#they DID all groom each other during free roam which was promising

[intriga-hounds]

sivsi16

replied to your

photoset

:

adventure gorls

are they all together rn now that beastie isn’t with Cam anymore?

they will be soon, given that their playdates always go really well

the only reason they weren’t all together already was because of beastie hating disco

[animetrashlmao]

Hi, I'm a huge fan of your work. Your style is just beautiful. If you are interested would you write about sasusaku married life...Sakura losing her memory and Sasuke helping her go through their history together and a clueless Sakura realising how much Sasuke Love's his wife I hope you find the concept interesting Much love from Germany

Sending you love from the US! Thank you for the kind words. I’m so sorry that this has been sitting in my ask box for a few weeks, it’s been a rough time lately😭 I gave this prompt my best shot in as short amount a time as possible, and I’m definitely rusty from not doing any creative writing lately. Still, I hope that you like it!

The room slowly comes into focus as her eyes open with caution, sensitive to the sunlight that peeks through the curtains of this unfamiliar room. Her head pounds as she raises herself up carefully into a sitting position, only noticing that she wasn’t alone when she feels a strong arm wrap around her middle to help her. She turns towards the smooth, deep voice that the arm belongs to, trying to sort out her thoughts.

“Take it easy,” he had said.

Why? Where was she? How did she end up here? The questions swirling through her mind only make her dizzy. Worried, mismatched eyes meet her own as she thanks him quietly. Sensing her reservation, he slowly withdraws his arm from her waist, assuring that she is comfortable first.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Sakura watches as the man in front of her avoids her gaze, clearly upset about something. He was handsome, she noted mentally.

“You’ve been unconscious for four and a half days. You may have suffered a traumatic brain injury after sustaining a substantial blow to your head.”

She processes for a moment before her medical training kicks in.

“I’m assuming after stabilizing me, there should be some imaging right? Can I see the MRI and CT scan results?”

His demeanor seems to lighten up a bit at this for some reason. Sasuke was unsure of whether she’d retained her medical knowledge and figured it would be a sure sign of whether she’d suffered any memory loss. So far, it seemed like that hadn’t been the case.

“Yes, I’ll go get them now.” He leaves the room for a few minutes, returning with a nurse who carries a file in hand. She passes the file to Sakura while asking a few standard questions about her current state. They go through some basic motor function tests together before the nurse leaves them.

Sakura runs her hand through her hair as she turns through the pages of her file, reading the radiologist’s notes. As she brings her hand down, the sharp prick she feels on her scalp indicates that she’s caught something in her hair. Carefully disentangling her hand from her otherwise well-groomed hair, she stares at the ring on her finger.

“Huh. I wonder when I got this ring,” she muses, unaware that Sasuke is watching her. She turns her hand this way and that, allowing the light to catch the ruby at different angles.

“I gave that to you, Sakura.” She startles at both his presence and the response to a question she thought she had been asking herself. Slow to look up from her hand, Sakura thinks of all of the possible situations in which she would accept such a precious ring from a man she didn’t know.

“I must be a bit confused, considering the head injury and all,” she laughs nervously. “Why would you give me this ring, doctor?”

Sasuke’s breath catches in his throat as he pauses to process what she just said. She’s smiling apologetically at him, her eyes curious as she waits for him to answer. He realizes she isn’t pranking him, as Sakura is sometimes prone to do.

“I gave you that ring, Sakura,” he starts slowly, “because you’re my wife and I wanted to make sure that others were aware. I’m not a doctor.”

The shock that crosses her face confirms it for him - she really didn’t remember who he was. The sinking of his heart into his stomach is accompanied by the heavy weight of anxiety on his chest at the idea of her not knowing who he was. Instinctively, his fingers curl into a fist with anger at himself for letting this happen to her in the first place.

Her gaze travels from his face down to the ring on her left hand and back to him again.

“Are you sure?” Her voice was meek as she was visibly struggling to grasp at any memory that would make this revelation make sense in her head.

He nods before pulling a chair close to her bed. He points to her name in small text at the top of her brain scans, his finger resting under the name “Uchiha.” For a split second, Sakura thinks she’s looking at someone else’s file before reading her own name adjacent to it.

“Uchiha Sakura...” she trails off. “I definitely remember my maiden name being Haruno. So you’re Uchiha...?”

“Sasuke,” he finishes for her, hoping that hearing his name will help to trigger some sort of memory for her.

As he awaits her answer, the doctor cheerfully walks into the room, greeting them both.

“Good to see you awake, Mrs. Uchiha. You gave us a bit of a scare the past few days! Though I wish it were under different circumstances, I’m pleasured to make your acquaintance. I’ve read some of your publications on the effects of war trauma in children and would be interested in discussing some of the treatment programs you use at a later time. How are you feeling?”

