, hmm…”

The bell over the front door jingles merrily, diverting your attention away from your task. “{Name}?” a voice calls softly. A moment later, a familiar head of coppery red hair pops around the edge of the shelves, choppy bangs framing a soft, warm face. “Hey, there you are. You busy?”

You shake your head and shut your inventory book, setting it down on the nearest shelf. “Not terribly, no. What brings you here today, Lisa?”

Lisa’s answering smile is sheepish. “Got something to return,” she says, holding up a little glass jar full of lavender colored pills that you immediately recognize. “I’m guessing you’ve already heard the news. Looks like I won’t be needing these anymore, right?”

Your laugh sounds brittle, even to your own ears. “Right. Yeah. Not anymore.”

For just over ten years, Lisa has been the wolf assigned to help Hoseok through his heat. Between his family’s status and his longtime designation as the next alpha of the Gwangju pack, it’s imperative for Hoseok to avoid anything that might be perceived as scandalous. Torrid sex stories splashed across tabloid covers is the last thing a man like Hoseok needs, and that’s where Lisa comes in. Once a year, for three days, she goes to him, and no one is none the wiser. Her job is one that calls for the utmost discretion, and as the daughter of a high-ranking Council official, no one understood that better than she did. You’d only found out because of your role as one of the few witches in the country who makes and stocks the proper contraceptives for such wolves—the dosage much stronger than the human equivalent.

And when Lisa had first approached you to purchase the pills, you’d dropped two jars and nearly set fire to a third. Your stomach had fallen to somewhere around your toes, right alongside the shattered glass and little lavender tablets.

You’d chalked the accident up to surprise. Hoseok hadn’t mentioned anything to you, after all, and you’d known very little about the intricacies of werewolf heats back then, having just opened your shop at age eighteen. But surprise doesn’t explain the snaking jealousy that bubbles up in your tummy every time Lisa comes in to restock her supply of pills, nor does it explain the overwhelming sense of relief you feel now as she presses the unopened jar into your hands.

“I still can’t believe he’s going to be the most powerful man in Gwangju soon.” Lisa steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting out a soft sigh. “And now he’s engaged, too. It’s pretty crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” you agree tonelessly, turning to replace the jar onto the appropriate shelf.

Lisa, however, is nothing if not perceptive. A gentle hand lands on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” she begins, soft and slow. “You know you can talk to me, right? Are you—?”

But the sound of the bell drowns out the rest of her question, metallic and bright in the quiet of your shop. “Hello? Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks.

“Be right there,” you say immediately, shrugging off Lisa’s hand and stepping out from amongst the shelves. There’s a young woman standing at the checkout counter, rifling through the collection of seeds on display, and you cringe as she replaces a few packets in the wrong spots. “How can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, the woman turns gracefully on her heel, her expression a perfectly crafted amalgamation of surprise and delight. “{Name}!” she exclaims, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “Long time no see!”

“N-Nayeon,” you stammer, the shock of seeing her face freezing you in place. “What… what brings you here?”

The dark-haired woman steps forward to pull you into a hug, enveloping you in her fruity perfume. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to catch up with an old friend?” she asks playfully.

We were never friends, you want to say. In your head, Bast lets out a derisive snort of agreement. Lisa, you notice, has conveniently melted away somewhere amidst the organized chaos of your shop, disappearing into the myriad shelves and knickknacks.

“Plus, I really wanted to look at some flowers,” Nayeon continues, betraying her true purpose at last. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? About my engagement? I’m sure Hoseok—I mean, my fiancé—has mentioned it to you, of all people. You are his best friend, after all.”

The inside of the shop is beginning to feel stifling. Perspiration trickles down your neck and you tug at your collar, loosening the material from where it’s plastered against your skin. “Sure,” you manage, once you feel like you can breathe again. “Right. Sure. The flowers are right this way, if you want to follow me.”

I’d forgotten how much I don’t like her, your familiar remarks dryly in your head.

Shut up, Bast.

Mercifully, he does. There’s a tug on your feet, and you glance down just in time to see him morph out of the shadow you cast against the sun-drenched floor. Ghostly and amorphous at first, he quickly solidifies into the feline figure you’ve grown accustomed to, and slinks protectively around your ankles before darting off to perch in the cushioned bay window seat.

Conveniently, that’s also where the flower display is. Colorful blooms and trailing leaves adorn the wooden shelves and tables in this particular corner of the shop, and you force yourself to shift back into professional mode as you come to a stop in front of an assortment of honeysuckle. “So, what kind of flowers are you looking for?” you ask, brushing your fingers along the pale yellow petals.

Nayeon hums thoughtfully and picks up a potted rosebush, examining it from all angles. “Roses, maybe. Are roses too clichéd now?” She brings the crimson buds closer and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. “No matter. I’ve always liked them.”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, turning your attention to the selection of roses lining the topmost shelf. “Do you have a color preferen—?”

“Or maybe these would be better,” Nayeon interrupts, plucking up a pale pink calla lily from the bouquet you keep in a table display. “Or that one—what is it?”

You follow the trajectory of her gaze to a bunch of little white flowers with golden centers, stark against the dark dirt and surrounding green foliage. “That would be bloodroot,” you answer. “One of my personal favorites—it’s both ornamental and medicinal. It would look lovely in a bouquet.”

Nayeon pulls a face and shakes her head. “No, no—I don’t want anything with such a horrible name. What about these?” she asks, reaching up to take a closer look at a larger bloom. “Peonies, right?”

By the time Nayeon makes it back to the checkout counter with a few sample rose cuttings in hand, you’re fairly certain that several eternities have passed. “Is there anything else you need?” you ask as you ring her up and wrap the flowers neatly in paper.

“A discount for an old friend?” she queries, shooting you a playful wink. When you don’t answer right away, she giggles. “I’m kidding! Obviously, I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m pressed for money—I mean, you’ve seen who my fiancé is, right? Now gosh, where did I put my wallet?”

Your cheeks are beginning to feel far too hot. Nayeon is still rummaging in her purse, and you quickly duck beneath the counter under the pretense of looking for some ribbon to tie off the bouquet. Fanning your face, you take a few deep breaths, listening as she continues chattering away.

“We’re having dinner tonight, actually, Hoseok and I. It’ll be our second real date, and… wait!” She gasps, and you peer up just in time to see her slap a hand over her perfectly lacquered mouth. “You should come! Bring someone, if you can—it’ll be like a double date!”

If you can? Bast snipes. Curse her.

You sigh inwardly and straighten back up, ribbon in hand. Shut up, Bast.

If you won’t, I will.

You’ll do no such thing.

Mustering up your best, most earnest smile, you hand over the wrapped flowers along with her change. “That sounds like fun,” you tell her, ignoring the way your insides lurch at the lie. “When and where?”

Nayeon beams and rattles off the address of an unfamiliar restaurant. “Don’t be late!” she calls as she heads for the door. The bell jangles cheerily as she departs, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Lisa pokes her head around a nearby bookshelf.

“Finally,” she sighs, walking over to join you. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t dare speak ill of a customer, but you’re willing to make an exception today. “You and me both,” you reply, watching as Bast slinks over like a shadow and hops onto the counter beside you. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your elbow in silent solidarity, and you mindlessly begin scratching behind his ears as Lisa speaks again.

“Are you really going to go to that dinner tonight?”

You meet her gaze, shrugging. “I already said I would. Do I really have a choice?”

There isn’t much else to say, and both you and she know it. Pushing off from where she’s leaning against the countertop, Lisa flips her coppery hair over her shoulder and shoots you a look, brown eyes full of sympathy. “Good luck,” she says sincerely. You get the feeling that she wants to say something else, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, she bids you goodbye and walks out with a wave and another chime of the bell. Silence settles over the shop once more, and you allow yourself a few moments to breathe—slow and deep, in and out—before picking up your phone and opening up the most recent text messages. It doesn’t take long to find the name you’re looking for, but you still pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before you begin to type.

[4:21pm] You: how would you like to join me for a very awkward dinner date?

[4:21pm] Jin: consider me intrigued.

///

You and Jin arrive at the restaurant first. It’s an ornate, palatial place with tuxedoed waitstaff and a coat room, and despite giving the name ‘Jung’ at the door, you’re certain that Hoseok played no part in the venue selection. The host ushers you to a booth tucked in the back, the cushioned seats a velvety burgundy and a chandelier glittering overhead, throwing refracted, iridescent light across the veined marble table. All of a sudden, the simple black dress you’re wearing feels painfully inadequate. Glancing down at your feet, you wonder if you should have worn heels instead.

Beside you, Jin cuts a striking figure in a creamy silk shirt with ribbons that tie into a bow at his throat, the material loose and flowy up until where it tucks into fitted black slacks. His pink hair complements the elegant outfit perfectly, parted and swept off his forehead to reveal his dark brows.

As if reading your mind, he lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You look beautiful,” he says, before gesturing at the booth. “Now, do you want the inside or outside? Think you’ll need to make a quick getaway at some point?”

“Probably,” you sigh. Jin nods and sits down first, and you watch him slide across the seat cushion before settling in beside him. “I still can’t believe you volunteered to be here,” you murmur, plucking up one of the folded cloth napkins and fiddling with the crisp white edges. “You’re a saint, I swear.”

Jin chuckles and plucks the napkin from your clasped hands, laying it across your lap instead. “Not a saint,” he says, matching your soft tone. “Just someone who cares about you.”

Your cheeks warm at his sudden proximity. “Thank you,” you tell him, for what must be the umpteenth time. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to, then,” he replies with a grin. “Now, chin up. They just walked in.”

You can’t help the groan that escapes you. “Is it too late to run?”

“Afraid so,” he answers honestly.

And then Nayeon is slipping into the cushioned seat opposite you, syrupy smile in place on her berry lacquered lips. “Hi!” she chirps, laying a hand on Hoseok’s arm as he sits down beside her. “Sorry we’re late. We, um…” She pauses and shoots Hoseok a conspiratorial look, giggling. “... lost track of the time.”

Your magic flares, hot and bright in your veins, and you know Jin feels it too when he lays a cautionary hand on your knee beneath the table. “We weren’t waiting long,” he says, offering the two a genial smile. He’s perfectly polite as he and Nayeon exchange quick introductions, and gestures toward the assortment of menus on the table as soon as everyone has settled down. “Why don’t we order some wine to start?”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea! Isn’t that a splendid idea, Hoseok?” Nayeon turns to the auburn-haired man beside her, and you do the same, gaze landing on Hoseok for the first time tonight. He’s in an all black ensemble, sharp jacket layered over a silky black shirt, the top buttons loosened to bare a tantalizing sliver of golden skin. His auburn hair is parted, a stray lock falling across his forehead, and you shiver when you realize he’s staring right back at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

At the sound of Nayeon’s voice, Hoseok seems to snap out of his trance, his expression smoothing out as he plasters on a smile. “Take a look at the menu,” he says, picking up the leather-bound book and offering it to her. “Dinner’s on me.”

You blink. “We can’t let you do that, Hobi.”

“Let me pick up at least part of the tab,” Jin adds, already reaching for his wallet. “I’m no corporate bigshot, but I do well enough for myself.”

“No need to be modest,” you chime in, nudging him playfully. “Weren’t you just telling me about your new restaurant opening on the way over? Next week, right?”

Jin’s ears redden as all the attention is turned onto him. “Next week, yeah.”

“That’s amazing!” Nayeon chirps, pressing closer to Hoseok. “We’ll have to check it out sometime. Maybe a date night, right, darling?”

Hoseok busies himself with rearranging his cutlery, swapping the knife and fork around. “Right—sure. If we ever make it up to Seoul, we’ll, uh… we’ll definitely stop by. Congratulations, man.”

The conversation continues. A server stops by to take your wine order, and Jin decides on a moderately priced bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Glasses are brought over, and wine is poured. Hoseok finishes his quickly and pours himself another, and though his wolf metabolism prevents him from getting drunk off of regular wine, you know that he’s a bit of a lightweight and tends to avoid drinking heavily no matter what the beverage. He’s drinking with a purpose tonight, and you’re beyond grateful when Jin pipes up with yet another story when the conversation lulls.

“And then I found out that the oven was on the whole time! Adam would probably let the entire apartment go up in flames just to spite me—I should watch my back.”

“Or, you know, just watch the oven more closely,” you tease. “I’ve seen your place, Jin—it’s a complete fire hazard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned to the ground already.”

Jin sniffs. “You’re exaggerating. Stop making me look bad.”

“You make yourself look bad,” you retort, laughing when his lower lip juts out into a pout.

Across the table, Hoseok clears his throat. “Speaking of fire hazards—did I ever tell you about the time {Name} set me on fire?”

“I did no such thing!” you protest, reaching over to slap his arm. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit, but that was one time! And you were barely singed!”

Hoseok snorts out a laugh. “Barely singed? I couldn’t sit properly for a week.”

“Oh please, that’s a lie and you know it!”

Nayeon interrupts your conversation with a loud huff, setting her wineglass down with enough force to thud against the veined marble tabletop. “Do one of you maybe want to fill us in on the joke here?”

Abashed, you glance back at Hoseok, watching as his smile slowly fades back into the careful, neutral expression he’s worn all evening. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s an old story from when we were kids—when we first met, actually. We were seven years old, and it was the second day of school. I didn’t have a very good handle on my magic yet, and accidentally set Hoseok’s tail on fire during recess.”

“I preferred to run around in my wolf form back then,” Hoseok further elaborates. “There was a big field out behind the school—remember that, {Name}?”

You nod. “Of course. It went right up to the very edge of the woods. And if you kept going and went far enough, you reached the old wooden bridge.”

Hoseok is smiling again, soft and fond. “That thing was a death trap.”

“But the teachers could never keep us away,” you say, grinning at him.

“All right,” Nayeon interrupts again, sniffing disdainfully. “Enough about the old days—I think it’s time to talk about the present. And more importantly, the future.” She sighs happily and props her chin up in her palm, ensuring that the delicate golden band on her ring finger is on full display, the metal glimmering in the warm light. “You’re both invited to the wedding, of course. And I never did properly thank you for the flowers today, {Name}!”

Her words seem to come as a surprise to Hoseok, who straightens up in his seat. “Flowers? You visited Hellebore today?”

“Of course I did!” Nayeon hides a giggle behind a manicured hand. “I wouldn’t even think of trusting anyone else with my bouquet.”

Hoseok’s gaze skitters over to you, awash with concern and tinged with apology, but you ignore him in favor of forcing your expression into something that’s meant to be a smile. Yet no matter how much you strain your cheeks and stretch your lips, it feels—and looks, you’re sure—far more like a grimace.

“I’m happy to do it,” you lie, your teeth gritted and tight. “I don’t mind it one bit.”

///

“So. That was just as awkward as promised.”

You and Jin are walking back to Hellebore, leaving behind the bustling downtown area for the darker, quieter streets of your neighborhood. Your companion’s hair is tinged orange in the glow from the streetlamps, and you can only chuckle humorlessly when he turns to you and raises his eyebrows.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I was duly warned,” Jin agrees.

A car drives by, the headlights throwing Jin’s profile into stark relief. His expression is solemn but he doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The remainder of the walk passes in silence, broken only by the occasional strain of conversation from passersby and the low drone of late night traffic. You reach Hellebore with no incidents, and you muffle a yawn as Jin steps into the wardrobe to go back to Seoul.

Just before he shuts the door behind him, he shoots you a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel, you know. He deserves to know. And you… you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. Long after he’s gone, his remark echoes in your head, and no matter what, you simply cannot seem to shake it.

///

It’s been years since you’ve last gone to the old bridge, but after last night’s conversation you find yourself pulled back, lured by the promise of memories of a kinder time. The forest beyond the field hasn’t changed much since your school days, and neither, you realize, has the bridge itself. It still stands tall, proudly spanning the steep ravine that your teachers warned you about, the rickety wood splitting apart at the seams and overgrown with lichen and climbing ivy. Far below, the white-capped river rushes by on its long, turbulent journey to the sea.

Carefully, you step onto the bridge—first one foot, then the other. The energy in the air shifts as soon as your feet leave the loamy earth, finding traction instead on hewn wood, and you sigh as your fingertips brush against the railing. The magic here is an old magic—different from the ancient magic that dwells in places like the werewolves’ clearing and the realms of the fae. The low thrum of it fills the air and seeps into your veins, quickening your pulse and prickling your skin.

“I thought you might be here.” The voice comes from your left, barely audible over the rush of the river.

“You thought right,” you reply, stepping forward until you’re toeing the railing and leaning over to stare down into the swirling, eddying waters below.

Hoseok joins you at the edge. His profile is stark against the leafy green backdrop, and for a few moments, all is still. Then: “I’m really sorry about last night.”

The apology hangs in the silence for a few moments before fading into the sound of churning water and wind whistling through the trees. You suck in a deep breath, oxygen swelling your lungs until you can hold it in no longer, before letting it escape in a resigned sigh.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Hoseok.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

You raise a brow. “Make it up to me? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Anything you want.” Hoseok smiles crookedly, but you can’t quell the tumult brewing in your belly.

“What do you want, Hobi?”

His smile fades. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, auburn hair flying. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about you.”

You gaze up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline and the straight angle of his nose. Your eyes trail along the smooth slope of his rounded cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth, lingering on the little mole atop his upper lip.

And then you reach out and take his hand, savoring the way his fingers immediately, comfortably settle into the spaces between your own. “Why don’t we head down to the river?” you ask. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been, and I’ve missed it.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, a glimmer of something bright shining in his amber-flecked irises. Gently, he tugs on your hand, taking the lead as you leave the bridge behind and head north in search of the sloping path that will take you down and into the ravine that houses the riverbed. You chance a few glances over the treacherous edge, watching the water froth and tumble over the rocks.

“You know, this seems a lot more dangerous now than it did back then,” you muse. “I see why our teachers were always trying to keep us away.”

“We were kids back then,” Hoseok says, grinning. “We thought we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.”

“Simpler times,” you agree with a laugh. “I set your tail on fire, you cried—”

“—and then we became lifelong friends,” Hoseok finishes, joining in your mirth. “Easy-peasy.”

Together, you locate the path down to the ravine. The descent is easier than it was back then, your longer limbs extending your reach, but you’re grateful for Hoseok’s steadying hand all the same. He carefully guides you around the biggest rocks and tree roots, pulling you closer when you lose your footing near the bottom. His fingers remain twined with yours even after you’ve safely arrived at the riverbed, stepping across stones that have been worn smooth and warmed by the sun. You slip off your shoes, letting them dangle from your free hand, and Hoseok does the same.

Sunlight glitters off the water, throwing a thousand refractive diamonds across the surface, but when you dip your toes in you find that it’s cold as a mountain spring in autumn. That doesn’t stop Hoseok from bending down to splash you though, and you shriek in surprise before retaliating with a silent spell that sends icy water splattering across the faded denim of his jeans.

“That’s not fair!” he protests. “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m just using every resource available to me,” you reply with a sly grin, sending a swelling wave of water toward him with a lazy twist of your hand.

From beneath his drenched hair, Hoseok raises a challenging brow in your direction. “Oh yeah?”

Before you can even blink, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head, baring a taut, honeyed abdomen and toned arms. Tossing the discarded clothes onto the bank, he unfastens his belt and lets that drop as well, fixing you with a crooked little smirk all the while. The muscles in his torso ripple.

And then he’s shifting—limbs elongating and reddish-brown fur sprouting from his skin. His remaining clothing rips under the strain of the transformation, floating downstream in tattered shreds, but you don’t pay them any mind. No matter how many times you’ve watched Hoseok shift, you’ll never quite get used to it. He hunches over, more beast than man at this point, his chest rumbling. And before you know it—before you can even pinpoint exactly when the transformation is complete—he’s standing before you as a massive russet wolf, baring ferociously sharp teeth that you know could easily tear a man limb from limb.

His eyes, however, remain the same—warm, molten brown flecked with amber and gold, a devilish twinkle lurking in their depths. You cock your head to the side in a silent challenge, and swear that the wolf in front of you grins before pouncing forward, landing in the river with an enormous splash that leaves you thoroughly drenched.

“Now we’re both soaked!” you cry in between giggles, watching as Hoseok emerges from the water, his fur dampened black and dripping. “How is this a win for you?”

Hoseok rears back and lets loose a triumphant howl, shaking himself out and further drenching you with the spray of water from his coat. You squeal and back up several steps, batting him away, but Hoseok just presses closer and nuzzles his wet face into the crook of your neck. His body heaves with every breath, flaring hot against your skin, and for a few long moments, you simply stand there, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as icy water rushes past your ankles.

After what feels like an eternity, you step back, releasing Hoseok and staring up into his face. Even in his wolf form, he towers over you, and you reach up to stroke his muzzle tenderly before bopping him on the nose. “Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s dry off.”

Hoseok lets out a low rumble of agreement, and together, you make your way back to shore. You fold up his discarded clothing while he trots off to locate his shredded jeans, quickly finding them caught between some rocks and carrying the denim tatters back over to you in his teeth. Shaking your head, you add it to the growing pile and lay a hand atop it. Heat concentrates in your fingertips, mingling with the magic running through your veins. Stitch by stitch, his jeans repair themselves, drying in the process. Hoseok bumps your cheek with his nose in gratitude and darts off to change, and you dry your own clothes while you wait.

When Hoseok returns, he’s reverted to his human form, fully dressed and raking a hand through his damp hair. “Thanks for drying these off,” he says, flashing you a sheepish grin. “And for fixing my pants. Again.”

“Mending charms are easy,” you reply, and it’s the truth. Over the many years you’ve known Hoseok, you’ve mended his clothing countless times—from the accidental transformations in his early years, before he could control it, to the calculated ones as he got older. Hoseok doesn’t shift terribly often nowadays, but on occasion he still goes out to stretch his muscles and hunt with his pack. His grandfather, in particular, always made the time to take him hunting at least once a month. You wonder if he’s gone since he passed, but decide not to ask.

“Should we go see the Towers?” you ask instead.

“Lead the way,” he agrees, falling into step beside you as you head downstream. The ravine walls are higher here, decorated with gnarled roots and rocky outcrops that obscure the periwinkle sky and cast long shadows across the ground. Cairns begin to crop up on both sides of the river—each tower of stones carefully and deliberately stacked. They’re small and scattered at first, but gradually become taller and more frequent until you’re nearly surrounded by a forest of stone. The air grows noticeably heavier—the magic more potent. It almost feels as if electricity is dancing across your skin, the sparks sinking into your pores and melding with your soul.

Hoseok feels it too, if the look of awe in his eyes is any indication. “I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten about this place,” he marvels, running a finger across one of the stacked stones. “Do you feel that? The magic?” Then he chuckles. “Wait, of course you do. What am I talking about?”

You smile softly, tracing the path his fingertips leave behind. “Yeah, Hobi. I feel it.”

The topmost stones are almost out of your reach now. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a gray pebble about the size of your palm—a near perfect disc veined with white. Gently, you place it atop the cairn closest to you, watching it glint in the sunlight for a moment before turning to your companion.

“Well?”

Ancient legend dictates that as long as an offering is left, one may take a stone from the Towers. You and Hoseok have each acquired a rather sizable collection during your childhood years, lured by the promise that the stones will bring about good fortune and happiness.

“I forgot to bring something,” Hoseok admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “But I can pick one out for you. Hang on…” He hums thoughtfully as he scans the towering pillars, tapping his chin until he alights on one in particular, plucking up a stone that’s been worn smooth, burnished orange and marbled with ivory and copper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply, admiring the way the marbled surface glitters in the sun.

Hoseok takes your hand and places the stone gently in your palm. “It’s yours.”

Then he’s off—stepping over a fallen log to admire another tower, brushing a curious finger across a moss-covered rock before glancing over his shoulder at you. “Coming?”

You nod, tucking his gift away safely in your pocket. Together, you carve out a path amongst the towering cairns, clambering over river rocks and brushing aside the dense undergrowth. The path opens up again gradually, revealing the burbling water to your left and the steep ravine wall to your right. The river is calmer here—clear enough to see all the way to the bottom where shimmering, silvery fish dart about. A low, flat rock juts out into the water a short ways away, and Hoseok strides over to plop atop it, gesturing for you to join him.

“This is nice,” he sighs once you’ve made yourself comfortable by his side. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good. I’ve been cooped up at the office for so long, I swear I almost forgot what trees smell like.”

“You’re more than welcome to sniff around the shop if you ever need a reminder,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Better yet, I’ll bring you a plant for your office. Spruce up the place a little bit.”

“That sounds great, actually,” he admits with a chuckle. “I don’t have your green thumb, though. I’ll probably end up accidentally killing it.”

“Something low maintenance, then,” you promise. “A succulent, maybe. When should I bring it by?”

Hoseok’s expression sombers. “You can always stop by tomorrow after the hearing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach. The Ministry—the overarching government body that dictates all Shadowfolk affairs—summons every pack alpha for a confirmation hearing when they first come into power. “They’re holding the hearing? Already?”

He nods. “The Ministry’s summoned me for tomorrow morning. First item on their schedule, I’m pretty sure.” A resigned sigh escapes his lips, dissipating into mist on the air. “And there’s a party at JungTech HQ afterward. You know. So my dad can officially hand the reins over.”

“The most powerful man in Gwangju,” you murmur, thinking back to Lisa’s words.

Hoseok lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. The most powerful man, beholden to his dad, the Council, and the entire fucking Ministry. It doesn’t matter what I want to do. Never has.”

It’s the second time he’s dismissed his feelings, and as much as you want to ask what it is he truly wants, you find that the words are stuck in your throat, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert on a cloudless day. Instead, you lay a silent hand over his, feeling his warmth seep up into your palm.

“Hey.” Hoseok doesn’t tear his gaze away from the sky, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. “Yesterday, when Nayeon said she’d stopped by… did she say anything to you?”

The sound of her name leaving his lips leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “Not really,” you tell him. “She looked at some flowers and invited me to dinner. Simple as that.”

Hoseok nods slowly, lips pursed. “Was Jin already there when she came?”

You blink. “Jin? Oh, no—no, he wasn’t. I texted him after Nayeon left.”

“Ah.”

“I’m glad he was free, though.” You stare down into the water, where a curious fish swims in and out of the shadow you cast. “I’m honestly not sure who I could’ve invited if he hadn’t been available. Plus, it’s been ages since I’ve had dinner with him, and it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him too, right? I’m really happy it worked out.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop yourself. Hoseok has become eerily still, lost in introspection, and you feel obligated to fill the silence.

“You two make sense, you know.” Hoseok’s voice comes suddenly. “As a couple. Both witches—it makes a lot of sense.”

You peer over at him, eyes widening at his assumption. “We—we’re not actually together, Jin and I. We’re just friends.”

Hoseok straightens at that, his gaze flitting down to meet yours. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat of silence. Hoseok looks like he wants to say something else, but a quiet buzz from his pocket stops him in his tracks. His mouth clamps shut as he checks his phone, teeth clicking together, and you can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that it isn’t good news.

“Do you have to head back?”

He nods stiffly, silent apology written all over his face. “Work calls.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow after your hearing.”

He nods again and turns to leave. Before he can take too many steps, though, you call him back, reaching into your pocket to pull out the stone he’d gifted you earlier.

“Take this,” you murmur, pressing it into his hands. “I’m pretty sure you need it more than I do right now.”

Hoseok’s fingers curl protectively around the stone, holding on like it’s his only remaining lifeline. “Thanks.”

///

Downtown Gwangju is a monochrome forest of towering glass and steel, clamorous and unchecked by nature, proudly defiant in the face of the earth mother herself. The sidewalks are awash with people rushing back from their lunch break, forcing you to dodge around several businessmen too absorbed in their phones. Just as you are finding your footing again, a hapless intern carrying a tray of coffee cups rushes past, nearly crashing into you.

“Oh, shi—sorry! Sorry, oh, jeez. Are you okay?”

You wave off his apology with a smile, taking in the ill fit of his suit and the messy knot of his tie. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching out to help him steady the tray in his hands. A stabilizing spell—silently cast, the magic pulsing through your fingertips—should be enough to get him back to his office with no additional mishaps. You wonder if he’ll notice that his tray is suddenly more well-balanced, or that his hands have steadied.

But then again, you suppose it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not.

Somehow, someway, you make it to JungTech without running into anyone else. The receptionist recognizes you immediately and points you toward the elevator with a smile, and you thank her as you press the up button. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and you take a deep breath as you step inside, staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

All right? Bast queries, stirring awake in your mind.

You release the breath that you’d been holding in a long whoosh. Yeah. I’m all right.

The doors open on the top floor, and straight away, you are assailed by a cacophony of sounds. Scattered conversations and laughter intermingle with the clinking of champagne flutes. There are at least fifty people scattered around the open space that lies between the elevator and the glass-fronted CEO’s office at the very back—the office that bears Hoseok’s name on the door. There’s no sign of the man himself, but you have no doubt that he’s nearby. This entire party is a celebration for him, after all.

The elevator doors begin to close, and you quickly reach out to stop them, stepping out before it can protest at your dawdling. A young man in a pristine white shirt materializes on your right with a tray full of champagne flutes, and you pluck one off with a murmur of thanks. Sipping slowly, you wander around the perimeters of the party, listening to the lively chatter. Across the room, you spot Lisa, returning her friendly wave with one of your own.

“Hello, {Name}.”

The deep, familiar voice has you whirling around in an instant, head bowing in automatic deference. “Mr. Jung,” you murmur, not quite daring to look him in the eye. “It’s been a while.”

Hoseok’s father inclines his head in acknowledgment, salt-and-pepper hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. No doubt he was a handsome man in his younger days, but the salt in his hair has steadily overtaken the pepper in the last few years, the stern lines around his mouth deepening.

“I didn’t know you would be joining us today,” he says cordially. “But then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after all these years. Have you been here long?”

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe.” Beneath his piercing gaze, you feel like a small child again. Quickly, you scramble for something else to say, gesturing around the sleek glass interior of the office. “This is a lovely party. You must be so proud.”

Another nod. “I wasn’t sure that Hoseok was going to step up,” he admits. “I had my reservations about whether or not he would accept his duties as a Jung, but he has, and I’m pleased that he did. It’s no easy feat, running this company and leading the city’s pack. But I’ve served my time, just as my father did before me.” His gaze flits down to meet yours suddenly, and you find that you can’t read the emotion swimming in them. “I believe I spotted you at his funeral the other day, did I not?”

You nod, resisting the urge to take a sip from your nearly empty champagne glass as your cheeks warm under the scrutiny. “I was, yes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects. He was a great man.”

“That, he was,” Mr. Jung agrees. “Hoseok takes after him in many ways. My father—as great as he was—always had a soft spot for the boy. Coddled him a bit too much.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jung, I think that’s a grandfather’s job,” you reply with a smile.

That earns you a smile in return, the lines around his mouth easing. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hoseok’s father excuses himself to talk to the other guests, and you set off in search of Hoseok himself. You can feel his aura somewhere nearby, strong and steady, but the room is large enough that you cannot pinpoint his exact location. Not for the first time, you curse the fact that you don’t have a werewolf’s sharp sense of smell. No doubt it could easily be as cumbersome as it is helpful, but it would certainly help you right now.

Turning a corner, you are about to continue lamenting your average olfactory system when you suddenly catch a glimpse of familiar auburn hair, afloat in a sea of black suits. Dodging around a sharply dressed businesswoman and ducking beneath a waiter’s serving tray clears your path to Hoseok, and you’re milliseconds away from stepping forward to greet him when you feel it.

There’s an energy emanating from Hoseok, the likes of which you’ve never felt from him before. It’s heavy and commanding and so potent that the air is laden with it, and a cursory glance at the people surrounding him reveals that they feel it too—their gazes lowered, voices hushed and respectful. In his fitted black suit and emerald green shirt, he looks every bit the alpha he is, and you are quickly realizing that you’re not immune to the power radiating off of him. The Hoseok standing before you isn’t the same Hoseok whose tail you set on fire all those years ago. Far from it. The revelation is somehow simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, and your heart leaps into your throat when you notice that he’s waving you over.

As if compelled, you comply, striding forward until you’re standing before him. “Hi,” your murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

Hoseok’s face splits into a smile. “Hi yourself,” he says, and you would have laughed if your insides didn’t feel like they were about to burst.

“I, um. I brought you your succulent,” you tell him, reaching into your bag. There’s a tiny potted jade plant inside, packaged neatly into a box that you open up and present to him. “It’s jade. Easy to keep alive, and easy to propagate too, if you’re inclined.”

Hoseok accepts your gift, his smile growing as he admires the plump green leaves. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You shrug and wave off his gratitude, fiddling to clasp your bag shut. “So,” you start, glancing around and gnawing on your bottom lip, completely missing the way Hoseok’s eyes darken as he follows the movement. “It looks like everything went well at the Ministry. Your dad is pleased.”

Hoseok hums, low in his throat. “You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“I see.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by a blur of motion and a shrill cry of his name. A moment later, Nayeon is at his side, latching onto his arm and batting her lashes, adorned in a form-fitting red dress and golden jewelry.

“Hoseok! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you!” Then her gaze alights on you, eyes going wide as if she’s only just noticed your presence. “{Name}, oh my goodness. I almost didn’t see you there, hi!”

“Hello, Nayeon,” you grit out, unable to hide your scowl. You wonder if she spotted it before you hid it behind a large sip of champagne.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention refocuses onto a spot behind you, and you watch as her expression lights up, delight etching across her features. “Mr. Jung!” she exclaims. “There’s my favorite future father-in-law. Come and join us—it’s not a party without you.”

Hoseok’s father chuckles lightly, coming forward to stand beside you. “Long time no see,” he jokes, nodding in your direction. “And Nayeon—hello. How are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, I’m having the loveliest time,” she chirps, simpering up at Hoseok. “How could I not be, when my fiancé is here with me?” Then she smiles—her lips painted the same shade of red as her dress. “But I’m sure I’m nowhere near as happy as you are. You must be beyond excited to spend some quality time with your wife after being busy for so long.”

“I am,” Mr. Jung admits. The severity in his features softens as he seeks out his wife, standing across the room surrounded by friends and extended family. “I’m a very lucky man to have a woman like her.”

Nayeon giggles. “And I’m a lucky woman to have a man like your son. Isn’t that right, darling?”