“I feel okay.” Sakura absentmindedly turns her ring back and forth on her finger. She and the doctor begin discussing her condition using medical jargon that Sasuke has difficulty keeping up with. He begins to reach towards her, a familiar motion he often initiated between them to comfort her. His hand hovers in hesitation midway between them before he pulls back, afraid to push her too much before she was ready. He listens until they’ve finished discussing her condition, noting Sakura’s unease when the doctor mentions that she is free to leave with her husband after a few days of monitoring. She makes no effort to let the doctor know that she’s lost this part of her memory before he leaves them alone together.

Uncertainty hangs in the difficult silence that’s fallen between them. Where are they supposed to go from here?

“It sounds incredibly familiar,” Sakura starts quietly. “The name Uchiha, I’ve heard it before. I understand that this must be difficult for you and I’m sorry to put you through this if I really am your wife, but would you mind telling me some things that might help me remember? Talking about our....relationship is often helpful in these kinds of situations.” Always sympathetic and worrying about others even with memory loss due to a traumatic injury, she was absolutely the Sakura he knew.

“Sure,” he nods, “where should I start?”

“At the beginning, I suppose,” she says with a shrug and small smile. “How did we meet?” Her attention is focused solely on him as she studies the details of his appearance. Her gaze roams over his somewhat messy hair, noting that it covers his left eye, down his broad shoulders and strong chest, finally realizing that his left arm is missing halfway down his bicep. She decides to ask him about that later.

“We met when we were kids, studying in the academy together. I wouldn’t say we were close, but it was a small class so we knew each other’s names and relative rankings in class.”

Her eyes soften as she thinks through childhood memories filled with fields of flowers and mean little girls. “How lucky of me to say that I met my partner early on in life.”

He studies her quietly before reaching for her hand, hesitating as if to ask for her permission first. She looks down at his fingers near hers, abashedly raising her own hand, placing it into his palm. He wraps his thumb over the back of her hand, rubbing it gently back and forth across her skin. The motion comforts her as she waits for him to continue.

“We were placed on the same three-man squad as genin, along with Naruto. I was struggling a lot during that time, so I tried incredibly hard to keep you both at a distance. I didn’t want to form any bonds because I had decided to dedicate my life to fulfilling a mission for revenge.” His gaze moves away from her as he reminisces on those difficult times in his life. Sakura is patient, encompassed by his story. “But you were annoying,” he chuckles, as Sakura scoffs playfully, feigning indignation. “At first I thought you were just another girl who had superficial feelings for me like our other classmates, but you proved me wrong.”

“How did I do that?”

“On our first mission as a team, I thought that I was going to die. I couldn’t understand at the time why I had put myself in harms way, risking the loss of my vengeance in order to protect someone else. The first thing I woke up to was the sound of your sobs as I felt your weight on my chest. I still remember the pain I felt as you threw your arms around me when you realized I was awake, crying harder than you were before. That was the moment I knew that you truly did care for me, and it was when I realized I cared for you too. I can’t explain my reasons, but I knew I had to protect you, no matter what it cost me.”

His expression is sincere as he turns his gaze towards her, searching for signs of her memory returning to her. She ponders his words for a moment, her lips curved upward in the gentle smile he fell in love with.

“So did you also train as a medic? Is that when we started dating?” He does his best to hide it, but she notices his face fall just slightly at her question. She squeezes his hand gently, quietly expressing her regret. “I’m sorry, Sasuke. I can remember bits and pieces, the way I felt during these times that you’re describing, but the timeline is still fuzzy to me.”

He shakes his head, assuring her that it was okay before he continues. “I left the village in order to continue my training, because I felt that I wasn’t progressing quickly enough in Konoha. You tried to stop me the night that I left; you pleaded, made promises, cried, and told me you loved me. That rooted me in place, and if I’m honest, there was a moment that I truly did consider staying. I had become comfortable with the life and friendships I had built in Konoha by that point. Before then, I couldn’t remember the last person who had genuinely told me they loved me - maybe it was my brother, maybe it was my mother. But in the end, I couldn’t let go of the hatred in my heart that fueled my need for vengeance, and I left. That was the last time I saw you for almost three years.

“During that time, I worked hard to focus solely towards achieving my goal. Kabuto would feed me relevant information about Konoha from time to time, and that’s when I learned that you were training under Tsunade. I remember thinking it was a good fit for you - you always cared for others, you were one of the most intelligent in our class, and your chakra control was better than mine. I felt proud, but I quickly suppressed those feelings, knowing that any bonds I had would get in the way of avenging my clan.”

Sakura’s brows furrow together as she appears to make a connection. “The Uchiha massacre,” she says softly, “that’s right, everyone in your clan was killed. I remember now, hearing my parents talk about the boy in my class who suffered a great tragedy. That must’ve been when I became curious about you.” He watches the sadness creep into her expression as she reconciles with the idea of a child losing his entire clan in one night.

“Is there anything else that you remember?” He’s hopeful at this tidbit of information she provides, wanting to distract her from the feelings her empathy often engulfs her in.

“It’s not perfect, but I have some memory through the Fourth Great Shinobi War. I remember activating my byakugou seal soon after you had joined us, excited to be part of Team 7 once more.”

The corner of his lips lift up into a slight smirk at the memory of Sakura turning the battlefield into her personal playground as she uprooted the ground beneath their feet. “I always knew you were capable.”

The words of praise have her heart rate picking up speed as she remembers the surge of pride she had felt in that moment.

“So...how did we end up together?”

Sasuke runs his thumb across her fingers, watching as each one flexes downward under the slight pressure he applies before squeezing them slightly in his palm. He lays his head on her legs, looking up to see her trying to hide how flustered that makes her. She clears her throat to indicate to him that she’s waiting for an answer.

“You saved Naruto and I from bleeding to death after our battle.” He pauses to allow her time to think this over, wondering if she’ll remember all of the events leading up to that moment. The range of emotions that reflect themselves in her eyes tell him that she does; happiness when the war ended, fear when he announced his plans to take over Konoha, a tinge of pain when he had put her under the genjutsu, and finally overwhelming sadness and relief when she had found them lying next to one another.

“I had decided to travel after being forgiven for my crimes, wanting to see the world that I had blinded myself to for many years. We kept in touch through letters for a while, but I guess that wasn’t enough for you.” Mischief twinkles in his mismatched eyes as he continues, curious as to how she’ll respond. “You came after me one day, asking me if I’d let you join me in my travels. I objected at first.”

“Why is that?”

“Because...I had done enough to hurt you by that point. Not every part of the journey was easy or safe, and I would never forgive myself for letting anything else happen to hurt you on my behalf.” He averts his gaze to their intertwined hands that rest on her lap in front of his face. Sakura brings her other hand to rest on his head, running her fingers through his surprisingly soft hair, hoping to comfort him in his regret.

“I didn’t believe that I deserved someone with such pure intentions as company during this time, and honestly, I still don’t. I vowed to protect you through anything that came our way long before I gave you that ring, and I’ve unfortunately failed yet again.” She was in the hospital at this very moment, struggling to regain her memory of him, due to his own shortcomings. The irony of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Strands of her rosy hair tickle against his cheek as she leans down towards him to place a gentle kiss on his temple. “I’m okay,” she whispers. “I’m still here because of you.”

He turns his head to look up at her, finding tears welling up in her brilliantly bright eyes. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Sasuke-k-“

He gently removes his hand from her grip, only to replace it on the back of her neck before raising his head up to meet her lips with his own. Raising himself into a sitting position before he breaks their connection, Sasuke pulls her into his chest. The steady pulse of his heart against his skin was a welcome comfort to Sakura as her tears soaked into the material of his shirt.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” his voice wavers. “I’m sorry that I let this happen to y-“

“Don’t blame yourself. It was a mistake on my part. If you weren’t there, I wouldn’t be here right now.” She feels his grip tighten around her as she brings her arms around his chest. Familiar feelings of the comfort of home encompass her as she breathes in his scent. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against her cheek would always be her refuge.

“Don’t think that I could ever forget you.” She raises her head to look up at him, the curve of her lips complementing the warmth in her eyes. Sasuke’s lips are soft as he presses them onto her forehead, imparting his relief and gratitude to her before pulling away.

“Me either,” he promises.

[lagrin9a]

Draugr 02 - The High Prophet

   Well, what do you know? There was a road all the way out here, which gave Llew two more obstacles to deal with. For one, he had to find a new spot to relax in. And two, who were these people?    At a safe distance, tucked within the brush and foliage, Llew found a procession of dark-robed individuals. Healers, he assumed upon first glance, but upon further inspection, he not only realized the cut of their garments were different, but he found that their robes were far too dark to be that of Healers. Raelah often described their robes as a light purple, which appeared as a light shade to him. Llew scanned each and every member, bowing their heads beneath their hoods and uttering a song-like chant in unison. Then he reached something that made him freeze, as though he were locking eyes with a viper. The figure at the head of the procession darkened the space around him, carrying a hefty scent of decay that Llew could feel from his hiding spot. He dawned robes that appeared more ornate than the others, complete with trimming, a light stole around his shoulders, and a silver pendant. The figure bore a staff adorned with feral gwythaint feathers and topped with a lamb skull, which seemed to drain all energy around it. Llew felt the organ in his chest tremble as he focused on the leader who guided the head of the train. Every fiber of his muscle and bone begged him to run in the opposite direction, but his intrigue bade him to stay put.    One by one, the procession disappeared down the path as it winded between the trees. When the last one vanished out of sight, Llew breathed again. He slumped down and praised the gods he hadn’t been seen. When he was confident that he was alone again, Llew approached the small path. It was far too narrow and overgrown for anyone to use regularly. Perhaps this procession was a fluke. He sighed in relief, knowing that his chances of ever been seen via this road were low.    Llew was ready to return to his favorite river spot, but hesitated. He peered down the road with numerous questions invading his mind. Who were they? Why were they traveling down this road and not the main one? How come he had never seen men like them before? And what was the story with their leader?    The logical part of Llew’s mind nagged him, Don’t! You remember what happened yesterday. If you really care about Raelah and Ronan, you’ll return to the river, and come home before dusk like you promised.    Llew turned his head in the directed of his place of comfort. He could just go about his day, never mention it to Raelah or Ronan, and all would be fine in the world. But he looked down the path that these strange men disappeared through. He had to know. With the organ in his chest fluttering, begging him to return to his place of safety, he disobeyed and proceeded down the path.