She tilts her head to look up at Hoseok, who blinks twice in rapid succession, his throat bobbing. “Right,” he says, his voice raspy. “The luckiest.”

And as you turn to engage Mr. Jung in conversation once more, you miss the way his gaze lingers on you.

///

Tuesdays at Hellebore are for brewing. You save bottling for Thursdays—giving your potions and other concoctions ample time to simmer and set—but today, you are hunched over the stove with all four burners turned to different temperature settings, watching over your pots so that they don’t boil over.

A cursory glance out the window tells you that it’s well into the afternoon, the pastel blue sky littered with trailing clouds lit hazy and golden in the sun. You’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, and, desperate for a breath of fresh air, you crack the window open and inhale deeply. Then you turn back to the stove, giving one pot a stir and adding a pinch of burdock root to another.

Wandering downstairs, you head to the greenhouse. The sunlight is brighter here, the air more humid. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the scent of the hundreds of plants growing inside, before heading for the laburnum tree in the far corner. Carefully, you brush aside the cascading golden flowers, about to gather the dried ones that have fallen to the dirt when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re close—” you say, stopping when you recognize the head of coppery red hair in the window. “Lisa?” Confused, you open the door and let her inside. “What brings you here today?”

“You need to go to Hoseok, now,” she says, foregoing any preambles. “He’s… well, you’ll see. Nayeon’s there right now, but she’s not helping the situation, and...” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can help him now.”

All at once, your stomach drops to your toes. “What’s wrong with Hoseok?” you demand. “Is he hurt?”

Lisa shakes her head, red hair flying. “No, he’s fine. I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, though.”

The cryptic response sends your heart into overdrive, pounding against your ribcage like a doomsday drum. Striding over to the bay window, you wake Bast from his nap in a slanted ray of sunlight, scratching behind his black ears and watching as his golden eyes flicker open, pupils going wide when he senses your turmoil.

What is it?

Hoseok, you reply shortly. Beneath your touch, Bast’s ears perk up.

What do you need?

You swallow, hard, and suck in a deep breath. I’m going to open a portal.

It’s a dangerous feat, and both you and Bast know it. Opening a portal requires an immense amount of energy, and maintaining one long enough to travel through is a risk to even the most experienced witches. You’ve heard horror stories of spliced limbs and paralysis, and in some cases, even death.

But for Hoseok, you’re willing to risk it all.

“Lisa,” you say, grabbing your purse and striding back to the front door of the shop. “Can you lock up once I’m gone?”

She nods nervously. “Of course.”

You incline your head in silent thanks. At your feet, Bast is slinking continuous figure-eights around your ankles, betraying his worry at the task ahead. Your own heart feels ready to spring out from your ribcage and onto the sun-drenched floor, but you swallow down your nerves and look down at your familiar once more. Ready? you ask.

Ready, Bast confirms. Be careful.

I will.

Closing your eyes, you begin to visualize Hoseok’s front door, focusing on every little detail you can remember. There’s the scuff in the black paint from when he first moved in and accidentally scraped a table leg against it. There’s the bronze knocker that always hangs slightly askew. The image builds slowly in your mind, coming together like the broken pieces of a puzzle.

The air around you is suddenly much warmer than before, an invisible force sapping away at your strength and weakening your legs. Bast’s energy melds with yours, but it’s barely enough to keep you on your feet. Exhaustion seeps into your bones and steals the oxygen from your lungs. You gasp, chest heaving.

I don’t think it’s going to work. Bast’s voice is a faint whisper in the back of your mind.

It will, you hiss. It has to.

The front door of your shop is beginning to glow white, becoming hazy and amorphous as the edges begin to blur. You spot a splash of black paint coming through the fog, followed by a bronze knocker. A matching handle appears a moment later, growing out of tendrils of mist and solidifying before your eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, you reach forward to grab it. Slowly, you turn until you can turn no longer.

And then you step through.

The first thing you hear is a low, cavernous rumble—deep enough that you feel it reverberating through your very bones. Then your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re in Hoseok’s entryway, all your limbs thankfully intact. The relief you feel at your success is quickly eclipsed by worry though, when you see Hoseok himself on the far side of the living room. The look in his brown eyes is nothing short of wild, his white shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel and his auburn hair sweaty and disheveled.

“H-Hobi?” Your voice is no more than a breath, dissipating in the open air.

“Hoseok.” The new voice has you whirling. Nayeon is pressed against the wall opposite him, her expression harried. “Hoseok, please—“

“Get out,” Hoseok growls, his voice dangerously low. He’s bristling with the same energy as before, the same energy you felt back at JungTech—but this time it’s enough to fill the room and spill out the opened door and into the hallway. You can feel it pulsing against your skin, hot and electric, and know that Nayeon is even more affected from the way her shoulders slouch, her eyes dropping to the floor when he snarls. “Get out, now.”

She does. Nayeon turns on her heel and dashes out, slamming the door behind her and leaving you alone with Hoseok. His eyes are alight with something more wolf than man, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and it’s all you can do not to shrink back when he turns his full attention onto you. Even from across the room, you can smell the liquor spilled across the coffee table in a dark ooze of fluid, cloying and bitter.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok asks, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “You shouldn’t be here right now, {Name}.”

“Lisa told me to come,” you whisper. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much, Hoseok.”

Hoseok shakes his head and rakes a frazzled hand through his hair. “You need to leave,” he grunts. Shakily, he reaches out to right the overturned liquor bottle, the pad of his thumb skimming across the shattered edge.

“Let me do that,” you tell him, making to step forward, but Hoseok stops you with a raised hand and a low growl that stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer to me.”

You shake your head. “Hobi, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking. Let me help you.”

“No!” he snarls, flinching back when you take a step forward. “You need to leave. It’s… it’s dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice is reduced to a whisper at the severity of his reaction, the energy in the air intensifying until it’s almost unbearable. “Why?”

“Because I’m in heat!” Hoseok spits. He sucks in a deep breath, the air whistling between his teeth, before he lets out an agonized moan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in heat,” he repeats, reticence dripping from every syllable. “I can’t even fucking think straight, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you if you stay. So please, {Name}. Please go.”

“But Nayeon…” you begin, wavering when his eyes flash darkly at the mention of her name. “Or Lisa… I can call her, maybe—”

“No!”

You jump, startled at the volume of his shout.

“No,” Hoseok repeats, softer this time. “Don’t. I don’t want them. I’m—I’m fine.”

The sticky humidity and the pulsating energy flowing through the room tell you otherwise. “You’re clearly not,” you tell him gently, taking another step toward him. “Let me call Lisa. Or maybe one of the other girls in the pack, I’m sure someone can help y—”

“I don’t want Lisa.” Defeat suffuses his tone, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t want any of them. I want—fuck.” Hoseok groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, the dull thunk echoing in the stillness. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. You need to leave, {Name}. You’re only going to be in danger if you stay.”

For the second time that afternoon, only one word springs to mind. “Why?”

Hoseok groans again. “Because I’m weak,” he mutters hoarsely. “Because I’m weak, and I’m not thinking straight, and if you come any closer to me, I won’t be able to stop myself from pinning you against that wall right there and having my way with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The rippling energy in the air is almost oppressive in its strength, and only grows when Hoseok’s gaze finally lands on you, his pupils blown out and blacker than the night.

“Go,” he entreaties, dragging a frazzled hand through his hair. “Please, {Name}.”

You suck in a deep breath, your lungs swelling and expanding with the newfound oxygen. Then, ever so slowly, you let your gaze flicker up to meet his. “What if I don’t want to?”

Hoseok freezes. Time comes to a standstill, and even the overwhelming energy emanating from him seems to falter. The room is near silent, broken only by your companion’s ragged breathing, his chest heaving beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. Even from across the room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his honeyed skin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

“You don’t mean that,” he says at last. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I do.”

For three agonizingly long seconds, Hoseok remains rooted firmly in place, his throat bobbing harshly. Then, before you can even blink, he’s striding forward—a blur of motion almost too quick for your eyes to follow. He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth from you, one hand reaching up to cup your face delicately, as if you’re made of glass.

“You,” he rasps, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” His thumb traces the swell of your cheek just below your eye, the motion surprisingly tender. Your heart stutters in your chest.

And then he leans down and crushes his mouth to yours.

The rest of the world falls away, dissolving into nothing. Your eyes flutter shut as Hoseok’s hands slide down your sides to curl around your hips, your body melting against his taut frame. He is all you can feel and all you can taste, and you keen helplessly when he grinds against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach.

The sound seems to awaken something in Hoseok, a cavernous groan erupting from his throat. Pulling away from your mouth, he descends upon the delicate skin of your neck, teeth and tongue blossoming bruises in their wake. Shaky hands find the collar of your shirt, questioning eyes seeking out yours for permission that you happily give. He tugs the garment off almost delicately, his ravenous gaze roving across each bit of newly revealed flesh, and once it’s freed from your head he tosses it aside and sets about doing the same to the rest of your clothing.

Maybe it should feel odd, watching through lidded eyes as Hoseok drops to his knees to pull your jeans down and off your ankles. Maybe you should feel embarrassed, seeing your best friend bury his nose between your legs, delirious bliss etching across his features as he inhales, his strong fingers curling around your thighs to spread you wider. But instead, it feels completely and utterly natural—as if this was always meant to be.

“You smell divine,” Hoseok breathes, slotting himself between your spread thighs and running a fingertip along your lace-covered slit, collecting the considerable slick there and bringing it to his nose. “Fuck, {Name}. Just one whiff, and I can tell that you’re primed and ready for me.”

“Take me, then,” you breathe back shakily, rolling your hips when he slips past the lacy barrier of your panties to find your clit, circling around the sensitive nub until you’re gasping his name.

Hoseok’s gaze darkens to obsidian, his pupils swallowing up the amber-flecked brown of his irises. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet again, straightening up to his full height as his hands find purchase on your hips. He twirls you around until you’re facing the wall, your palms pressed flat against the woven tapestry hanging there.

“Gorgeous.” A single word, laced with unmistakable awe. Then he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, the metallic clink and tug of a zipper reaching your ears, before he presses against you, clothed chest molding against your bare back. Even through the thin layer of fabric, you can feel the sweltering heat emanating from him, his sweat soaking through the cotton and sticking to your skin. His mouth finds its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder again—teasing at the flesh until you’re quivering—before he begins laying a trail of hot kisses down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you,” Hoseok rasps, tearing your panties away once his lips reach the waistband, the flimsy lace ripped to shreds in his desperate grip. “Want you on your front, want you on your back, want you on my tongue—” His voice drops, rumbling through his chest and sending shivers through your entire body. “Want you. Wanted you for so long.”

And as if to reinforce his words, the velvety head of his cock nestles against the cleft of your backside, hot and slick.

Wordlessly, you arch your back, presenting him with the tempting swell of your rear. A glance over your shoulder reveals the strained clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat, his biceps tensed and his gaze unwavering. His control is undoubtedly dangling by a single thread at this point—a delicate, gossamer thread that’s on the verge of snapping. The delirium of his heat is overtaking his senses, his grip tightening on your hips, and ever so slowly, he begins to press forward until the tip of his thick cock is just beginning to part your walls. Already, the fit borders on excruciating, and your body tenses at the intrusion, stretched to the limit around his thick girth.

Hoseok exhales shakily, his primal instincts warring with his desire to ensure your comfort. Soft lips drop kiss after kiss onto your bare shoulders, your back, your neck—wherever he can reach as he whispers tender praises into your skin. “Breathe, princess,” he encourages lowly. “You can take it—I know you can. You were made for me.”

Obediently, you inhale, focusing on the way your lungs expand and contract as you draw air into them. The pain ebbs away with each breath you take, until all that is left is a low throb of pleasure. Your hips rock back against him, and Hoseok takes it as a sign to push forward once more, parting your walls until he’s fully seated inside you, your body stretched to the limit as you mold around him.

There’s no pain now—only an aching desire for more, more, more. He’s deep enough to reach parts of you that you’ve never been able to explore before—either alone or with other partners—and you moan brokenly when he rolls his hips experimentally. “More, Hoseok,” you whimper. “Please.”

He obliges. One thrust leads into another, the punishing pace he sets fueled by his heady desperation for relief. The full, heavy weight of his cock dragging along your walls ignites every nerve ending in your body, sizzling electricity blazing through your veins. It’s all you can do to plant your palms flat against the tapestried wall, fingers twitching at the woven fabric as Hoseok grabs your hips with enough force to bruise and pulls you back against him in time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “Love the way you feel, clenching around me like that. My perfect, pretty girl, taking my cock so well. I always knew you were made for me.” He grunts, forehead falling against your back, damp hair matting against your skin as he continues rutting against you. “Always—fuck—knew you were my mate.”

The particularly harsh thrust that follows his raspy declaration sends all coherent thought flying out of your head, taking your surprise along with it. All you can manage is a shuddery whine that vaguely resembles his name, the sound intermingling with the obscene smack of flesh against flesh and the continuous stream of praises Hoseok whispers into your skin.

There’s something building inside you—a dull, throbbing pressure at the point where your body joins with his. He’s still rolling up into you, but each subsequent thrust grows more and more shallow. The realization dawns on your dazed mind all at once, as you feel the growing swell at the base of his cock. Hoseok is rendered near immobile as he finally reaches his high, the entirety of his length sheathed firmly inside your pussy as he spills ropes of white against your fluttering walls. The swelling continues, filling you until you feel fit to burst.

“H-Hoseok,” you gasp. “I can’t. I can’t—you’re going to rip me in half.”

Soothing hands smooth along your sides, warm lips littering kisses onto your bare shoulders. “You can,” he murmurs tenderly. “You were made for me, and I for you. You can take it, princess. I know you can.”

The gentle repetition of his fingertips trailing nonsensical patterns into your skin eases your labored panting somewhat. Beneath his touch, you slowly relax, the pressure in your abdomen abating as his knot begins to subside.

“You did so well.” His voice is no more than a mumble, almost lost in the sweat and slick coating your skin.

You sag against the wall, taking a few moments to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, the sudden loss leaving your core empty and aching. Gingerly, you turn around to face him, acutely aware of the way your combined juices immediately begin dribbling down your thighs.

“You said I was your mate,” you whisper, almost afraid that the sentiment will disappear if voiced aloud. “Did… did you mean that?”

“Every word,” Hoseok replies, equally soft. “Is that okay?”

A smile blooms across your face. Rising up to your tiptoes, you kiss him again—a soft, reassuring peck that he immediately leans into, seeking out your touch like a flower in the sun. “More than okay,” you breathe, feeling the way his lips stretch upward against yours. “I’m glad, Hobi.”

Hoseok sighs into your mouth, a slow smile settling across his features. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and in an instant, he’s swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your bent knees and the other around your back. “And I’m planning to take my time with you, princess. You’re not leaving here until I say so.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your hands at his nape. “Fine by me,” you tell him, earning yourself a wide grin. His lips seek out yours again as he carries you down the darkened hallway and into the shadowy depths of his bedroom, pausing only to nudge the lightswitch on with his elbow. Golden light suffuses the room as he steps forward to lay you on his bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress and dipping further when he joins you. He hovers over you with an arm on either side of your head, and you reach up to trace the vein that lines his biceps with a gentle fingertip, giggling when he gives your bottom lip a punishing nip.

The kiss deepens from there. Hoseok parts your lips and seeks out your tongue with his own, subduing it into compliance. By the time you pull apart, all the oxygen has left your lungs, leaving you flushed and gasping. Hoseok chortles breathlessly and trails down to press a kiss to your navel, before traveling downward until he’s reached your clit. Gently, he wraps his lips around the sensitive nub, rumbling with laughter when you buck against him.

“So needy,” he murmurs. To your displeasure, he straightens back up to kneel between your spread thighs, but your complaint quickly dissolves into thin air when he edges forward until his knee is pressed against your aching clit. Desperate for more friction, you grind against him, your wetness soaking through his jeans in a matter of seconds.

It doesn’t take long for pressure to build up in your belly again, winding tight as a coiled spring. Hoseok is staring down at you, transfixed, and his undivided attention only serves to bring you closer to the edge, teetering on the very brink.

“Look at you.” His voice could almost be described as a purr, if he weren’t so utterly canine in mannerisms and appearance. “Such a greedy little thing, all desperate to get off. You’re making a mess of my new jeans, princess.”

You’re too far gone to care about the teasing lilt that colors his tone. The edge is rapidly approaching, and one last roll of your hips is enough to send you over, your walls convulsing around nothing as you ride out your high.

Hoseok doesn’t wait. In an instant, he’s back between your legs, having moved so quickly you didn’t even see when he’d started or stopped. His tongue darts out to lave at your folds, a growl rumbling through his chest when your hips jump on instinct. Immediately, he tightens his grip, strong arms winding around your thighs and anchoring at your waist to render you helpless in his grasp, only able to take what he sees fit to give.

“How is it that you taste even better than you smell?” Hoseok muses as he leans down to suck your clit into his mouth, lips curling up into a pleased smirk when you gasp out his name. “Cute,” he says, releasing the nub in favor of descending to your drenched entrance instead, flicking his tongue shallowly inside before withdrawing with a chuckle.

“Hoseok—” you begin, only to dissolve into a moan when he sheaths two fingers inside you without any warning, curling them up and in until you’re shaking in his grasp.

“Come for me,” he commands softly. “Go on, let me hear you.”

And you do, chanting his name like a mantra as a wave of pleasure overtakes you. Hoseok’s thumb circles your clit in just the right way to prolong your orgasm, and it isn’t until you’re cringing from overstimulation that he finally relents, descending down to mold his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His lips part yours, tongue dipping out to explore as he sheds his shirt and shucks off his ruined jeans. His skin, when he presses against you, burns hot as a furnace wherever it touches. Against your stomach, his cock stirs back to life.

He’s gentler this time. Every movement is slow and deliberate and tender as he breaches you, murmuring your name reverentially as he fills you again. Your body bows to his willingly, stretching to accommodate him, and the spike of pleasure that lances through you when he bottoms out is almost enough to send your oversensitive body over the edge again, your walls fluttering around him.

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air when Hoseok starts up a slow rhythm, leaning down to kiss you again. His lips move against yours, soft and tender, before moving past your jugular and down to the crook of your neck, elongated canines scraping against the delicate skin in a silent question. You wind your arms around his neck and nod, giving him his answer. There’s no need for words.

And then his teeth are sinking into the spot he’s so lovingly scoped out, breaking the skin. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, and the pleasure intermingles with the pain of the bite until you are delirious, rendered boneless in his grasp. Hoseok’s hips stutter, his pace growing erratic as he soothes the wound over with his tongue.

You’re prepared for the swelling this time, but the fullness still manages to knock all the air out of your lungs, bordering on painful as his knot grows. Hoseok quells your whimpers with tender kisses, the instinct to comfort his mate paramount even as he paints your walls with ropes of creamy white. He traces a path from your lips down to where he’s marked and claimed you as his, imbuing your skin with a litany of praises that warm you from the inside out.

“My mate,” he murmurs, reverent. “Finally.”

You lean into his touch with a tired smile. “Finally? How long have you wanted this?”

His lips curl into a smile against your clavicle. “Ages. If I’m honest, I think I fell in love with you the day you set my tail on fire when we were kids. It’s always been you, {Name}. Only you.”

You can’t help it—you need to hear it from his mouth again. “You love me?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course I do. My tricky little minx—my perfect, pretty mate. I love you more than anything.” One hand reaches up to caress your cheek, running along the tender skin beneath your eye before cupping the back of your head so he can mold his mouth to yours. “Love you more than I can even explain,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. His hands blaze trails down the slopes of your body until he finally anchors below the crook of your legs. “So why don’t you let me show you instead?”

And he does. Over and over that night, and in the two days of his heat that follow, he shows you exactly how he feels. Propriety is forgotten, left by the wayside with his scorned fiancé and marriage. He is yours, and you are his.

Consequences be damned.

⇢ aftermath.

also set in this universe:

[myg]

[labyrinth-runner]

can we be alone for a bit? For obi wan x reader, please? 👉👈 thank you

Title: A Royal Flush

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: None

Summary: Reader is a Queen returning home after war. Much has changed and she must learn whether she will change for it, or fight against it.

I know I use this gif a lot, but he just looks so soft in it. Thank you, @coredrive​ for posting it because its truly lovely.

Because I’ve watched way too much Bridgerton, I shared a yearning list, so here’s some yearning. Thanks, @the-mandalorian-clone-lover for putting up with my incessant questions.

The battle had been long and tiring, but eventually it was won. You’d lost so many, and there were still so many more wounded as he siege to take back your kingdom came to an end. Your kingdom was yours again, free from the clutches of your enemy. Now, you were to negotiate a deal with the Republic, represented by the man at your side. Their assistance for yours. It was simple enough after the months of fighting, but you knew the fight was far from over. While you knew you owed the Republic everything, you also knew that some of your court would not feel the same. That would be another battle entirely.

Walking up to the castle across the bridge felt odd. The scorched earth on either side of the path left an acrid smell that stung your nose. It mixed with the singed smell of your dress from where you’d narrowly avoided becoming one with the Force multiple times over the course of the week as you traveled with the warriors to rid the world of the last few holdouts. Your knight and protector had insisted this was no place for you, but you had reminded him that you were not defenseless, knowing your way around a weapon.

“It will be a while before the earth is viable again,” you commented to Master Kenobi as you walked side by side.

“Unfortunately,”  he agreed with you, “We can only limit the damage so much.” His brow furrowed as he struggled to ask you something.

“Speak, Master Kenobi,” you bade him, ���You know I’ll always listen, even if I don’t take your words to heart.”

“Are you nervous?”

“About coming home to my people?” you asked as you stopped to look up at the palace in front of you. It was large and imposing, towering well above the landscape and leaving you swathed in its shadow. The shadow of the crown that had always been heavy on your head, but even more so now with the deaths of your people on your hands because you had been too naive. “Yes. I’d be foolish if I didn’t worry about them blaming me for all of this.”

“Why would they blame the one person who fought the hardest for them?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously.

“Because at the end of the day, they were left defenseless. I should have known that the kingdom would be invaded. I was too naive to think that being neutral could have spared us. In the end, the people suffered. My people suffered,” you said emphatically. “Now, come on, my people have been waiting long enough.”

You walked faster, pushing your way into the throne room where the rest of the court waited. A hush fell upon the room as they all turned to look at the intruder. There was a man in your seat. You set your chin in a hard line. 

Obi-Wan came to a stop behind you as you started to stride forward. One by one, heads bowed down and knees bent for their fierce warrior queen. You were covered in soot and ash, and your hair was falling out of the intricate braids they had been woven into, but you were relentless. Your footsteps were confident and sure as they carried you back towards your throne. The man vacated, stepping to the your left. You sat, looking out over the awed assembly.

“Welcome home, your Majesty,” your advisor to said.

You leveled him with a gaze, “It is good to be back at court. However, our presence brings with it some conditions.” You looked up at Master Kenobi, your lip tugging up ever so imperceptibly at the sight of him. “We owe the Republic our lives, and that is a debt we intend to pay.”

Master Kenobi held your gaze until you broke it, turning to address the people around you. “We will have a treaty drafted by the end of the week. That will give the troops enough time to recover before they are sent somewhere else.”

“They have earned that much,” a man said from the doorway as he strode over to you.

You raised a brow at the man, having never seen him before. “And you are?”

“Kane Gridlow, your Majesty,” he said, dipping into a low bow at the foot of your dais.

You cast a look on your advisor who cleared his throat. “Lord Gridlow has kept the court together in your absence, your Majesty.”

Your eyes flashed with slight anger and hurt that some man could give your people the strength you could not. “Well, we thank you for your service, then,” you said as you sat up straighter.

“Your Majesty, I was hoping to get a moment of your time,” Lord Gridlow murmured, looking up at you imploringly.

A pit of dread formed in your stomach as you caught your advisor’s eye and nodded. “Leave us.”

The court filed out, jostling Obi-Wan with it and you were left with your advisors and the man who had ruled in your place.

“State your purpose, Lord Gridlow,” you ordered with a dangerously even voice.

He shared a look with your advisor. “Your Majesty, the advisors and noblemen seem to think that it would be best for the stability of the kingdom if we wed.”

You almost scoffed. Almost. Until you noticed that your advisor looked gravely serious. “You wish to corner a queen into a marriage.”

“We just think-”

“Not we, you,” you corrected. “We are the acting authority.”

“You were absent.”

“We had no control of that,” you shot back. “And we do not appreciate being spoken to like this.” You stood up and came to stand in front of him. “We will not be forced into things. Not by our enemies, and certainly, not by you. Dismissed.”

“Your Majesty-”

“Dismissed.” You repeated.

Lord Gridlow hung his head, giving you a mocking bow. “As you wish, your highness.”

Your eyes narrowed at his retreating figure. How dare he insult you by using the wrong honorific? Rounding on your advisor, you saw him wither in the crosshairs of your eyes.

“Your Majesty, I can explain-”

“Oh, can you? You can explain how you were willing to just give us out to the first nobleman that came knocking? Is that it? You were going to whore your queen out for the good of the kingdom?” You asked, voice rising in pitch. It was rare that you were mad, but beneath it all, you were hurt.

“The nobles will not support a treaty if you are alone,” your advisor simply stated.

You looked down at your folded hands, feeling quite young despite the power you held. You dropped all pretense and all formality, becoming the woman in a man’s world who was the only heir. The only option. You’d always known that they had never really wanted you, but you never quite felt that until now. You swallowed the lump in your throat and gave him a sad look, “I fought for you. I only ever ask that you should do the same.”

You gave him a nod of dismissal before crossing over to your balcony to look out over the courtyard. Leaning on the rail, you took in the people milling about below. They were preparing for a ball to mark your return. Perhaps they also thought it should mark the announcement of your betrothal as well. You looked up to the heavens as if asking for strength to get you through it all. You’d always told yourself that you would do what must be done for your people, that in the grand scheme of things, you were but one, the sole guardian of the many.

The weariness in the people passing by was apparent upon second glance. Young women wore the worry lines of widows who wondered how to feed their children. Children laughed in sparing doses, the knowledge of the world weighing down their mirth with the absence of their innocence. They looked how you felt: tired. The campaign had been hard on all, but on your people most of all, you could now see.

Yet, could you commit yourself to that odious man who had prostrated himself in public, yet dared to berate you in private? Was that the man you were expected to grow old with? Your eyes fell to the statue of your father in the middle of the square. He had married your mother for love, turning down multiple arrangements before you could even talk in order to give you a fighting chance at the same. A sigh passed your lips at the realization that it was all in vain.

“If I could choose,” you murmured wistfully as you looked down at a young man in a brown robe who had stooped to smell a rose, “I’d choose you.” 

As if sensing your gaze upon him, he turned to look up at you. The action dropped his hood from his face, shining the sun on his auburn hair. You gave him a sad wave and his brow furrowed in concern. His eyes held a question in them that you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You never wanted to lie to him, but you couldn’t burden him with the truth either. Casting your eyes down, you backed away, retreating to your rooms in order to finally take the bath that you should have had days ago but never seemed to have the time for.

You dismissed your attendants as soon as the water was filled. Having spent months on the battlefields, you had learned to take care of yourself. You knew it was an honor to be a part of your retinue, but right now all you wanted to do was be alone with your thoughts. 

Lazily, you took your wash cloth and ran it over your skin. With your eyes closed, it reminded you of the time you had cut your arm during a fall and Obi-Wan had cleaned you up. He had teased you for being so stubborn and actually fighting, telling you that he never met a monarch with a death wish before you. He had been so gentle with you that night, kind. A kindness you might never know again. Slowly, you let yourself slip below the water, exhaling a barrage of bubbles as you opened your eyes. The light refracted along the water, glinting off the gilded tub. Only when your lungs started to burn did you resurface, sputtering water as you did so. Your lungs heaved at your stupidity, and you soon found that you were crying as more water droplets splashed into the water. You looked down at your reflection in the water and threw the wash cloth into it, sending ripples through the water. Taking a steadying breath, you got out and wrapped yourself in a towel before heading into your room to be dressed.

“Your Majesty, it is good to see you,” a voice murmured as you sat down at your vanity. You met the owner’s eyes in the mirror and smiled.

“Not as good as it is to see you,” you reassured her.

“It’s been too long,” she squealed before going to find you the perfect gown. “But, I must ask, what is the story of the man who came in with you?”

You turned on your stool to face her, “Liz, he’s off limits. Their kind don’t take wives.”

“He doesn’t look at you like he’s off limits,” she said coyly.

You felt your face heat up at her words. “It doesn’t matter now,” you sighed sadly, “They wish to marry me off to that Lord.”

“What they wish and what you do should not always be the same thing,” Liz said pointedly. “They do not have to live with all the consequences of that decision. You do. You are their Queen. Make your decision, and they will surely fall in line.”

“They won’t support the treaty otherwise,” you replied. “With the Republic at war, they need safe passage through the kingdom. They helped us defeat their enemies on our soil. It only makes sense that we should pay that good will forward.”

“I’m sure they’d understand if you couldn’t,” Liz replied.

“I gave them my word,” you replied. “I need him- them, I need them to know that means something.”

Liz looked down at the dress in her hands and sighed. “Well, should this be your last night of freedom, then we will make it your best. We will make you look so good that they will still believe in the divine right of kings.”

You cracked a smile at that, “Well, I’d certainly like to see you try.”

“As the old monks used to say, ‘do or do not, there is no try,’” Liz winked as she set about to work a magic that was often unappreciated by other nobility, but not lost on you.

By the time she was done, you were exquisite. Your hair was a series of intricate twists and braids that cascaded in all the right places to frame your face. Your dress sparkled in the light as you tentatively ran a hand down the intricate beadwork. It was white and pure. You looked like an angel that had descended from the heavens specifically to save them all. To add further evidence of your right to be there and the fact that you and you alone were their cause for freedom, Liz nestled your crown atop your head.

“Lest they forget who their true ruler is,” she remarked.

“I had almost forgotten how heavy this was,” you mused.

“Heavy the head,” Liz murmured as she pinned it in place, a hairpin held in the corner of her mouth as she added, “If he doesn’t confess tonight...”

“Lord Gridlow?” you asked in confusion as she finished and stepped back.

“No, Lord Kenobi,” she said pointedly.

You blushed, “Obi-Wan isn’t a lord.”

“Obi-Wan? You use first names, your Majesty?” she asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.

You shook your head slightly at her as you got up from your seat and slipped into your shoes. “Titles mean nothing on the battlefield. All are equal when on the end of a blade or a blast.”

“Do you view him as an equal?”

You looked at the crown on your head, “Yes. I do believe I do.”

Music drifted up the corridor from the ballroom down below. 

“I believe that is my cue,” you sighed as you went towards the doors.

Your footsteps were light as you followed the melody, but your heart was heavy. As you came to a rest at the top of the stairs, you could see the party down below. Murmurs ceased and heads bowed in deference as you floated down the stairs. All eyes were on you, but your eyes scanned the crown for a familiar brown cloak. Disappointed when you could not find it, you reached the bottom of the stairs, casting your gaze to your feet.

“Your Majesty, may I have the honor of your first dance?” a lightly accented voice inquired.

Your eyes flicked up to the owner and you allowed yourself to smile. “I believe the honor would be all mine.”

Gently, you placed your hand in his. He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world as he led you towards the middle of the ballroom. He bowed. You curtseyed, and then you danced.

“I almost thought you didn’t come,” you murmured, “I hardly recognized you.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve worn clothes like these,” he admitted with a smirk that didn’t meet his eyes.

You wanted to melt into him, but instead you just allowed yourself to be as close as was proper.  “You look very handsome, but uncomfortable.”

“I could never hide anything from you, could I?” he asked softly. “And neither can you hide from me. Darling, what happened earlier?”

You wanted to admonish him for the use of that pet name. After all, it wasn’t proper, but you loved the way it rolled off his tongue. He hadn’t always called you darling. It was a term of endearment that you had earned about halfway through the campaign on one of the instances you had almost died. A blast from a canon had knocked you clear off your feet and into the dirt. Your ears had been ringing and you could feel the blood trickling down your face from where you had hit a rock. In a minute, he had been at your side, begging you to hold on.

Darling, stay with me.

“Darling?” Obi-Wan asked.

You blinked, refocusing on his face. “Hmm?”

“Stay with me, I know I’m a horrible dancer, but it’s almost over,” he grinned, but his eyes showed concern.

“There’s nothing horrible about you,” you replied as the song came to an end.

He was left speechless in the wake of you as you withdrew to mingle with people you hadn’t seen in over a year who you were certain could not care less about your presence here tonight.

In your bones, you had known this wouldn’t be the triumphant coming home that you wished it would be, but that still didn’t make it sting any less. An inconvenient queen without a King. That was all you were.

Lord Gridlow asked you for a dance and you could not refuse, however every spin around the room had you searching for Obi-Wan’s eyes. When you deemed it proper to take a break, you went to stand by the sidelines as you sipped a drink.

“He seems dreadful,” Obi-Wan murmured as he stood next to you.

“They would have him be King,” you replied absentmindedly.

Obi-Wan blinked for a moment at your indifferent attitude to it all. “Does the Queen not have a say?”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye as you felt the warmth of his hand next to yours. Your smallest finger brushed against his. His hand moved to envelope yours, but then you remember not only where you were, but also who you were. You cleared your throat and prepared to make your rounds. “Excuse me.”

After the lukewarm reception you received from the majority of your nobles, you began to feel the weight of your crushing reality. You had won the war for them, but in doing so had lost their respect. You wanted to laugh, but most of all, you needed air. 

It felt wrong to stand in the stuffy high society after experiencing the hardships of war. There were villages that were decimated, children who starved, and yet here they were practically throwing wealth out your gilded windows in your absence. They wouldn’t notice you were missing, not with Lord Gridlow taking care of their interests and protecting their investments. The nobles, you realized, were content to watch the world outside the palace burn so long as the flames stayed far away. Hell, you thought, they might as well use it to warm themselves without remorse as well.

Slipping out of the crowd, you made your way into the night. The air cooled your skin and filled your lungs. You wanted to scream. You weren’t cut out for this. Not anymore. You stood on your balcony as you looked up into the starry night. A feeling of disappointment settled in.

“You can see less of the constellations from here,” Obi-Wan mused as he came to stand beside you.

“Light pollution,” you replied, remembering how clear the sky was when you slept under it during the campaign.