   The village was robust as usual, which meant Llew had go about this carefully. Llew stuck close to the boulders and sparse trees after breaking the safety of the tree line. He steered clear of the main road that led into town, seeing as it was the most populated spot outside the main gate. Llew waited behind a ledge as the guard who swept the parameters made his rounds. He dashed for the fence once the coast was clear and slipped through his usual gap between the posts. Upon finding himself within the back alleyways of the village he praised himself for his stealth. Now to avoid getting caught during his investigation.    Over the years of sneaking in and out of the village, Llew had become skilled at climbing, jumping, and lurking in the shadows. He knew most blind spots of the town like the back of his hand, and the roof top of the cobbler’s shop was his best shot. After crawling over some crates to reach the roof’s ledge, he edged up to the peak which gave him the perfect view of the trade square. The dark-robed figures dotted the square and all corners of the village, causing the greatest commotion he had seen in years.    In the center of the square, perched atop a crate, one of the robed figures boomed, “The gods you praise are false! They want to lead you to a life of sin and damnation, so that their true master, the Seven Eyed Goat can devour you in Hell! Turn now from your sins, and embrace the All Mighty Savior! He is the one true way to Eternal Life. And the time is neigh! Repent for your sins, your wrong doings and embrace the love of the Savior!”    The people gathered at his feet shook their heads in disapproval. But one protested, “If all gods are false, then why are you acknowledging the Seven Eyed Goat?”    Another added. “The Seven Eyed Goat doesn’t want to eat people. Just because he’s prone to madness doesn’t make him evil.”    The preacher interrupted, “The servants of the Seven Eyed Goat deny and hate the Truth!”    This proceeded to riel them up into a screaming match.    The other members of this strange group split up into pairs, and appeared to converse with villagers who clearly didn’t want to listen. Llew could see the blacksmith getting increasingly annoyed at a man who refused to leave him alone, and continued to talk his ear off. Another dark-robed man scolded and yelled obscenities to a group of women, accusing of them of being temptresses. And to Llew’s surprise, some villagers actually sat down and listened to the words spilling from the mouths of these men.    Llew had seen enough. He slid off the roof top, navigating his feet onto the crate tops as to avoid crashing and drawing attention. As he did, he heard voices bickering nearby. Llew took extra care to be quiet, but the men’s conversation picked up his ears.    “Why must we waste our time with this? Can’t we just promise them riches, and then have them mindlessly join us?”    “No. Those who love this world and all it has to offer, will be damned with this world when judgement day comes. Life eternal and fear of the Savior is what will save his children. Besides, Magg, if you hate serving so much, you can wait outside the village and wash our feet later.”    Llew froze… Did that man just refer to the other one as Magg?... Well, who knows. There could be a dozen Maggs in Prydain. It couldn’t possibly be that Magg.    “Absolutely not! If I have to look at one more pair of dirty feet, I’ll kill myself! I wasn’t made to wander dirt roads or live in this squalor. I just want eternal life!”    “That’s the price you have to pay for eternal life… Or you could just return to Mona, face judgement from House Llyr, but then you will face judgement from the Savior as well.”    Mona? House Llyr? Maybe it was that Magg.    Llew dared to peak around the corner to satisfy his curiosity. Two men barred the shade of the alleyway from the light of the square. A tall bald man, built of pure muscle towered over a scrawny, lean one, with dark disheveled hair that tried desperately to appear groomed. As the tall man shifted slightly, Llew stole a better look at the smaller one’s face. The haughty, arrogant features that would have once been prided as beauty, were disrupted by four jagged gashes over his right eye and cheek.    And the cat chased Magg, and to this day, no one knows where he went, Raelah’s words echoed in Llew’s head.    Llew’s mouth dropped at what he saw. This was the Magg. The Magg from Raelah’s story. And with these hateful men. He needed to tell somebody. He needed to warn somebody. A wanted criminal was hiding in their midst… But he couldn’t. If Llew went ahead and reported this criminal, everyone would be more concerned about the monster terrorizing their village than this wanted man. Llew was at a loss. What could he do? He couldn’t just let this monster in human skin roam free. Raelah. He could return home and tell Raelah. She’d be a little miffed about his escapade into town. But he could tell her. She could go into town, and report Magg! Yes! That would work!    But in the split second of Llew’s scheming, the scarred criminal who faced in his direction made eye contact with him. Llew froze in place. The man’s lips twisted into a cruel grin.    “What’ve we here? A little rat in the alley?”    The big man rotated once Magg acknowledged their unwelcomed guest and glowered at Llew. Everything in Llew’s being told him to run, but he couldn’t budge. Before he knew it, the man shadowed him, staring him down with conviction. At the last minute, Llew’s muscles finally obeyed, but it was too late. The man’s grip seized Llew by the back of the neck and hoisted him off his feet. Llew wriggled and squirmed, which resulted in the man tightening his grasp, causing a jolt of shock to course through him.    “Now, now. Don’t go running off on us just yet,” Magg taunted as he neared the struggling creature. When they were face to face, Magg winced in disgust. “My, you’re an ugly one. No wonder you hide in the shadows. And yet, something is so familiar about you.”    Like a spider creeping to a fly caught in its nest, his hand delicately reached up and traced Llew’s horns. “Hm. What magnificent antlers. They’re almost regal… like a king’s,” Magg snidely remarked. “I wonder, would others find them as regal and magnificent as I do? Or will they run in terror at the abomination holding them.”    Magg’s hand trailed from Llew’s horns to his mouth, where he proceeded to clamp his hand on either side of his upper jaw, peeling back the lips on the left side of his face and pinching the fangs. Magg licked his lips as an idea pleasured him. “It would be a shame if I screamed, and all those people would flock to the shadows here. Then, what would happen to you? I do wonder.”    “Magg, that’s enough,” a bold voiced commanded from the entrance to the alleyway.    Magg peeled around to face the figure, and shrunk. “Oh, um, Grimgower. I was just… uh… teaching this young man a lesson. Didn’t want people to know a certain somebody turned over a new leaf, and was trying to start a new life.”    It was their leader. The strange figure from the head of the procession. If seeing the man on the path from a distance was like locking eyes with a viper, seeing him eye to eye was like confronting a bear. Llew could only tremble in the strong man’s grasp.    “Huel. You can drop him,” the man named Grimgower commanded.    “Yes, High Prophet,” the strong man corresponded, bowing his head.    Llew landed on the pavement with a thud. As he rubbed the back of his neck which bruised, Grimgower approached him. Llew tried to scramble to his feet as fear overtook him.    “Wait! It’s alright. I don’t wish to harm you,” Grimgower knelt to his level and placed a gentle hand on Llew’s arm as he recoiled. Upon contact, Llew felt a sudden sense of calm, as though he were seated next to the fireplace in the midst of a rainy afternoon. Or as though he were bundled in layers of blankets while a great blizzard raged outside. Llew eased, and made eye contact with the man before him. The left half of the man’s face was bandaged, but the other half was young, sophisticated, and full of deep understanding. “I just wish to talk.”    After Llew eased, the High Prophet helped him to his feet.    “I apologize for my disciples’ rather hostile treatment towards you. While they have repented and made strides to turn from their sinful ways, their former selves strive to reclaim them, and they slip back into sin, as do most of us.”    “Hey! I –,”    “Shhh,” Huel interrupted Magg, retaining his stony composure. Grimgower glanced back over his shoulder with a disapproving frown, before returning his attention to Llew and continued. “I should introduce myself. I am Grimgower, the High Prophet of the Savior and founder of the Cult of the Resurrection. Now, are you the young man who spotted us on our way over here?”    Llew jolted. How did he know? He didn’t think anyone had spotted him. But judging by the questioning looks on Huel and Magg’s faces, only their leader was aware of Llew’s presence.    Llew reluctantly nodded. “Yes.”    “Tell me, young man, what is your name?”    “Llew.”    “Ah. So it’s Llew. I can see you are teeming with questions, which is probably why you followed us here. Am I correct?’    “Yes.”    Grimgower gave a warm smile. “Fear not. I hope to answer all of your questions. But something tells me you’re not supposed to be here, and you don’t want other villagers to see you. May I suggest a more private place?”    Llew met the man’s gaze and smiled.