“Can we be alone for a bit?” he asked softly.

A breath of relief passed through your lips, “Yes, please. I need a moment.”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, offering you his arm. You wanted to laugh at the formality of it all as you slipped your arm into his.

“You followed me,” you murmured as the two of you started down a path towards the hedges.

“I’m always following you, darling. If you blaze so many trails without looking where they lead, then I have to,” he said with a small smile.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” your face burned at his comment. The two of you came to a stop next to a fountain. It was all perfect. The stars above, the hedges around, the faint music heard over the bubbling of the fountain. He was your prince and this was your fairy tale. Except it wasn’t. You knew it couldn’t be. 

You settled on the edge of the fountain, taking the crown off entirely and holding it in your hands. “It’s so silly,” you murmured. “One circlet of precious metals and stones represents my station.” You tossed it into the fountain.

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened and he pulled up his sleeve to fish it out.

“Are you alright?” he asked, knitting his brow as he reached up to fix your crown on your head.

“Do you ever doubt your duty?” you asked him, turning to face him, to study him as he answered.

“I fight for freedom and peace,” he replied. “There can’t be a nobler cause than that.”

“What about love?” you asked softly.

“I suppose at the root of it all, I fight for love,” he admitted, looking at you as if in a new light. “Do you fight for love?”

You paused, drowning in the depths of his eyes. You fought for the kingdom that you so dearly loved, and now you found yourself willing to stop that fight when it came to the person that you loved. 

Averting your gaze, you murmured, “No. Not always, at least. Sometimes I fight out of duty.” Like now, you thought, as you were fighting your feelings for the man in front of you.

“Where is this coming from?” he asked softly, tilting your chin up to look at him. His eyes searched yours as he looked for meaning.

You licked your lips, feeling your mouth go dry. Your cheeks burned under the scrutiny of his gaze. 

There had always been a pull towards Obi-Wan Kenobi. It was a pull that made men follow him into uncertain situations. It was a pull that made conquered villages want to thank him. Now, that pull was making you want to leave your kingdom behind for him if that were the only way for you to be with him. 

His gaze flicked to your lips as you leaned into his hand on your cheek, allowing yourself the comfort of his touch for the briefest of moments as you closed your eyes. In that moment, you could see it all: the two of you, together, happy and laughing arm in arm as you took on the world. A dream that could not be. His nose bumped yours and you pulled back. 

“I... I can’t do this,” you breathed out, feeling like your lungs would collapse in on themselves. Getting up, you raced to get away, but a hand came around your arm to stop you.

You swallowed, looking up at the owner as his eyes pleaded with you. There was a fire there that threatened to consume. It spread through his body and into yours where you touched, licking up your arms and sending a wave of shock through your spine. Your eyes locked into each others and in that moment you made a decision.

Regardless of what happened after the dust settled in your kingdom, you wanted to know Obi-Wan in a way that only a few did. 

Your hands slipped up into his hair as you pulled him into you, crashing your lips against his. His arms encircled you, pulling you flush against him as he kissed back with the same ferocity as he fought. You wanted to lose yourself in this moment, to hold onto it forever, but you knew it could not last. It was the nature of a moment. They were short, fleeting. To hold onto singular moments was to miss the grand scheme of life, but moments, too, were pivotal. You could see where things had changed between the two of you so very clearly now. In hindsight, it was, in fact, a gradual fall. A domino effect of hundreds of tiny moments that led to the two of you crashing together like two planets on an inevitable course of collision. You could only imagine what wreckage would be in its wake. Should people find out, you thought. So they just mustn’t find out. You pulled back, knowing that to continue to prolong this moment would only risk further exposure. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened at the sudden retraction. The crown felt heavy on your head.

“Darling-” he started to say, reaching back for you.

You ran. 

[freshneverfrozen]

Tincture - Chapter 3

Reader x Ivarr, Reader x Hytham

Part One, Two

Friendly reminder that, irl, we don’t tolerate bastards. We kill and eat them.

Chapter Three - Promises and Assurances

Basim greets you with a nod. He is the only one to greet you at all. Surrounded by two grim-faced Danes, one big, the other bigger, Basim looks out of place. Out of place, but not uncomfortable. 

You, on the other hand, know that you appear both. With the sun bright in the sky, some of the cold has retreated, but it hardly improves your restless mood. The camp is a small one, a dozen tents scattered round, and you wonder how much of the blood on the axes and stained leather these men wear belong to your neighbors. You do not meet their eyes when they stare. Instead, you search the shadows for any sign of the mad Dane.

Basim’s voice draws you from your thoughts.

“My wayward apprentice and his charge.” He clasps Hytham’s outstretched forearm and the grin that follows turns to something genuine that warms the black of his eyes.

Hytham looks to one of the Danes, a woman, tall and with hair the color of frosted straw. 

“Eivor, this is the healer we found on the road, the one I spoke to you about.”

She smirks and tosses her head with a chuckle, sending her war-braids spilling. “With the spark in your eye as you did? Yes, I remember the story.” She ignores Hytham’s spluttering and turns to you. “As Hytham has said, I am Eivor, of the Raven Clan. If you can mend scratches, you are welcome.”

“I can mend more than scratches,” you assure her, “But I hope it will not be needed. Thank you for allowing a stranger in your midst. It is a generous offer.”

Eivor nods, though her attention returns to Basim and the other Dane. The latter is an immense bull of a man. He has been quiet thus far, his face serious. Something about it bothers you the longer you look at it, until you are staring, and you are sure recognition is only a thought away.

Something in the eyes, the hair, the chin...

Warm breath on your cheek draws you from your thoughts. Hytham is near, very near, leaned over the distance between your horses.

“We will ride soon.” His eyes find yours. Blue, you decide. Today, they are blue and gilded like a king’s crown. You cannot look at them long, glancing downward to see his fingers flex. They hover in the air, as though he may reach for you. You wish he would. A steadying hand would do you good right now. You watch, disappointed, as that hand falls to his thigh.

What does he read on your face, you wonder? Fear? You certainly feel it, you have since rising this morning, and doubly so when you and Hytham had arrived at the camp.

You fear being recognized atop your stolen mare. 

But of the two dozen faces you count milling about, none belong to the Dane who had set you on this path. You don’t dare ask after him. As the others speak of plans, you remain silent, intent on looking disinterested, even as you listen.

Hytham’s promise holds true. Within the hour, you are riding. Basim guides his horse to the other side of yours, and you find yourself caught -- guarded -- by these pretend monks. It sets your jaw to grinding, even as you remind yourself to be grateful for their protection. The Danes stop watching you as the two men close ranks. Maybe it is the threat in their curved swords or the seriousness of their faces. Either way, no one bothers you.

Hytham, you understand. You have never made friends quickly, but the man is as close to one as you have. But Basim? He owes you nothing, no matter Hytham’s claims. When he watches you, it isn’t with a man’s interest, as you had first assumed. He seems curious. Like a cat watching a bird before deciding whether or not to crush it under a paw.

There is as much danger here as you would have found had you kept to the road alone.

The reins protest between your fingers and you realize that you are squeezing the leather tightly enough to color your knuckles. 

Wilting flowers do not survive as long as you have, but there is nowhere to run should you catch the wrong eye. You are eased when Basim informs you that most of the party will follow the large Dane tomorrow, parting from your smaller group that is bound for Ravensthorpe. 

Riding a little farther in companionable silence, Basim catches your eye. His face is free of the road-dust that cakes so many others, and he lets you have your moment’s study. The cracks and crannies reveal no secrets, however, and you eventually look away. 

“He is not here,” Basim whispers, “Do not look so worried.”

The words do not land as Basim perhaps hopes. There is no feeling behind them, and you are left frowning at the road ahead. That uncanny knowing will not settle -- something is amiss, and if it is not yet so, it will be.

Is this a mistake? Am I a fool? Not long ago, you would have called such a neatly presented gift as this one a trap. But the years you have spent in motion, never lingering until arriving at Fremedeleigh, are weighing on your shoulders. The frown settles into the lines of your face as you squint into the early autumn sun. 

But it shines brightly, and if it knows what lies ahead, it keeps those secrets to the heavens.

.

………….

.

Something is wrong.

Fitful dreams weave webs of a dangerous face full of teeth and hateful eyes. They stir you, until you are pulled from their depths by fear and the night’s encroaching cold. For a moment’s time, you do not open your eyes to the blackness. Instead, you listen. A fire crackles beyond the flaps of your tent, the sound warm enough to chase away some of the chill. Softer still, voices murmur in the rough tongue of the Dane’s. You hear no breathing from the opposite corner. The woman who had agreed to share her tent has yet to come to bed.

But despite the gentle sounds of a well-guarded camp, a tickling in your bones tells you that all is not as it seems. You have heard the quiet before, and you know the danger that comes with it. 

You open your eyes to darkness, unable to feign sleep any longer. 

And for the first time, the knowing fails you.

It has come too late and met a cannier foe. 

You see nothing, but you feel a weight sweep over your face as a heavy, callused hand cups your mouth and presses hard. Breath is driven out of you on a gasp, but the air meets the resistance of a palm and you are forced to swallow it back down. Cold, gripping fear balls in your chest, and you flail, striking at the body that settles above you.

Thighs press on either side of your middle, lifting only as your left arm is wrenched down and caught under one knee. You strike again with your free right arm, aiming high, clipping the intruder around the head. A voice hisses at you in the darkness, the sharp sound of sucking breath through teeth, and when you strike again, the hand that holds your face shifts to dig its nails into the skin of your cheeks and jaw.

“Found you, foxling,” says the voice. It’s sound is harsh even in a whisper, like the noise of a body dragged over rocks. 

‘Foxling’. You know at once who has you - the mad Dane. 

“Next time, find a hole farther from your hunter.” He titters softly, and through the darkness, you think you can make out the gleam of teeth. “Now, how shall I skin you?”

A sudden effort from you sends him forward, loosing his hand enough for you to sink your teeth into the meat of his palm. He tightens his grip, lifting your head in the span of his large hand, and then sends it cracking back against the ground. Sparks burst behind your eyes as, dimly, you register his weight shifting, moving to better subdue you.

He leans low over your ear, his breath hot at your neck. “I think I will kill you,” he hisses, “What our Raven-feeder doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Let’s start here --”

You don’t need to see it to know steel when it presses at your skin, the tip of a dagger digging into the flesh below your jaw. You squeeze shut your eyes, pressure mounting as you try again to throw him off. A rustle of fabric at the edge of your hearing stills you for a single beat of your heart, and you feel the Dane go rigid atop you.

A woman’s voice cracks out, “Oi, what’s this? Find your own tent for your business -- oh, it’s you, Ivarr. I didn’t realize.”

Light from the campfire spills past her, chasing away the shadows from the tent’s interior. For the first time, you can see Ivarr above you, his weathered face and neck flushed, his lank hair obscuring half his face and the snarl that forms on his lips. 

“Can you not see I am busy?” he growls, one hand still tight over your mouth, the other poised with a jagged little knife, the end of which you can just barely see.

The woman hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder. The sounds of campfire chatter have ceased, replaced by the noise of quick steps crunching over stone and dirt. Ivarr sighs, sitting back to rest on your knees. His weight is heavy -- you had learned as much during your struggle, and you know that you had been right in your brief observation that he is a larger man than his build and movements would have you believe on a glance. 

A second figure appears in the opening and a grin curls around Ivarr’s lips. “Ah, Wolf-Kissed! I found a --”

“Get off the woman, Ivarr.” Eivor steps forward and when she is near, the fingers of one hand curl in the back of Ivarr’s shirt. A moment later, he is lifted off of you, Eivor sending him stumbling back. 

Ivarr rights himself with fluid whirl, so smoothly you would think he had not just been tossed away like refuse in the wind. “She is a straggler, Eivor --”

“A survivor,” the woman snaps, “She has escaped you. What rock did you emerge from under, Ivarr? I thought you had returned to Shropshire.”

“I smelled a rat,” his cold blue eyes turn to you, “Had to come check the larder.”

You try not to let him see the shudder that runs through you as you pull your cloak around your shoulders. But he sees past the movement and smiles again. He is almost ugly, except for the moments when the light catches his eyes and the glint in them distracts you from the scars and deep angles. There is a depth in them that frightens you -- it dawns on you that those eyes are not those of a madman, as he first seemed, but rather a very singular personality, one that revels in the sort of violence that nearly left you cut from ear to ear.

A crowd gathers beyond the walls of the tent; you can hear their shuffling and their murmurs and see their shadows playing through the cracks. Two men push past, and a breath leaves you in relief as Basim appears with Hytham at his heels. Hytham’s worried gaze finds yours, dragging over your face to land at a spot near the left side of your jaw. He scowls at what he sees there and it is only then that notice the trickle of warmth running down your neck. Ivarr’s cut had been a nearer miss than you had realized. All over again, the rising, frozen fingers of fear grip you tight.

Basim gestures between the two glaring Danes. “I see our new friend yet lives. Perhaps we can move our arguments outside?”

“Piss off,” grunts Ivarr. He sweeps past Basim. “Unless you want to argue with the tip of that curved sword.”

“Entertaining as that would be, it would be a mistake.” Basim’s eyes shine with a look that would have most men stepping back, but Ivarr only waves a hand at the man.

He calls on his way out, “Somebody get me a drink! If I can’t kill horse thieves, I will drown myself in ale instead.”

At last, the tent is quiet, save for the quiet shuffling of feet. With Ivarr gone, Eivor turns to you. Her eyes run from your feet to your head, her lips quirking. She gestures to the wound left near your jaw. “Seems you’ve a scratch to mend already.” 

At that, she slips out, Basim following her. Only Hytham remains. He looks grim, as he so often does, his eyes on the ground near his feet. 

“Frown much harder and you will dig a hole,” you say, though the words are difficult to get past your lips.

“Good,” scoffs Hytham, “Someone can bury him in it.”

Harsh words, but hard to disagree with. The bite in them surprises a grin out of you. The fear and panic are fading, and you find yourself moving on steady feet to Hytham’s side. The press of your hand at his arm draws his eyes up to yours. He seems to at last catch himself, shaking his head. 

“I am glad Eivor was here,” he says with a gentleness you feel in your chest.

“You and Basim were not far behind her,” you remind him.

“Cutting a throat is a quick thing. If he meant to do it, I think we would not have been here in time.”

“If he meant to do it?” You raise a hand to your neck, fingers sliding over skin tacky with drying blood. 

“Even Ivarr knows better than to kill a woman in the middle of camp.”

“So he meant to frighten me then?” He had done a fine job of it. He had snatched up your life and held it between his hands on a whim.

Hytham shakes his head again. “I think he likes to play with his food.”

“Must we call me that?”

Hytham laughs, even as your stomach churns. “You are right. I am sorry. A poor image.” His cheer sobers quickly, his eyes settling on you once more, though the shine in them remains. When you had joined him at his side, you had placed yourself nearer to him than perhaps you should. He has somehow closed the distance further still without you noticing, the heat from his body warm across the small space. So close, you can see the freckles across his cheeks, remnants left from a time in a sunnier climate than England’s. He appears to be considering something.

“Here,” he says after seconds have passed, “Take this.” With one hand, he reaches for you, his palm soft over the back of your hand. With the other, he reaches around to his side and frees a small, sharp-looking knife from his belt. He presses it into your outstretched fingers. “In case Eivor is not around next time.”

“What of you?” The question leaves you without you meaning it to, and your cheeks heat mercilessly. Hytham’s gaze softens in the light.

“It is my knife. Think of me when you stab the man with it.” His fingers run over the back of your hand, so light it could almost be imagined, and you shiver at the touch. He pulls his hand away.

“That’s very cut-throat of you, Hytham.”

“You would be surprised how cut-throat I can be, healer.” At this, something passes over his expression, but it is gone before you can name it. “Now, get some rest.”

“Goodnight,” you tell him. He slips out of the tent, pausing before the flap can fall. He catches your eye, smiles once, and then is gone.

.

…………….

.

The next morning, your mare is already saddled when you find her. 

Ivarr sits atop her, grinning down at you as he braces against the saddle. The mare tosses her head, snorting when he pulls her reins tight. You frown as you watch his fingers wind their way through her silver mane, twirling the hair, taunting you. 

“You’ve taken good care of her,” he says when you come to a stop safely out of his reach. “So kind of you to return her to us.”

It is another cold day, cloudier than the one before it, but anger heats your face as you glare at him. But what can you say? She is not your horse. She belonged with the Danes to start with, not quite stolen, but it’s a near enough difference that you won’t argue it. One glance at him tells you that Ivarr knows this, as he knows that you are snared by your helplessness to protest. 

He nudges his heels into her sides. She comes to you, her velvet nostrils flaring as she noses your arm. As you reach to pet her, heat spreads behind your eyes, unreasonable and traitorous. She is a horse. Nothing more or less. Still, as you feel her warm breath on your palm, it feels as though Ivarr is taking something more from you.

And when you find the nerve to meet his eyes, you know that has been his intention from the start. 

He smiles, all teeth. 

“They say you are a healer. Or did they call you a witch?” He tilts his head - mocking you. “Dark seidr, that. So, tell me, witch, why is it that you did not heal all those people? What good are you if you cannot attach heads back onto shoulders?” His voice rings with the sing-song sound of a child’s rhyme. It echoes in your ears like bitter wind. He digs his heels into the mare’s sides once more, circling her around you. Her dark eye watches you as she passes, and somewhere in your heart, you think that the beast is sorry. Ivarr continues, his voice rising loud enough to turn heads. “Instead, you ran. Like a coward. Do you know what we do to cowards?”

The blood in your veins goes cold as you glare spitefully up at him. You want to spit at that grinning face, or claw at it, or sink Hytham’s knife into the socket of one of those eyes. Ivarr leans closer, craning down until his face is only a foot from yours. He studies your face and his eyes glimmer at the boiling wrath he must read there. He raises a hand, runs his thumb over his lip as though to taste the air as it sours between you. 

When you do not answer, he says, “We polish our blades with their innards.”

Coward. Witch. They are only names. But as they slither out from his lips, they sound like curses, echoing in the back of your mind. Hands clenching at your side, it takes all your effort not to reach up and drag him from his horse. He likely won’t fall for that trick twice. 

Instead, you raise your chin, and try not to think about how your insides feel as though they have turned to water. 

As levelly as you can, you reply, “You did not manage it the first time, nor the second. Do you want to know what they say about you? They call you ‘boneless’.” You peer up at him, unblinking. “I wonder if it is because you do not have the spine to back up your words.”

A boom of laughter fills the air, startling the mare and sending her prancing. He snatches her reins and pulls her back around to face you. 

“You,” he levels a finger at you, “you, I will skin cunt first. The Raven Clan and its strays will not protect you forever. Rest easy knowing that your fate is already sewn. You won’t be my finest kill, but I am a man who can find joy in the little things.”

He pulls at the mare, rounding her with a bellowing whinny, and leads her away. 

You are glad to see him go. But as you know many things, you know, down to your heart, down to your bones, that you will see him again.

[tenderlyrenjun]

[2:05 A.M.]

You drag your feet into your bedroom and dramatically fall face-first on the mattress, mumbling something incoherent, even with the super hearing, through the blankets. Renjun closes the textbook over his lap, sitting up in anticipation for you to make an announcement. He waits another minute then reaches across the blankets to pull back your hair, checking to see that you are still alive. After he sees your blank stare (okay, crazy person), he reclines against the headboard, asking you to repeat yourself.

“We have to send Jaemin another letter.”

“Ah.” Renjun puts the contemporary art textbook on the night stand, freeing up his hand to thread his fingers in your hair. He outlines your ear brushing away a few strands to see your cheeks and moves on to the heaven’s pillar behind your neck, dipping two fingers in the pressure point. You jerk forward a little, unexpectedly relaxed by a treasure. Renjun thinks that you try getting into a better position and helps you lean on his shoulder. You kiss above his clavicle, wrapping an arm around it also, loosely hanging on him like a body pillow. “It’s late. Why are you studying at this hour?”

You know that he is talking about the family’s most recent addition, not the upcoming o chem exam that you are more than prepared for. Unfortunately, he has not been available in the last month to help train new members, with all the work he has for school, the internship, and Jaemin’s new stupid coven leaders rule that requires Renjun to be chained to a zoom meeting twice a day.

“The new recruit -”

“Aurora?” Renjun asks. His hand slides to your lower back, pushing you into his side, and he takes your leg, draping it across his waist. It is not your cycle to sleep yet, but the position brings a great sense of ease to your subconscious.

“Yeah,” you nod, verifying. You open your eyes slowly, tracing his pretty jawline as he takes a turn to close his eyes, almost equally exhausted. His arm raises behind his neck, acting as another pillow to slouch against. It feels like years since you two have been able to relax, despite having just went on a weekend vacation a few months before. You sigh one last time, melting into his collar during your exhale. “She’s only been a vampire for about a decade, and there’s so much to go over.”

“Any special abilities?”

Renjun leans over, manipulating your situations in a way that keeps him as the big spoon, an arm wrapped under your chin and the other supporting under your head. It feels even more comfortable. You shimmy toward his waist, hugging him even tighter.

“No,” you answer, shaking your face in his chest. Sometimes you wish his heart would be a little bit louder, because when it is this low, you know he will have to feed again, meaning that he needs to get up and you would be without a body pillow. It is the equivalent to a stomach growl. Although, his actual growls are pleasant in your ears. Still, you give in, slacking your grip enough, knowing that you likely need to drink something as well. Drinking in bed is something that he prohibited, after you ruined an 18th century duvet, but these informal meetings function like pillow talk, considering that the rather large water fountain by your window blurs out the conversation to outsiders. “She has excellent people skills, and she is very charming, but other than that, no.”

Renjun sighs. “We need to recruit new members with special abilities.”

You turn over, looking at the sparkles across his pretty cheeks, and tuck his hair behind his ears (it is not blocking his face, but the gesture is meant to be a tender display of affection, something to show that you love him). His strands start to neatly frame his forehead again, then you tangle your fingers in the ends. You reiterate his sigh, shoulders dropping with your hands. 

“I know,” you tell him, fatigued by the politics and tensions. “I know, but I also don’t want to participate in another war.”

Renjun kisses the corner of your mouth, leaving his lips there too, to whisper cautiously, “It can’t just be Mark all the time. He needs a break eventually.”

“No, I know,” you lament again before repeating, “but I don’t want to participate in another war. I won’t be able to handle another loss like that.” The last war saw the complete annihilation of your coven, in terms of death and abandonment. Those who posed the greatest threat were slain without reservations, and neither of you ever heard from those who went off to fight after they left, so you assumed they either perished or took on an alias. No one won that last war, and everyone who fought assumed new identities hide the fact that they participated in the political upheaval. “And I don’t want to be like Doyoung’s elitist cult either.” The Kim Clan exclusively watched and turned noblemen for a few centuries in the late 13th century. They became the fourth largest coven, even to this day, with 29 people. “He keeps trying to absorb us; he wants you for his inner circle.” You bury your face in his chest again, trying to find comfort as his heartbeat slows and the breath leaves his lungs. “Everyone keeps watching over kids and mortals, waiting to turn them if they haven’t already, just for their potential abilities.”

“We’re all trying to protect ourselves,” Renjun reasons, combing the crown of your head. “We need to be able to defend ourselves, defend our people. We have nine members in their rooms right now, not accounting for the protection detail around the manor.” He sits up, pulling you with him, then he shakes you off his shoulder, awake. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen and get something to drink.”

You fall back on him, hanging across his torso like asking for a small request.

“No,” he disagrees, dragging you off the comforter. “You’re not going to ruin another blanket. Come on, let’s get some blood and then we can finish talking about this tomorrow, when you’re not so exhausted.”

“Fine,” you cave, feeling slightly more enamored with him, a side effect of his special ability. 

You slip off the duvet and accept his hand, trailing behind him through the corridor to the kitchen down the hall. He sets a teapot on the stove, straining a fresh pouch of AB positive over a few teaspoons of water, while you sit at the island, taking out two mugs from the cabinet below. You settle them across from Renjun and assume a seat opposite him, knowing that he will eventually lean over the top instead of sitting with you. When Renjun finishes his small tea ceremony, you stare at him.

“Is my presence enjoyable?” he joke while stirring a few sugar cubes. You nod once, slightly timid as he slides a cup to you, the ceramic squealing across the granite. “Well, then we will have to keep meeting like this.”

You roll your eyes, hiding a smile behind your nutrition. “Over talks about leading our coven?”

Renjun glares at you. “Stop using that word,” he growls. “It’s so ... cringey.” He shakes his head, “No, but I miss having these meetings with you and feeding with you.” 

You sigh too, knowing what he means. The only time you even share a bed now is to sleep; your room is, otherwise, empty, for the most part. He is either studying, out of town, or in a meeting from time that the sun sets until it rises. And you are either training the new member, studying, or running one of your businesses, from the time the run rises until it sets. The moments when neither of you work are when you take time to relax a little bit, reset your minds from the 12-16 hour schedules. It gets hard, not seeing him, even if he is around the corner.

“I miss you, too,” you confess. You hesitate for a second, tapping the your nails into the ceramic teacup briefly. Renjun lowers his own mug, raising his eyebrow in a silent question, so you sigh .. again. “Do you regret signing up for college now?”

“No,” he answers near immediately, making you sit up straighter, at attention. Renjun groans. That is not entirely what he means. “I like going to college. I know it’s,” he hums, rolling his eyes and sucking in his lips jokingly (to which you roll your eyes, sarcastically), “trying, to you, but I really like it.” He walks around the island, hugging your waist from behind. “And I like that you’re doing it with me. Do I wish that we’re not the brink of war, or whatever the tensions are rising to, that keep making other clans enlist new members? Yeah, definitely, it puts a little dent in our 10-year plan, but I don’t regret this experience. I only wish to see it through.” Renjun rests his chin on your shoulder, not daring to meet your eye just yet, slightly scared of your reaction. You already were not on board with this decision (thankfully, he did not have to use his compulsion for this request, not that he would - you have free will either way, but you chose him in the end and he appreciates that). “Do you regret any of it?”

You place your hands over his, trailing your thumb across his knuckles comfortingly. He thinks, for a second, that you might answer yet, but you surprise him: “No,” you say honestly, “I don’t regret any decision that I’ve made with you.”

“Not even the time I convinced you to replace Ten’s entire blood collection with mentos in coke bottles?”

You smack his hands, then return to stroking them, alleviating any potential pain. “Do you have any regrets then?”

“Just the one,” he recalls bitterly. Renjun kisses your shoulder as another apology. Even a millennium later, he cannot believe that you forgave him, so he never forgets to show you that it was not the wrong decision to let him back into your life. “I love you.”

You spin around fully. “I love you too.”

“Wanna show me?”

[greatwrath]

Azrael’s Citadel: Azrael’s Citadel is one of six Archangel fortresses surrounding the Silver City, situated between Raphael and Uriel’s. The Citadel contains a vault where the Books of Death are kept, barracks for angels under Azrael’s command, a throne room, Azrael’s chambers, an armory, and a vault for Azrael’s vessels. It also has six fixed battery Ballistas that were installed during the war so the Citadel had artillery defense. 

Empyrean Steel: Empyrean Steel is a metal that is only found in Heaven. It is subsequently the only metal that can kill an angel. As such, weapons wielded by angels are all Empyrean Steel, including swords, daggers, and artillery. It can also kill every other living thing, including demons. 

Light : Where humans have souls, angels have Light. An angel’s Light is both their first form and the seat of their power. It is how they appear when they don’t have a vessel. In short, they are literally giant balls of scorching cosmic energy that can be bigger than the Sun or at the very least, the size of a car. 

For example, this is what Azrael looked like when she was created. If she gets ejected or forced out of her vessel, this is how she will appear. 

The Civil War:  Around 140,000 BC, Heaven saw the rise of anti-human sentiment amongst the Host, resulting in the formation of a rebel faction, led by the Archangel Lucifer. The faction held that angels should not have to be servile to humans, as they were deemed to be lesser creatures. In response, the Viceroy Archangel Michael and the Archangel Azrael moved to get rid of the dissent before it could spread. Further attempts were made by the Archangels to convince Lucifer to stop stoking the fire. However, the seeds had already been sown. 

The war was officially declared when Lucifer’s rebels remove their collars, abandon their posts, and regroup with Lucifer in the Third Heaven. To make matters worse, a third of Azrael’s forces defected to Lucifer’s cause

The High Council:  The High Council is comprised of hundreds of angels, mostly seraphs, cherubim, and thrones. The Council’s purpose is to act as a court with which to try angels who break Heaven’s laws and to make decisions as they pertain to angels and Heaven. For example, the Council voted not to gather after the attack on the Silver City, instead opting to appoint a provisional War Council made up of top ranking Councillors and Azrael. 

It also agreed unanimously with Michael and Azrael’s suggestion that, following the attack, amnesty for the rebels should be suspended indefinitely. Instead, rebels would be executed on sight and there would be no more negotiations between Azrael and Michael (Loyalist Commanders), and Lucifer and his Lieutenants (Rebel Commanders). 

Azrael was the Head of the High Council until December 1095, when she resigned after losing the support of most of the powerful factions. Valoel is now the defacto Head of the High Council, though Asimiel was named as Azrael’s official successor.  

The Source: The Source is the sentient manifestation of God’s power which primarily takes the form of a column of light that goes through the centre of the Silver City. All serving angels are connected to The Source via their own conduit. It provides them with unlimited power. 

If God chooses to sever that connection to an angel, or an angel removes their own collar, that angel will have to run on their own steam and recharge, so to speak, when the power runs low. 

The Silver City: The Capital city of Heaven, located at the centre of the Sixth Heaven. Contains High Council chamber, barracks, armoury, and prison. During the Civil War, the Silver City was the target of an attack by rebel forces, wherein seven rebel angels led by Xaphaniel infiltrated the city centre and detonated white fire explosives, killing thousands of angels in the process. The attack caused massive damage and resulted in the suspension of amnesty for captured rebel angels.

After the war, Azrael and Michael had vaults built beneath the city, where the dead would be laid to rest. 

Watchers: The Watchers were angels stationed on Earth to watch over humans. Heaven’s laws forbade them from taking human wives or having offspring with them. However, around 20,000 years after the end of the Civil War, many of the Watchers defected, led by Azazel. They were the first angels to spawn half-breed children and establish clandestine settlements to hide from Heaven. Eventually, God sent Michael and Azrael to exterminate the Watchers, their wives, and their children. Thousands were killed in the ensuing bloodbath, but some survived, enough to grow the population of nephilim on Earth to approximately 10,000 by the 21st century. 

Valak: Several billion years after Azrael’s creation, the sentient darkness that would later become Satan created an opposing entity named Valak. Valak ‘the defiler’ has 30 legions of demons under their command, and is known as the Marquis of Snakes. Azrael and Valak have not met face to face, but Azrael keeps close tabs on the Marquis, as Valak has gotten out of Hell before.

Vanquish: Vanquish is Azrael’s sword, the same one she wielded during the war and the same blade that shed Lucifer’s blood before he was cast out. It’s 300,000 years old and it can only be summoned by Azrael. It’s also four inches longer than Oathkeeper, and about six inches shy of Anduril, just for reference.

[essays-for-breakfast]

One Summer Day

Melizabeth Week Day 2: Past/Future

Elizabeth strolled down the busy avenue of Liones capital, exchanged smiles and polite greetings with passersby, and enjoyed the fantastic weather. The sky presented itself in a marvelous blue dress, dotted with a handful of fluffy white clouds that stood almost still without a breeze to carry them far.

She couldn’t have wished for better conditions on her birthday.

In a way, she found it odd to celebrate her human birthdays with the full knowledge that she had passed the same number Margaret had plastered onto the obligatory apple-pie with pink lines of cream and sugar a handful of times already. Elizabeth possessed memories of over three thousand years and had witnessed the rise and fall of kingdoms and even the great war from millennia ago. The tiny number ‘seventeen’, regardless of how large the digits had seemed on her birthday cake, did not fit her in the slightest. And of her past seventeen years in this human body, only the last one held particular meaning in her vast pool of collected memories.

A merchant tipped his head and bowed with a gleam as he recognized her as the third princess of Liones, and Elizabeth answered with a twirl on her heels and a smile just as wide. Even though she had the powers of a Goddess and had fought on the front lines in the New Holy War alongside the Seven Deadly Sins, people remembered her as a princess first in foremost. Maybe her silver hair, a rarity this far away from Ishtar and the land of the Druids, or the fine, expensive silk of her white dress gave her identity away. Her identity in this life.

The one that counted.

A flash of nostalgia overcame her as she entered one of the capital’s largest plazas, an open field of cobblestone fenced by tailor shops and dusty taverns designed as a perfect square that had to make room for another building to house a small part of the city’s rising population. The first vendors had set up shop for the market this afternoon to sell fish and bakery produce to early customers, and the smell of their goods tickled her nose. Back when Elizabeth had been a child, she had played catch with Veronica between the crowds of people many times. Gilthunder had joined them every so often when he hadn’t stayed behind to train or play guard for Margaret.

That must have been after the Seven Deadly Sins had been framed for murder, when Gilthunder had begun to drown himself with his duties. After Meliodas had left.

No matter what life Elizabeth had lived, no matter where she had been born, Meliodas had always found her and had accompanied her every step of the way. She didn’t remember all 107 times she had met him, sometimes she had been too young when fate and their curse had arranged for their paths to cross, but she could recall enough. And once they had made out each other’s faces in the crowd, he had never left her side until she eventually faded from this world to be reborn and meet him anew. And because of his undying loyalty, the ten years of her life as adopted princess of Liones where he had been away felt all the longer.

Back when she had been a clueless little child, she had failed to realize what had been missing, but now she was certain it had been Meliodas all along instead of the call of adventure as she had told herself when she sat on her carpet in the middle of the night with a book in her hands because she couldn’t sleep. These years without him had given her precious memories as well, moments of happiness with her sisters, a caring father, and all the luxuries bound to the life as royalty. But Elizabeth had never felt complete until she had stumbled into Meliodas’ tavern to begin their journey.

Now this journey was over, and Elizabeth and Meliodas were freed from their curse to live out a life of peace far away from the hardships that had plagued their past. The question remained how long this life would last.

Elizabeth stopped in front of the graveyard running alongside the road, and closed her fingers around the spikes of the cool metal fence. Within the vast lawn square, rows upon rows of gravestones gathered in the shadows of a willow, plates of slate to remember the fallen of the Holy War and those who had passed since. One of these days, soon compared to the longevity of the Goddesses, Elizabeth would grow old and die to be buried in a graveyard like this. While Meliodas would live for centuries to come. To be spared the worry about losing him due to old age should comfort her, but a selfish part of her hated the thought of saying goodbye.

The smell of tulips from the vendor across the street pulled Elizabeth out of her dark thoughts, and she shook her head to free herself of the shackles of her troubled mind. She had no reason to worry. She had all she could have ever dreamed of, she was with the man she loved. And nothing, no threat, no war, no irony of fate could take this happiness away from her.

With newfound energy, Elizabeth turned and scurried down the street, almost running. She shot the crowds of people she hurried through apologetic glances, but never eased her pace. She had wasted too much precious time already.

Meliodas awaited her in front of the tall metal gates marking the border of the city, and a wide grin enlightened his face when he spotted her amidst the sea of faces. Elizabeth gave him no time to meet her halfway as she crossed the distance with so much energy one could think they had been apart for years and flung her arms around his neck to make them both stumble.

“Happy birthday,” Meliodas whispered into her ear, and Elizabeth pulled away to meet the joy in his expression with a frown.

“You promised me we wouldn’t count the years.”

“Yeah, but that shouldn’t stop me from wishing you a happy birthday. Besides, Bartra was eager to make sure the whole country knew what day it is today. He sure loves his celebrations. Don’t worry, I didn’t get you any presents this time around.”

At least he had kept this part of their agreement in mind. “I don’t need presents anyway. You already gave me the most important gift when you stayed with me throughout all these years and broke my curse. And you have overdone it with presents too often in the past. Do you remember when you bought me a white horse for my twentieth birthday back in Caerlon? Or the pure sapphire as large as my thumb?”

Meliodas grinned. “Course I do.”

They made their way through the gates and ambled through the fields of wheat and summer grass, their fingers interlaced. Elizabeth had walked these narrow, trodden-out paths a hundred times before, she knew each bend, pond, and crooked apple tree from her childhood memories. But the landscape had never seemed this lively and filled with hope. It had to be Meliodas’ presence that filled the air with energy, their shared laughter as well as their shared silence whenever they didn’t dare to taint the value of each other’s presence with words. The New Holy War had been won to allow peace to return to the land a couple months ago, but they hadn’t found the time for a walk like this. There had always been one or another issue on their mind that had demanded their attention, meetings and goodbyes, funerals and celebrations.

If this walk went on forever, if this sandy path between the fields never ended, Elizabeth could not have been happier.

When the sun had passed its peak and midday lay behind them, Meliodas and Elizbeth rested in the sun on a grass-covered hill, their faces turned towards the endless blue sky. Elizabeth snuggled her head against his shoulder and brushed over the fine lines of his palm. She remembered each contour better than those of her own hands.

“Meliodas?”

He hummed as an answer, his gaze locked onto the heavens, lost in thoughts and memories.

“You know how grateful I am for everything you gave me and for everything you did to keep your promise to me. I remember the pain of death and all the times I went through it. But I never suffered as much as you did. If I had been forced to lose you this often… I don’t know if I had possessed the strength to continue.”

“Sure you would have. I only made it through because I remembered your strength. Your determination during the Holy War moved mountains. It convinced the terrible Demon prince who knew nothing but violence to betray his clan and fight for peace. A measly curse wouldn’t have stopped you for a second.”

Elizabeth sat herself straighter to meet Meliodas’ eyes. “Still, I want you to know that even if you hadn’t done all of this, if you had moved on to avoid all this pain, I would have continued to love you. Nothing will change this. No matter the hurdles that come between us.”

“I will always love you, Elizabeth,” Meliodas said, and the truth in his emerald eyes could not have shone more brightly.

“Even when I’m so old that I can’t leave bed, and you have to spoon-feed me with oatmeal?”

“And long after that.”

He grinned that infectious grin Elizabeth loved so dearly, and she let herself be pulled down to rest her head on his chest. His heartbeat, echoed seven times through his chest, calmed her more than any music ever could. Together, they admired the cloudless sky up above.

The future was indeed bright.

[virdityshattred]

[ Muses]    

  Name:  Micheal    

age:   primitive

creature:  Archangel  

height:  Tall, towers over others.  Varies based on context.  

Titles:   Prince of heaven.  Judge of souls.  who  most faithful.  Holy savior [ via ending the war in heaven]. Defeater of wicked.  Brother.  

reputation:  Machiavellian chess master.   Big intimidating leader who is always  victorious in every single battle and makes all their foes cower and beg for atone.  

Fc:  { In the present} Kit Harington { Pre war}  Gaspard Ulliel

Education: Learned to fend for themselves as a child self taught combat and  stealth,discovered weapons and takes an instant interest in them it becoming quickly apparent to them this may be a better tool for survival. Studies olden magic and how to wield it.  Knows elemental magic. Observes the heavens inside out and everything about the newly built world because was genuinely curious.  Reflects on past mistakes as to have current wisdom.  

Temper:   Has a firm calmness built up over centuries unsuspecting  often gets mistaken as being ‘ tame’ in reality is simply focused. Knows when to strike and when to not.  Not quick to anger their rage comes when it comes when others least suspect which tends catch others off guard.  Volcanic like rage and aggression.  As a child wasn’t obedient to God but only quietly observes on and off quiet, very fierce. Before the war was more stern then they’d be later because was in training to learn to lead.

In the present temper is  essentially the same expect has perfected their calmness more.   Wings:  They don’t shine like everything else in the heavens they’re dark grey and tend to be lost before it.  Feathers are not white they’re light grey and has no shine at all.  They are wide like other angelic wings but just looks alien next to the modern world. Abilities: Angelic strength and typical abilities healing etc natural talent to hold fire and control it.  Knows how to summon olden elemental magic [ thunder and lighting, the rain and the sun ]  to restore balance. appearance:

   appearance:   Their true form is an image of God in all their  splendor.Their grace is  comfortingly warm as a guardian yet fearsome an appearance, akin to a dragon/ lion and watchful knife like eye which towers over others, their flame benign and radiant. Until anger arises. Awe inspiring sight,Warmth to aid them in times of need and feel extra protected. As they cradle the angels who remain loyal to heaven and are so willingly to fight for them upon the battlefield, as well as off of it. Their warmth giving them peace to lull them off to an eternal the warmth giving them peace, lull off to an enteral  rest. Before swearing blood thirsty vengeance.

Fears: Shadows, puts him a bit on edge but stands strong. Confined spaces and darkness. Was a bit afraid of heights as a child.    

Likes:  Swords, has an extensive collection of weapons.  Reading books in their spare time. Beauty, has a great appreciation for it. Music.   Fair play in everything, is the one to break up fights.  Practice duel.    

Dislikes:  Demons. Humanity on and off it  depends. Sore losers. Being seen as  all together prim and proper.  Mistreatment.  Being underestimated but uses that as an advantage of course.

Background:   God spent many ages learning their purpose as the writer of life and death and fate, they craft worlds some which they deem excellent for their sharpness.  Others they despise for their flaws the structure isn’t as sharp as they’d thought despite careful thinking.  Wrong wrong wrong. They craft strange fearsome prototype creatures and destroys the weaker.  Wrong wrong wrong again.  

After so long they watch their own creations thrive and the weaker crumble of natural  causes and comes to truly understand their own purpose.   Eventually they craft another another world which compared to the others shall be much brighter.  In a flash of bright light they craft a divine paradise within the celestial space, among the other planets which is a home to their other creations.  

They get bored and start to crave to craft a new kind of creature they smile at the thought, an image of the stronger creatures  a creature which shall represent themselves for all they are.  Their new creation does not turn out the way they’d thought  necessarily.  They do not shine before the new world their voice is out of  tune.  However they do see the strength akin to their prototypes that being the only reason they hold faith in them and decides to call them Micheal and gives them a conscious and puts them to the test.  

Micheal had been brought into a world full of deprivation and is rough around the edges.   It’s full of strange creatures and beautiful things as well as dangerous.  The one strange about the child which God notices is that Micheal instantly builds  instinct for survival.  

The child had never cared about being saved they’d never been innocent all they’d ever cared for is survival.  They do everything in their ability to learn it quickly bit by bit becomes mature very quickly despite being young. The one shortcoming is that the harder they’d try the more they feel the darker side of their power creep upon them, seeming to whisper to them about how they can never escape.  

Their own demon within themselves that’s never far behind.  Micheal has built up a tough shell and stand strong in the face of and puts up fists. Consequently crafts their own fates. Apart from survival Micheal learns to protect the softer of the strange creations.  

The creator only sits back and observes.  They come to see the potential in them and the fate they’d crafted for themselves, they can’t help but smile at that they’d it was worth keeping them around.  

Although they also see Micheal can be very dangerous as well and needs balance.  

They craft another who shall be a gentle form of light they are bold and cunning, their voice is sweet and melodic instead of loud and commanding when they sing all comes to listen or stops what they are doing and takes time to listen. God calls them Lucifer.

Micheal doesn’t mind their brighter light and how different they are from themselves, as well as similar in little ways.  God gives them to Micheal to raise them to prove responsibility.  Micheal gladly does instantly holding a vast amount of love for their new kin, they are very excited to have company at long last and thanks their creator.

Micheal teaches Lucifer all the wisdom they’d learned and provides them with everything they’d possibly need.  They teach them the   essentials of the structure of world they’d been brought, teaches them how to fly  always willing to bend over backwards for their beloved sibling etc.

   Other angels come into creation in which Micheal finds it hard to open up to them,  Lucifer is their first friend and their entire world for so long.  Lucifer motives them to open up to others  and treat them just in the same way they’d done with them.    

In due time a new world is crafted which the creator calls Earth and declares it as something of a playground for their creations.  It’s very strange to them of course, an extensive world full of planets and such which are still being developed. At the same time is subtly similar to their own home.   The creator was subtly training their first angel to lead.

They gave them to task to keep everything in order alone, make all the decisions etc.  They’d chosen to act as a ‘ neutral big brother’ the one who breaks up fights etc.  

[ Note:  I acknowledge garden of Eden but I’m time skipping over it to make things more simple. yay for originality ]

Earth comes to be populated by strange new creatures the population is called humanity, it is ordered by the creator that all the angels.  “ Respect them in the highest degree and aid them” This creates conflict in the heaven among all the angels.  Some instantly dislikes humanity feeling they’d corrupted Earth which is loved by many. Others don’t mind them so much them and accepts them for what they are.

Micheal continues to being the      ‘ neutral big brother’   and only know has to step up a bit more as the conflict progressively becomes more and more. Micheal’s heart is very wide for being driven by ‘ selfless  compassion’  however is Lucifer they are the most concerned about knowing them inside out. It pains them to know there is.  The one thing that pains them the most is the knowing there is nothing they can do, nothing that can be said.   Lucifer just as they’d already known does rise in the war Micheal fights them ferociously it’s all they can do they can do to treat them fairly.  Lucifer is skilled but just not as much as them therefore reason why Micheal has the advantage and conquers them in the end.  

Micheal does not blame Lucifer for rebelling they only blame humanity for it thus becoming part of their reason for conflict about their feelings for humanity.   It takes Micheal an enormous amount of power and energy to cast down their beloved kin as well as their own siblings.

Micheal collapses onto their knees needing a minute, all around them they hear the other angels crying out in sorrow at the loss of the morning  star and the others.  At the same time hears the joyful cries appreciative of being freed of their sufferings during the war they sing out.   The combination is very loud and Micheal is very overwhelmed.    “ sancti salvatoris. Ave  sancti salvatoris!! “   [   Holy savior hail holy savior in Latin ]      

Micheal now more firmly understanding the crown they wear proudly embraces it with the plan the in mind to be the best leader they can be. They know their own purpose and fate and intends to follow that.  Make the world a better place beyond the heavens to the best of their ability therefore develops into a benevolent leader while keeping their role as ‘  neutral big brother’  

[[ Head canons]  

Hc:  They’d never been obedient to God only an observer. Father like son. Hc:  Their rage shows in three levels  

Hc:  Their rage shows in three levels.

1:   They are standing perfectly still yet the ground seems to be burning to ashes, as they are just starting to get angry.  Similar to a volcano showings of eruption.  

  2:  The ground continues  to be burnt to ashes now splitting open in places as it violently shakes.  A bitter taste in the air / surroundings.  With every step they take the ground sizzles under their feet as a result of their angelic power combined with rage.

3: Rage which is murderous and blood thirsty. Subtle but is similar to God’s wrath, their grace is comfortingly warm as a protector, now it burns with intent to get vengeance for either themselves or for those they hold dearly.  Intention to destroy the criminal who dares to harm those they care for.   To scour the world of sinners who commit in similar wrongdoings  as to assure nobody else suffers in the same way.  The flame is blood red and burns multiple times hotter then it ever did before, now an inferno.   God both smiles at it but also can’t help but cringe.  

Hc:   They are self destructive in the way that their own ‘ selfless compassion’ destroys them every time.  Their instinctive knowing they need to survive  destroys them too, sometime they can’t control. Nobody can. Hc: God almost destroyed Lucifer for their boldness they’d spent a long time carefully planning how they’d a mixture between bold and neutral like Micheal however Micheal begged them to give them a chance.   God hands  the light bringer to Micheal aggressively – like ‘ take this trash ‘  despite their lovely appearance.

– 

Name: Lucifer

age:   primordial

Creature: Archangel  height:    A foot shorter then Micheal  

titles:    Light bringer. Son of dawn.  Morning star. Prince of light.  Bringer of dawn    

Education:   Raised by Micheal who’d originally been given the task to smash down their boldness.  Micheal tries but can’t bring themselves to do that for they’d already deeply loved their kin already at creation.  It’s not their bold they are bold.   They teach them all the basics of survival teaches introduces them to weapons, not necessarily as a tool of survival.  Instead teaches them stealth and physical combat.   Provides Lucifer with all the wisdom they’d possibility need and advice.  took an interest in magic when was young and learns light manipulation and air.  

Temperament:  Has a unpretentious calmness towards the world can be mistaken being tame.  Micheal quickly learns to become savage as a child to for survival, they are the same way except via being very eager to impress Micheal by learning weapons etc and to express their undying love for them.   can have a  bit of a melodramatic/ diva like attitude.   Stubbornly  persistent and refuses to listen to anyone, only trusts in themselves ‘ holier then thou ‘  attitude.  Can be stern not afraid to be harsh.  Softer attitude compared to Micheal’s rough one.  

wings:  Pristine white wings which have a gentle glow about them in order to balance out their brightness, their feathers are beyond words soft.  They land in flawless pattern with their brightness as well.  A true work of art.  

Abilities:   Blessed ability to wield the sun to bring the dawn, blessed ability to bring back plants after they wilt and mold them into something different; gifts given to them because the creator favors their shine.  Talent with using thin blade knives.  

Appearance:   Slim figure their own light superbly outlines it  golden sun kissed long hair that trails down their back in perfect length from their wings.  Gentle light blue eyes with a glint of sun behind them which makes them fierce showing the power.  When they move every step they take falls into perfect harmony with the previous one, perfectly rhythmic.  

Fears:  Darkness and being alone. Feeling unwanted.  Thunder puts them a bit on edge.  Failure but won’t ever admit it.   Likes:   Seeing others happy. Dancing.  Knowing they are genuinely needed and loved.   Blades. Resting. Star gazing.  Gardens.

Dislikes:    Feeling on the spot due to pride will fight to not admit things.    being underestimated, and being infantilized.  

[  Head canons]  

 Hc: Feels that wearing anything at all is unnecessary because of their brightness, would rather  parade themselves about the heavens to everyone at all times.  Micheal doesn’t approve they thew  together a sheet like outfit, sheet like dress thing.   Lucifer isn’t having this because it’s useless and has a habit of just randomly having ‘ naked time’   every chance he gets.

Hc:   Is called ‘ Prince of light’ not necessarily because of their brightness but instead because at creation, the creator gave them a set of things to create with having taken interest in them.  They crafted the power of light while God is light

Hc: Other then playing music and crafting it.  Their other favorite thing to do is lay in the grass within the secret gardens of the heavens and muse idly about just about anything.  

Hc:  God won’t let them die. They won’t let their beauty fade with time, they have far too much potential which is worth while.  If they did happen to die they’d fade into a simple but beautiful flower than rise again like a  like a phoenix.

—    

Name:  Mikael      

age:   primitive    

creature:  Archangel

height:   Tall, typically towers over others.  

Fc: Eva Green  ( Pre war] Daenerys Targaryen  

Titles:  Queen of heaven.  Holy savior [ via ending the first war].  The most loyal.  Fair queen.  Judge of souls.  Defeater of wicked.  Protector of heaven.  Sister.  Our mother.  Mother of flame.  

Education:   Discovers weapons and gets curious,   self teaches themselves combat and  stealth, experimented with weapons when was young to learn  how to use them.  Discovered books on their own,  instantly  enjoyed reading studied magic etc because enjoys it. Learned magic knows how to summon elemental  magic,  lighting and thunder and sun.  Reflects on past mistakes to gain present wisdom.  Has a deep to the core habit of isolating themselves when gets a chance.

Wings:  Light grey  with a faint tinge of white in places like a flickering light bulb  about burn out, undimmed before the heavens.  A form of light grey which almost looks dark but there is a tinge of white in places—- but God just didn’t see that all.  Feathers were already a bit ruffled upon creation  and not as perfect as  God had thought.

Temperament: Has a not so much firm calmness towards not a firm attitude  simply quietly calm, unpretentious via isolation as a child. Persistent very much has a motherly attitude both stern and kind. Controlled aggressive especially on the battle field.  Insecure, seldomly lets anyone know the scope of it.  If at all is very private about it and keeps it hidden all together.  

Appearance :   Not necessarily an image of the creator  is very subtle but shows more in their rage, unsuspecting controlled aggression which strikes when foes least suspect; it is ruthless. Yet is merciful and willing to give due to those who deserve it despite if may be foe.  Their ‘ true form’  has the appearance of a lioness sharp watchful eyes like a blade ambition burns in their eyes always watching.  

Fears:  Darkness. Shadows, enclosed spaces. Solitude but chooses to stand and be strong.    

Likes:  Poems and songs, sometimes writes songs.  Dancing  and blades in all forms.  Learning, going on adventures.  Battle in all forms.  Spending time with others. Moon light, but also tends to feel melancholy   — but then there is the stars, likes to stargaze.  

Dislikes:  Unfairness.  Seeing others sad because it agonizes them on the inside.  Being thought of as ‘ soft’.  being overglorified  but remains  passive despite that.    

[  Head canons]

- Hc: She has a pet Phoenix named Nikita.

- Hc: Her favored weapon is a silver thin blade weapon,instead of a flaming righteous sword. She prefers thin blade weapons over thick. Has a collection of thin blade knives and such.

-   Hc: God didn’t reject her flaw of not being shiny physically   instead they saw her burning flame, which is how they knew she holds  potential to be something great.  They explained creation to her and then gave her a set of things to craft with, telling to craft something– anything.   Mikael   felt the most attracted  to heat and light and therefore crafting fire proving her worth God gave her the title.   ‘ Child of flame’   which became ‘ mother of flame’ which her ability  to wield it.    Gets seen as a fire goddess by those loyal to heaven.

-  Hc:  She’s loved romantically only once.  Mikael had a lover named Deweli  who was knight/ protector like herself  from another celestial world.  He was kind and charming strong and handsome, smart and protective etc  They shared lots of laughs together and lots of cuddles etc really deeply loved each other.  He was planning to propose marriage to her.  Before Deweli got a chance he was called to war,  Mikael offered to go in his place.  They know she’s strong she can fight but tells her.  “You are so strong my love.  I’d  rather die knowing you are safe. If i die, i would pass with a smile on my face for having you only on my mind.   “    Then he did die in war.  

At first it was hard for her to bring herself to move on after that she didn’t want to  believe it, wanting so much to go back to those happier times. The only thing she knows is that she will get vengeance for Deweli.  Eventually she then learns just who killed her knight, nobody can escape such vicious vengeance that holds capability of eluding fate.

That’s how much she loves  Deweli.  

 She finds them and kills them in cold blood.   Finally able to move on she swears to herself for honor towards her lover and eternal faithfulness. She asks God that when she dies someday that she may be joined once more with Deweli  again they agree to this.   For now she decides to hold onto their memory.  —   Name: Gabriel age: Primitive, third eldest to Micheal and Lucifer creature:  Archangel     height: Medium, one foot shorter than Lucifer.  titles: Messenger of heaven.  education: Learned stealth and weapons, physical combat from Micheal all the essentials. Learned music and poetry from Lucifer softer feelings that isn’t a bad to be bold and that mistakes are okay, introduced beauty to them etc. Learns from experiences as well gaining wisdom.  temper: Mild mannered calmness attitude towards the world but can be short and lacking in patience despite all efforts, very critical of others and outspoken which is explosive when they loose their composure. Hard working, prone to being a workaholic. Kindly, considerate, arrogant but tries to keep it under control. Has a solider like attitude, though can be mischievous at times because Lucifer influenced that in them.      abilities: Talented in physical combat, skilled with using thin blade swords but has a preference for knives. Typical angelic abilities healing etc. Skilled in knowing what to say, has always had a bit of a knack for it.  appearance:   Has a slender yellow figure with five arms has two heads of a dog joined together  their a soft shade of gold which shimmers with the essence of hope.  Their wings are both pristine white with tinges of light gold. three long thin dog tails and five eyes.  Seven  dark blue eyes one on the tip of their left wing  the other on the right side of their neck two upon their thin face another upon the tip of their right wing and another and an eye which parts of their true form but is apart from it and floats in perfect movement with it, an eye which floats above their the top dog head and the other in front of the second.   Has  long dragon like claws.     On Earth:  [ fc: Jake Gyllenhaal ]   likes:   Books and learning, also to read fairy tales in their spare time, listening to music, spending time around family.  The color dark green, admiring nature being a reason they love their job. Seeing others happy.   The general feeling peace.      dislikes: Disorder. Most of humanity, not all just certain humans.  Infantilization feeling vulnerable put on the spot due to pride. Bigoted people. Being late. Know it all people.   Bad manners Personality:  Earnest,  Dignified    Good-natured, neat would rather remain neat then make a make a mess of things. Can be prim at times.  Organized  Passionate, perfectionist. Judgmental, Perceptive.  Stubborn, self critical.  heroism,  Prideful.   Can seem humorless but does have a sense of humor can be a bit bashful about having one, private.  Loyal.    [  Head canons] - Hc: They struggle between being gentle and serious and balancing  the two out, has always been conflicted about it.  Hc: They have a mild mannered calmness towards the world but can be very impatient because often before the war, God would send him to deliver the word to prophets but they’d be rather too stoned or bigoted to actually listen. Which is why they can’t stand bigoted people. -  Hc: Has always idolized both Lucifer and Micheal but after the whole mess with the war, it becomes hard for Gabriel to not dislike Lucifer  to not turn away from them entirely. Does have inner turmoils about this,  they did betray heaven but doesn’t care if they did well if they did forsake them personally.  Gabriel does care about the fact that Lucifer did betray their family.  They do live in the shadow of Micheal’s glory, it’s not theirs for the taking instead chooses to be passive and keep their head down and not make a mess.   ----  Name:    Briathos     Age:  Centuries   { by human standard: Young adult}       Creature:  Angel,  Height:   Medium  Titles:  N/a  Education:   Self taught physical combat observing from a distance learns to fend for themselves when was young. Personally later on personally trained by Micheal to make his skills more firm taught them stealth  and the art in using weapons etc.  Learns based on interacting with others.    Temper:  Seems quiet is very observant, is very laid back and in most cases  doesn’t seem to be the one to be outspoken, the quiet kid who sits in the back of the room and watches. However when he gets angry he is very  expressive and blunt.   Has a very firm attitude towards the world in most cases a controlled sort of calm from years of being built up, then Micheal trained them which made it twice as much.    Wings:   Despite being an angel, typically messengers  or guardians  with white fluffy wings but theirs looks ’ weird ’   because they aren’t white or fluffy in fact they look devilish.   They are dark grey with a tinge of black yet are ’ angelic’  but in different way that nobody other then Micheal saw past.      Abilities:   Has a talent in knives and thin blade swords knows how to strike first can kill if he can kill if he is not stuck in return, if he can catch others by surprise and quickly gain the upper hand.  Both self taught physical combat skills as well as as trained.  Knows how to play two faces.  Appearance: As a young angel he was small they look weak and not what a typical young  angel should be, deemed as something of an  ’ abomination’  their eyes are watchful and cold  as if thinking. ’  die’. Nowadays has the build of a typical angel but he stands out in the way that, their grace doesn’t shine, it’s not not warm.  His eyes still look the same as they did as a young angel, wings the same.    On Earth he takes on the image of a young man, well built simple man with light brown hair and green eyes. Watchful green eyes yet a slight glint of a mysterious look behind them, always watching.    Fears:  Thunder and lightning. Being alone but masks it skillfully, getting too close to others emotionally and would rather remain solitary.  Enclosed spaces.   Micheal’s anger.    Likes:  Knives thin blade swords.  Books and to learn.  Practice duel.  Gardens and music is very drawn in by it.   Playing tricks.   Dislikes:   When those he cares for are insulted.   Being treated like a child, or generally being thought of as soft.  Humanity  Background;     Briathos knew he wanted to be a fighter of some sort  from day one. He could feel it within themselves, a knowing feeling a spark deep within himself. It was as if god was standing by him whispering to him what his destiny would be. As a youngling grew up, alone for the most part.  Only because  he wasn’t exactly raised by anybody. He was rejected by world because he looked ’ weird’ by heaven standard. His wings don’t shine before the divine world, because he was small and looked weak and not worth the time of anyone.  Briathos taught himself to fight based off of observing other angels practice fighting,  how they handled weapons and how the weapon was used as well as attempting to try the weapons too when others weren’t around. When things in heaven were completely calm and would sneak into the training room to learn to fight.   In time Briathos in time his wings had developed and as well he’d grown taller, keeping mostly to himself being the ’ anti social’ type. Besides wasn’t going to stand to be mocked anymore. Eventually that’s exactly when the young angel met Micheal they by random chance happened to run into together,  while on their way to practice train.   Briathos asked them if they’d like to duel with them why not?    Nobody else is around in which they do.  Micheal had before from a distance seen this angel self training themselves they saw their boldness and   strength.  ‘  angels’  are normally only messengers consequently soft and meek.  This angel is unique, they are fierce  which all stood out to them.  Interested but didn’t want to force themselves upon him  and so the archangel decided to wait.    They two fought but Micheal knew already based on watching how this angel’s skills are not so firmly established, they have the strikes of the techniques  of ‘ hit and hope for the best’   but still they take their time in getting the upper hand.  In due time Micheal did very easily  of course, as soon as they do kindly smiles and offers to be their mentor in learning combat more firmly.   The young angel agrees to this.    After sometime in being taught by Micheal the two begun to become not just a student and teacher but also very close friends as well. Micheal learns about their skills and thinks them rather impressive however could be improved.  Briathos looks up to Micheal to no endings they teach them  stealth and all the essentials, while being both kindly but also stern too.   Now having a better sense of direction, more firm skills.  Briathos comes up with an idea as to what kind of ‘ fighter’ they want to be.   They wanted to  express gratitude to Micheal for taking time to teach them therefore swears their undying loyalty to them. They declare they want to help the army be strong,  that they want to help the archangel in some way too as well.  Briathos  tells them they aren’t willing to interact with other angels that they want to be different from your everyday fighter of heaven.    They reveal their idea of ‘ all purpose’    not  necessarily a warrior  a sleazy spy who gets involved  in everything, willing to bend over backwards would do awful things but means well.  

[war--lords]

Can you make a headcanon of how would Masamune, Kenshin, and Mitsunari going to propose for wedding?

(with a southern accent) aw man I need sum fluff in ma life right now

semi-nsfw, gender unspecified

⁕⁕⁕

Masamune

It happens in a banquet in Oshu to celebrate many things, your relationship with Masamune included. It has been quite a while since the two of you became an item, and to commemorate your anniversary, the castle is alive with cheer. Even Shogetsu seems more energetic than he already is.

Everything seems deceptively normal. The humble extravagance (you like to call it that) is so Masamune-esque, and the people are happy, as they usually are during these times. You’re being showered by offers of food and drinks while Masamune is busy bringing out the food he prepared—you wanted to help with that, but he insisted that you sit tight and “feel the people’s love”, as he said earlier.

Your tastebuds are indeed being pampered, having tasted so many different flavors in such a short time. All sorts of fruit essence, little sips of wine not enough to render you intoxicated, finger food, the whole ensemble. Masamune never disappoints—except for the fact that right now he’s kind of tied up with serving the food, and his vassals are hogging him, showering him with attention… The vibrant party is nice, but it’s kind of pointless without him next to you.

Then suddenly his gaze meets yours and he smiles, appearing slightly surprised, before grabbing a bowl and moving to where you are seated.

“Wanna get some air for a bit?”

Sensing something afoot in his tone, you oblige. It’s also getting a little stuffy inside, so air seems like a great idea. The two of you sit next to each other and Masamune opens the bowl.

“Miso soup?” You ask. It’s warm, steam rising up along with the aroma of scallions, and you find your mouth watering. He watches, amused, as you down the contents in a couple gulps. Once done, his thumb comes up to your lips, gathering a drop of soup before taking it between his lips. You almost blush.

“How is it?”

“It’s good! So refreshing. Makes me want to eat more food back there.”

“Greedy kitten,” he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. You lean against his built body, cherishing the warmth. Then he sighs, and you immediately become alert, looking up to his face to see what’s wrong.

His blue eyes are looking at you so kindly, so lovingly that you think your heart might burst. And of course, he knows what you’re thinking about, and somehow that gives him the courage to say whatever he’s keeping to himself.

“…You know, I’d love to cook for you every day for the rest of my life, only to see you smile like that.”

“Masamune—?”

He kisses your temple. “I promise you I’ll make you happy. Marry me.”

You feel your heart at your throat as every nerve in your body jolts with surprise, but it melts in a split second into warmth, coursing through your veins with each pump of blood. You cup his face and lean close, unable to resist the urge to smile. “I’m already happy.”

The two of you share a long kiss that got cut short for the better—it’s going to get indecent if left unchecked. Thankfully Masamune has it together as he swoops you into his arms and carries you back into the hall where the party is still going on, all the while yelling “I’m getting married!!!”     

Kenshin

Moments after sex with you are moments most serene for Kenshin. He likes it when you’re still awake, basking in both your afterglows with him as the spring breeze quietly slips in through the slightly-ajar sliding door that leads to the garden. His quarters are secluded enough for you not to worry about the sounds that might leave the room.

Kenshin likes to play with your everything, but in a nature unlike a few moments ago, where he can be fervent and passionate and burning. Now he’s tender, even as he traces the tips of his fingers down your neck, collarbone, chest, navel, circling your bare skin precariously. In turn, you play with his hair, soft platinum locks that feel so good when you run your fingers through them. He doesn’t look like he minds at all.

As the two of you lay next to each other, exchanging intimate touches, he finds his lips looser than they normally are, and so the two of you tend to exchange words as well. Tonight, he begins with a sentence that sort of surprises you, but only a little.

“I’m sorry I can’t stop fighting.”

You leave a loving kiss on his cheek. “Don’t apologize. We’ve talked about this before. And a time of peace is ahead, you know. You contributed to that.” He hums, kissing you back on your jaw before moving to rest his face in the crook of your neck.

“You spoil me,” he declares, running his hands down your side and relishing in the tickled giggle you let out. Kenshin turns to straddle you in order to see your face better—he loves it whenever he’s on top of you, looking into your eyes while commanding your gaze to lay only on him. 

“That’s because I love you,” you reply, feeling slightly playful because of his hands. Your fingers slide up his defined chest before ultimately ending up behind his neck, your arms draped around it as if caging him. He loves it.

“And I love you,” he pauses to leave a kiss on your lips, “forever.” Another on your jaw, and his hands, heavens, so mischievous, the way they dip between your legs… “I want to be like this with you forever.”

“Me too.”

“Then marry me.”

Your half-lidded eyes shoot open, meeting his calm, heterochromatic ones. Afraid that he might see you cry, you quickly pull him into a kiss, so loving and deep. He knows better, though. He can feel the hot tears down your cheek even as the two of you lock lips, but before the ugly voice of self-doubt in him starts to bellow of the rejection that may come, his open eyes only see your smiling face, your own eyes wet with soon-to-be tears. He has his arms around you as you nod many, many times.

“I’d be honored.”

  Mitsunari

Mitsunari’s job usually requires him to do a lot of work even after the sun sets, and that got him acquainted to late nights, the gleam of his oil lamp, cricket songs, and chilly winds. One way or another he would find himself unconscious on his futon. In the morning, there is always somebody to check up on him—mostly Hideyoshi, other times the other vassals if his lord is too busy, and then… you. You’re the most interesting of all his morning visitors (he thinks so without discrediting Hideyoshi, of course), simply because you lingered longer to make conversation. It’s as if you were longing to understand him. Perhaps he was also interesting in your eyes.

But then the wars have subsided, and though they are not gone forever, he can actually take it easy with his job for a while. ‘Take it easy’. What a foreign phrase to his ears. It means sleeping to the cricket songs and chilly winds, without the gleam of his oil lamp. And for a while now it means sleeping with you.

The morning afters are peculiar, but in a lovely sort of way. He’s still slightly nostalgic of how you used to wake him up from his unconsciousness with breakfast and a cheerful smile. He remembers introducing you to Kitty. Now, though, you wake up with him, sometimes even later than him. He likes it. He likes it very much, this feeling. Just you and him, under the covers, in various states of undress depending on the night before, the sunrays slowly seeping in through his sliding doors.

You’re cutely cuddling up to his chest while you mumble some gibberish, and that sort of helps him wake up, albeit stirringly.

He loves when you’re still asleep. He gets to watch your face, the way you shift and stir lightly, your little occasional snores, the squirming and cuddling up to him. Mitsunari is a man known for his intellect, but even he can’t quantify the amount of love coursing through his veins at the sight of you in the morning. It must be a whole lot because his heart feels like bursting.