   After the four men snuck out of the village, the High Prophet led them to the edge of the forest, where they had established a small encampment. There, more disciples gathered, lost in the pages of hefty tomes, and deep in prayer with amulets clutched between their palms. Upon entering, Llew drew the attention of the disciples, many of which gave him cold, unwelcoming stares. Llew shrunk back, staying in close proximity of Grimgower.    “Don’t mind them. Many of them still cling to fear like your fellow townsmen. But their enlightenment has taught them not to pass judgement, for only the Savior can do that,” Grimgower explained, offering a sliver of confidence to the timid young man.    At the edge of the camp, Grimgower and Llew situated themselves around a small fire with a tea kettle perched on top. The High Prophet ordered the giant and spidery man to fetch them some cups and biscuits, leaving the pair alone.    “Tell me, who is this Llew?” Grimgower inquired.    Llew gave a puzzled look, before realizing what he was asking.    “Well, I live on a farm. We farm potatoes, and my friend usually takes them into town every weekend. I live with the farmer and his daughter, and we all help each other on the farm.”    “Any relation?” Grimgower raised a brow.    Llew shook his head. “My mother left me as soon as I was born. She worked as a farm hand to Ronan… the farmer, to repay him for taking her in when she was injured. In the middle of the night, she just left with no explanation. She just left me and took the only horse the farmer had.”    “I see,” Grimgower nodded. “And the father?”    Llew shrugged. “Never knew him. Ronan hasn’t told me this directly, but he theorizes my mother made love to a demon, and practiced witchcraft.” To this, Grimgower chuckled.    Llew tilted his head. “What’s so funny?”    “There’s no such thing as witchcraft. Believe me. I would know as a former warlock,” Grimgower smiled.    “Well fine then,” Llew crossed his arms, and raised a brow. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Who is Grimgower?”    Grimgower halted, and his smile fell. “You wish to know?”    Llew nodded with conviction.    A smirk peeled onto Grimgower’s lips. “Grimgower was once the name of a powerful warlock. The High Warlock of Demonology, to be exact.” Llew tilted his head.    “You probably are unfamiliar with the Magical Orders of Prydain, not that it would concern a farmer. But in short, I was a man who delved neck deep into what commoners call witchcraft.”    Llew sat up, retaining a gasp as to not appear rude.    “It was my dabbling in this art that was my undoing. A potential bride once remarked that the demons I had enslaved appeared starved and lonely. Instead of receiving it as a useful warning, I took that remark as an insult… I should have listened to her warning. The next time I summoned them attacked me, feeling betrayed at their maltreatment by my hands, and that was the end of Grimgower.”    He made full eye contact with Llew. “There was nothing, just an endless void… But from that void came a voice… ‘Grimgower, I am not finished with you. I have chosen you to do my will and bring me glory. Serve me, and not even the chains of death can hold you’. I accepted this being’s offer. And when I awoke, I was a new man. No longer was I Grimgower the High Warlock of Demonology. From that day forth, I would be Grimgower, the High Prophet of the Savior… And that’s why I’ve allowed men like our dear, Magg here, to join our discipleship,” Grimgower grinned, gesturing towards Magg, as he handed him his cup.    “… Uh. Why yes! I’m a new man! Better than ever!” the man snapped. “A completely different man. Absolutely… No need for suspicion. None at all!” Llew caught Huel scowling and rolling his eyes at his fellow disciple.    “And what about you?” Llew questioned the giant man.    “Isn’t it obvious? I smashed skulls in. It’s the way of the Northmen,” Huel grumbled out.    “Yes. Many of these men have sinned greatly, and thus have been rejected by the world. However, the Savior and I have offered these men a home, a chance to become anew. And it is this reason that they share the gospel. Have you heard the gospel, Llew?”    