You eventually awaken, eyes squinting and voice husky.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

A smile escapes you at the sound of the nickname. “Someone’s up early.”

“I can’t miss a chance to watch you sleep, now, can I,” he replies, and he kisses you on the lips.

“You like watching me sleep? What a creep.”

He laughs—you’re awake enough to make that remark, apparently. “If that makes me a creep, then you can call me the creepiest of creeps. Though in all seriousness, I really enjoy waking up before you.”

“You’re not a creep, Mitsunari, you’re a sweetie pie.”

Your lover turns silent for a few seconds, and before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s already asking you a question.

“Does it still make me a creep if I want to wake up next to you, like this, for the rest of my life?”

He has said that before, the whole ‘forever’ and ‘rest of my life’ deal, but something in the way he said it makes your sleepy eyes widen. He cups your face, eyes looking so earnestly into yours, and you’ve never felt more awake in bed in your life.

“I love you. And I want you to be here next to me every day when I wake up.”

You find yourself nodding before he asks the question. He smiles.

“Marry me?”

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Sun. Sept., 27, 2020

Commemorated on September 14_”Old” Julian calendar

The Elevation of the Venerable and Life-Creating Cross of the Lord

     The Elevation of the Venerable and Life-Creating Cross of the Lord:         The pagan Roman emperors tried to completely eradicate from human memory the holy places where our Lord Jesus Christ suffered and was resurrected for mankind. The Emperor Adrian (117-138) gave orders to cover over the ground of Golgotha and the Sepulchre of the Lord, and upon the hill fashioned there to set up a pagan temple of the pagan goddess Venus and a statue of Jupiter. Pagans gathered on this place and offered sacrifice to idols there. Eventually after 300 years, by Divine Providence, the great Christian sacred remains – the Sepulchre of the Lord and the Life-Creating Cross were again discovered and opened for veneration. This occurred under the Equal-to-the-Apostles Emperor Constantine the Great (306-337) after his victory in the year 312 over Maxentius, ruler of the Western part of the Roman empire, and over Licinius, ruler of its Eastern part, becoming in the year 323 the sole-powerful ruler of the vast Roman empire. In 313 he had issued the so-called Edict of Milan, by which the Christian religion was legalised and the persecutions against Christians in the Western half of the empire were stopped. The ruler Licinius, although he had signed the Milan Edict to oblige Constantine, still fanatically continued the persecutions against Christians. Only after his conclusive defeat did the 313 Edict about toleration extend also to the Eastern part of the empire. The Equal-to-the-Apostles Emperor Constantine, having with the assistance of God gained victory over his enemies in three wars, had seen in the heavens the Sign of God – the Cross and written beneathe: "By this thou shalt conquer".      Ardently desiring to find the Cross on which our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified, Equal-to-the-Apostles Constantine sent to Jerusalem his mother, the pious Empress Helen (Comm. 21 May), having provided her with a letter to the Jerusalem patriarch Makarios. Although the holy empress Helen was already in her declining years, she set about completing the task with enthusiasm. The empress gave orders to destroy the pagan temple and idol-statues overshadowing Jerusalem. Searching for the Life-Creating Cross, she made inquiry of Christians and Jews, but for a long time her searchings remained unsuccessful. Finally, they directed her to a certain elderly hebrew by the name of Jude who stated, that the Cross was buried there, where stands the pagan-temple of Venus. They demolished the pagan-temple and, having made a prayer, they began to excavate the ground. Soon there was detected the Sepulchre of the Lord and not far away from it three crosses, a plank with inscription having been done by order of Pilate, and four nails, which had pierced the Body of the Lord. In order to discern on which of the three crosses the Saviour was crucified, Patriarch Makarios alternately touched the crosses to a corpse. When the Cross of the Lord was placed to it, the dead one came alive. Having beheld the rising-up, everyone was convinced that the Life-Creating Cross was found. Christians, having come in an innumerable throng to make veneration to the Holy Cross, besought Saint Makarios to elevate, to exalt the Cross, so that all even afar off, might reverently contemplate it. Then the Patriarch and other spiritual chief personages raised up high the Holy Cross, and the people, saying "Lord have mercy", reverently made poklon/prostration before the Venerable Wood. This solemn event occurred in the year 326. During the discovery of the Life-Creating Cross there occurred also another miracle: a grievously sick woman, beneathe the shadow of the Holy Cross, was healed instantly. The starets/elder Jude and other Jews there believed in Christ and accepted Holy Baptism. Jude received the name Kuriakos (ie. lit. "of the Lord") and afterwards was ordained Bishop of Jerusalem. During the reign of Julian the Apostate (361-363) he accepted a martyr's death for Christ (Comm. of Priest-Martyr Kuriakos is 28 October). The holy empress Helen journeyed round the holy places connected with the earthly life of the Saviour – the reason for more than 80 churches – raised up at Bethlehem the place of the Birth of Christ, and on the Mount of Olives from whence the Lord ascended to Heaven, and at Gethsemane where the Saviour prayed before His sufferings and where the Mother of God was buried after the falling-asleep. Saint Helen took with her to Constantinople part of the Life-Creating Wood and nails. The Equal-to-the-Apostles Emperor Constantine gave orders to raise up at Jerusalem a majestic and spacious church in honour of the Resurrection of Christ, including in itself also the Sepulchre of the Lord, and Golgotha. The temple was constructed in about 10 years. Saint Helen did not survive until the dedication of the temple; she died in the year 327. The church was consecrated on    13 September 335. On the following day, 14 September, the festal celebration of the Exaltation of the Venerable and Life-Creating Cross was established.      On this day is remembered also another event connected to the Cross of the Lord, – its return back to Jerusalem from Persia after a 14 year captivity. During the reign of the Byzantine emperor Phokas (602-610) the Persian emperor Khozroes II in a war against the Greeks defeated the Greek army, plundered Jerusalem and led off into captivity both the Life-Creating Cross of the Lord and the Holy Patriarch Zacharios (609-633). The Cross remained in Persia for 14 years and only under the emperor Herakles (610-641), who with the help of God defeated Khozroes and concluded peace with his successor and son Syroes – was the Cross of the Lord returned to Christians from captivity. With great solemnity the Life-creating Cross was transferred to Jerusalem. Emperor Herakles in imperial crown and porphyry(purple) carried the Cross of Christ into the temple of the Resurrection. Alongside the emperor went Patriarch Zacharios. At the gates, by which they ascended onto Golgotha, the emperor suddenly stopped and was not able to proceed further. The Holy Patriarch explained to the emperor that an Angel of the Lord blocked his way, since He That bore the Cross onto Golgotha for the expiation of the world from sin, made His Way of the Cross in the guise of Extreme Humilation. Then Herakles, removing the crown and porphyry, donned plain garb and without further hindrance carried the Cross of Christ into the church.      In a sermon on the Exaltation of the Cross, Saint Andrew of Crete (Comm. 4 July) says: "The Cross is exalted, and everything true gathers together, the Cross is exalted, and the city makes solemn, and the people celebrate the feast".

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

The Repose of Sainted John Zlatoust'/Chrysostomos

     The Repose of Sainted John Zlatoust'/Chrysostomos:  Saint John Chrysostom died on 14 September 407, but because of the feast of the Exaltation of the Life-Creating Cross of the Lord, the commemoration of the saint was transferred to 13 November, where the account about him is located. On 27 January is made a commemoration of the transfer of the holy relics of Saint John Chrysostom from Komaneia to Constantinople, and on  30 January – is the celebration of the Sobor/Assemblage of the Three OEcumenical Hierarchs.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

John 12:28-36

28Father, glorify Your name. Then a voice came from heaven, saying, "I have both glorified it and will glorify it again."29 Therefore the people who stood by and heard it said that it had thundered. Others said, "An angel has spoken to Him." 30 Jesus answered and said, "This voice did not come because of Me, but for your sake. 31 Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be cast out. 32 And I, if I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all peoples to Myself. 33 This He said, signifying by what death He would die. 34 The people answered Him, "We have heard from the law that the Christ remains forever; and how can You say, 'The Son of Man must be lifted up'? Who is this Son of Man?" 35 Then Jesus said to them, "A little while longer the light is with you. Walk while you have the light, lest darkness overtake you; he who walks in darkness does not know where he is going. 36 While you have the light, believe in the light, that you may become sons of light. These things Jesus spoke, and departed, and was hidden from them.

John 19:6-11, 13-20, 25-28, 30-35

6 Therefore, when the chief priests and officers saw Him, they cried out, saying, "Crucify Him, crucify Him!" Pilate said to them, "You take Him and crucify Him, for I find no fault in Him." 7 The Jews answered him, "We have a law, and according to our law He ought to die, because He made Himself the Son of God." 8 Therefore, when Pilate heard that saying, he was the more afraid, 9 and went again into the Praetorium, and said to Jesus, "Where are You from?" But Jesus gave him no answer. 10 Then Pilate said to Him, "Are You not speaking to me? Do You not know that I have power to crucify You, and power to release You?" 11 Jesus answered, "You could have no power at all against Me unless it had been given you from above. Therefore the one who delivered Me to you has the greater sin." 13 When Pilate therefore heard that saying, he brought Jesus out and sat down in the judgment seat in a place that is called The Pavement, but in Hebrew, Gabbatha. 14 Now it was the Preparation Day of the Passover, and about the sixth hour. And he said to the Jews, "Behold your King!" 15 But they cried out, "Away with Him, away with Him! Crucify Him!" Pilate said to them, "Shall I crucify your King?" The chief priests answered, "We have no king but Caesar!" 16 Then he delivered Him to them to be crucified. So they took Jesus and led Him away. 17 And He, bearing His cross, went out to a place called the Place of a Skull, which is called in Hebrew, Golgotha,18 where they crucified Him, and two others with Him, one on either side, and Jesus in the center. 19 Now Pilate wrote a title and put it on the cross. And the writing was: JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS. 20 Then many of the Jews read this title, for the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. 25 Now there stood by the cross of Jesus His mother, and His mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 26 When Jesus therefore saw His mother, and the disciple whom He loved standing by, He said to His mother, "Woman, behold your son!" 27 Then He said to the disciple, "Behold your mother!" And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home. 28 After this, Jesus, knowing that all things were now accomplished, that the Scripture might be fulfilled, said, "I thirst!" 30 So when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, "It is finished!" And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit. 31 Therefore, because it was the Preparation Day, that the bodies should not remain on the cross on the Sabbath (for that Sabbath was a high day), the Jews asked Pilate that their legs might be broken, and that they might be taken away. 32 Then the soldiers came and broke the legs of the first and of the other who was crucified with Him. 33 But when they came to Jesus and saw that He was already dead, they did not break His legs. 34 But one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out. 35 And he who has seen has testified, and his testimony is true; and he knows that he is telling the truth, so that you may believe.

1 Corinthians 1:18-24

18 For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19 For it is written: 20 Where is the wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the disputer of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of this world? 21 For since, in the wisdom of God, the world through wisdom did not know God, it pleased God through the foolishness of the message preached to save those who believe. 22 For Jews request a sign, and Greeks seek after wisdom; 23 but we preach Christ crucified, to the Jews a stumbling block and to the Greeks foolishness, 24 but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.

[leggomylino]

Emin | yandere!artist!chenle

Genre: yandere, a bit of fluff, angst, a bit of comedy (just to relieve some tension)

Pairing: yandere!artist!chenle x baroness!reader

Word count: ~10.3k

Warning(s): deep angst, dark thoughts, violence, possible character death

Song: Leia by Yuyoyuppe (feat. Megurine Luka; here’s a really pretty piano arrangement!: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-Ooh0e-fvk c: )

A/N: Requests are open! | Masterlist in bio!! | thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy it!!! <3 | P.s....I wanted to portray Chenle as more of a soft/confused yandere?? Still possessive but more...respectful? Innocent? I think that’s the word(s) I’m looking for? Like he’s really unsure how to handle it? Idk hopefully you’ll get what I was going for… ^^”

~

[2:42 pm]

You were his safety. His peace. And that’s why he refused to let you go.

You were a rainbow, and they were all colorblind. But not him. Never him; to him, you were all the colors of the spectrum and more, so much more, so much more that he simply couldn’t contain it all in his fragile, broken body.

So he painted. That’s how he’d gotten his start as an artist.

He painted religiously. Each day was something new, something vibrant, something alive, bursting with color and warmth and emotion; so many emotions. Some days were painful; others were like a breath of fresh air. But he didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t mind that it was slowly consuming his sanity, filling up every square inch of canvas in his mind. Like a moth to a flame, he’d do it all over in a heartbeat. Like a sailor to a siren at sea, he’d keep coming back for more, over and over and over again.

And on days he’d lost sight of that focus, on nights he couldn’t sleep, his body wracked with pain from the debilitating illness that the clerics still had yet to find a cure for, he’d draw the person he wished he could be.

He was strong, and handsome, and focused. He wasn’t sick; he was healthy, and determined and dedicated and sophisticated. He was loyal and brave and loving and so charismatic, so charming, there was no way you couldn’t notice him. He was your world; just like you were his.

Even if it wasn’t real. Even if he had to paint it himself.

It was all he wanted. It was all he had.

And for now, it was enough.

“Chenle~ I’m heading out now!”

Chenle blinked to life, waking himself back into reality. Reluctantly.

He smiled to the woman walking into the room, her wine red dress skirts swaying with each step she took towards her precious baby boy. Her one and only son, now that his older brother had gone off to enlist in the war effort.

“Okay, Mom.”

She sighed, resting a hand on her wrinkled cheek as she examined his most recent masterpiece. He was painting that girl; again. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright by yourself? Don’t forget you have that meeting with the Duchess today at five p.m.”

He sighed back as she ran her free hand through his messy orange hair, stained that way from all the many late nights painting to his heart's content. The room was never clean when he was hit with inspiration, and nothing was spared; not even his hair. His fingers were often so blue, the rivets embedded in murky varnish, the other villagers thought they were broken.

...That wasn’t far from the truth, but it was still a misconception all the same.

“I know. I’ll be fine. Take care on your trip.”

His mother smiled once more, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. “I will, dear. You take care of yourself as well. Don’t stay up too late with...erm…”

“Emin.” He smiled much more brightly. “Her name is Emin.”

“...Yes...Emin.” She frowned, her shoulders sagging a bit. This wasn’t the first time he’d locked himself into his own false realities...he’d be gone for at least a few days.

But that was fine. He may not have much longer to live anyway; it was the least she could do but to play along with his delusional fantasies.

“Just remember to get yourself cleaned up before you present yourself at the palace. And don’t be late!”

“I won’t. Goodbye, Mother.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

Cha-chunk.

“......”

The moment she’d left the small cottage, a sigh of relief escaped him, and he tilted his head back to face the sky...or rather, the low-hanging splintering wood ceilings.

All he wanted to do was paint and get lost in you. But he’d better start getting ready.

✦

He was scrubbing away the residue of last night’s oil pastels from beneath his fingernails when the image of you popped up in the window through the small broken looking glass of the washroom. He was sure he must be imagining things; after all, the visions of you had been quite strong lately.

Except this time he wasn’t hallucinating. It really was you.

“Chenle!”

“GAH!”

He flinched, dropping the small scrub brush in a state of panic, then whirled around to see you.

Your bright (e/c) eyes. Those rosy cheeks. That gorgeous hair.

He desperately wanted to melt into it, to mix his palette with yours. But he feared the result would be muddy...an unwanted color. He couldn’t risk tainting such beauty with his filth. “E-Emin...I mean, (y/n)...” Gosh, even just saying your name on his tongue was an indescribable joy. “(Y/n)...what are you doing here?”

You crinkled your nose the way you did when you knew something wasn’t right, and Chenle beamed, taking in your every small act of expression. “First tell me who on Earth this Emin fellow is. Do they bear such resemblance to me?”

“...” He nodded after a moment, sheepishly trying to hide the heat rising to his cheeks, but failed miserably. “It’s the name of my newest painting--”

“Oh my gosh!” You lit up brighter than the festival lights during the Fall Harvest, your head bobbing up and down giddily from the small space of a window. “You’re done already?! I wanna see I wanna see I wanna see! ...Please?”

You gave him your greatest puppy pout, the one he couldn’t resist. But you didn’t have to. Because eventually he would have caved anyway.

He picked up the brush off the ground, wishing he would have had more time to make himself presentable for you. Even if the two of you had been friends for a few years now, he still wanted to look his best for you...oh, but who was he kidding, really? It’s not like someone of your stature, the Baroness of Adderdale, would ever fall for a paint-stained dirt-scratcher like him...especially not one that probably only had a few months left to live. “Of course. I’ll open the door for you.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay! I know you have a big meeting with Duchess Rowena soon, I’ll just--”

“Nonsense. You’re way more important.”

The words were out there before he could take them back. But he wouldn’t have wanted to anyway, because it was nothing short of the truth. “Uh…” You nodded back to him, your face half-swallowed by the high-standing square hole in the wall, your eyes peeking just over the edge now as you climbed down from the crates you’d been standing on. “Okay, then. I’ll see you in a minute.”

Chenle opened the door for you not but a minute later, right on schedule, and you smiled now that you were able to see him up close.

There was a smear of green paint on his cheek. You pulled out a handkerchief from your dress pocket, fanning it open in one quick flick of the wrist and tenderly reached up to wipe his face clean.

You almost suspected that you missed a few spots from how red his face turned, his whole body tensing, eyes barely peeking out shyly behind closed lids. He’d always been such a bashful, apprehensive young man. But that was one of the many things you loved about him.

If only he knew. Maybe things could have gone differently than how they eventually would come to play out.

You’d just starting to retract your gesture when he stopped you, taking your hand gently in his and holding it against his cheek. Nuzzling his face against the silk fabric of your glove.

You laughed. “What are you, a cat?”

He murmured back a soft reply. “I wish I were, sometimes...maybe then I could focus on the things I really care about.”

This made you frown. “Like what?”

“Like...painting, and watching the sea reach out to the sky, and taking naps all day, and...you.”

“Chenle…”

“Hm?”

“How would you paint? You wouldn’t have thumbs.”

He gave you a playful smirk. “No, but it’d have a tail. I’d never have use for another brush again.”

“How would you sign your work?”

He held up his hand. “Paw print.”

“How is that any different from any old stray cat off the street?”

“Hmm…” He gave it some serious thought, making you smile from ear to ear. “...Oh!” He released your hand, resting a fist in his open palm in an action stating he’d thought of something. “...Two paw prints?”

“Chenle!” You busted out laughing, and it’s got to be one of the most blessed sounds he’d ever had the pleasure, no, the honor of being alive to hear; he felt faint upon hearing it, yet stronger all the same. It’s the sound that gave him strength and security when he needed it most, on nights when he thought the sickness that plagued his brittle bones really would deliver his soul to Heaven. The moment he remembered your voice...even if it was all in his feeble mind...all was well again.

“Are you going to invite me inside? It’s mighty hot out here in the sun.”

“Oh!” He hurriedly stepped aside, taking your hand to help you up the small step into the tiny aged cottage that had to be at least sixty years old. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. I’m used to you spacing out in the middle of a conversation by now.” You poked his nose, sending a charming smile his way that may as well have taken his heart had he not already given it to you. “I think it’s cute.”

The wink you sent him was the nail in the coffin.

“Ahh!” Your eyes caught sight of his studio set up in the far left corner of the room, and you lifted your skirts to dash your heel-clad feet across the splintering floorboards. The moment you got there your hands gripped the drape over the center canvas, but you remembered last minute it’s probably polite to ask first, even if it was a dear friend of yours.

Normally Chenle would have murdered anyone who dared to disturb his art without permission; but you were the lone exception. He could never bring himself to hurt you. “Go ahead.”

Excitedly you casted the veil away, and when your eyes met the girl in the painting you froze.

Because she was you. You were looking at a reflection of yourself.

Except you were way more beautiful than you ever imagined you could be. Why didn’t you look this good in real life?!

“Chenle...it’s…”

“Do you like it?” His eyes were full of excitement and adoration as he gazed upon the you in the painting. “Her name is Emin.”

“Emin…” You repeated the name like a foreign word. “...She…”

You paused for a considerable amount of time, just staring curiously at the work of art. Of course this wasn’t you; it was too beautiful to be. How could you be so vain as to think…?

You sighed, small and subtle beneath your breath. “...She’s beautiful.”

“Just like you.”

“Wh-What?”

When your eyes turned away from the fantasy version of you, they met the artist responsible, staring at you as if it was you who hung the moon in the sky each night. “She looks just like you. Beautiful.”

You couldn’t help the warm feeling spreading over your cheeks; you casted your gaze away before Chenle too could notice.

It was too late, of course, because he already had. It made him so happy to see you flustered and flattered so; he’d have to add it to his list of future Emin’s.

You were his after all.

✦

At precisely four o’clock you left Chenle to finish getting ready, though he was sad to see you go. It was a vision he never wished to see; you disappearing out of sight. What if he never saw you again…? You were always so busy with your responsibilities as Baroness of the state. And it was all his fault.

He shouldn’t have asked to paint your portrait out in the grassy fields beyond town square. Maybe then you wouldn’t have been discovered by those royal administrators, who were so captivated by your charming appearance (as they should have been) that they scooped you up and swept you off to the palace to be trained, paying off your family to buy you as their newest errand girl. Because that’s basically what you were in your role of Baroness; the only difference was that they actually fed and clothed and educated you properly in the art of sophistication and foreign affairs and how to be a proper lady.

It made him sick how they ran you ragged. Sicker than he already felt with this accursed illness he was born with.

Which is why he hadn’t hesitated to pay off a young chef-in-training to poison the roast duck going to the administrator’s office one evening whilst sneaking around the back gardens. Your life became a bit easier after that, and the two of you at least had more time to see each other...until they hired another administrator.

But it was alright. The young man was fresh off the boat from vocation school. He’d hired some local bandits to give the man a good scare, and ever since that day you’d had Tuesday afternoons and Saturday evenings free. Sundays after spiritual services were always a given, thank Heaven.

It was now four-thirty. He’d carefully gathered his materials and was on his way to the palace, bag in hand. He wore his best suit: a brown sewn vest over a cream-colored button-up shirt and long, plain-colored trousers. His orange hair was groomed to look as good as it would ever be.

He had to get this job. It was for himself, for his mother; with his brother out of the house, they had scarcely been able to pay the bills, and the new royal tax document was expected to be passed within the next coming weeks. He was the only one left to take care of her.

And then there was you. He would have done anything for you. If he did manage to land this position, he’d be able to see you more often; even if it was just a few fleeting glimpses from a studio window.

By the time he made it onto the palace grounds, chefs and gardeners scurried about in preparation for a celebratory occasion of some sort. He wondered what it could be…

Until a flyer smacked him right in the face, temporarily blinding him.

Startled, he took a few steps back, ripping the inked parchment away from his face. His eyes scanned the page curiously.

𝑾𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒄𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒉, 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑽𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝑵𝒊𝒏𝒂 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

Chenle scoffed. Like he cared about the affairs of the royal elite or the country...

None of that mattered unless it involved you.

✦

“So,” Duchess Rowena Varner, next in line for the royal throne, declared. “You must be Chenle...Zhong, is it? Zhong Chenle?”

The said boy grinned politely from before her throne of sorts. A placeholder until she got her greedy hands on the real thing. “Yes, madam.”

“You shall address her as My Lady!” a royal guard barked.

The Duchess shook her head, chuckling a bit as she waved him off. “Now, now, it’s quite alright. Please, call me whatever you like. And might I say, what a handsome young boy you are!” She stood and paced over to the works of art displayed on silver easels. Real silver. Just an ounce of that would be enough to pay the house bills for an entire month, with a bit left to spare for a royal feast. “Quite talented as well. I reviewed your work the other day.” She smiled, stopping beside his most recent portrait of you: Emin No. 54. His most brilliant work of art to date. “This portrait titled “Emin” is especially beautiful.”

He remained smiling in return, pride swelling in his chest. “Yes, I think so as well.”

Her next question caught him off guard.

“Is she by chance, a lover of yours?”

He froze. His face grew hot; hotter than the sun, it had to be. The Duchess tittered, finding amusement at seeing a young boy turn so red.

“So she is, then? That’s quite sweet. I’m happy for you, I am.”

“...N-Not...Not exactly…”

“Oh, come now. It’s alright. But you know…” she pondered, reexamining the painting. “She looks rather familiar...like I’ve seen her somewhere before…”

“I think it’s ugly.”

Duchess Rowena gasped, and all eyes quickly turned to her daughter, the royal Viscountess.

“Nina!!” The Duchess scolded. “That’s very impolite! Apologize this instant. That’s not how a lady should speak.”

Nina huffed, tossing a long pigtail over her shoulder. “Well it’s true. Her nose is too big. And the eyes sort of creep me out. I’d be turning tail and running if I saw this girl in my dreams or out on the streets. More like my nightmares…”

The Duchess’ face was far worse than a frown, and she snapped her fan shut to emphasize her anger and disappointment, scowling down at her daughter’s abhorred behavior. “Oh, Nina…!” She turned her gaze down to the ridiculed artist with sorrow in her eyes. “I’m so sorry for my daughter. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s usually very sweet and polite, I assure you.”

“......” Chenle didn’t know what to say. All he knew in that moment was that he couldn’t stop his hands from trembling, and it felt like he’d been stabbed in the heart-- no, that someone had stabbed Emin in the heart.

You. His Emin. The only thing he loved more than anything else in this world. More than his mother, or his brother, or his art supplies, or the beauty he found in every little thing this world has to offer…

The only reason he found such beauty was because of you. He saw you in everything. You were everywhere to him.

Something foreign and unabashed was painting a dark portrait on his insides…

And that portrait was titled The Death of Nina Varner.

✦

He waited just after dusk for the Viscountess to appear on her balcony for her ritual spoiled stargazing event. Each night she would wander out in a silk nightgown onto the balcony outside her room, tossing grapes and cheese and whatever late night snack she could get her snot-nosed hands on into that vexatious piehole of hers, all while shouting orders at the pitiful maids who were stuck with her that evening to braid her hair or rearrange the furniture or stop breathing so heavily and get her some more wine.

Chenle almost felt bad for them. Almost.

But he was much too busy kindling the fires of hatred he had for the witch who dared to insult his precious Emin.

He waited five swift breaths for the maids to take their temporary leave, then made his strike.

It was swift. Quick. A cursory stab to the heart. But it did the trick all the same; she hadn’t even much time to scream in terror as her body slumped to the marble stone floor, lifeless and in vain with a look of pure trepidation on her face.

It scared him how much joy and excitement it brought him to see her that way. But he didn't have time to admire his crafty work; in one rapid, fluent motion, he scampered off down the secret passage he’d bought the blueprints for at the Black Market in the shady part of town, a harsh coughing fit echoing down the narrow hall as he fled.

✦

The next day was meant to be spent orchestrating the Viscountess’s wedding as well as the arrival of Prince Jaemin. Which is why you were surprised to find that instead, that responsibility was no longer yours...and a new one was being passed down to you; or rather, promoted up to you.

“She what?!” you cried, horror-stricken in face. You could only imagine what the Duchess’s face must have looked like, to find her daughter’s dead body on the balcony floor. The maids almost had it worse, being the ones to discover the horrific display.

Even now you could hear Rowena’s cries and sobs as she mourned the murder of her only daughter. It broke your heart; the Duchess was such a sweet lady...a little greedy, yes, but still very kind. And sure, you never much cared for Nina. Everyone knew what an impish hellion she was, despite her mother insisting she was a good person...yet...you’d never once wished to see her drop dead.

...Okay, perhaps once, when she had shoved you into a closet and claimed that it was you who started a fire in the kitchen during a baking lesson, you did. But you hadn’t meant it literally…!

And now here you were, set to be crowned the new title of Viscountess. Set to be wed for the sake of the country to some prince whose name you scarcely remembered.

It was all too much. So sudden. So soon. You didn’t know if you could take it...you were barely managing to process it all after only half a cup of coffee; everything was passing you by the narrowest of margins.

You needed to talk to someone. Someone not on the inside. Someone you could trust. So the moment the royal guard who had delivered the news left your quarters, you ran off to find the one person you could think of, the first one to come to mind: Chenle.

He was waiting for you in the front garden, just as you’d ask a young pageboy to summon him there. His face was a desolate wasteland as it looked into yours. So he must have heard...news did travel fast.

“Chenle...I…” you sighed dejectedly. “I don’t know what to say. I never wanted this, I had no say, I promise I--”

“Don’t say anything.”

His eyes were a blazing fire when you gazed back up into them. It made you gulp nervously. “Wh-What do you mea--”

“Shhh...“

He was smiling then. Smiling...how could he smile at a time like this?

“I worked everything out. You don’t have to go to the funeral.”

“...What?”

“The funeral. For the late Viscountess. You don’t have to go, I thought of a way out of it...so we can spend time together instead.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. So he really didn’t know, then…? “I’m sorry? Chenle--”

“Hush now, it’s going to be alright. I doubt anyone’s going to show up anyway.”

You gasped at that harsh remark. “Chenle! That’s a horrible thing to say! Even if she was a brat, she wasn’t...she didn’t deserve to…”

“Yes she did.”

...Your eyes snapped back to meet his, again, and this time they were devoid of any life. Vacant of all color.

He was serious. He really meant it.

You took a step back, suddenly feeling ill at ease and uncomfortable with the heavy change in atmosphere. “...How...How can you say that? How…”

The boy you thought you once knew shrugged, gazing off to the side nonchalantly. “Because...she insulted something that belongs to me.”

“That’s no reason to--!”

“She insulted you.”

The air left your lungs for a second. The pressure around you was rising. Did...Did he just say…?

Scowling, you furrowed your brow, crossing your arms before you to boot. “I-I’m not yours, Chenle. I don’t belong to you, or to anyone but the State of Adderdale...and, pretty soon, the Kingdom of Norwich…”

You felt your anger fleeing from you as feelings of anguish and anxiety rushed to take its place, leaving a hollow sensation of misery in its wake.

And it wasn’t just you. Chenle was feeling it as well, his face drooping until it sagged in an expression of crestfallen disbelief.

“What...What do you mean?” he asked. His whole attitude had suddenly changed in no less than a millisecond.

You glared back at him in regret that you had to be the one to tell him; but it was best coming from you. “With Nina gone, I’ve been recently appointed as the new Viscountess. And, furthermore…” You swallowed again, wishing you could take the words down as well. “...I am to marry the Prince of Norwich, in her place. I’m sorry, Chenle…” You sighed for the millionth time. “There’s nothing I can do. I have no say in any of this.”

You didn’t want to look at him in that moment, to see the sadness written all over his face. But you did. Because you had to be strong; especially if you’re going to be taking over as head Viscountess (though not for long...).

Chenle appeared as if he wasn’t feeling anything. Or maybe it’s that he didn’t know what to feel. In reality, he was absolutely, undeniably, without a doubt...melancholy. Hopeless. Lost. Completely despondent.

The same pageboy poked his head around the corner just then, shyly calling your name. You were being summoned to speak with the Queen about wedding invitations, and what kind of wine you would like served with the celebratory dinner.

There were no words that could form what you wished to express to your only real friend in that moment. So instead you said what it is you’d normally say after parting ways, had it been a regular, everyday encounter; and not the last.

“Goodbye, Chenle…”

And then you were gone. His worst nightmares coming true, seeing you vanish from sight.

He looked to the paintbrush in his hand. Broken just like his body. Just like his heart. He squeezed it tightly, as tightly as his frail bones would let him. Tighter, tighter, as if he could squeeze the entire past three minutes out of existence. Erasing all the words that were said, and starting over on a clean, blank canvas. But it didn’t work out that way; that’s not how life worked.

So instead he shut his eyes tightly, envisioning his happy place. The world where the two of you were always smiling, always laughing, always together, always, always…

...It was all his fault. Again. He was to blame for all of it; he was the reason you were rapidly fading from his life. His insecure actions had led to his own downfall.

He sighed, the breath fleeting like a dream deferred.

It was no longer enough.

✦

Three whole days. Three whole days he laid there, his body writhing in pain and agony at the dull ache that seeped through his bones, violent coughs rattling his lungs and rib cage. His throat was sore, his eyes dehydrated from leaking out all the water left in his body. It was painful, certainly, but...it was nothing compared to the apparent horror blatantly staring him in the face  that soon, very soon, you would be gone. For good. Forever. And he’d never see you again...only in his dreams, were he lucky enough to obtain them.

A flyer drifted in from the window, once again bringing itself to cover his tear-stained face.

𝑽𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒔 (𝒀/𝒏) 𝒐𝒇 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 // 𝑽𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒔 (𝒀/𝒏) 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔-𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒕

A literal slap in the face. His hands shook violently as he tore the sheet into bite-sized pieces, seething with rage and despair that did nothing to help his coughing fit and overall health.

He turned his head to stare at his latest masterpiece, feeling color draining from the world around him, his walls crumbling and caving in.

You were no longer his Emin. You were no longer his.

He felt like he was losing his mind. “But...she’s mine,” he mumbled, reaching out a shaking hand to the you of his dreams. The one he stayed up for three days straight painting with all his heart and mind and soul, pouring out every last ounce of passion from his expiring fingertips stained forever blue, as was the life of an aspiring, tormented artist. “Emin is mine...she’s mine, she’s mine, she’s MINE!!”

In a flash of anger he knocked over a case of brush pens, then a few books, then his entire work desk. He began throwing canvases out the window, their blank slates an abhorred reminder mocking the bleak future he had to look forward to: a future without you.

“Emin...she’s...she...” Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, where he thought he had none left. “She’s mine...E...min...she’s...”

Gone. You were gone, lost to him now, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

...Or was there?

Hastily he reached to grab the flyer from before, then remembered it was in pieces all over the floor. He struggled for an hour putting it all back together, but once he had a mischievous grin found its way where originally no amusement could be found. A tiny, faint ray of hope amongst the coming darkness.

𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 // 𝑨𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉 𝟑𝒓𝒅

That was tomorrow. The Duchess must have convinced them to postpone the wedding for her daughter’s funeral. Which meant...

There was still time.

✦

With not a moment to lose Chenle rushed through the bustling palace walls, each hall as lively as the next as staff from every category of service hustled and hurried and scampered about, preparing for the wedding of the century.

Prince Jaemin had just arrived not but a few hours prior, and with his disguise as an errand boy Chenle had gotten all the right information and knew exactly where to find him.