Llew’s brow furrowed. “I may have caught a glimpse of it back in town, but other than that, no.”    Grimgower smiled. “I will tell it to you, then. But first, I must ask you, where do you will go when you die?”    Llew pondered for a bit. “Ronan say that when you’re dead, you’re dead. But Raelah says that when you die, you go to the Summer Isles if you’ve served the gods well… But you don’t believe in the gods, do you?”    Grimgower frowned. “The Gods of the Great Pantheon are false, and instead want to lead you astray. There is only one true God who is perfect and created everything in our existence. He even took special time and effort into creating you.”    Llew recoiled at this.    “What’s wrong? You suddenly seem deeply offended by what I just said.”    “Yes. I am,” Llew’s fisted clenched.    “Care to explain why?”    “If he took special time and effort into creating me, then why do I look like this,” Llew snapped, gesturing at his features. “Why do I have to keep myself hidden from the world, so that people don’t come after me and my family? Why does a little girl scream in terror upon seeing me in the alleys? Why do I look like a monster?”    “You aren’t a monster, Llew,” Grimgower answered. “The false gods they worship have lied to them, ordering them to shun you or anyone who comes from God. Your case is quite similar to that of the Savior, and many of his chosen.”    Llew picked up his head.    The High Prophet continued. “As I had said, we believe in a God who is perfect and has everything planned. But the false god, the Seven Eyed Goat, hated our God, and wanted to overthrow Him. So he, and his servants, the other false gods, made us imperfect through sin. Sin is anything that displeases God. And anything short of perfection is punishable by death. However, the God sent a Savior, who would not only save us of our sin, but bring us to Eternal Life. But, the false gods hated and feared the Savior, so they imprisoned him, where he has suffered for our sins ever since. But, Llew, this is where you come in, and why you are so special.”    Llew perked up in question, which bade the High Prophet to continue.    “The people of this world reject you, because God has chosen you specifically, just as He has chosen me and His disciples here. You see, it was written that the Savior would return one day, and break from His prison. But it would be by the help of one who is rejected by the world. One who the false gods hate and have his own people shun. One whose design mocks the Seven Eyed Goat. And you, Llew, I believe are that Chosen One.”    Llew leaned back. “Wait. You’re saying I’m some Chosen One who can bring back this Savior, and I’m like this because this God you’re talking about designed me specifically this way?”    “Exactly,” Grimgower nodded.    “And that’s why you brought me all the way out here? So you can tell me this?”    Grimgower nodded again.    “Little do you know, we have been searching for you this entire time. And Llew, my dear boy, I believe this meeting was no accident.”    Llew stood up and paced around. “T-that can’t be. I’m just a deformed guy who farms potatoes. I hide because my mother performed witchcraft.”    “You hide because the false gods have convinced your loved ones that you are a monster.”    Llew shook his head. That’s not true. It couldn’t be. Raelah didn’t see him as a monster. Ronan didn’t either, and kept him in hiding so that no one would hurt him… Unless Ronan did see him as a monster, and just didn’t want to tell him directly. Maybe that’s why he wanted so much control over him. Because in reality, he was special. Perhaps that’s why he never wanted him to be seen… and to be home before dusk…    It’s dusk!!!!    Llew bolted up. “Oh no! I have to go right now. Ronan’s going to be furious.”    “Wait, Llew,” Grimgower called out.    “I’m very sorry, High Prophet. Thank you for the tea, and sharing your gospel, but I really have to get going,” Llew scrambled.    “Llew, please think over what I told you. If you decide that perhaps you are the Chosen One, please meet us in our place of worship, tonight. It’s just down the path where you first found us.”    “Right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you again.”    Llew rushed away from the encampment, and back into the forest.