Now he was just hoping he could get there fast enough, before someone knocked into him and revealed his dire plan.

Looking left, then right, he continued to weave in and out of the crowded hallway until he made it to the far end of the hall, making a stealthy left turn. He made his way down the steps to the kitchens, climbing into a dumbwaiter when no one was looking and working his way up the rope, grunting profusely with each feeble tug and the occasional cough. The moment he made it to the fifth floor he released a tired breath all at once, making sure the coast was clear before exiting the small chamber and trotting on lightfoot down the surprisingly quiet hallway given all the commotion downstairs.

His next task was to locate which one of these blasted guest rooms belonged to the Norwich prince. He had yet to get that far…

Knock knock knock.

“Your Highness?”

He whirled around and tripped his way behind a potted plant, almost spilling the chloroform in his pocket. A door he’d passed some twenty-odd steps ago was opened from the inside by a butler with a peculiarly sour look on his face.

The maid outside smiled kindly. “Pardon me, but all our errand boys are busy at this time. Her Majesty the Queen would like to have a word with His Highness, if that’s alright.”

“...” The young butler turned back into the room. “Yo, Jaemin. The old lady wants to talk to you.”

There was a hissing sound, followed by heavy footsteps before the boy was suddenly yanked back by his collar, a tall, handsomely dressed one taking his place instead. “Please forgive my idiot brother. He’s...a rare case.”

Mumbling could be heard in the background as the maid turned the whitest shade of pale Chenle had ever seen, bowing and apologizing profusely for not recognizing the youngest prince. In her defense, Chenle hadn’t of known either.

But that was besides the fact. His real target was now standing just a few feet away.

He hated how attractive he was. How he radiated an aura of regal perfection. It turned his insides into a dark, muddy green…

Somehow Jaemin had convinced the idiot brother with a smart mouth to take his place in seeing the Queen as a form of punishment (and to apologize for referring to her as an “old lady,” even if the hag was ancient beyond her years) and just before the door closed and the two witnesses had vanished around the corner, he made his move, dashing quickly and shoving his way--

...Right into the door. Thud.

He winced, praying to God his nose wasn’t broken just now. He should have known this guy probably lifted weights on a daily basis, where the only thing he ever lifted was a paintbrush.

He knocked, a hand still over his aching nose.

The moment the door opened he braced himself, whipping out the chloroform that...leaked in his pocket…

The last thing he remembered was the repeating curse he irately flung at himself: Drat, drat, drat…

✦

When he awoke some twenty minutes later, the first thing Chenle noticed was a handsome young man sitting at his bedside.

Great. He was having another nightmare.

But the young man’s nervous laughter proved that he was, in fact, awake, not dreaming.

“There have been far better applicated attempts on my life than the one you just tried to pull.”

The pauper took a deep breath, coughing on the exhale as he threw himself up into a sitting position, then on his knees, knife in hand.

He furrowed his brow a second later; why had the prince not disarmed him…?

Prince Jaemin merely smiled as bright and cleanly as sunshine on a crisp, cool day with the knife hanging inches away from his throat. He didn’t even budge.

Chenle scowled. “Why aren’t you frightened of me? Why didn’t you disarm me while I was unconscious? ...Why did you help me at all? Why not report me to the guard, or the executioner, or--”

“Executioner? My, what troublesome times these must be if you’re sentenced to execution for a simple act of violence.”

A simple act of…?

Chenle didn’t know whether to be confused or appalled. So he was both.

The look on his face must have been quite the spectacle, because the next moment Jaemin was chuckling kindly, as if they’d been having a basic conversation about the weather. “You sure do ask a lot of questions, I’ll give you that. As I mentioned before, you’re not the first poor sap who’s wanted me dead.” His eyes gleamed curiously then, almost taking on a new persona entirely. “Now let me ask you something. Why on Earth would you mention being hauled off to be...executed, of all things?”

Chenle’s whole posture drooped. His shoulders sagged. His breath hitched ever slightly, before being onset by a minor coughing fit.

Jaemin swiftly helped to ease him back onto the bed, but the ill boy fought back, thrusting the knife above his neck once more.

“D-Don’t…” He coughed again. “Don’t help me. I don’t need or want your help. I only want my Emin back. I’m not going to let you take her away from me…!”

“Emin?” The Prince frowned. “I don’t have anything like that...I’m afraid I don’t quite follow what you…!” Then his face lit up with realization. “Ah, wait, you mean that painting in the Duchess’ quarters?” His face began glowing with soft sort of realism. “It’s lovely. Did you paint that?”

“It’s a girl,” Chenle coughed, slowly coming out of his minor attack. “...and she has a name...her name is--”

“Emin,” Jaemin cooed, purred, slandered. As if he enjoyed the way it melted on his tongue the same way it brought the artist pleasure.

He glared, eyes growing dark. “Don’t say her name. You don’t get to say it! She’s mine, my Emin, and I won’t let you take her away from me. Even if I have to...even if I have to…”

“Kill me?”

He flinched, muscles tensing sharply beneath his borrowed clothes. “...Yes. Even if I have to kill you.”

Jaemin was all smiles again-- actually smiling. Did this guy have some sort of death wish? Was he mocking him right now? Challenging him, daring him to try?

Chenle had no idea. It was either that, or he was into some really weird stuff. “Why are you smiling like that? Tell me right now!”

“...You’re a demanding little thing.”

“Tell me, I said!”

“Hmm…” He breathed out through his nostrils, leaning back in the chair he’d pulled up beside the bed. “If you’d really wanted to kill me...you would have done so already. But you haven’t. We’re still talking, aren’t we?”

This hit Chenle harder than he was expecting it to; he practically felt the air deflate from his lungs, and he’d just managed to suppress his haggering coughing fit.

“And I daresay I’ve counted at least three prime opportunities you could have striked.”

“...I…”

The prince simpered, crossing one richly-clad foot over the opposite knee. “So why don’t you tell me about this...Emin of yours.”

Chenle was back to being angry and frustrated all over again. “Why should I? After this, I’ll never see her again…she’s going to be yours anyway...”

He clenched the knife in his hand. Jaemin pursed his lips into a curious pout.

“And why’s that? What do you mean, she’s going to be mine? I’m not interested in buying the painting if that’s what you--”

“Of course that’s not it! You’re going to be marrying her soon enough! You’re right, what you said before...there’s nothing I can do to save her from you…”

Jaemin’s face may as well have been pandora’s box. “What? What in the name of Sam Hill are you talking about? Why would I want to marry a painting…?”

Chenle deadpanned. At least the prince had looks going for him. “I’m not talking about the Emin of my dreams! I’m talking about the real one!”

“The...The real one…?”

“Yes!!”

“...Oh.”

He still didn’t get it. The artist facepalmed. “My Emin. She goes by…” He swallowed harshly, afraid to even speak your name aloud before the prince who’d be stealing you away. “...(y/n)...”

Jaemin seemed to be getting an awful lot of amusement out of the visual display of embarrassment the painter showed. “(Y/n)? As in, Viscountess (y/n)?”

“Don’t speak her name!! At least have the decency to wait until I’m dead before you do…”

“Why on Earth would I want to do a thing like that?” He rolled his eyes. “You sure do talk a lot about execution and death. Do you want to die?”

Chenle had to think about this for a moment. Did he want to die? Technically, without you, he was nothing. Empty. A blank canvas with nothing to show.

Then, there was his mother...with his brother overseas, he was the only one working to support the two of them other than herself. As much as he loved you, he didn’t want to leave her all alone…

...Then again, it wouldn’t matter anyway. His life was on a clock right now, ticking much faster than the average, everyday man’s. He was going to die soon regardless.

“...it doesn’t matter. I’m going to die anyway.”

The princely man blinked. “What do you mean?”

He sighed, placing a blistered hand over his faintly beating heart. “I’m...sick. I was born weak, with a strange illness no cleric has ever seen before. There’s no cure for it either, I...I honestly wasn’t expected to live this long. It’s a miracle I’m even still alive right now…”

“That doesn’t answer my original query.”

“What? Yes it does—“

“No, it doesn’t.” Jaemin tsked, shaking his head. “I asked you, do you want to die. Not if you’re going to or not.”

“...” Violently, Chenle shook his head no. The elder of the two grinned.

“Good! Then we can start preparing you for the wedding right away. Oh, and I’ll get you some medicine as well. Judging by your symptoms you have a condition that’s rare but not unheard of in Norwich. So long as you don’t over exert yourself, I can have a brew cooked up and in your hands in about a week, maybe two...give or take.”

He nearly choked. This was a lot of information, but the one thing that really caught his attention was... “W...Wedding?”

So now he expected him to go? To watch (y/n) be married off? To officially strip the last few remaining pigments of color out of his life?!

Oh, he’d be there alright. But not—

“Yeah. You have to be present for your own wedding. It’s sort of a requirement, actually.”

...A re...A require…

His own wedding?!

Just then the youngest Prince of Norwich returned, popping a bubble of some sticky-sweet substance between his lips on his way in. Jaemin beamed in delight.

“Oh, Jisung, perfect timing. I need you to go back down and bring me a tailor. Anyone will do, so long as he’s qualified.”

“Tailor?” Jisung’s face was scrunched up in obvious puzzlement. “But I just got back up here! What the heck do you need a tailor for? And who the heck is he?” He pointed to Chenle, blowing another pink bubble and popping it with his teeth. “Y’know, Dad told you to--”

“Again, Jisung, Mark is not our father.” He chastised. “...But yes, I know what he said. That’s not it, though.” He gestured to Chenle as if to present a showcase prize. “This colorful young fellow is...he’s uh...er…” He scratched his ear. “What did you say your name was again?”

Chenle almost didn’t want to tell him. But then he really, really did. Because he thought he knew where this was going, and if he was right; which he was; he didn’t want to miss out on this one and only golden opportunity to save you, to save his entire world, and to finally, surely, be able to leave this world in peace once his time was soon to come...in case he didn’t happen to get that medicine in time. “Chenle.”

“Chenle...~” Jaemin nodded. “That’s a wonderful name. I like it, really. It suits the future Viscount of Adderdale rather nicely. Let’s see...Chenle. Sir Chenle! Siiir Chenle...yes, yes, I like it.” He rubbed his chin in thought with a few more nods.

Jisung stared at him like he was dumb as rocks. “Uh, hello? I don’t get it. You’re telling me that this--” he pointed to Chenle-- “--poor kid off the street is going to marry Viscountess what’s-her-name? And not you? Don’t you think Dad-- I mean, Mark, is gonna be...kinda sus? And pissed? Not to mention Renjun and Jeno…”

Jaemin shrugged. “Hey, what can I say? I’d hate to stand in the way of true love...it would be wrong to steal away this young man’s girl when he obviously adores her more than I ever could.”

He winked. Jisung groaned. “You can’t just slack off your duties for some angsty teen romance novel fling! You’re gonna get us both in trouble!”

“......” The elder shook his head, running a hand through his wavy blonde hair. “I knew I should have brought Hyuck, and not you. It’ll be good for him, they said. You’ll be doing us a favor, they said. Aiyaiyai…”

“Hey! Rude!”

“Just go bring me a tailor already! I’ll deal with our brothers when we get home, but I’m this sure at the very least, Jeno would agree with me.”

He held his fingers inches apart, and Jisung deflated a little, beginning to cave. His brother just kept on rambling.

“...We’ll have to get him cleaned up...and do something about that hair...I doubt any of my clothes will fit him, much less my wedding attire…”

Finally the youngest rolled his eyes, and as he shut the door behind him Chenle could hardly breathe. He just couldn’t believe it.

He was getting a second chance. He was going to marry his Emin.

✦

“Are you sure you understand the plan?”

“Yes.”

“And you know where to go when I give the signal?”

“Yes…”

“And you’re absolutely sure you--”

“Oh my gosh, Jaemin, he gets it already!” Jisung snapped. “Just hurry up and get out there before they start suspecting anything! I can’t believe I’m playing along with this…”

With a determined nod Jaemin took off out into the bustling chapel, everyone getting ready to take their places for the celebratory event. Because everything had to be just perfect, the Norwich Prince was directed to take his place in a back hallway, where he’d be escorted out onto the platform by high-ranking officials.

Chenle watched with nervous breadth. What if something went wrong? What if Jaemin changed his mind the moment he saw you walking out, looking like a waking dream? The personification of sheer beauty and ethereal godliness? A goddess among goddesses, Aphrodite herself?

He wouldn’t be able to take it. He’d have to stab himself in the heart and end it all right then and there--

“Hey.”

He looked over to Jisung, who was eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Stop being so overdramatic. You’re worse than Haechan when he’s drunk off his ass.”

“Who?”

He blew another bubble, allowing it to pop at the peak of his eye roll. “Never mind. Listen...you don’t have anything to worry about. Jaemin’s not like that. Whatever you were thinking. He’s a good guy, really...also...I uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, turning his eyes away. “I think you guys look good together. You and um…(y/n)?”

He casted him a sideways glance for confirmation, and when Chenle nodded, he returned the gesture. “Yeah, (y/n)...I saw you guys together, out in the front garden a few days ago...my ship arrived here before my brother’s. He took too long getting ready, so I set off without him.” He shrugged. “Anyway...the two of you seemed to be having a disagreement of sorts, but...I don’t know, the way you were staring at each other, deep into the other’s eyes, I could tell you were really close. Like an old flame or something.”

...An old flame...Chenle didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but— he was at a loss for words.

Then the youngest prince said something that really took his breath away. “Y’know...I think that, maybe, you and me could have been great friends if we’d grown up together.” He smiled, a small one, but one nonetheless. “I know this is kind of sudden, since we barely know each other, but...I think I would have liked that. You should come visit us in Norwich sometime. You’d love it there, honestly— the Winters are beautiful.”

It was out there so suddenly, so kindly worded, Chenle didn’t know how to process it all. Him? Having friends? He’d been sick his whole life, the only people ever paying him any kind of attention being his mother and his brother when he’d been around and...of course, you...the day you found him laying out on the street within an inch of his life, and you rescued him from certain death, he immediately knew you were the one. He’d instantly fallen in love with you. Those feelings only grew and grew over time…

However...the thought of having a friend…

He didn’t think he knew the answer. But the palette in his mind was equipped with a bright, yellow color, and he found himself nodding meekly before he knew what he was doing.

Jisung tilted his head back in a pleased indication that he’d gotten the message of what Chenle had meant to say, even though no words would come to him; after all, the boy was an artist, not a poet. “I should probably take my seat. Good luck out there.”

With a pat on the back, he crossed the threshold.

Now all that was left was for him to wait.

✦

It’d be an understatement to say that you were nervous. Because you weren’t; you were more than nervous, you were practically horrified.

You’d thought you could handle it. Really, you did. But the moment it actually started happening, it was instantly all too much; only now it was ten times worse, because it was actually happening in real time.

First the music started to play, a gorgeous symphony of organs and strings. The Queen had even hired a quartet of flautists to play in harmony to the familiar chorus of Canon in D Major. The flower girl made her entrance first, tossing flower petals down the aisle and into the waiting audience. They gushed and cooed over how cute she was, muttering comments of how handsome of a boy the ring bearer behind her would grow up to be, though he was practically more of a man than a boy...that ring bearer being…

...Zhong Chenle? What?!

Your jaw nearly hit the floor at the sight of him, striding into the room with such perfect posture and well-to-do attire. He looked like a prince out of a fairytale novel.

But what on Earth was he doing here…?

“My Lady, it’s time,” called a maid. You had a hard time peeling your eyes away, but you were able to nonetheless with a bit of effort on both yours and the maids parts as they pulled you away to your proper waiting station outside.

It broke your heart that he’d gotten himself roped into this, and you had no idea how he’d done it, but maybe after this, at least, you could send him off with a proper goodbye…

✦

He’d been too nervous. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to do something.

So the second the melody of Beetovhen’s chorus flitted about the room, he snatched the rings from a boy waiting nearby, stumbling his way in right behind a small flower girl and immediately righting the way he carried himself.

He could feel Jaemin’s eyes on him from the far off hall where he peeked behind a curtain, pleading for him to turn back. He could hear Jisung’s ragged breathy sigh, calling him an idiot.

But he didn’t care. He wouldn’t. This was all for you...and anyway, it was too late to change anything about the choice he’d made now.

He paused at the foot of the altar, going to the opposite side where the men waited as traditional Adderdale weddings he’d witnessed in his lifetime. Then he took a deep, shaky breath, fighting back the urge to cough as a tickle made its way to the back of his throat.

Not now. Not now. Please, not now.

The small orchestra suddenly broke out into the Norwich national anthem, and Jaemin made his appearance, walking tall and proud and princely to stand at his place atop the altar; temporarily, that is.

He sent Chenle a sly wink from where the boy stood just two feet behind him.

“It’s alright. We can still make this work out. I know you must be incredibly nervous right now; I would be, too, were I the one getting married today.”

Curse the man. Chenle couldn’t help but smile.

Then it was the moment everyone had been anticipating: as the Norwichian anthem came to a whole-noted close, a circle of guards surrounding the chapel stepped forward from their placement along the surrounding walls in unison, saluting as the King and Queen entered, followed by the Duchess and a few other nobles Chenle never paid enough attention to remember the names of. They each took their seats, and then...then…

The most beautiful harmonic arrangement began to play, and everyone quieted straightaway, the room falling instantly silent as a gentle hush fell over the crowd. The familiar melodic tune of Here Comes The Bride circled round and round the room, and within seconds all eyes were on what had to be...what surely was...he just…

He wasn’t a poet, as was mentioned before. There were simply no words yet in existence to describe how...how…

You were perfect. That’s the best way he could think to paint it; and speaking of paint, he wanted to capture this moment so badly on canvas and…

No. In reality, he wanted you all to himself. He didn’t want anyone to see you looking so beautiful, for fear that they may steal you away from him as the palace did years ago, and as Jaemin almost had (or would have) that very day.

You approached the aisle at a slow, leisurely pace, crisp and clean and glowing with pristine perfection as two more flower girls hurried before you, and an ensemble of maids held up the trail of your dress and veil whilst shadowing at your heels.

Chenle desperately wanted to knock them all over and scurry out of there with you in his arms. If only he were strong and brave enough to do a thing like that…

The urge to cough was getting worse. He tried clearing his throat beneath the guise of the fluttering chorus, but that only seemed to make the need more prominent.

As you finally made your way up the altar steps, it was then that he simply couldn’t take it anymore. Something in him went black, shutting down, and he…

He collapsed.

✦

A series of gasps and astonished cries reverberated off the chapel walls and stained glass windows as the boy you hardly recognized hit the ground with a pain-filled grunt.

Acting quickly Prince Jaemin nearly threw himself down to help your dearest friend, pushing guards and other palace help out of the way when they tried to draw near. You yourself tossed the bouquet of wildflowers the Queen had insisted you carry (the national flower of Norwich) over your shoulder, a few stuck-up and self-centered bridesmaids scrambling to catch it and squealing excitedly about which of the other princes were available to marry.

Jisung had shut them up pretty fast with a rude remark, but you were too focused on the topic at hand to hear exactly what it was.

“Chenle!” you cried, lifting the limp boy in your arms. “Oh, Chenle...please say something…!”

This was it. You were afraid something like this might happen one day. But you’d never thought it would be so soon...Chenle’s illness was no surprise to you; you’d known about it for quite some time. In fact, it was you that had secretly been funding a portion of his monthly checkups with a palace cleric, a silent agreement you’d made with his grateful mother.

And now it was really happening. He was dying right here in your arms. You hated that your brain immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion, but...what else could it be? He’d never had a fit this bad before...not that you knew of, at least.

Chenle simpered up at you weakly as a tear crossed the distance from your cheek to his, reaching up an unsteady hand to caress away the tears. Your face shouldn’t be sullied with worry over his sake. “D...Don’t cry…” His chest heaved violently, feeble frame shivering between each ragged cough. “...I’ll be...okay...I…” He took a deep, deep breath. You held onto yours.

And then it was said. The words you never thought you would ever hear, never thought you wanted to hear, never thought you would be the one to say:

“I love you, Chenle. I love you so much...”

Tears were pouring down your face now, his shivers contaminating your body as you shook along with him, exposing your heart and soul over the dying young artist.

“Please don’t leave. Stay with me...wherever you go, I’ll go, and wherever you stay, I too will stay...I don’t care if you’re sick, or that you come from a broken family, or that you’re poor, or dirty, or weak. You’ve always hated that about yourself, but none of that matters to me...you’re just Chenle to me. Just Chenle...I’ll...I’ll be your sword and shield, your strength and shelter. I’ll follow you to the ends of this very Earth, and I...I love you, Chenle...it would be my honor to take care of you, for the rest of our days. Just don’t leave me…!”

Your eyes were squeezed shut at this point, trying to stop the flood of facepaint from raining off the thundercloud of emotion that was currently your face, and when Chenle’s hand fell limp in yours you gasped, throwing your eyes open…

And seeing that he was sitting up. Calming down. Gathering himself.

He...wasn’t dying…?

Jaemin heaved a heavy-laden sigh relief as he pulled out a needle from the boy’s opposite arm. “Thank the good Lord you brought an emergency antidote with you...nice one, Jisung.”

Another blonde-haired boy sighed. “Well, you know, really Renjun forced it on me, but...y’know.” He shrugged.

Profoundly, you turned your attention back to Chenle. He was looking at you with stars in his eyes.

Suddenly everything you had just revealed deep down in the recesses of your heart came swinging back to whop you in the face, and you just knew you must have resembled the reddest tomato out back in the royal vegetable garden. You attempted to once more hide your blushing face--

Of course, Chenle had other ideas in mind. Of course, he had cupped your messy tear-stained face, placing a...kiss…?!

You melted into it, and so did he, the colors and clarity and butterflies all swirling together. For now you were receiving a reality neither of you had ever thought to be possible, and now, finally, he was able to mix his palette with yours. And it wasn’t a mess as he feared; it was a beautiful masterpiece.

Jaemin was the first one to applaud, and soon, hesitantly at first, the rest of the chapel began to follow.

“I’d say you may now kiss the bride, but uh...it appears to be a little too late for that,” he jested. His brother frowned, rolling his eyes with another blow of gum.

“Ya think?”

“...”

He smirked, popping the bubble in his face and everyone gasping with laughter as it exploded there.

“Shut up.”

✦

“Hey, wife?”

“Yes, Chenle?”

He frowned, his face sagging at the ends. “You’re supposed to say, husband.”

“Oh,” you laughed, moving on to the next exhibit as the two of you walked around the new art studio, hand in hand, taking in each and every piece of the artist’s work on display. “Sorry, sorry. Ahem…” You started again. “Yes, husband?”

Chenle hummed happily, his whole face beaming with pure joy and delight. He seemed to be spacing out, tossing his head from side to side as if doing a little jig in his mind.

“...Chenle. Chenle? Helloooo…?” You waved your hand in front of his face, and he winced, snapping back to you quickly with the goofiest grin you’d ever seen.

He really was so cute. “Yes, (Y/n)? I mean, wife?”

You shook your head. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”

“Tell you…? Oh, yeah!” He continued to stare at you a bit too intently. “Have I told you I love you today? Because I do. And I just want to make sure that you know how much I--”

You let out a sound that was a cross between a groan and more laughter, wrapping an arm around his as the two of you continued to stroll around the winding halls. “Yes, Chen--”

He gave you a deadpan.

“...I mean, husband. Husband.” you assured him. “Yes, you have. This would be the twenty-eighth time now.”

He gave a smug and satisfied smirk that was all too cute on his yet again paint-stained face. The moment the medicine from Norwich had come in, Chenle’s health had rapidly improved, and he was able to paint in a way you’d never witnessed him do before: peacefully. Happily. Content. It was a marvelous sight to behold.

Despite the lack of another knot tied uniting the lands of Norwich and Adderdale, negotiations and trade among the two lands had been carrying on better than ever; swimmingly, in fact. You and Chenle were set to visit Norwich Palace for a business meeting and tea within the coming weeks. They all couldn’t have been more pleased with the outcome of things; according to a recent letter from Jaemin, who was now a good friend of yours, their brother’s had wished you and Chenle the best of luck and sent you their love and blessings in the new relationship. Apparently their brother Hyuck had even cried a little...but in his defense, the prince wrote, the boy was rather drunk.

The two of you came to stop before Chenle’s latest masterpiece: Emin No. 59. A portrait of the girl who looked like you in a wedding gown suspiciously similar to yours, standing with dignity and grace atop the chapel altar, surrounded by birds and squirrels and other wildlife, the sun shading colors of the rainbow upon her skin...he may as well have titled the piece Snow White.

“Say, Chenle...ah, husband...” You pursed your lips profusely in an overzealous pout. “You never told me: why do you call her that? Why Emin?”

“......” Chenle was quiet all of ten seconds as he formed his response. He smiled tenfold, putting all previous glee to shame, the light from the coming sunset casting small spotlights through cracks in the palace curtains that highlighted all your best features; which would have been all of you, to him at least. “Because…” he replied, taking your hands into his and kissing your knuckles softly. Something he’d be doing everyday, every waking moment he saw you, for the rest of his life. “You’re Emin. My Emin...and you’re all mine.” ღ

[alittlepieceofwarcraft]

Arakkoa: A Lore Guide

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History

Evolution (Year -3000): The Arakkoa are a bird-like race native to Draenor and originate from the three primal gods of Arak: Rukhmar, mother of the kaliri; Anzu, father of the dread ravens; and Sethe, father of the wind serpents. After the creation of the arakkoa, Sethe and Rukhmar fought above the Spires, with Rukhmar being warned about the attack by Anzu, managed defeat the serpent, alongside Anzu who stepped in to deliver the killing blow. With his last breath, Sethe cursed his own flesh and blood to rot and corrupt all that it touched. Anzu devoured him in an attempt to contain the curse but  a single trickle of blood dripped down, creating Sethekk Hollow where it touched the ground. The curse crippled Anzu, making him flightless and pained by dark visions.He disappeared into the forest deeps, believing Rukhmar would not longer accept him, and and ignored. Though Sethe's curse weakened Anzu, it also gave him new power: the power of the Void that Sethe had once commanded. He eventually shrouded himself in the shadows forever. Horrified by the curse that now darkened her home. Rukhmar left Arak, eventually settling atop Gorgrond's highest peak. Using her own life energies, Rukhmar transformed some of her kaliri followers into the arakkoa: "heirs of Arak". They embodied Rukhmar's physical grace and majesty, as well as Anzu's intellect and cleverness. The second subculture later comes along in Year -600 with the Arakkoa Outcasts 

Apexis Activate (Year -3000): Rukhmar planned for the arakkoa to one day return to Arak. However, Sethe's curse still lingered and as she did not wish her children to suffer, she decided to delay this. After they had grown, Rukhmar intended to lead her children back to their ancestral home. Yet, she knew she would grow old and die, fearing that she may not be able to wait for that fateful day. For many generations, Rukhmar watched the arakkoa develop from a distance, occasionally she communing with them, telling them stories of Arak, Sethe's evil, and Anzu's nobility. She taught them the ways of commanding the Light and they mastered it, becoming adept healers and seers. Sadly, Rukhmar felt her own life fading. She spoke with her children one last time and urged them to claim Arak for themselves. Rukhmar led her children south, but just as they reached Arak, she died: flames took over her form and she burned like a second sun in the sky. The arakkoa saw Rukhmar's death as a symbol of where they had come from and they vowed to create a mighty empire that would outshine any other culture on Draenor in order to honour her: the light of their knowledge and their power would blaze in the heavens just as Rukhmar had. Calling themselves the Apexis, the arakkoa claimed the highest reaches of Arak's spire. Guided by tales of Anzu and his  sacrifice, arakkoa sorcerers investigated the Sethekk Hollow. They discovered shadow magic and developed the unique ability to combine the arcane with the Void. Embracing both Light and Void, the Apexis believed they were both natural parts of life. Two factions formed within the Apexis: the Anhar order studied holy magic, while the Skalax studied shadow and arcane magics. They also began to explore the rest of Draenor and outposts were claimed across the land to observe local life and they studied and mapped the forests and mountains. The arakkoa they realized that many of these were the remains of ancient creatures that had once walked Draenor. Based on stories from Rukhmar, the Apexis realized the Primals and Breakers were the primordial giants' offspring. They watched the endless warring between the two with pity and fascination but never intervened, seeing it as beneath them.

Ever-Growing (Year -2000): The rise of the arakkoa began to gain attention from the other races of the world. Within Talador lived creatures known as Primals, one being the treant Gnarlgar. He commanded powers of nature and the Spirit of Life, as well as learning from the genesaurs of the Sporemounds, Evergrowth, and communal sentience that once united all of Draenor's plantlife. He had the ability to manipulate other Primals and guide their actions, seeing the botani as having the most potential. While the Botani focused their attention on the Breakers, Gnarlgar became aware of the Apexis. He believed that the arakkoa’s society was a detriment to nature as they burned the plant life with their magic. and that eliminating them would be the only way to keep Draenor alive. He obtained a fossilized root of Botaan and rallied the botani to his side to stop the arakkoa so they could rebuild the Evergrowth. Gnarlgar not only worked to create a new Sporemound named Taala out of Botaan's root, he also used Spirit to gift thousands of trees with intelligence and will - the Gnarled - while his botani spawned new genesaurs. The Apexis did not initially pay attention to the Primals. The forests around Arak grew thicker, vines climbed the spire and planted trees that grew with astonishing speed. Eventually members of the Anhar and Skalax went to investigate Talador. From what they knew of the Evergrowth, the Apexis quickly realized that the monster that was a Sporemound and if it awoke then it would both destroy the arakkoa and bring devastation to Draenor. Knowing their race's survival depended on it, the Anhari and Skalaxi leaders mobilized the Apexis and formed an invasion force. They flew through the skies over Talador, ignoring the Primals and focusing on the Sporemound forming deep in the forest. The arakkoa could not break the Primals as they went deeper into the forest. Nearly half of the arakkoa army had died. The Anhar proposed a solution: a weapon called the Breath of Rukhmar that would channel the sun's energies into incredibly destructive power. As the Anhari began to craft it upon Arak's spire, Gnarlgar sped up Taala's maturation: the Sporemound awoke and led  the other Primals. The Breath of Rukhmar would not be finished in time. Knowing this, a small number of Skalaxi sorcerers volunteered to give the Anhari the time they needed. They had prevoiosuly discovered the existence of Gnarlgar and learned of his ability to command the Primals. They knew that killing him would deal a great blow to the enemy forces nd assassinating him was their only chance - and they succeeded. Gnarlgar's death broke the unity of the Primals, sending confusion through them and for a time they halted at the edge of Arak. The Skalaxi had bought the arakkoa time and the Breath of Rukhmar was completed. It managed to take out most of the Primal sources, ensuring they would never again return.

Apexis Bridge Is Falling Down (Year -1,200): The Apexis had thrived into an empire and their population had increased greatly: believing themselves to be the most powerful force in the world. The Apexis dedicated themselves to the advancement of science and magic, and knowledge became their culture's most important resource. The Anhar and Skalax became the caretakers of wisdom: recording important parts of history, the study of magic, and information about the world and its various creatures. The Anhari and Skalaxi sorcerers combined their magic to develop Apexis Crystals. Just by touching one of the crystals, one would consume all of the knowledge contained within and could even experience the memories of whoever had crafted it. The arakkoa had always been arrogant and this arrogrance increased after their victory against their victory against the Primals. They deemed those who walked the surface to be unclean and used their own constructs to mine and gather other resources from the ground. During the height of Apexis culture, a small group of Anhari priests sought out the remains of Rukhmar. They found her charred bones near the spire, and they used their magics to resurrect her - alas, this was only partly successful. The reanimated Rukhmar only possessed a fraction of her power and intellect. The Apexis still revered her as their goddess who had been reborn.The Anhari infused her with their Light powers, granting her a longer lifespan, whereas the Anhari priests built sun temple around the Breath of Rukhmar used centuries before. Hundreds of arakkoa gathered each year to celebrate the Apexis victory and honour Rukhmar. Unfortunately, a rivalry developed between the Anhar and Skalax as each wanted to be greater in numbers and power than the other. The Anhari knew that to seize power they would need to control knowledge. Their leader Priest-Lord Velthreek order his followers to gather as many Apexis crystals as they could, and the Anhari did so in secret over a number of years, storing them in their sun temple atop the spire. The Skalaxi and their leader, Sorcerer-Lord Salavass discovered what was happening. They believed that knowledge was a basic right for all arakkoa and Salavass demanded the release of the crystals. However, Velthreek ignored this. He declared the Anhari the sole rulers of the Apexis and that they would decide who would access the crystals and their knowledge, stating that he and the Anhari were the living representatives of Rukhmar herself. Salavas knew his order was doomed if the Skalaxi had power over all of the crystals. He gathered his followers, launching an attack at the sun temple to take the Apexis crystals by force. The civil war overtook the spire for months on end, and to turn the tide of the conflict the Anhari harnessed the Breath of Rukhmar. As the weapon ignited and they prepared to incinerate the Skalaxi, Salavass, forseeing this as the end of his people, cast a spell to destabilize the Breath of Rukhmar. It worked with catastrophic consequences: a giant explosion erupted from the Breath of Rukhmar, instantly killing most of the arakkoa on the spire and shattering the land, turning all to dark. The event split Arak's spire into many smaller spires and the surrounding region was left a barren wasteland.It came to be known as the Spires of Arak. Many generations would pass before both life and the arokkoa to recover. The Apexis society had been shattered, leaving new cultures to rise from the ashes. In the years to come, what happened to the Apexis to make them vanish would become a mystery. 

Oh, Ogre (Year -1,000): After Apexis society collapsed, arakkoa priests and sorcerers had spread across the land, taking as many Apexis crystal as they could. Two hundred years later, small groups of what remained of the Skalax began to search the land for more of these lost pieces of knowledge and power. Thye wished to keep the wonders of the land and possibly even revive the lost glory of the Apexis. The Skalaxi leader of this age, Yonzi, discovered a cache buried beneath the ruins of an Apexis settlement now occupied by the ogron and their ogre slaves. Ogron were far too hostile, however the ogres were more intelligent than the ogron and had been angered by their enslavement. Secretly, the Skalaxi approached the ogres and offered the teach them arcane magic. Because the ogres were descendants of Grond who was in turn a creation of the titan Aggramar, they were naturally attuned to the arcane. One of the first ogres to master the power was Gog, who the Skalaxi believed to be the perfect leader to incite rebellion. Gog did rebel, but not against the ogron: he targeted the gronn, whom the ogron and ogres revered and feared as gods. Gog managed to kill several gronn alone and these stories of his power spread hope among the captive ogres. Under Gog, the ogres rose up against their ogron warlords and Gog was renamed Gorgog: "King Gog". The city became Goria, "Throne of the King". The Skalaxi quickly moved into Goria to search for Apexis crystals and artifacts in the ruins Goria was built on, but Gorgog quickly put an end to it: seeing the potential in the power in these ruins. Yonzi and his Skalaxi were enraged and they decided to take the land by force. They released a suprise attack upon Goria but the ogres were able to fight back with their brute strength and newly found magical abilities. The arakkoa were defeated and Yonzi was captured, enduring a slow and gruesome death. Within the gradually  expanding Gorian Empire Apexis crystals became highly prized and eagerly sought out by ogre sorcerers.

Not In The In-Group (Year -600): The next arakkoan culture was that of the sun-worshipping High Arakkoa. The greatest and most loved king of these arakkoa was known as Terokk. The Anhar order shared power with the line of kings, but worship of Rukhmar had become twisted and distorted by time, and respect for Anzu had long since disappeared. The Sethekk Hollow, formed from the cursed blood of the dead god Sethe, had become a form of punishment and any who disagreed with the Anhari were deemed heretics and traitors and dumped into the pools. They would undergo similar flightless mutations to Anzu. Terokk's victory over the saberon Pridelord Karash, who had been tormenting the arakkoa and causing them to ask why Rukhmar had apparently withdrawn her favour, caused the arakkoa to celebrate Terokk as a living legend going so far as to claim he was Rukhmar's reincarnation. The Anhari began to grow nervous, for up until this point they alone had been allowed to speak in the sun goddess's name. Terokk used his widespread support to build a new city, Skyreach. He created new laws restricting the authority of the Anhar order, declaring that high arakkoan society must be guided by a thirst for knowledge and wisdom, not by fear and superstition. This prompted the Anhari to action. They cast Terokk down from Skyreach into the pools of the Sethekk Hollow. Anzu however that took pity on Terokk, experiecing Sethe’s curse himself. He gave him command over both sorcery and shadow magic  with which to save his sanity and The Eye of Anzu with which to contact him. Terokk had become one of the Arakkoa Outcasts, and with the help of Anzu built the city of Skettis among Apexis ruins. as a refuge for his kind. The areas of Talador near to the Spires of Arak came under their control and became known as Terokkar Forest. Meanwhile, from that day forward Skyreach would be ruled not by a king but by the Anhari alone, now calling themselves the Adherents of Rukhmar.The Adherents covered up Terokk's rule: rewriting his reign as a dark time that was driven by a tyrant. According to them, Terokk's tyranny was brought to an end when the Adherents rose up against him and liberated the arakkoa from oppression. Rukhmar then turned her back on Terokk and he became shrivelled and maddened. Other lawbreakers would suffer the same fate and those who survived would find their ways to the Arakkoa Outcasts and their building civilisation. Sethe's curse passed from one generation of Outcasts to the next without any hope of a cure. Rukhmar and her Adherents feared and hated these cursed arakkoa and the dark magic gifted to their Talonpriests by Anzu, and so waged war on them. The Adherents searched for ancient Apexis technology, unleashing powerful golems to and turrets that fired beams of concentrated light. As the years went by, Terokk's health declined, grief tore at his heart, and Sethe's curse overtook his mind. He began to hate the world, abandoning Skettis and even sacrificing the lower castes of his own people to dark powers in search of a cure. Hoping to rejuvenate their king, the Talonpriests sealed Terokk away deep within the shadows. All that remained of their beloved leader were several artifacts he left behind, among them his spear, his mask and his writings. 

Sethekking Hell (Between Year -600 and Year -2): At some point the arakkoa invaded the Tanaan Jungle and attacked the Bleeding Hollow clan, forcing the orcs to hide in fear in their villages until they were inspired and led to victory by Kilrogg Deadeye. While it's unclear if these were members of the Adherents or not, the arakkoa at the Den of Haal'esh in modern-day Hellfire Peninsula may be remnants of this invasion.The high arakkoa predicted the arrival of the draenei a century before it happened. After some time, the Arakkoa Outcasts sought to contact Terokk. Their attempts failedl, however, and without any champions to guide them the Outcasts became increasingly dire and desperate. The Sethekk cult, followers of the dead god Sethe, gained more power, and the Outcasts spiraled into darkness. The loss of Terokk also caused the loss of The Eye of Anzu, cutting off communication between the Outcasts and the only god who had watched over them after being rejected by their own creator, and the Sethekk began to harness Sethe's powers to find the raven god and bend him to their will. The only arakkoa who would continue to worship Anzu were those of the Grishna cult, located today in the Blade's Edge Mountains of northern Outland. The Grishna would come to be considered heretics.

Give A Bird A Break (Year -2): The arakkoa suffered terribly during both the Horde's rampage across their world and the civil war between Adherents and Outcasts. Tthe Sethekk and the Outcasts had abandoned Sethe in favor of an unnamed Old God. The summoning of Murmur and the destruction of Auchindoun was mistakenly seen by the Sethekk as the arrival of their master on the planet, and so the Sethekk leader Ikiss led them to the ruins.  The Dark Conclave attempted to summon the Old God in Shadowmoon Valley to stop the Horde, but Gul'dan intervened and foiled their rituals. The high arakkoa posed one of the greatest threats to the Horde due to their rediscovered Apexis technology, most noteably the solar cannon based at Skyreach. Warchief Blackhand called on Kargath Bladefist and the Shattered Hand clan, which lived in Arak, to deal with the arakkoa. Kargath also enlisted the aid of the Burning Blade and Dragonmaw to form an attack force. They were not prepared for the arakkoa's weaponry. Dozens of orcs died right at the beginning of storming Skyreach. Kargath contacted the Outcasts in the hopes of gaining an ally. The Outcasts agreed on one condition: if the arakkoa infiltrated Skyreach and destroyed the weaponry, the orcs would join the fight and slaughter the high arakkoa. Then, the Outcasts could take Skyreach. The deal was struck and they were initially successful. Alas, in the blood craze, the orcs turned on the Outcast. Kargath knew they were intelligent and may use the technology within Skyreach against them one day. Some high arakkoa were taken prisoner and cast into the Sethekk Hollow to test the stories the Outcasts had told them. By the end of the attack, high arakkoan civilization was destroyed and nearly all the Outcasts remained. The Outcasts shrouded themselves in shadows to hide from any further attacks. The high arakkoa who had recently been transformed turned to Grizzik, a former Skyreach guard. He led his followers to Auchindoun, knowing most orcs feared the supposedly haunted ruins. Dark forces had claimed Auchindoun years ago, and the arakkoa spent their time studying and worshipping them.

Get Outta My Outland (Year 8): The first known contact of an arakkoa with the races of Azeroth occurred during the Alliance of Lordaeron's expedition to Draenor several years after the Horde's rampage. Grizzik, eager to exact his revenge against the orcs, volunteered his people as trackers and guides for  Danath Trollbane's forces, leading them to both the Bleeding Hollow fortress of Auchindoun. When Draenor shattered, the Spires of Arak were destroyed, taking with them Rukhmar and the remains of Sethe. The arakkoa in Skettis, those who had fled to Auchindoun and the dark corners of Terokkar Forest, escaped the destruction. By the time the Alliance and Horde came to Outland, the servants of Terokk who was still worshipped by the arakkoa, were committig evil in his name as the Talon King himself had fallen to the curse’s stage of madness as he had stayed too long in the shadows. At Veil Shienor and Veil Reskk, the Eyes of Skettis allowed Terokk to spy on those areas. At Veil Skith, the arakkoa used the Darkstone of Terokk as an altar of worship and kidnapped children. At Veil Rhaze, the spirits of arakkoa slain in the Auchindoun explosion remained with Terokk's influence remaining on them. At Veil Lithic, his minions corrupted kaliri into his service. At Veil Shalas, the closest colony to Skettis, the arakkoa sages conducted wars against the Light. A group called the Skettis Exiles had been taken in by the benevolent naaru A'dal and were led by Kirrik the Awakened. They saw Terokk and sought to end his destructive ways. Within the Lower City of Shattrath, they battled against Terokk's forces. Ikiss and the The Sethekk had been working for years in Auchindoun bend Anzu to their will - and they had succeeded. They forced Anzu to attack the Emerald Dream. The Alliance and the Horde assaulted their stronghold, killing Ikiss and ending Anzu’s suffering. Elsewhere in Skettis, the arakkoa continued to attempt to snuff out any opposition to reviving Terokk from the shadows in which at this point had led to outright battles. The Sha'tari Skyguard, an airborne detachment Sha'tar warriors, established a base at Blackwind Landing, just outside of the Blackwind Valley. The Talonpriests however now lived in the realm of shadows alongside Terokk, making them impossible to attack. Adventurers, with the help of the Sha'tari Skyguard and Skettis Exiles, prepared a ritual to summon Talon King before the right time when he would not be at his strongest.This led to Terokk to attacked the adventurers for interfering. However, the finally legacy of Arak was ended by adventurer delivering the final blow to him. Many arakkoa still exist in Outland but are scattered, without leadership or a single defining leader.

Help Arrives (Year 31): On an alternate Draenor, the Arakkoa Outcasts got the champions they so desperately needed. Adventurers met with the arakkoa Reshad during their darkest hour, when the Adherents of Rukhmar were in the middle of their genocidal campaign. With these champions' help, the Adherents' Apexis excavations were set back and Outcasts were saved from slavery. The long-lost Eye of Anzu was also found, at long last reuniting the arakkoa with Anzu for the first time since Terokk vanished. The Sethekk's ritual to dominate Anzu's will was stopped, Ikiss was killed, and Anzu slew Sethe's spirit. The Sethekk would never rise to power as they had in the main timeline.The Outcasts attempt to summon and commune with Terokk was successful in this universe, now that their champions from Azeroth-Prime had aided them in gathering his relics. However, Reshad believed that summoning Terokk physically would be a mistake and it was likely that he would only spiral them further into darkness. Instead, against Shadow-Sage Iskar's wishes, the champion was imbued with Terokk's power and took on his form to battle Kargath Bladefist. Despite the Avatar of Terokk losing the battle, Terokk's spirit told the arakkoa to forge their own path, lay the past to rest, and raise new champions.With Anzu's blessing, the Outcasts called upon Ka'alu, his consort. Ka'alu aided the Outcasts in an assault on the Adherents' Apexis weapons, destroying their solar-powered cannons. Afterward, Skyreach itself was attacked and High Sage Viryx, leader of the Adherents of Rukhmar, was killed. This led to the formation of the Order of the Awakened, an organization of both cursed and high arakkoa; however, the Arakkoa Outcasts do not trust them.  As for Rukhmar herself, she was ultimately slain as well.With their champions reuniting them with Anzu, dismantling the Sethekk, and stopping the genocide of the Adherents, the Arakkoa Outcasts found hope in the darkness and looked toward a brighter future. Some of the Outcasts came to realize that the ancient arakkoa had known that having light and dark in equal measure was natural. Only together would the Outcasts and their winged cousins succeed. After Gul'dan's takeover of the Iron Horde, the Burning Legion began its invasion of Draenor. The Sethekk allied themselves with the Legion and its Shadow Council in order to revive Rasthe, son of Sethe. Also, Iskar and several other members of the Outcasts sought out the aid of Gul’dan, planning to use fel magic to curse themselves of their curse, regaining their wings. Both groups followed the Legion into Tanaan Jungle. To fight back, the Order of the Awakened began operating in the same area. Reshad spied on them and both the Horde and Alliance sent heroes to combat the Legion arakkoa. During the march of the Hellfire Citadel, Iskar and his followers were killed.

Physical traits

Life expectancy: Unknown.

Height: Arakkoa tend to be between 6-8 feet tall, depending on their cursed status.

Eye colour: The most commonly seen eye colours for Arakkoa are orange, yellow or green.

Cosmetics: Arakkoa are bird-like creatures covered in bright feathers. 

Personality traits

Other races: Arakkoa were tradtionally a race that kept out of the affairs of other creatures on Draenor. However, the Exiles have no issues allying with Horde or Alliance races in times of need.

Other creatures: Their preferred mount is the Dread Raven and they are known to keep kaliri as attack pets.

Culture

Language: Ravenspeak.

Military: Each faction has their own forces made up of many classes. Arakkoa have control over the arcane, They may also become warriors, priests, sages, druids and shaman. Talon Guards are stationed over Skettis.

Government:  Many other devisions have arisen over the years: the Skettis, the Exiles of the Lower City in Shattrath, the Sethekk and some even ally themselves with the Old Gods within the Dark Conclave. The racial leader depends on various factions: Terokk rules over the Skettis, Kirrik over the Exiles and Talon King Ikiss over the Sethekk.

Religion:  Most Arkkoa religious customs revolve around the worship of Rukhmar, who they revered as the goddess of the sun who is seen as source of their Light magic. Howeve, the Sethekk worship the Talon King. The Dark Conclave honour the Old Gods.

Traditions

Flying arakkoa also carry with them dreamcatchers that are said protect them from Sethe's curse.

The Adherents pair young arakkoa together to ensure they follow the decrees of Rukmar. They are thus symbolically called “clutch brother” or “clutch sister”.

The Adherents are known to burn their victims alive in ritualistic sacrifice.

[cannedapricot]

winter sun.

in which a boy who resembles the summer sun waltzes into your life on a cold winter’s day. 

word count: 3.4k of fluff and slice of life again because i’m unable to write anything else kms

The first time you encountered Lee Donghyuck was on a day where little white ice crystals fell from the grey sky, tossing and turning in the air until they eventually came to a halt, falling on top of one another as they rest on the man made roads.

Even the trees were shivering in the temperature. They shook their bare branches every time someone moved passed them with heavy steps, ridding themselves of some of the freezing snow that built up on them overnight.

Shuffling along the snow strewn walkway, you attempted to nuzzle your red,  numb nose further into the red, thick scarf that you had tightly wrapped around your neck. It was a gift from your grandma for Christmas, a set along with the  red gloves and beanie hat from the multiple holiday seasons before. The color choice was bright and obnoxious, contrasting against the plain, white background you were walking through in order to get to your destination. 

You scowled as your scarf loosens up and gets caught on the bag on your back, exposing the tiniest bit of your neck to the cold. Pulling your covered hands out of your coat pockets, you clumsily readjusted the woolen armor that was fending you from the bite of winter, making sure that it won’t come loose again on your journey.

A puff of hot air escaped your lips as you quickened your pace, wanting to escape the tormenting weather as soon as possible. As much as you loved snow, the temperature forced you inside for many of the cold days, cowering before the crackling fireplace.

The glass door creaked open as you pushed on it. It was as if it was whining about the weather with you. Letting out a sigh of relief at how warm the interior of the small, local coffee shop was, you make your way towards the back table, where two of your friends were already seated.

“Good Morning, Y/N.” Jeno greeted. The boy’s eyes curves up into crescents at the sight of your nose matching the rest of your attire as you stumbled over to him.

You collapsed onto the old, bouncy sofa opposite him. It let out a low pitched wheeze at the sudden weight as Jaemin, the boy situated next to Jeno, raised an eyebrow at you in amusement. 

“Matching your clothing pieces with your nose?” He asks jokingly, sliding the hot mug of coffee he had ordered for you across the table. You scoffed, prying the thick, knitted gloves off of your fingers. Which were also, a matching red.

“At least I won’t get lost in a snowstorm being this bright.”

Jeno laughed heartily at your retort, earning a weird glance from the group of middle aged women from the table over.

“Let’s get onto this stupid project now, shall we?” You said with a roll of your eyes. Though the small smile you had hanging off your lips gave it away that you didn’t feel annoyed at all.

You had thanked the gods when your history teacher told you that you could choose the people you worked with. You may as well loose your mind if your were put with Chenle and Jisung again. They were fun to be with, yes, but did they do any of the work? Nope. At least Jaemin and Jeno did work.

Pulling a sleek laptop out of the bag you heaved through the snow, you started the discussion about King Philip's War in the 1670s. It was as if the three of you fell through a wormhole once the research started. The warm smell of coffee beans that had once filled the air disappearing as you dived head first into the war between the English Colonists and the Native American Tribes. 

None of you paid attention to the chiming of the bell against the door whenever someone trudged with a trail of snow in their wake, opting to joke around with each other during break times instead.

But when a soft, warm breeze floated through the open door instead of the usual harsh, winter wind, you couldn’t help but look up from the Wikipedia page you were on.

There, standing in front of the fragile glass door, stood a light haired male brushing snow off of his dark coat. The said person met the barista’s eyes and when a smile broke out on his face, you felt the whole temperature of the room rise. 

“Hiya Mark, sorry I’m late. A snowstorm just kicked up outside.” He voiced, an almost honey-like sound filling the air before moving across to the counter.  Mark, the part time barista you had gotten familiar with thanks to the many times you frequented this particular coffee shop, clicked his tongue before meeting his friend. 

“I guess we’ll have to wait it out before leaving, huh?” 

“Does this count as overtime? You should ask your boss and earn some extra cash.” 

“Lee Donghyuck, my boss hesitates when we ask for our paychecks in advance, do you really think he’ll agree?”

“Lee Donghyuck.” You breathed, voice barely a whisper as you processed the name in your head. Snickers were suddenly heard from the boys right in front of you. Snapping your head to glare at them, you found them trying to hide their mouths behind their mugs. 

“What’s so funny?” You asked, taking a sip of your own caffeinated drink. 

“The fact that you’re staring so boldly.” Jaemin stated, a dumb smile you wanted to wipe off on his face. 

“Also, it’s worth mentioning that the redness on your nose spread onto the whole of your face. It’s matching the scarf even more now.” 

It was hard to stop yourself from pulling Jaemin into a headlock right then and there, so you settled for a kick to his shin. As your meddling friend hissed in pain with Jeno laughing into his latte, you felt a pair of eyes on you. Directing your eyes towards the direction, you wanted the creaky floorboards to swallow you whole in that moment. Because Lee Donghyuck had witnessed all of this with a sparkle in his eyes.

The second time you, encountered Lee Donghyuck was on an awfully dreary day. The sun must’ve had a fight with the moon that day because the heavens were crying, sending a heavy shower over your little town. 

Fat tears fell with a dramatic plop, spreading themselves out on the pathways. Lucky ones met with their friends and formed a puddle together, reflecting the sky and reminding everyone with their eyes on the ground about the grey sky above.

It was days like this that made you crave instant noodles. So you took the chance when the clouds seemed like they were starting to calm down from their sobbing fit. You threw on your old, neon green raincoat, which helped very little against harsh rain, and decided to head out to your nearest convenience store.

You danced around the puddles of water, twisting and turning in order to save your sneakers and jeans from getting wet. The last thing you wanted was the gross feeling of clothing sticking to your skin when it could’ve been avoided.

A pleasant tune flowed from your lips as the dainty bell rang above your head, announcing your entrance to whoever was in the store during the humid weather. 

The unknown song you were humming echoed throughout the mini mart, following your figure as you took your time browsing through the aisles. Your eyes light up the sight of your favorite brand of noodles being in stock before sweeping a bulk bag of five into your arms. Having the goods in your clutch, you make a beeline for the checkout, wanting to start eating as soon as possible.

“Hello, Y/N” The cashier, Renjun, greets as you appear in front of him. You nod in return to his greeting, attention taken by the Chupa Chups that were to the part-timer’s right.

“Were you planning to eat one here?” The Chinese boy asks, settling your food down into a plastic bag. You hum, answering positive to his question. Renjun’s brows then drew together in a crease.

“Unlucky, the rain’s really coming down hard now, our tables and chairs are soaked.”

“What?” You flipped your head around to observe the furniture placed outside, groaning at the sight of water droplets falling onto the smooth surface with no mercy. Your acquaintance pats your arm in pity, handing you your bag.

“I’ll have to wait it out, this stupid jacket won’t do anything against this rain.” 

So you found yourself leaning against the brightly painted exterior walls of the twenty-four hour mart, seeking refuge under the slight overhang as the clouds laughed at your misery. You cursed the weather under your breath, looking up at the heavens with frown on your face. How dare they delay you from eating your warm meal.

A hooded figure that came splashing through the wet conditions suddenly caught your eye and you immediately rose up from your sulking position, eyes on the newcomer in curiosity. You felt a familiar rise in temperature as the hood came off and the person turned to smile brightly at you.

“Terrible day isn’t it?” 

Your eyes turned into saucers as the pleasant voice canceled out the snickers of the harsh clouds above. The boy at the coffee shop had once again slid into your line of vision. 

“Yeah.” You mumbled, stuttering to get the word out. Turning your eyes away from the beaming male, you cringed. Why did you stutter? Why did your voice barely come out louder than a whisper? Why did your ears feel as though they were on fire?

“Nice coat.” Lee Donghyuck mentions casually, glancing at the neon choice with a glint in his eyes.

“It’s just as bright as your scarf from the other day.” 

Great. He remembers. You mentally start beating yourself up, why does the cutest boy in town have to catch you wearing the brightest clothes in your closet every time you meet.

A small smile spreads across Donghyuck’s face. You were embarrassed, it was obvious. The red ears, the way your face scrunched up in regret, it was endearing. 

He’d love to get to know you more.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He says, clumsily pulling his fingers out of the pockets of the thick, dark jacket. You watch, confused as he makes his way into the mart, waving to Renjun as he does. The temperature drops down again as he disappears.

Donghyuck appears again a few moments later, emerging from the little store with a neon green umbrella in his hands. 

“It was the only one they had, I’m not teasing you, I swear.” The boy reminiscent of summer explains, pushing the metal branches up to reveal a frog design on the plastic. Donghyuck steps out into the rain, the frog above his head shielding him from the wet bullets. He motions for you to step under the children’s umbrella with him and because the rain didn’t look like it wanted to stop anytime soon, you did.

Shoulders brushing against each other under the small frog, you were granted a closer look at the breath-taking boy. A quick peek up past your lashes made you realize that the small moles that were spread on his left cheek and his neck formed a familiar constellation you’d see in the night sky. Just when you though he couldn’t get any more ethereal, he did.

“See something you like on my face?” He asks , craning his head to meet your eyes. There it was again, the familiar heat climbing up your neck. 

“I- Uh-”

“You’ve been staring at me the whole time we’ve been together.” His lips rose up in a teasing smirk, adjusting the frog so your shoulder didn’t get wet. 

“Yeah, well, there’s a constellation on your cheek, and people like looking at constellations formed by the stars.”

You were well aware that the babble you had stumbled out made little to no sense. If Jaemin and Jeno were here, they’d be on the floor laughing at your feeble attempts at conversation. 

A rosy hue powders Donghyuck’s cheeks, something you would’ve noticed had you not been wallowing in self-pity. 

“I’ll take that you mean you like looking at my face.” 

The two of you exchange names and numbers at your doorstep (though you already knew his name), agreeing to meet up sometime soon. But as the frog turned back to defend his master from the attack of the rain once again, you noticed how wet his right shoulder was.

Your shoulders was perfectly dry.

The third, fourth, fifth and rest of your encounters were history. The two of you met up often during the last few weeks. You learnt how to hold a decent conversation with the man you oh so adored, you even introduced him to your friends.

“Chenle, Jisung, Jaemin and Jeno, meet Donghyuck. You can call him Hyuck if you’d like.”

“So this is the dude you’ve been gushing to me over text about?”

“Jisung, you better close your trap before I tape it shut.”

And though you didn’t need introducing, you also got close to Mark and Renjun, the people Hyuck claims are the “most closest things he’s got to friends”. Renjun had rolled his eyes at his claim, pulling his same aged friend into a choke hold.

“Yeah right, stop putting on a front, Hyuck. You’d do anything for us.”

You treasured the time you spent with the glowing boy, always feeling as though you were in the middle of summer vacation instead of the winter semester. 

It wasn’t until one day, when the sky sent dainty little crystals down to visit Earth again, when you finally came clean with your feelings for the boy that made it feel like summer whenever he appeared.

It almost felt like deja vu. The sky seemed sick of crying everyday for the last week and, as if an apology, sent fairies that took the form of snowflakes to flutter down make up for the grey weather.

Frost gathered on your glass pane and tinkering sounds could be heard as the fairies bumped into the transparent surface. You watched from the warmth of your bed as a blanket of white started to settle over the town for the second time in a row. The snow fell softly, nudging itself into every nook and cranny. Contrasting against the soft, sparkling background, a hurrying figure that donned a bright red scarf caught your eye.

You blew you nose for what felt like the hundredth time within the hour before throwing the scrunched tissue into the bin, where a pile had been forming. It landed just as Hyuck burst into your cosy room, shaking stray snowflakes out of his coffee colored hair. 

“Hyuck, my carpet’s gonna get wet.” You croaked between your sniffles, already reaching for another piece of tissue. 

“I had to get the medicine to a certain bedridden person asap, didn’t have time to shake it all off before entering.” The boy you grown fond of states, unwrapping the thick scarf you had lent to him. 

Scoffing, you hid a blossoming smile underneath the tissue you prepared to blow your nose in. Acting like you were annoyed, you said,

“Well, if a certain person didn’t start a snowball fight yesterday, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Hey! You definitely started it first, I saw you roll the first ball.” He retorted childishly, flinging the box of pills onto your lap. Shrugging off the same jacket he wore on the day you first met, he wanders off into your kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

“Take your medication then get some rest. I’ll go make some soup, yeah?” 

You grunt in response, receiving the glass Donghyuck offered you gratefully. He ruffles your hair before shuffling out of your room, making sure to close the door softly behind him.

Obediently, after swallowing the tasteless pill, you snuggle back under your blanket and lull yourself into a dreamless sleep. Falling asleep in peace knowing that Hyuck was now out of the cold.

You awoke to Donghyuck gently shaking you, fluttering your eyes open to the boy sitting on the edge of your bed with steaming bowl of chicken soup in his hands. 

“Good morning, your highness.” He says as you sit up, the bed creaking from the shift of weight. 

“Care for some soup?” 

Laughter fills the air as you reach for the ceramic bowl. Instead of passing the bowl to you, Hyuck spoons up some of the hearty liquid and presses it to your lips. 

Hesitantly, you accept this offer, though you were arguing as you did.

“Hyuck, give me the bowl, I have hands!”

“You’re sick, I don’t want your shaky hands to spill what I’ve spent the last few hours on.”

“I’m a grown person-”

“Says the person who threw a snowball at me first.”

Pouting, you turn your gaze out the window in mock annoyance. Donghyuck blows on the next spoonful before bringing it in front of you again, afraid that it was still too hot.

Giving in, you allow your friend to spoon feed you and slowly, the bowl became empty. The second Donghyuck placed the bowl down, you pull him down onto the bed with you, screaming in joy as he yelled out in fright.

“What the hell, Y/N?!”

“If I’m sick, you’re getting sick with me!” You announced, rolling around with the boy still in your embrace.

“Let go, I’m warning you!” Hyuck exclaims before his hands wiggled against your sides, resulting in a hysterical laughter bubbling out of you.

The squabble continued on for a while, the two of you messing with each other until your seemingly endless energy finally gave out. Flopping back onto your mattress, the two of you laid side by side, taking in big breaths to calm down from the laughing fit.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever thought of dating anyone?”

Hyuck’s question caught you off guard. Your eyes widened and your breath suddenly gets caught in your throat.

“Of course I have, why?” You ask, propping yourself up to face him.

Donghyuck sits up and looks at the wall opposite the bed. He was fiddling with his t-shirt, bunching it up around his fingers and letting it loose again only to repeat the action.

“The person you think about dating, can it be me?”

His confession came out rushed, his voice unusually quiet and the air silent afterwards.

Again, you felt it. The burning ears, the reddening cheeks and the tingling neck. The feeling when you first met the golden boy, it was still there. 

It never left.

So you crawled up in front of Donghyuck, cupped his equally burning cheeks and brought his face up to meet your eyes.

“I mean, you don’t have to give me a reply now, I just- I just want you to think about the possibility because I really, really like you and-”

“I’ve always thought you talked too much.” You giggled, placing your forehead against his. 

“I’ll date you.”

It was felt his breath hitch and saw his eye widen, the gleam you’ve grown to love sparkling as he processed your words.

“Really? Oh my god, you don’t have to feel pressured just because I asked, I just saw Jaemin holding your hand the other day and got jealous and wanted you to think about me as well-”

“Shut up, Hyuck. I’m not pressured to do anything. I like you.”

Donghyuck let out a excited screech before peppering your face with kisses. He pulls you back down on the bed, a big, bright smile that could rival your scarf on his face.

“Don’t kiss me or you’ll really get sick.” You warned against your new boyfriend’s chest.

“I’ll do what I want.” The boy reminiscent of summer tells you, giddy with happiness.

“You’ll have to look after me anyways.”

“Sunflower, I have class now, you’re going to have to let me go.”

“But you’re warm.” You wine, nuzzling your numb nose into your boyfriend’s arm.

Mark scrunches his face up in distaste as he passes by the table you were situated at in the coffee shop. Jaemin and Jeno both had equally grossed out expressions etched on their face. 

“Alright, but if I fail Physics, I’m blaming you.” Hyuck scolds playfully, placing a gentle peck on the crown of your head.

“Gross. Is it bad if I miss single Hyuck and single Y/N?”

“When they’re doing things like this out in public? No.”

[kaiju-z]

Seon Adventures Episode 16: On The Road To Crystalgate

So, this one took a bit to get to, due to my want to finish part of a personal project. But here we are!

It is the morning after the Flurry x 2 battle.

The party are awake, fully rested, healed and feeling stronger than before!

After breakfast is eaten and everyone is ready, the lot of the Cultbusters + Ficus load up on the carriage and take to the road once more. The ROAD TO CRYSTALGATE CITY! (play that funky tune!)

After what feels like an eternity of baby related humor, with the party basically agreeing that Luctan is Dadtan, they reach a fortified settlement, along the river’s path. Thick 30 to 40ft tall walls protect it from incursions and tents surround a proper building resembling an inn.  On the outside of the walled part, there’s only one entrance, a big wooden gate. This is the town of Cidinium.

Asking around, part out of curiosity for local lore and part to get information on the baby, Luctan learns that the tents belong to the relatives of the soldiers.  Quite common for families to stop here, see their loved ones, check on them, see their kids. Asking one of the soldiers in particular, regarding the elven family,  the battlescarred, green haired Half-Orc remembers seeing a few coming and going. They think they remember someone vaglue matching the description leaving a few days ago.

During the queary, we learn that Peppery Pete had magically appeared in the man’s room, which is a welcome reprieve from the grim topic of the child’s family. Luctan learns that up, along the way there is an orphanage that they could leave the little one, if they don’t find relatives of his. Though it is possible that the elves they saw were sent down to Sa Doma, from this outpost.

Luctan gives instructions to retrieve and burry the bodies, maybe ask around, otherwise for his own people, in case they too fell victims to Ogres.

During the conversation Ficus holds a firm, encouraging hand on Belli’s shoulder, as she is not on good terms with authorities.

And the party moves along.

On the way to Lebovia, the formentioned place with the orphanage, Mournimar admits that he feels sick of nature, given the most recent experience. Burk, on the other hand, feels alright in it,fine with it even. It’s just that he doesn’t like anything in it. With the exception of Rimefang.

Rimefang is special

Belli offers to cut Mournimar’s hair, after he talks of wanting it shortened, some...

But. Ah.

Some failed instructions on Ficus and Luctan’s part later cause the poor Bard to cut a bit too much, giving Mournimar that short hair.

(He basically becomes Steve Harrington from Stranger Things. Mournimar is Tiefling Steve).

Key phrases used later and Ficus gets dissed by Belli for his hair choice and Luctan suffers a bad case of the war-flashbags at the mention of “cut tail”, having to then be moved, off the reigns of the horses and in the passanger cart for some R & R with Archie and Orion, the orange cats. One familiar, one normal kitty.

Urged by Mournimar, Belli sits with Luck and apologizes for what happened. Luck, in cat heaven, tells her no hard feelings were had over the phrasing.  Luctan DJ scratch-pats the cats and just nods to Belli. (and that’s where we get that photo, y’all).

The path to Lebovia is very uneventful for the next few days, 3 to be exact, it’s very chill, even. But they get there and Luctan does some more queary-snooping.

But sadly, it’s hard to tell. He gets left with the impression that maybe they were from either Sa Doma or Gorrum.

The party agree to take a rest in Lebovia, with Luctan opting to hold onto the baby, until he is sure he has run out of leads.

The party split to three rooms, with Ficus and Amelia having a conversation in the one they end up in (super secret chat convo!), Ficus very much offering his “services” to Luctan, but the disguised tiefling isn’t in the mood (given the fatherly duties over young Chucklefuck, how could he?!).

Luctan and Burk share a conversation, where Luctan learns a bit about Burk’s enemies, the two remaining. The Golliath appeared quite generic, for his folk. Big, gray and swole. The Half-Elf appears to be with red war paint to make the eyes look shallow/bloody, very shortly cropped black hair, near bald and 5’9” in height. No names given. "I didn’t exactly ask them, while they were slaughtering my people.” answered Burk.

Understanding, Luctan offers to teach Burk to read, something Burk will keep in mind.

On the next day, on the path along Lebovia, Belli and Ficus would know of a cut-off path that goes to the rich people area. Belli promises “no robberies”. Using the air quotes as she speaks.

As they go around Gorrum, they see a silhouette of a military complex, where weapons for the army get forged. Barracks that go several stories high and they can hear military drills being enhanced with thaumaturgy. Shit’s whack, yo.

No one really wants to talk with Luctan about the baby. They all kinda look weirdly at the party, except for Luctan.

Whack.

As vengeance for the way the guy treats the party, Belli has Orion, in seagull form, shit on the guy’s head. Then in the eye. And then, through Thaumaturgy, thanks to Mournimar, ruin the man’s reputation by having Orion say, in the guy’s voice “Oh, shit! I have chlamydia!”

The chaos trio have a good laugh on the way back to the cart, before they continue on their way with the rest of the party. “Don’t Frick with the Clique”, as Belli puts it.

As the party travel up the road, Burk, Amelia and Mournimar notice a kind of, unmoving large shape tucked into a corner. Mournimar gets a bit closer and sees a human woman, lying against a tree with an arrow straight through her chest, pinning her to the tree.

Mournimar checks the woman to see if she’s alive. She doesn’t seem to be breathing. Way less blood comes out of the wound, once Mournimar removes it. Cure Wounds don’t work.

In her hand is a small folded envelope. Belli takes the envelope, there’s a wax seal and only Belli can make a check on  it (Ficus would have recognized is as well, but he rolled a Nat 1, so it didn’t matter).

Her parents mentioned The Triad, back in the day, a group of really high class exclusive bards, but they were never allowed in, which was strange, since they were always allowed places. Hoity-Toity elven bards.

The name and address on the paper is N. Braville, Shadowspire Manor, Platinum District, Crystalgate.

This is a letter for Nelatha! The words “Quick and Urgent” quite evident on the paper!    (congrats, guys! We got a dellivery quest!)

With her base perception,  Amelia finds a coinpurse with 15 gold and 2 platinum, while Luctan’s eyes fall on a dagger (that boy loves him some pointy weapons). 

It, the coin purse, has the emblem of the Messenger’s guild, but it’s embroidered in golden silk and based on the badges she has, she’s a high ranking messenger of the guild.

The dagger itself is fairly normal, but it does hold the name  “ leliana “ in Elven, which Mournimar translates for him.

Seeng as the kill is quite fresh and a pursuer is surely nearby, the party decide to burry the body and make their way to Crystalgate, warn the Messenger guild of their fallen comrade and also deliver the letter to Nel. 

On the way, Belli sends a message to Nel, regarding what happened.

With the knowledge that the Narah girl can cast Message, Nel “can’t wait” to get more messages from Belli. She will wait for their arrival. She’s with her mom for the next few days. She’ll see them then.

Belli mimics Nel’s voice to the party. Amelia’s eye twitches during this bit.

The party head north a bit, up the stream, after this. The sun is setting earlier than expected, so we camp, before reaching the Narah mansion.

Deciding on Turns, Mournimar takes the first, with nothing eventful occuring. Luctan follows, with Ficus and Belli to be after him.

...

DURING LUCTAN’S TURN!

During Luctan’s watch, he notices that there’s a slight shake, from the brush nearby. There seems to be disturbed earth.  From walking around the rocky alcove, what seems to initially be a weirdly shaped dog, with a weird, bulbous head, turns out to be a canine with 2 heads. (Yeah, given Luctan’s Human/Tiefling personas, that is oddly apt for him to find).

One head growls at Luctan, the other carries a piece of parchment, staring at him.  It walks towards him as he wonders, to no aveil, what this being is, exactly. 

It comes towards him, slowly. It drops the scroll 10ft from where they’ré camped and then backs up.

Luctan approaches, takes the scroll and-

On the inside, in very neat letters, it says (DEEZ NUTS!!! Nah, nah, just kidding. It says:) “Give me the letter and have it be over with.”

Luctan writes a message back, drops the scroll at the dog, the dog clearly isn’t happy. It waits a few seconds, expecting something. Luctan just smiles. The dog eventually rises to it’s feet and howls from both heads.

Dex saves time-

Out of nowhere, a powerful fireball strikes upon the sleeping party.  Amelia, Mournimar and Belli each take 30 points of fire damage. A small spark flies from behind a rock from the south and encompasses the whole camp.

Pained, from the blast, which equally hurts him and Burk, for 15 damage, Luctan delivers his Hellish Rebuke in the direction of the caster. “CASTIGARE DI INFERNALIS!”. And causes some damage to the wily green dressed mage.

Enraged, Burk charges the wizard and swings with his axe. Recklessly, he slashes and strikes, adding on his pint sized fury onto the blow. The initial attack succeeds, but as a reaction, Burk’s second attack is blocked by the guy.

Panicking over the damage Belli,  Amelia and Mournimar took, Luctan’s body begins to glow. He reaches a hand out towards his friends as strange patterns of golden light appear over him, his disguised eyes flashing purple as he casts, for the first time ever, “Healing Word” with a powerful “No”, directed at Belli.

Confused over what had just happened, he quickly re-focuses on the sudden combat that’s begun and, with Burk handling the wizard, he charges the dog, putting it in a grapple, catching each of it’s heads. He brings the two headed dog down and commands it to “Sit”.

Rimefang, not liking the fire, makes distance between himself and the party, taking Archie the Cat along with him to safety. 

The mage, on his turn, terrified by the raging barbarian, slams his hand against the ground and brings up huge chunks of hale and Burk takes half the damage of the blast. 4 bludgeoning damage and 22 cold damage.

(Yeah, ok, so this is my bad, but I misremembered the events and initially thought the Cone of Cold was what came first?!) 

He winks at Burk and disappears into mist. And reappears on top of the rock, 20ft high.

(After out of character we agree that The Monk Dunk is the in-universe version of the fastball special), a wounded Amelia approaches Burk and offers to throw him at the wizard. Burk agrees, but the throw isn’t very productive. Burk is too beefy, ok?!

Instead, Amelia takes to her darts and strikes the man.

He looks signifigantly hurt, while Amelia wades through the difficult terrain of the Cone of Cold’s radius.

- Belli, on her turn, casts her Trademark "Sleep” on the man. This attempts reveals to the party that the man bust be elven or half-elf in race, as he shrugs it off with ease. Elves really only needing meditation to pass their time.

On her turn, Belli gives Burk one of her inspirational kazoo songs, while Ficus rises to his feet and charges the hound that Luctan grapples. With a miss, however, he takes the expedius action to make distance between himself and a very disappointed Luctan, who appears to have some pity for the two headed animal.

Mournimar’s turn. He fires his bow, shooting a sneaky arrow at the mage, piercing his body. With a second arrow, he strikes again, arrowing the magic man in the chest.

In the meanwhile of all this, a winded, wounded Morgan takes to stand before Belli. The dire wolf seems to barely keep himself vertical as he growls at the elven magic user.

(And for those wondering, according to the DM, the baby is tite, nestled between Luctan’s back and his shield. I guess you could say Luctan has a constant backpack for the little one.

On Burk’s turn, the little green man climbs like a beast up the rocks that the wizard had climbed up to and shoves said wizard off the 20ft rock. With a thud, he drops. 

Feeling inspired by Belli’s music, and using his spiked elbows, Burk takes a dive.

SMASHING on top of the winded and prone mage, thus giving us the debut of The Cragreaver People’s Elbow!

Due to the imact, the man’s head bounces sideways and he avoids what could very well have been a mortal strike by the goblin.

Asking if Morgan’s ok, Luctan heals him with another Healing Word. Then glares at the dog, trying to wrestle free from his grip and, glaring, he shouts, using thaumaturgy. “HEEL!”

The Dog of Janus promptly whimpers at the command of the tiefling as Rimefang joins at Luctan’s side, hissing and  threatening with his wings.

Panicking, the mage brings a crystal out of his pocket, holds it to his mouth, wreathes through it and fires a 60ft cone of yet again!

The cone strikes Burk and Amelia, with the latter taking 32 damage, while the former reduces said damage to 16. The blow was too strong for the monk, however and she drops, her body amidst the ice.

Amelia’s will keeps her in just enough to succeed on a death saving throw...

She’s down, but not out completely and as we get to this part.

We end on this cliffhanger.

Previous Episode / Next Episode

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 17: Broken Fingernails (Transcript) - 12th October 2015

tw: death, corpses, misogyny (18th century-typical), infant death, hanging, being buried alive, ghosts

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

For many cultures, the funeral is the last goodbye, it’s the final chance to say what needs said, or do what needs done, in order to honour the ones we’ve lost. But while the methods and purpose behind these rituals can vary drastically from one culture to the next, one thing is common among the vast majority: the burial. We bury our dead – we’ve done it for an incredibly long time, and we’ve gotten very good at it. Every year, archaeologists open new tombs that date back millennia, each one teaching us something new about the cultures that time has caused us to forget, and central to each of these discoveries is the burial itself - the techniques, the beliefs, the ritual. But it’s not just about the dead. The practice of honouring and burying our loved ones is just as much about our own feelings of loss and grief as it as about our responsibility to care for those who’ve passed away. No place personifies the act of burial more than the local cemetery. With their green lawns and neat rows of pale stones, graveyards are unique among urban constructions; they are respectfully avoided by some and obsessed over by others. But whatever beliefs you might hold, or opinions you might have about them, graveyards are a special place. Stephen King explored the allure and power of the graveyard in his novel Pet Semetary. In the story, the cemetery is a portal between our world and another, it’s a place of transformation, of transition, and of mystery, and while we might not be digging shallow graves for our pets in hopes that they’ll return to us in the night, we’ve never lost our fascination with those places. Cemeteries have always been seen as the end of the journey. Whether you believe in a heaven or not, the graveyard is where most of us will go when our time is up. For some, however, the story doesn’t always end there. Some things, it seems, can’t be buried. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

For a very long time, burial in Europe was limited to church yards. It made sense - with a vast majority of Europeans holding to the Christian faith, all of them wanted to be buried close to their place of worship. But politics held sway even in these quiet, humble places of burial. Throughout Europe, it was common to find cemeteries that separated Protestant and Catholic graves. There’s a touching example of this near the Dutch town of Roermond, where a couple was buried in the late 1800s. The husband had been Protestant, while the wife had held to the Catholic faith. Despite strict rules regarding their burial, the couple managed to cheat the system by picking graves on opposite sides of the dividing wall. Their tall headstones reached above the wall and included carved hands that reached out to touch each other. Economic status played a part in burial as well – those wealthy enough could purchase space inside the church itself, while the less well-off had settle for graves outside the church walls, and even then, social status determined where in the yard a person might be buried. The higher the status, the closer to the chapel, but no one wanted to find themselves in the north corner. That was where people of uncertain birth, strangers from out of town and stillborn infants were buried. Regardless, churches filled up fast, as did the yards around them. As the population of Europe swelled, space began to disappear at an alarming rate. At first, graves were simply moved closer together, like the parking lot at your local mall – smaller spaces meant more occupants, and that was good for business, but it only worked for a while. Next, coffins were stacked one atop the next, opting for the vertical approach, but this meant that church yards were rising as earth was filled in between the growing graves, sometimes as high as 20ft. Greyfriars Cemetery in Edinburgh, Scotland is a horrific example of this problem. It used to be a depression in the ground, but overtime, it’s become more of a hill. With more than half a million recorded burials, the elevation has literally risen over 15ft, introducing problems that are unique to a graveyard so old and so full. According to reports, there’s such a high concentration of human remains that on especially rainy days, remains that aren’t sealed within a casket have a tendency to float to the surface, bursting through the mud like white teeth. All of this left cities in need of some seriously creative thinking.

In some places, the solution they chose was a drastic one. In France, for example, the government actually had to step in. Church yards had gotten so full that they would often collapse outward, spilling soil and human remains onto the streets. Walls were built around them; they rarely worked. The dead was getting out of hand, so to speak. In 1786, they removed all the bodies from Holy Innocence Cemetery in Paris and moved them to a series of unused stone quarries which became known as the Catacombs. It’s estimated that the Catacombs hold close to six million bodies. Sometimes it wasn’t a lack of space that ruined a cemetery, though, but a lack of popularity. That’s the fate that awaited the cemetery built on the former property of Sir William Ashurst in the north end of London. Named for the small, hilltop community that once existed there, Highgate Cemetery was established on the grounds of the old manor house, which had been demolished and replaced with a church in 1839. At first, the cemetery was popular: Karl Marx is buried there, as are many relatives of Charles Dickens and Dante Rosetti. But when the owners lost money and fell on hard times, the graveyard was left to the elements. Monuments and crypts became overgrown with vegetation, and sometimes trees would sprout up right through the graves themselves. Highgate is a wonderful example of what we all imagine a haunted cemetery might look like. Filmmakers and authors have been drawn to it for decades, tapping into its arresting visual atmosphere to create works of Gothic horror and fantasy. It was even the inspiration behind Neil Gaiman’s beautiful novel The Graveyard Book. But while there are plenty of stories about the history of graveyards throughout Europe and America, cemeteries have always been known for something darker, something less tangible than what we can see above ground. Perhaps it’s all those neat rows of bone-white headstones, or the notion that hundreds of bodies lay waiting beneath our feet. Whatever the reason, its in the local graveyard, more than any other place, that we find rumours of the otherworldly and unexplainable. Inside those walls, between the pale stones and dark trees, almost everyone has heard tales of those who refuse to stay in the grave. Buried or not, sometimes the past is too traumatic to leave us.

Just south of Chicago, between the curving arms of I-80 and I-294, is a graveyard known for a level of activity unusual in a place of the dead. Bachelor’s Grove Cemetery isn’t big – there are only 82 plots there and many of those have never been used, but that hasn’t stopped the stories. It’s said that the famous gangster Al Capone once used the pond nearby as a dumping place for the bodies of those he killed. Other rumours make reference to Satanic rituals and meetings that have taken place in the graveyard over the years. But there are those who swear they have seen unusual things there. The most famous sighting has been called “The White Lady”, the ghostly image of a woman that was said to appear only during the full moon. In 1991, the Sun-Times actually featured a photo of the White Lady on the front cover, taken by a researcher on one of her visits. The woman appears to be semi-transparent, sitting on a tombstone near the trees, and dressed in white. Other visitors have seen glowing orbs and apparitions, and even vehicles and a farmhouse that seem to fade in and out of existence. The site is off-limit to visitors now, but it’s remained a favourite haunt (no pun intended) of ghost hunters across the country. In 1863, an outbreak of smallpox moved through a Civil War POW camp in Columbus, Ohio. The camp held close to 10,000 confederate soldiers, and thousands of them died from the epidemic. As a result, the Camp Chase Confederate Cemetery was formed, an unusual sight so far north into Union territory. Miles away, in New Madrid, Missouri, a Confederate sympathiser sent his young daughter north to avoid the destruction of the war. Louisiana Briggs settled into Ohio and eventually married a Union veteran, but she apparently never lost touch with her southern roots. It was said that later in life, she would often visit the Camp Chase Cemetery, where she would place flowers on various graves there. She wore a white veil each time she went, in an effort to hide her face. Nevertheless, she acquired a reputation around town as the “Grey Lady” and was known for her passion for the old burial ground. She passed away in 1950, but flowers would still appear regularly on the graves there. Visitors to Camp Chase have heard the sounds of a woman weeping quietly, while others have seen the figure of a woman in a veil. Something drew Louisiana Briggs to that location, that much is clear. According to the stories, though, she never left.

Across the country in Connecticut, yet another graveyard plays host to a mysterious story. Mary Hart was born in New Haven in 1824, and lived a very modest life there. She was a corset maker and machine stitcher by trade, working hard to support her family. On October 15th, 1872, Mary fell into a death-like state from unknown causes. She was only 47, young even for the late 19th century, and this tragedy rocked her family to the core. By midnight, Mary had expired, and her grieving family set about to arrange for a quick and immediate burial. There was a lot of pain, I can imagine, and they simply wanted to move on. It’s said that Mary’s spirit still wonders Evergreen Cemetery, close to the site of her home on Winthrop Avenue. More than one story has been told about drivers pulling over to pick up a hitchhiking woman, only to have her disappear. Others say Mary was a witch, although you didn’t have to look far in the late 1800s to find a woman who had been accused of something like that. According to the stories, local college students have frequently visited Mary’s grave, which is said to be cursed. Anyone who visits her grave at midnight, according to legend, will meet a horrible fate. As a result, most people refer to her today as “Midnight Mary”. There are no records of New Haven college students who’ve died after visiting Mary’s gravesite, but whether or not the stories are rooted in fact, it hasn’t stopped them from spreading. Mary still has one foot in our world, it seems. It’s just not clear who’s keeping her here.

South Cemetery in Portsmouth, New Hampshire is really a collection of many smaller graveyards. It’s the site of the oldest burial ground in town, dating back to the 1600s, and it’s a wonderful mixture of styles and centuries. Together, the Auburn Cemetery, the Proprietors’ Burial Ground, Sagamore Cemetery and Harmony Hill all combine to showcase everything from an Egyptian-style sarcophagus, to winged skulls and Victorian funerary imagery. It’s a peaceful place, and much of the grounds have been planted with flowering trees, creating a park-like atmosphere, but that wasn’t always the case. In the 1700s, South Cemetery served double duty as both a graveyard, and the site of several public executions. All of them were hangings, and more than a few of them were women, and the reasons were often tragic. The early 18th century was a very different era from our own, and the lawbooks were filled with rules that might seem barbaric or cruel by today’s standards. Provincial laws at the time required capital punishment for a wide assortment of crimes – close to 600 of them, in fact, including murder, rape, abortion, bestiality, burglary, treason and counterfeiting. Another capital crime, though, was known as “concealment”. If a woman found herself pregnant outside of marriage in the mid-1700s, her life was effectively over. Social stigma, loss of employment, fines and even physical punishment were all expected to follow upon discovery of adultery, and the possible resulting bastard birth. And so, to avoid this fate, it had become common for women in that situation to hide their pregnancy, and then abandon the baby to die of neglect and exposure. This was concealment, and it was the situation that a woman from South Hampton, New Hampshire found herself in, in the spring of 1768.

Ruth Blay was just 25 and split her time between teaching in the nearby towns and working as a seamstress. She was single and poor, but she did her best to hide the pregnancy for as long as she could. No one knows when she gave birth to the child. We don’t know if she laboured alone, with no hand to hold or companion to help her through it. All history remembers is the baby, but even then, there are still questions. According to Ruth, the baby had been stillborn. That didn’t erase her crime of adultery, of course, or the stigma that was sure to follow, but it did mean that she didn’t kill the child. She had been afraid, and so she buried the tiny body beneath the floorboards of a local barn, most likely the site of one of her travelling classrooms. And that, she thought, was the end of it. But what Ruth didn’t know was that some of her local students had watched her – they didn’t see the birth itself, they didn’t feel her pain, loss, fear and hopelessness. All they saw was a young woman placing a body in the small space beneath a loose board. They saw a crime, and so the reported it. Ruth was soon arrested by Isaac Brown, the local constable, and was quickly brought to trial. A jury of 16 was formed, all men, of course, and they soon ruled that the child had died by violent birth. Ruth, they said, was a liar and a murderer. Ruth was held at the constable’s home until she could be transported to the jail in Portsmouth, but she was still recovering from the birth, and so she remained there for over a month while her body healed. By July 19th, she had formerly been accused, and two weeks later she was brought before the provincial court. She pleaded innocent, of course, but no one listened. Her final trial date was set for nearly two months later, for the end of September. I can’t imagine how lonely she must have felt, how hopeless. Ruth didn’t have a chance. I think it’s safe to assume she knew that – society wasn’t kind to women in her position, and when you added in the dead infant, well… Ruth was pretty sure how it was going to end. The trial began on the afternoon of September 21st, 1768, and a little over 12 hours later, a 12-man jury handed down the verdict: guilty. She was, according to their instructions, to hang by her neck until dead. But not just yet. No, the royal governor of New Hampshire, a man named John Wentworth, issued three consecutive reprieves, postponing her execution. He said it was to give her time to prepare herself for death, but I can’t help but wonder if it was really just one more punishment. Rather than walking to the gallows before the end of September, Ruth would have to wait three long months. Just before noon, on December 30th, over 1000 people gathered at Gallows Hill in South Cemetery. It had snowed earlier that day, and now a cold, freezing rain was covering everything in a layer of ice. Sheriff Packer, the man presiding over the execution, had Ruth placed atop the back of a wagon, a rope draped over her head. Parents stood with their arms around their children – children who craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the woman about to die. There are rumours that a pardon was on its way from the governor, that Sheriff Packer was in a hurry to eat his lunch, and so he rushed the execution rather than waiting for the governor’s letter to arrive. At noon, the horses pulling the wagon were driven away from the tree, and Ruth Blay fell off the back, where her body swung slowly at the end of a noose. She died moments later. Those same rumours say the governor’s stay of execution did arrive, just moments after Ruth’s body stopped moving, but there’s no record of a pardon. Instead of freedom, Ruth was given an unmarked grave, about 300ft north of the small pond in the middle of the cemetery. Today, visitors to the pond report anomalies in their photographs – ghostly images, orbs and indefinable shapes. Some say that their cameras stop working altogether when there. According to local legend, a pair of glowing lights has been seen there, and some think its Ruth and her infant child.

Between life and death, between the places most familiar to us and that vast expanse of the unknown, sits the graveyard. It has represented the beginning of a journey for countless cultures across the history of mankind. From the Egyptians to the Khans, from ancient Europe to modern America, the cemetery is a constant thread, tying us all together. All philosophy aside, these are places born out of loss and filled with deep emotion. And so, it’s no wonder that so many stories exist of the ones who refuse to stay buried. Maybe ghosts are real after all, or maybe we just wish they were, or perhaps it’s both. One final note: Midnight Mary, the New Haven corset maker who fell into a coma at the age of 47, was buried the following day, on October 16th, 1872. That night, after the funeral was over and her extended family had travelled back to their homes, Mary’s aunt had a horrible nightmare. In her dream, she saw Mary still alive in her coffin, scratching at the lining in an effort to get out. She was screaming and moaning with desperation, and the image of that stayed with Mary’s aunt long after she awoke - so much so that she managed to convince both her family and the authorities to exhume Mary’s grave. After the coffin was removed from the earth, the men opened it. What they found inside would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Mary’s corpse had moved. Her hands were covered in blood, and many of her fingernails were broken. The reason was clear after examining the coffin’s lid: the cloth lining had been shredded. Apparently, Mary had finally awoken from her coma, and in her panic, she had tried to claw her way out.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can learn more about me, this show, episode transcripts, Patreon member benefits and more over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, [Insert ad break]. And as always, thanks for listening.

[thecreatiivecorner]

Broken - Chapter 1

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x ofc

Fic Summary: Tragedy seemed to have an all access pass to the carnival that was my life. Whenever I felt like I was starting to get a grasp on happiness, something more would come along and snatch it away from me. I’ve been through a lot, starting with an abusive father. Being trained… if that’s what you call being forced to endure torture… to be a spy. Things that most normal people couldn’t even imagine but nothing compared to the day I lost my best friend.

Rating: Mature

Words: 3K

Warnings: swearing, mention of death and a flashback of an abusive father... nothing detailed but rape and beating is suggested. the flashback is in italics if you want to skip it. 

I woke up one day and decided I was going to check my email, out of curiosity, boredom, I’m not sure. I climbed out of my king sized heaven, otherwise known as my favorite spot in my house. The sun dispersed through the curtained, floor-to-ceiling windows. It was almost noon, a bad habit I acquired in the recent months. My feet hit the soft carpet and I padded across the large master bedroom of my Los Angeles house. A small shiver ran up my spine as I reached the cold wood floors of the hallway. I moved into the study, a few doors down, and sat down behind the large, glass office desk.

I hadn’t checked my email in at least three months. As I scrolled down the list, I selecting all the ones from Andi and deleted them. I already knew what she had to say, I didn’t need to read them. Once they were all gone, I scrolled back to the top of the page and moused over the first one on the list. The subject line read ‘The Avengers schedule.’

What?

I opened the email and read the details.

Pulling out my phone and looking at the calendar, the realization hit me like a truck. I had forgotten about the contract I signed with Marvel Studios, almost twelve months ago. I slumped back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

“Fuck!... How could I forget that?” I shouted out loud.

I sat up and slammed my laptop shut.

“No... No!” Panic was setting in as I abruptly stood up, sending the chair scraping back against the rug under it. “I’m not doing it. No way.” My voice started to calm but my mind was still racing. I wasn’t ready to get back in the world. Honestly, I didn’t ever want to get back in the world. I stood there, frozen in thought.

I can just buy out of the contract.

No. No. No. They can’t find someone to fill my spot in four days.

Why should I care?

My reputation will be trashed… if it isn’t already.

The war in my head ended at that thought. Normally, I didn’t care what others thought of me. But in the world of acting, reputation was just as important as skill. I love being an actress. I’ve loved it since I took my first acting class when I was 10. And this film was expected to be the biggest blockbuster of the year. It would send my career into overdrive.

It seemed that my body was thinking for itself as I moved back to the desk, pulled the chair up and opened my laptop.

‘Got it. Thanks. - Nicole Jena’ I replied.

I sent a new email to Andi.

‘I need to be in Albuquerque in four days. Can you get a flight? - N’

What did I just do. I’m not ready for this.

I’d lived in isolation for six months. Now I’d, essentially just pushed myself off the deep end and I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to swim.

I just sat there. My mind at war with itself. Would Andi even reply? Does she care about me anymore? What if she found a new job? My thoughts were interrupted by the ‘ding’ of new message. It was from her.

Huh. That was fast.

I thought to myself as I opened it, somewhat reluctantly. I wasn’t sure what response I was looking for.

‘Your flight leaves in three days, from LAX. I assumed you would prefer your jet. A car will pick you up at 5pm. I’ll meet you there. - A’

She was right about the jet. My personal plane, all to myself, sounded preferable over a crowded commercial flight. The pilot’s usually requested a few days notice so I assumed Andi made the call before she heard from me.

She does still care… Why?

I had been a horrible friend and an even worse boss.

Again my mind was battling. I felt relief that was quickly drown out by fear. This was a bad idea. I could feel it in my bones. I had no desire to leave my house; to see anyone; to speak to anyone. I took a deep breath, got up and walked back to the bedroom. I entered into the large master bathroom. My bare feet tapped against the tiled floor as I stopped in front of the mirror and stared at my reflection.

You can do this. You can do this!

The pain of what happened still burned inside of me. I could see it in my eyes. Tears constantly fighting their way to the surface.

You’re stronger than this.

Suddenly anger took over my body and mind. This wasn’t a strange occurrence. Since it happened, I’ve had a hard time keeping my emotions in check. When I’m sad, I’m a sobbing mess. When I’m mad, I’m fuming. They also seemed to change with the wind. It wasn’t like me at all. I was always good at creating a facade that no one could see through.

Hell, that’s how I was trained since I was seven. I was much more than just a typical celebrity. I had a secret life that very few people knew about. A dark history that I never shared. But all the training in the world couldn’t make this any easier. I wasn’t a cold blooded, statue. I fought against that during my training. I didn’t want to become a mindless puppet, just following orders and doing as I was told, with no feelings of my own. I guess I was rebellious, that way. Part of me cursed those wishes now, though. I would give anything to not feel any emotions at all.

“NO!” I shouted out as I slammed my palms into the granite countertop, knocking over some fancy perfume bottles. “I’m done letting this control me!” I muttered as I shook my head and walked back into the bedroom. I could feel my heart rate accelerating.

It’s true. I was sick of being alone. Sick of being sad, or angry, all the time. But I couldn’t face the world. Not in my current state. Pushing my friends away was my way of protecting them... from me. I couldn’t risk blowing up in their face, when my emotions decided to do a 180. I couldn’t bare the pain of hurting my friends. Not on top of the pain I was already feeling.

After I calmed myself down, I went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. My mind was a dictionary of emotions. My day was not turning out the way I expected. I sat there for a while just staring out the windows deep in thought.

How am I ever going to do this? I’m not ready for this.

I have to be ready, at some point. Why not now? This is the push I need.

My thoughts were frustrating me more than calming me, so after much deliberation, I picked up my phone and dialed the one person who would understand and tell me what to do. The phone rang, only twice before she answered.

“Are you alright?” Her voice was calm and collected, as it always was. Her question didn’t surprise me though. I usually only called when something was wrong or I needed help. That, and I hadn’t called in over six months.

“Yes. I need to talk to you, though.” I tried to match her tone, but I felt the fear in my voice… and so did she.

“Ten minutes.” She replied and hung up the phone. I did the same and, again got lost in my thoughts.

---

I was five years old again. My sister, Amy, and I were running down some side street in a suburban Los Angeles neighborhood, lit by street lamps and the occasional porch light. My breathing was heavy and I kept looking over my shoulder as blood gushed from my nose.

I had just walked in on my father forcing himself on my sister, who was only two years older than me. I was never a shy child and after much screaming between him and I, he let her go, only to resume his assault on me. I fought as much as I could, managing to grab a lamp from the bedside table and slamming it into the side of his head with as much force as a five year old, being held down by a grown man, could muster. The look on his face scared me more than his hand rising to strike my cheek. After the third time, he let me go and it was then that I decided I was going to run away. I packed as much as I could fit into two bags and when my father went out for a smoke, I grabbed my sister and we ran.

We ran as far as we could before exhaustion overtook us. Amy insisted I had to see a doctor, saying that my nose could be broken. I don’t think she had any clue whether it was or not but she was always looking out for me. We had no idea where we were or where the closest hospital was so we just walked. We found ourselves moving towards busier parts of the city and eventually we seen a sign for a hospital.

Reluctantly, we walked in. A nurse caught a glimpse of my face and suddenly there were nurses and doctors crowding around us. I held onto Amy’s hand as tight as I could but somehow we got separate in the commotion. I was taken to a room and asked a lot of questions. Mostly “does this hurt?” and “Do you feel any pain here?”, all of which I answered with a shake or nod of my head. I asked to see my sister in between every question but they told me she was just outside. I refused when they asked my name or how my face got bloodied.

It turned out my nose was broken, proven by an x-ray. I was returned to my room where police officers were now crowding around. They asked me most of the same questions as the doctors and nurses, but still I refused and asked for Amy. This went on for what felt like hours. Eventually I stopped saying anything at all and the officers left me alone in the room with a nurse who was ordered to watch over me. I layed in the bed and stared at the ceiling thinking that whatever was going to happen to me had to be better than living with my father.

Later, a small woman entered the room and asked the nurse to leave. She didn’t look like a doctor or nurse and she wasn’t dressed like the rest of the police officers. She walked up to the side of the bed and introduced herself as Maggie. She smiled at me but I only stared at her with confusion and anger written on my face. I asked her if she was going to ask me more questions and, to my surprise, she said no. I stayed at her house that night. At the time, I didn’t know but she was a government agent. A spy. She told me she was going to be my new family and assured me that my sister was being taken care of. At that age, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of ‘trust’. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want to go back to my father. She never officially adopted me but she gave me the best life, even if that meant training me to be just like her.

---

Before I knew it the doorbell rang. I got up to check the security feed. My house was not like most homes. I had a military grade security systems with cameras everywhere, and a tablet that relayed and saved the footage 24/7. I could control everything from it, including the locks on every door in the house. I usually answered the door like a normal person would but when I saw who it was, I tapped the ‘front door’ button and watched the video feed as the small woman glanced into the security camera before opening the door and entering the house.

I walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and leaned over the balcony that overlooked the living room. Margaret Hill, otherwise known as the only person I trusted more than myself, looked up at me as she sat down on the large sectional sofa, in the middle of the room. She had been to my house many times before and easily made herself comfortable.

“I’m going back to work.” I shouted as I made my way down the stairs.

“Good.” She replied, plainly.

“Is it?” I questioned flatly as I made my way to the couch, sitting on the other end from her. She paused, staring at me for a moment.

“We could use your help.” Her tone didn’t change, still flat, lifeless, as she changed the subject. I gave her a breathy chuckle. Typical Maggie, always with ulterior motives.

“I mean my other work. Besides, it’s been six months, Maggie. If you haven’t found his killer by now, you’re never going to.” I spat as I rolled my eyes.

“That may be true, but you could.” She pointed to me as she enunciated the word ‘you’. I shook my head in annoyance.

“Please don’t do this. This is not why I asked you here.” I stated, frustratedly.

“Are you still having panic attacks?” She asked flatly. I tensed and looked away from her. I had been trying to forget about them.

“The last one was about two months ago.” I muttered.

“You can’t control what people say or what you hear. If you leave... they’re probably going to start again.” There was little emotion in her voice. If I didn’t know her as well as I did, I’d say she didn’t care about me at all, but she did. I was like a daughter to her and she was the closest thing I had to a mother.

“You’re the best agent this government has ever seen. I should know. I trained you myself. If anyone can find his killer... it’s you.”

“Why did you train me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at her. She looked at me, slight confusion playing on her emotionless face. “Why did you pick me? How did you know?” I clarified my question.

She continued to stare at me. I wasn’t sure if she didn’t know where to begin or if she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer my question. Maggie wasn’t one to lose her words so I guessed the latter was more likely.

“You found me when I was five years old. You took me in. You paid my way to London. To go to one the best performing arts schools in the world. You’re the reason I’ve been able to live my dream. The reason I can be an actor, and a singer, and a dancer. But you also trained me to become… whatever I am. A spy? A soldier? You saved my life and I will forever be indebted to you but... ” My voice was starting to get louder as I became more emotional.

“You will never owe me anything.” She stated plainly but emphasized the word ‘never’.

“I am grateful. Really. But why did you turn me into this person?” I added more calmly.

“Because I knew you could handle it.” She wouldn’t look at me. Her eyes danced around the room, landing anywhere but my face.

“How? How could you possibly know that a five year old would be able to handle the things I’ve experienced?” I could feel the tears burning the back of my eyes. I startled when Maggie suddenly stood up from the couch and looked down at me. Anger crossed every feature on her face.

“I would never let anything happen to you, if you couldn’t take it. You were strong then and you’re even stronger now. Agent Lusik’s death has only given you more strength. Whether you see it or not, I do.” I swallowed hard at the sound of his name. “You’re stubborn and you’re fearless. That is why I picked you. That is why I trained you. Because I knew that no matter what you faced, you would be too stubborn to let it affect you in any way. You’ve lost that, and I understand why, but now it’s time you find it again.” Her words were like daggers, cutting through the facade I had put up.

The tears in my eyes were gone now, replaced with rage. Not at Maggie though. Everything she said was true. I was angry at myself for getting so lost in grief. Maggie noticed my change in attitude as her words sunk in, and she moved around the coffee table, to the front door.

“You’re so talented, Nicole. Don’t waste it.” She flashed a sly smile and a wink before disappearing out the door.

I would’ve believed she meant I was a talented actor, but I knew better. She wanted me to help with the investigation. I wasn’t ready for that though..

I didn’t move from the couch for awhile, frozen in thought. I guess that was it. I was going back to filming.

Tags: @wonderlandmind4