[readbookywooks]

Eddard

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon. Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned . . . until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. "Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours." The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. "You have not changed at all." Would that Ned had been able to say the same. Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm's End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He'd had a giant's strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume. Now it was perfume that clung to him like perfume, and he had a girth to match his height. Ned had last seen the king nine years before during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, when the stag and the direwolf had joined to end the pretensions of the self-proclaimed King of the IronIslands. Since the night they had stood side by side in Greyjoy's fallen stronghold, where Robert had accepted the rebel lord's surrender and Ned had taken his son Theon as hostage and ward, the king had gained at least eight stone. A beard as coarse and black as iron wire covered his jaw to hide his double chin and the sag of the royal jowls, but nothing could hide his stomach or the dark circles under his eyes. Yet Robert was Ned's king now, and not just a friend, so he said only, "Your Grace. Winterfell is yours." By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Robert's queen, Cersei Lannister, entered on foot with her younger children. The wheelhouse in which they had ridden, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft horses, was too wide to pass through the castle gate. Ned knelt in the snow to kiss the queen's ring, while Robert embraced Catelyn like a long-lost sister. Then the children had been brought forward, introduced, and approved of by both sides. No sooner had those formalities of greeting been completed than the king had said to his host, "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects." Ned loved him for that, for remembering her still after all these years. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed. The queen had begun to protest. They had been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more. They went down to the crypt together, Ned and this king he scarcely recognized. The winding stone steps were narrow. Ned went first with the lantern. "I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell," Robert complained as they descended. "In the south, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined." "I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?" Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?" "Likely they were too shy to come out," Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. "Kings are a rare sight in the north." Robert snorted. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!" The king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended. "Late summer snows are common enough," Ned said. "I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild." "The Others take your mild snows," Robert swore. "What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think." "The winters are hard," Ned admitted. "But the Starks will endure. We always have." "You need to come south," Robert told him. "You need a taste of summer before it flees. In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch away as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth—melons, peaches, fireplums, you've never tasted such sweetness. You'll see, I brought you some. Even at Storm's End, with that good wind off the bay, the days are so hot you can barely move. And you ought to see the towns, Ned! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich." He laughed and slapped his own ample stomach a thump. "And the girls, Ned!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. "I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it's too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver and cotton if not, but it's all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked." The king laughed happily. Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. That was not a charge anyone could lay at the door of Eddard Stark. Yet Ned could not help but notice that those pleasures were taking a toll on the king. Robert was breathing heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face red in the lantern light as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt. "Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. "She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon." He led the way between the pillars and Robert followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. It was always cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled round their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by. By ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle now. He hoped not. The first Lords of Winterfell had been men hard as the land they ruled. In the centuries before the Dragonlords came over the sea, they had sworn allegiance to no man, styling themselves the Kings in the North. Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. "Here," he told his king. Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head. There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchres on either side were his children. Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule. Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert had loved her even more. She was to have been his bride. "She was more beautiful than that," the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life. Finally he rose, made awkward by his weight. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than darkness . . . " "She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "This is her place." "She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean." "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. "Lyanna was . . . fond of flowers." The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. "I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her." "You did," Ned reminded him. "Only once," Robert said bitterly. They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was the three-headed dragon of his House, wrought all in rubies that flashed like fire in the sunlight. The waters of the Trident ran red around the hooves of their destriers as they circled and clashed, again and again, until at last a crushing blow from Robert's hammer stove in the dragon and the chest beneath it. When Ned had finally come on the scene, Rhaegar lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor. "In my dreams, I kill him every night," Robert admitted. "A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves." There was nothing Ned could say to that. After a quiet, he said, "We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting." "The Others take my wife," Robert muttered sourly, but he started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. "And if I hear ‘Your Grace' once more, I'll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that." "I had not forgotten," Ned replied quietly. When the king did not answer, he said, "Tell me about Jon." Robert shook his head. "I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him." He paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark. "I loved that old man." "We both did." Ned paused a moment. "Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?" Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. "Not well, in truth," he admitted. "I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?" Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin, but he left his doubts unspoken. Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word. "The wife has lost the husband," he said carefully. "Perhaps the mother feared to lose the son. The boy is very young." "Six, and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy," the king swore. "Lord Tywin had never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored. The Lannisters are a great and noble House. She refused to even hear of it. Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious." He sighed deeply. "The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Arryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?" "I will take him as ward, if you wish," Ned said. "Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well." "A generous offer, my friend," the king said, "but too late. Lord Tywin has already given his consent. Fostering the boy elsewhere would be a grievous affront to him." "I have more concern for my nephew's welfare than I do for Lannister pride," Ned declared. "That is because you do not sleep with a Lannister." Robert laughed, the sound rattling among the tombs and bouncing from the vaulted ceiling. His smile was a flash of white teeth in the thicket of the huge black beard. "Ah, Ned," he said, "you are still too serious." He put a massive arm around Ned's shoulders. "I had planned to wait a few days to speak to you, but I see now there's no need for it. Come, walk with me." They started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The king kept his arm around Ned's shoulder. "You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long." Ned had his suspicions, but he did not give them voice. "For the joy of my company, surely," he said lightly. "And there is the Wall. You need to see it, Your Grace, to walk along its battlements and talk to those who man it. The Night's Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Benjen says—" "No doubt I will hear what your brother says soon enough," Robert said. "The Wall has stood for what, eight thousand years? It can keep a few days more. I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace." "His son . . . " Ned began. "His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all its incomes," Robert said brusquely. "No more." That took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to look at his king. The words came unbidden. "The Arryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain." "Perhaps when he comes of age, the honor can be restored to him," Robert said. "I have this year to think of, and next. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned." "In peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father's sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service." The king was not pleased. He took his arm from around Ned's shoulders. "Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east." Then his tone softened. "Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you." Robert grasped Ned by the elbow. "I have need of you, Ned." "I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always." They were words he had to say, and so he said them, apprehensive about what might come next. Robert scarcely seemed to hear him. "Those years we spent in the Eyrie . . . gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody." Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment as melancholy as a Stark. "I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people . . . there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell . . . and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don't dare tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but . . . "I understand," Ned said softly. Robert looked at him. "I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend." He smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King." Ned dropped to one knee. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have had for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, drafted the king's laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself. It was the last thing in the world he wanted. "Your Grace," he said. "I am not worthy of the honor." Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave." He slapped his gut and grinned. "You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?" Ned knew the saying. "What the king dreams," he said, "the Hand builds." "I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit." He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes. Finally the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. "Damn it, Ned," the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile." "They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Ned said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor." "Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again," the king promised. "You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done." This offer did surprise him. "Sansa is only eleven." Robert waved an impatient hand. "Old enough for betrothal. The marriage can wait a few years." The king smiled. "Now stand up and say yes, curse you." "Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned answered. He hesitated. "These honors are all so unexpected. May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife . . . " "Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must." The king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. "Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men." For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming.