#they’ll have my sword earring when they take it off my CORPSE!!!

[totiredtowrite]

Nonononono hear me out right? Imagine Oikawa, one of the most powerful demons around, snags a reader who wants to be a hero and just kind of says 'aight this ones mine now'

Powerless

Warnings - Mentions of killing, the word blade, a religious joke here or there, cursing, referenced nsfw, the req was short but I managed to make this long af, sorry if the ending is trash :(, might do a part 2

Note: I have one mood and this is it

Male Reader - Fem Readers DNI, Respect The Boundaries of the Writers. ✨This isn't about you✨

Demon King Oikawa Tooru.

Infamous for a...multitude of things. For one, his power. Two, the astounding number of people who lust after him. Cults and chapels have been erected in his favour, solely because of his attraction. Nobodies even sure if he's a demon of lust at this point, or if he's just naturally handsome.

And lastly, of course, his ego. His power gives him a big head, though that isn't undeserved. He's just as cocky as he's allowed to be. While it may seem like overkill to some people, they'll quickly find that all of his self conceit is well earned.

Of course, that makes him a big target. Any heroes career would be made if they could kill the demon king. Hell, some get publicity just by returning alive. Young, naive, aspiring heroes want to get his head on a platter more than anything.

And, of course, you were no exception.

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"I just don't think you're cut out for this, son."

At first you'd scoffed. Chalked it up to your mentor being crazy. After all, he was the one who trained you for this!

Nearing the end of the dead forest though, you were starting to wish that you'd listened to him. The energy, the atmosphere, felt like it was wrapping around your neck. You could almost see the dark tendrils around your throat.

The whispers of the forest- prominent, though unintelligible- faded the farther you got from the tree line. Anyone with eyes, ears, or even a nose could tell how corrupt the land was here. Dead birds, ravens to be exact, littered the grounds. Every few yards, you had to step over or around a carcass.

Your torch, near burnt out, clattered to the ground.

There wasn't any need for it anymore, the dim sunset illuminating the deathly area. A small shudder tore through your body. It's like you could feel eyes on you, even in the obviously vacated expanse.

The castle wasn't any better.

Cracked and broken cobblestone lined the pathway up to the doors, travelling up a rather steep hill. From where you stood, you could see the different layers. True to it's unholy resident, the castle was make of dark brick and stone. Sharp, jagged pillars jutted up at the tips of towers, pyres in small heaps littering the area. Some looked as if they were already burnt.

Your hand drifted to your side. There your sword hung, sheathed tightly in a leather casing. The sword was all you really needed, though a couple extra daggers and limited magic items were helpful. After all, it was the demon king. Just a sword wasn't going to kill him off.

You smiled at the thought of your sword being framed when you became a well-known hero, famous for being the blade to deliver the finishing blow.

Those thoughts were quickly disrupted as a bird fell to the ground at your feet.

You grimaced, gently kicking the corpse out of the way and continuing on the rocky cobblestone path. There hasn't been any sign of people for the last two miles. You knew that there was an immensely powerful demon king not even twenty minutes away from you, but it felt like there was nobody for miles on end.

Obviously though, no sane person would get as close to this place as you were.

With one final, (and tentative) step, you arrived at the front door. It felt like any and all sound was swallowed by the walls, all of your senses instantly on edge. Nothing felt right here. It almost made you want to turn around, but you've already made it this far. It would make no sense.

Drawing in another shaky breath, your hand made its way to the door handle. Not much skin touched it through your gloves, yet you could just sense how wrong it felt.

You could only hope that the next time you see these doors, you'd still have your head.

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Nobody told Oikawa that being the demon king would be so...boring.

As opposed to what everyone thinks, it's actually rather monotonous. Wake up, go seduce some townspeople, maybe burn a village or two, kill some heroes who come by, and repeat. Nothing happened that he didn't expect anymore.

Hell, it's gotten to the point where he just smites heroes before they even finish their little speech!

In his defense though, their speeches were starting to sound the same. All the "you are an ungodly creature of darkness"s and "I must avenge my family"s just felt the exact same. They only wanted to kill him for the publicity, the bounty, or some stupid thing about their families legacy. He's so bored.

His thoughts were quickly interrupted, (thank god), by the sound of footsteps pounding on the floor. All at once the door to the throne room swung open, a sweating and panting Kuroo standing there. His black hair was wind tousled, sweat glinting on his forehead.

"Wow," Oikawa scoffed. "Somethings got you running."

Kuroo stood up straight, shrugging and attempting to appear collected. "What do you mean?"

Oikawa raised his brows.

"Right, there's a hero in the castle." Kuroo chuckled awkwardly. "Want us to take care of him?"

Oikawa perked up. Another hero? Really? He wasn't looking forward to doing the same dance again, though maybe this time it would be slightly different. "Let him in," he grinned. "Maybe this one will have something for me." He was never one to turn down opportunity.

Kuroo, plagued by a bit of disbelief, nodded and left the throne room. Presumably it was to tell the fox twins.

Another wicked smile split the Demon King's face, brown hair shifting as he tilted his head to the side. Somehow, he got the feeling that this time, something interesting would happen.

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You figured that the castle would be partly deserted, but this was just weird.

No sign of any living beings. Demons, animals, humans, nothing. Was it an ambush? Quite possibly. Still though, you continued on through the halls.

The inside, just like the outside, was made of dark stone and brick. The floors were marbled and grey, veins of gold running through it. It was actually relatively pretty. You thought that there would be skulls and bones everywhere, bodies even. The castle was well taken care of.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. Seriously, there was no one. You thought that the all powerful Demon King would at least have some guards stationed around. You were grateful for it though, the lack of protection making it easier for you to get into the castle.

In truth you weren't exactly sure where you were headed. You believed the demon king to be in his throne room, though where exactly that was remained a mystery.

Using your limited knowledge of how castles are built, you slowly tried to make your way to the center of the castle. The back center, specifically. You hoped that you'd find the throne room there, plus you were following the remnants of magic.

Even not being a magic user yourself, it would be hard not to feel the weird fluctuations of energy in these halls. Demons always left some kind of trail behind. Which, of course, made this weirder. Nobody was stopping you, but it was clear that there were being in the castle aside from the king himself.

A thought struck you as you reached two huge double doors. (They no doubt led to the throne room). Was it possible that the demons were letting you get this close? Of course, there had to be some kind of second meaning behind it, right?

Drawing in a breath, you flung the doors open.

The throne room was different than the rest of the castle, if only slightly. Grey marble and gold veins staying the same of course, the walls slightly lighter than before. If you had the time to look closely, you'd notice the oxidized bloodstains on the walls.

"Well well, look who's finally showed up!"

Your breath hitched in your throat, barely registering the door creaking closed behind you the moment you stepped forward. He was just as...no, more terrifying up close. The horns jutting out from the sides of his head, twisted upward, held a muted purple colour that shined in the equally muted light. His tone of voice was teasing, almost whiny.

You couldn't tell if his eyes were brown or red, but either way they glowed dangerously. "Well, boy?" He tilted his head, soft brown hair bouncing slightly. "You are here to kill me...aren't you?" His tone shifted. Deeper, more serious.

Your hand quickly made its way to your sword, eyes darting from his horns to his eyes.

He laughed. "Why do you keep looking at my horns like that? You are here for my head, are you not?" You wanted to nod, though he spoke before you could get an answer out.

"Wait a minute. You're here for something more...carnal, aren't you?"

Your eyes widened. "What- no! I'm here for your head!" Your grip on the swords hilt tightened. The rumors about his looks were true, (maybe even understating them), however that is not what you're here to do.

The teasing smirk dropped off of his face. "Oh. Lame."

Your brows knitted together. "Lame?" What was that supposed to mean?

"Oh nothing," he rolled his eyes. "So if you're going to deliver a speech, best do it now. Before I, you know, kill you real bad."

You only looked more confused.

Oikawa scoffed at your lack of response. "Jeez, come on, you know what a soliloquy is right?"

"Well yes but I don't think that really applies here-"

"Tomato whatever, get on with it!" He'd turned around, hands firmly gripping your shoulders.

Your breath stopped short for a second.

"Oh come one," his face moved closer. "Is a little proximity all it takes for you to freeze up? Maybe you aren't cut out to be a hero, boy," he snickered. His nose was brushing yours, breath minty and cold.

Without thinking, your sword was at his side in a flash of silver. Maybe it was just out of reflex, the need to defend yourself. The blank, shocked look on your face morphing into one of confusion. Why wasn't your sword moving further? "Was that the best you could do?" The king whispered.

Looking down, you realize just why he was so revered. He'd caught the blade in his hand, a trickle of black blood visible on his palm. No grimace, no noise of pain, nothing. "Hey, eyes up here sweetheart," one of his clawed hands was on your chin now. The wound, one that would cut almost anyone's hand off, didn't seem to throw him off his rhythm at all.

Horror and realization befell you as your eyes met his. You weren't ready. You didn't know what to do, except relax and let instinct take over. So that's what you did.

You let the sword fall out of your hand, causing him to have to catch it at an awkward angle. Using his moment of distraction, you reached into a bag at your hip. Sand. Sure, he was a demon, though it's not like his eyes were impervious to sand.

The dust hit him in the eyes, a startled, strangled noise leaving him. You turned, darting to the only open window as fast as possible. Jumping was not a good idea by any means, though maybe you could use the little magic you knew to your own advantage. You hesitated. You didn't mean to, but really it was just in your nature to be a little cautious.

Oikawa's eyes cleared just in time to see you fall out the window, hands darting back and forth and lips moving. Magic. "You clever little thing," he snarled, at the window in only a few seconds flat. He almost jumped out after you, but then he stopped. Sure he could follow you, but what would be the point? It makes more sense to simply leave you to come back on your own.

"Hey!"

You didn't look back at the sound of his voice, though you did catch the next words to fall from his mouth. "The names Tooru, by the way!"

You didn't say a word, focused on the cold burn of your heart pounding and your legs moving. You'd failed far faster than you thought you would, but you'd be back. You didn't even bother to step around the birds, only focused on getting out. After all, he'd let you leave. There wasn't any way you were taking that for granted.

Back at the castle, Oikawa's hands were still gripping the window's edge. He'd watched your form run until he could hardly see you, still gazing off in that direction. The twins were hovering behind him, wondering when the right time would be to speak. The bloodied sword on the ground, (and the grains of sand), were clear signs that you'd done something.

After elbowing one another for a minute, Osamu spoke up. "Would you like us to take care of it, Lord?" He pushed Atsumu back in an attempt to seem more dignified.

They got silence for a second before he responded. "No. That one is mine. Leave him be." The twins nodded in unison, leaving the room like they were never there.

You didn't do much. There were other heroes who'd done far more to him then you had, though still, something stuck with him. Maybe it was the utterly useless conversation you'd shared before anything actually happened. Maybe it was the vague potential he saw.

In any case, he was going to see you once more. Somewhere you'd least expect him.

Oikawa never was fond of leaving unfinished business.

[n-miri]

More Tommy-Purpled friendship content!! CW for: brief mentions of corpses and death (via being struck by lightning) 

Word count: 1610

On rainy days, Purpled polishes his sword. It’s a good weapon: netherite, with Sharpening V, Unbreaking III— the usual overpowered enchantments. He isn’t complaining though; the stronger he is, the better. He goes through a collection of blades, from the one he knows best to the oldest one he owns, on the verge of being grinded into dust. Wipe, sharpen, steer clear of rust. Keep the blade clean and dry. It’s easy to get lost in the repetitive motions. 

Dogchamp lies by his side, close to the fire, hind leg poking at his thigh through the soft material. Their ears perk up, and their tail begins to wag. Back, forth, thumping on the floorboards. 

A door slams open, followed by a myriad of curses. It’s the usual rainy day, after all. 

“Don’t let my floor get wet,” Purpled says immediately. His voice rebounds within the house, a meagre two rooms decorated with torches. A temporary base, if you will. One that he’s planning to blow up soon. 

His UFO was… 

It just isn’t the same. 

“Fuck you,” the trespasser immediately responds. The house is unbearably empty despite its miniscule nature. “I’ll do whatever I want.” 

A beat. He probably found the towel Purpled placed on the counter earlier, specifically for this scenario. Footsteps, sharp against the falling of rain—white hair peeks out from the door. Tommy sneers at the other derisively, before crossing the room in five long steps and dropping down on Purpled’s other side. 

This has become a ritual of sorts, with the two blondes (or, in Tommy’s case, ex-blonde) seeking refuge from bad days. Sometimes it’s sunny out, or the middle of the night; most of the time, it’s raining. 

The day they met, it was raining too. Wide eyes meet each other in the solace of darkness. The past is unforgivingly cruel, and whispers mockeries into their ears. Tommy looked so small, in the Church Prime’s pew; Purpled was sure he looked equally as haggard, hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. 

So, Purpled invited Tommy to his base. It’s warm despite being unfamiliar, and Dogchamp is amicable towards traumatised teenagers who need way more therapy than life is willing to give. They talked a bit about the stupidity of other members. Rarely, there was a glimpse into their lives, what they missed and have lost. Neither of them actively asked and, in a sense, it was comforting. 

Then it happens again. And again. Tommy pulls out his sewing kit on the third visit and demands to patch up his hoodie. Purpled teaches Tommy how to shear sheep, wool coming off in lines of blue. Just like this, they help each other. There’s too much left unspoken and no expectations to be had. There is no debt to be repaid, or a favour to be granted, or a profitable exchange. 

It’s just that. It’s just them, crossing each other’s path sometimes. Seeing how the other has changed from their previous meeting. 

“It’s stupid,” Tommy says suddenly. His shrill voice pierces through the haze of thoughts. Pale eyes flicker around the room, with shadows from corners pulling faces. “This is what you do in your spare time? Fight, prepare to fight, fight some more?” He scoffs, not even sparing Purpled a glance. “Idiot.” 

Much to the mercenary’s bemusement, Tommy proceeds to pull a cake out of his inventory. As in, a full-blown, home-baked dessert. 

“.... Huh?” 

An embarrassed scowl creeps onto his face. “Don’t be like that.” He drops the plate loudly onto the space between the two. “It’s edible, if that’s what you were wondering. I know how to cook shit. Niki…” Tommy’s eyes grow distant, fingers twitching, as if moving to punch the treat into oblivion. “She used to bake. A lot. Back in- y’know, back in L’manberg. I learned a bit from her,” he finishes lamely. All the bravado has left him. 

“That’s cool, dude,” Purpled replies. “It looks good.” 

“Wh- of course it does! I’m poggers at everything I do. That’s why the women love me.” Carefully, the boy flicks strands of white hair away from his eyes. “I’m astonishingly charming.” 

There was a time where Tommy’s hair imitated the sunlight, gold and yellow and bursting with happiness. He smiled more. Laughed more, too. Was more brash and insolent; was so willing to see the good in everyone he met. 

Now his hair is completely white. His dull eyes flicker around the room and his hands are always, always trembling. Tommy is different from who he was before. 

The Tommy and Purpled of before would never have become friends. 

“Hold up, let me cut it.” Saying that, the mercenary raises his newly polished sword. Tommy sputters, holding a hand out to stop him. 

“Why can’t you use a knife like a normal person!” 

Purpled shrugs. “Technically, a sword is a very big knife. It’s… stabby and shit.” 

Exasperated, Tommy gets up from his spot in a tangle of long limbs and half-hearted glares. “I’m going to slice this cake like a normal person. It deserves to be treated with respect.” 

“We’re going to eat it anyway,” Purpled points out. 

The other sniffs indignantly, turning heel to find cutleries. Dogchamp lifts their head in his direction, turning to Purpled, then back again. Slowly, the wolf raises from their sitting position and trots out of the room. Traitor. 

From the closed window, lightning streaks through the sky, followed closely by a clap of thunder. It’s loud, Purpled winces. He had expected it but- the sound still makes him jumpy. Rainy days in general are terrible. 

The patter of rain against the dirt and harsh concrete pulls out a vivid scene from his memory. Soldiers, rising out of graves, burdened by shiftless armour, heaving up weapons twice their arm span. Thunder imitates piercing shrieks, the blast of an explosion. Raindrops sound like corpses hitting the ground. 

Everytime it rains, he recalls that scene with bitter reminiscence; greets it like an old friend who came back to haunt him as an afterthought. It’s not the best way to spend his day. 

“You know,” Tommy says, having entered the room when he wasn’t aware, “I got struck by lightning once.” 

Distantly, Purpled thinks of raindrops rolling through hair and a shock so bright it electrifies the body. The event he construes in his mind, like always, paints his own death in a morbid way. He wonders if he died, would anyone come visit him? Would there even be a grave? 

“That sucks,” the blonde replies. 

Tommy gives a non-committal hum, shifting the objects in his arms. In one hand the boy carries a kitchen knife and in the other, a blanket. It’s the one with a UFO print on it—too childish for the purple boy’s tastes, yet too precious to be thrown away. 

Once again, the two -three, counting Dogchamp- are back in their original positions. The blanket is draped over Purpled’s lap and he watches, warily, as Tommy’s shaking hands raise the knife. At this point, Purpled would have offered to do it. He nearly does, too, but- 

Ten minutes have passed. Eyebrows scrunched, a bead of sweat against his forehead, Tommy tries to steady his grip and cut the cake in equal slices. It doesn’t work. It’s uneven at best, falling apart at worst, but- 

None of that matters. He did it. 

A ‘good job’ or ‘gg’ sticks on Purpled’s tongue, sincere yet worried of coming off as patronising. Instead, he gives a silent thumbs-up and hopes that conveys all the things he wishes he could say. 

Tommy grins. “Eat up before it gets cold, purple boy.” Neither of them mention that it’s definitely not warm anymore, with how long it’s been and how cold the weather is. Obediently, the teenager picks up the tiniest chunk of cake and pops it into his mouth. 

Sweet is the first thing that touches his tongue. Honestly, it shouldn’t come as a surprise— Tommy started over-seasoning his food after the prison visit, the same time he came back with a head full of white hair. That, paired with the fact Awesamdude said he had died, creates a sinking feeling in Purpled’s guts. It doesn’t take an idiot to connect the dots. 

“Yummy,” he comments. “Delicious. Uhh, what other synonyms are there? Delectable, tasteful-” A choking laugh cuts him off, too loud and too worryingly breathless all at once. “I’ll give this a… hm. Maybe an eight out of ten.” 

“I should have gotten full marks,” Tommy says sarcastically. “Glad you like it, though.” Underneath the amusement is the barest form of sincerity, and that’s enough for the both of them. 

“Uh-huh! I do.” 

Once the rain lets up, the two will part again. Purpled will wash sugar off his fingers, keep the polishing kit in a chest and carry on with his life. That’s how this has always been. 

But for now, light from the fireplace casts a glow across their faces, painting a sunset upon Tommy’s self. It’s reminiscent of older days, better days; ones that have long since passed. They’ll never get any of it back—family, homes, the people they once were. All they can do is yearn for what has been lost and move on. 

So for now, Purpled stops focusing on the what-ifs and could-have-beens. For now, he relishes in the warmth in his sides as he laughs himself silly. Dogchamp dozes off contentedly. A blanket is shared, covering his and Tommy’s laps, barely offering heat. The half-eaten cake lies between them and his friend is threatening to smash it into his face. 

Outside, rain drums against the earth. Neither of them pay it mind. 

[systlinsideblog]

Part 5

Systlin slept. 

She always dreamed in vivid detail; scents, sounds, touch. Often, the dream felt quite real, until of course she woke. 

This dream was warm. The warmth of the feather bed, of the blankets. The pleasant warmth from the summer breeze blowing through the open window. The warmth, most of all, of Foicatch. 

She rested her cheek against the solid warmth of his chest, eyes closed. The beat of his heart, the tickle of the hairs on his chest against her nose, the smell of his skin, were all as vivid as reality. 

He smelled faintly of smoke; he'd been in the forge, then. He didn't need to, of course. Hadn't, for a long time. A Bloodguard earned quite enough to  hire a smith for whatever they might need, and a King Consort had the royal smith at his disposal.

But Foicatch, before any of that, had been the son of a master carpenter, and a smith's apprentice. He wore the tattoo on his arm that proclaimed his journeyman status proudly, even after two years spent in a city guard, a decade and more in the Bloodguard, and another twenty years as King Consort. 

He rather liked rubbing it in the faces of some of the high lords and high ladies, to be quite honest. A smith was an honored craftsman. And he liked the forge. He liked watching the colors of the flames, the smell of hot metal and smoke, the steam from the quench tank. He liked the sound of the hammer and the feel of it in his hand. And so, quite often, the King Consort of the Northern Lands, the father of the heir to the Throne of the North, would go down to the royal smithy and serve as assistant to the master smith of Stellas Keep. 

He joked sometimes that he was still working for his master-craft tattoo. It was, Systlin knew, not entirely a joke. 

She pressed her cheek against the solid warmth of him. His hand was moving, fingertips stroking her spine from nape of neck to small of back and back up.

His fingers were rough, both from a sword and from the forge hammer. Systlin liked that about them, and how strong they were. 

The sensation of his heartbeat under her cheek, the lingering glow of pleasure shared, and the fingers stroking her back were glorious. She hummed in pleasure, and felt him chuckle softly. 

"Little cat." He said, teasingly. "You're purring."

"Mmm." She kept her eyes closed. She was the Queen Regnant of the North, had fought two wars, held the high lords in check mainly through fear of her and had earned the love of the common folk by shedding blood and sweat for them. She was a Breaker, the first in centuries, and rumored to be the most powerful yet to live. She held that power, and herself, on a tight leash.

 But here, in the bedroom she shared with her husband, it all melted away for a little while. 

She wondered, yet again, if he knew just how much he was the center of sanity that kept her moored and grounded. She had told him, of course, but still. 

Foicatch shifted. She made a sound of protest, and he tweaked the gold ring in her ear playfully. She sat up reluctantly, eyeing the matching bond-ring in his ear and contemplating tugging back. 

"I have something for you." His voice was soft. 

She raised an eyebrow. He rolled to the side; she appreciated the shift of his muscles under his skin as he did so. He was a wonderfully built man. 

"Here." He took something from the bed-table, and turned back to her. "I made this today." 

'This' was a small round piece of iron. It was beautifully made, twisted threads of wire in a complicated interlinked pattern of knots. In the center was engraved the eight-pointed star of her family. It was strung on a chain, and clearly meant to be worn as a pendant. 

"You made it?" She put it on happily. 

"I purified the steel from ore myself. And quenched it in water mixed with a drop of my own blood. I burned three of my hairs, three of yours, and three of Serra's on it, for the forge spirits." He ducked his head a little, as if embarrassed. "They'll protect you, if you wear it." 

It was an old ritual, Systlin knew. Hairs from her head, his, and their child, offered to the forge-spirits for protection. His own blood in the quench-tank, to keep away rust and wear. 

"I know you don't need it." He was saying, still seeming embarrassed. "But..."

She kissed him. Hard and at length. 

"Thank you." She told him, when they finally came up for air. He smiled, his face lighting up like the sun, and kissed her again....

Systlin woke. 

The furs next to her were empty, of course. On her breast, the iron of the pendant Foicatch had made her long ago was as cold as ice. 

The loneliness hit her like a brick, but there wasn't time to dwell on it. 

From outside the wagon there was a cry of alarm. 

She was on her feet and had her weapons in hand before it faded. There were sounds of a struggle from outside, and she was moving, barefoot and wearing her sleeping tunic, reactions honed by decades of experience engaged instantly. 

It was coming from the rear of the wagon. The wood that made the wagon was sturdy, but it was roofed in canvas. Even as she leapt towards the sound of the commotion, a knife blade was stabbed through the canvas to slice a way into her wagon. 

The wood of the wagon was sturdy. 

That did not matter, to a Breaker, in the slightest. 

The rear wall of the wagon fractured violently into a million splinters as she Broke it; she closed her eyes and raised an arm to protect them as she dove through the cloud of them. 

She went low out of sheer instinct. Dove through the splinters, hit the ground outside in a shoulder roll and was back on her feet in an instant. Spun, taking in the scene before her. 

A woman was on the ground, her throat slit. Another was crying the alarm, pointing to the wagon. A man was struggling to regain his feet as splinters rained down around him; he must, she surmised, have been climbing the back wall of her wagon. A knife lay beside him. 

A second man was stumbling backwards, caught off guard by the explosion of splinters. He was armed with a quiva and a lance. 

He saw her, and his eyes widened. 

The cold light clarity of battle was setting in already. Systlin bared her teeth in a horrible parody of a smile, and lunged. 

She was faster than him. She was better trained than him. She had the element of surprise. 

It was a credit to his own skills that he managed to regain his footing and twist out of the way of the sword strike that would have gutted him. It was even more to his credit that he managed to parry the dagger strike that would have torn his throat open. 

He did not dodge the knee kick. Systlin slammed her heel into his kneecap, and felt the crunch as bone gave way. He fell as the leg gave out, and lashed out savagely at her with his lance. 

He was very fast. She was faster. Ice  snapped down to parry the lance, and she sank her dagger to the hilt in his neck, just above the collarbone. 

Then she was past him, and advancing on the stunned man struggling to find his breath again. He'd fallen a good eight feet from the top of her wagon, and the wind had been knocked out of him. He was bleeding in a dozen places, from where splinters had driven into flesh. 

He saw her coming, and reached for the knife. She smiled at him, baring her teeth in the sheer bloody delight of battle, and stepped on the weapon, kicking it away. 

"I was wondering," she told him, even as her guards finally arrived with weapons drawn. "how long it would take you bastards." 

 An hour later, the bound prisoner had been carted away. The corpse had been disposed of, and Systlin was back to bed. 

They'd both been men granted freedom for apparent good behavior. To be honest, she'd known that some of them were acting, and had expected this. 

It had been some time since she'd had assassins try to kill her in the night. It was rather refreshing, actually. Her aunt had always maintained that regular practice was needed to keep skills sharp. 

The chill had faded from her pendant. She held it, for a long moment, imagining for a moment that she could still smell him, could still feel his touch. 

She reached up and touched the rings in her ear...two of them, one a gold ring set with a ruby, the second silver, and set with sapphire. Foicatch wore a matching sapphire bond-ring. Sura wore a matching ring of ruby. 

How long had she been here? Four weeks now? 

Systlin Stellas, Queen of the Northern Lands, was not given to tears. But even so, as she lay in her bed alone, she felt wetness on her cheeks. 

 Come morning, when she had the prisoner dragged before her as she held court in the open space before her wagon, she had composed herself again. 

The man who'd tried to kill her was not the only prisoner present. She'd had the men who'd not yet been freed dragged before her too, and set where they could watch. They were silent, and stoic. Systlin had come to expect that of them. 

Despite this, of course, she noted with some pleasure that the presence of the severed head of her would-be assassin spiked on a lance set in the ground did seem to draw their eyes. 

She smiled pleasantly at them. She'd learned years ago that it unnerved people when she did this. 

"I am honestly surprised," she said. "That it took you this long."

The bound prisoner spat at her feet. She ignored this. 

"I would like to publicly recognize," she continued, "Dina of Turia, who was clever enough both to recognize that an attempt would likely be made, and to think of setting guards at the rear of my wagon as well as the front."

Dina smiled brilliantly at the praise, and brought her lance to her forehead in salute. Her smile faltered, though; Systlin knew that she'd insisted on arranging for the death-rites of the slain guardswoman personally. 

"I am sorry, Ubara." She said. "That your guards failed to stop them." 

Systlin shook her head. "You cannot expect to best trained warriors after a month of practice. I have said as much. But they saw the men, and warned me, and it was clever of you to deduce where such an attack might be made."

That got another smile. "I have lived among Tuchuks." She said. "I've learned how they think."

"Now, of course, we deal with you." Systlin stood, and drew her sword. The prisoner met her eyes, defiant. 

"Go on, sleen." He said. "You are no Ubara." 

"Ah. Of course. Because I have not killed your former Ubar." She smiled at his shock, and in the gathered prisoners there were many suddenly wide eyes. "What? You think that I've not spoken to people? You think that the other women didn't tell me? What kind of fool do you take me for?"

Shock, from many of the men. But from the women, mocking laughter. 

"It is a situation easily remedied." She smiled at him, and then planted her feet and cut, swift and hard, pivoting from the hips. 

Ice cut through muscle and bone quite easily. The head hit the ground with a thump and rolled. Systlin ignored the body as it fell, and pointed towards the prisoners with the bloodied blade of Ice. 

"You," she said, still smiling. "Kamchak, is it? Ubar of the Tuchuks?"

The man met her eyes steadily. She saw anger there, but no fear. He was, if nothing else, brave. 

"A lesson I learned long ago." She told him. "Is that a queen with no people who follow her is no queen at all. And you, former Ubar, have barely a handful of men loyal to you. I have six thousand loyal to me. So who, here, is Ubara?" 

He spat. 

"But I am willing," she continued, "to do this properly. It will be a pleasure, even." She nodded to her guards. "Remove his chains, and give him weapons. If he wants his position back, he can fight me for it." 

There was a roar from the gathered women, and Systlin smiled as Kamchak's eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth right back at her. 

 We had known, of course. It had been whispered about camp, and the men who had managed to convince the women to free them had consulted Kamchak many times in the previous days. It had been done quietly, of course; Tuchuks are clever.

On the night that the attack was to occur, we of course heard the commotion, as the wagon we were chained to was not far distant from that claimed by Systlin. Adjacent to it, in fact, as I seemed to be of special interest to her and she apparently wished to keep me under close scrutiny. 

I had asked for Kamchak to at least be chained near me. The request had been granted. We sat practically on, indeed, the flat space of grass before the great wagon that she used as her court. 

We heard, quite quickly, that it had failed. Systlin sent out messengers immediately, and spent an hour before her wagon in plain view of any and all who wished to  see that she lived. 

She was wearing a brief silk tunic, as she had no doubt been startled from sleep. Her legs were strong; far too strong for Gorean tastes, but still shapely. The image was somewhat marred by the blood that had dripped down her thigh as she carried the head of her slain enemy to the lance fixed in the turf for this purpose. 

The second man who'd attempted the attack was dragged to the grass before her, chained hand and foot and hand to foot, and tied down to lances sunk deeply into the turf. 

The women, I noted, did not cringe so any longer when shouted at by an angry warrior. His cries of rage were ignored. 

I noticed, for the first time, how well formed were the muscles of the women. I supposed that the hard work at camp and the running after the kaiila of their masters had always left the girls in excellent physical form. Had the last month of their play at weapons truely wrought such a change, though?

Or had the girls always been so fit, and I had simply not seen them drag a grown warrior by his hair before?

Systlin sat there holding court, clad in red silk and the blood of a slain warrior, a man who'd been sent to kill her bound before her, the firelight casting flickering shadow and light over the scene, seated on the furs and pillows as if they were a throne of gold and rubies. 

She met my eyes once, in the shadows, and her smile was a terrible thing to behold.  

For the first time since the she-demon had arrived, I understood how such a creature could be called a queen. 

It's said on Gor that a woman who enjoys the touch of silk is a slave at heart. I wondered if the man who had first said it had ever seen a woman wearing silk and the blood of a slain enemy. I found myself, for the first time in a great while, doubting the phrase. 

Come morning, of course, we were dragged to court. And there, of course, Systlin killed the warrior who'd attempted to kill her before all the Tuchuk. I had supposed as much would happen, once I had heard of the failure of the attack. 

I had not supposed that she would call out Kamchak, or agree to fight him. 

Kamchak, of course, accepted. 

As the corpse of the executed warrior was removed from the circle, I realized that I had never yet seen the she-sleen truly fight. 

"Be careful," I said to Kamchak. 

He nodded, once. She was only a woman, of course, and he was proud...but I saw him narrow his eyes at her, thoughtful, as his chains were removed. 

He was sly, the Ubar of the Tuchuks. I knew this. 

"It is unfair." He said, as his ankle chains were unlocked. "You wear armor, and I am nearly naked." 

Systlin smiled, just a twitch of her lips, and removed the red larl-hide cloak, and her leather vest. The glittering shirt of strange scales was brilliant in the sun. I could see no two scales of precisely the same shade. 

She bent at the waist and wriggled out of the armor, leaving her in just the padded shirt that went under the armor. She unsheathed her dagger and spun it around the back of her hand, quicker than the eye could follow, the hilt sliding neatly back into her hand as the spin finished. 

"There." She said. "Choose whatever weapons you please." 

Kamchak observed her, eyes narrow, for some time. Then at last, he spoke. "Lance," he said, "And quiva." 

Systlin nodded, and weapons were brought. 

"You have the sun at your back," Kamchak observed. "So that it will shine in my eyes." 

"Yes." She answered him calmly, matter of fact. She made no offer to change the situation. 

"That is wise. I would do the same."

She inclined her head perhaps an inch in acknowledgement. 

"If I defeat you, I will simply kill you." He informed her. "You are too dangerous to make a slave, witch." 

She smiled at that, showing teeth. 

"I suppose if I seized one of these women as hostage, you would simply overpower me with sorcery." He stretched, and weighed quiva and lance in his hands. 

"Of course." 

Kamchak approached her, cautious. Systlin waited, and I saw her shift her weight slightly. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, I saw, her legs spread slightly in a way that would give her stable footing and allow her to move any direction at the slightest notice. 

"Tarl Cabot," Kamchak said, and I started. "It would be a terrible thing, should this witch slay me, and no one else know that which you seek is currently within my own wagon, and has often served me as throne." 

I started; the gray, leathery thing that I had supposed was a bundle of old leather, and which Kamchak often sat upon? 

Of course, it was like a Tuchuk, to hide such a treasure in the most clever of ways...

There was a ring of metal on metal, and I was torn from such thoughts. Kamchak had hurled a quiva, as he had at me once upon a time. And as I had, Systlin had apparently seen the throw coming, though it was so quick as to be missed upon blinking. She had moved, just as quickly, and the ringing had been her sword meeting the quiva in mid-air, and parrying it to the side. 

I had seen her before in bits and flashes in the battle that terrible night, and later executing bound prisoners. Her form with a blade, I had thought, was good. 

I had been wrong before. Her form with a blade was excellent, and beyond excellent. 

It struck me, as she nimbly dodged a striking lance and the slashing blow of a second quiva, Kamchak bringing it up and around in a hidden strike close on the heels of his lunge with the lance, that she would have compared favorably with the best of the warriors of Ko-ro-ba. 

As she danced in, light and nimble, and drove him back on his heels with a vicious, lightning quick series of strikes, it occurred to me that she was likely quicker on her feet than even I. 

The sword and dagger at once was not a common combination on Gor, but the she-sleen used them to devastating effect. One may parry while the other attacks, and attack may follow attack without the slightest moment of respite. Equally, both may be used to turn aside blows given in return, though this relies upon the warrior being quick and nimble and possessed of excellent timing.

Systlin was all three. She was quick, marvelously quick. She was nimble, her footing flawless. Her timing was precise and deadly.

Within the first exchange, she had opened a deep bleeding slash into Kamchak's arm with that dagger, and as he fought to hold those biting blades off the sword slipped around and opened a cut into his thigh. 

Kamchak's lance gave him reach, and he was quick on his feet as well. As she pivoted neatly around his lance and cut for his neck with a vicious flat slice of her sword, he threw himself to the side unexpectedly and hurled his quiva, at nearly point blank range. 

She saw, and with a degree of control over her body and momentum that I had thought nearly impossible checked her momentum and changed direction, but still the quiva opened a cut across the front of her thigh. 

Both warriors fell back, eyeing one another. Kamchak was serious, deadly so. Systlin was grinning, and I have seen that grin before on the battlefield. 

Only warriors who truly delight in the fight smile so. 

As we watched, the she-sleen lowered her hand, dipped two fingers into the blood flowing from her wound, and drew them across her cheek, smearing scarlet like war-paint across her skin. 

"U-BAR-A!" There was chanting from the massed Tuchuk. A few, though, including the other still-imprisoned warriors, were crying "U-BAR!"

"You are good." Kamchak admitted. 

Systlin simply grinned, and began circling. If the pain of her wound was troubling her, she did not reveal it. 

Twice more they clashed, and twice more the she-sleen opened up wounds on Kamchak and then retreated to resume her circling. Kamchak did not manage to wound her a second time in these clashes. 

I realized to my horror, as she closed the third time and hooked a blow of the lance out of the air as neatly as one could please, simply to rotate around and drive her elbow viciously into the back of Kamchak's skull, that she was toying with him. 

Kamchak knew as well, as she retreated to resume that relentless circling again. The blow had dazed him for a moment, and she could have slain him on the spot, but she only pricked him yet again with that dagger, opening a slash across the back of his shoulder to join the half-dozen others he was bleeding from. 

"Sleen." He panted. 

"I prefer" she said, still smiling that cold and vicious smile, "to be called 'Queen'."

And with that, she moved in again. 

Kamchak was a great warrior, and a canny one. Kamchak fought well. Kamchak fought with a skill that would have been credit to any warrior of Ko-ro-ba. Kamchak fought with skill and speed and guile. But no man can stand forever when bleeding from a dozen wounds.

Kamchak fought well. Kamchak fought bravely. And Kamchak died, a warrior of the Tuchuk, without begging or crying out in pain, when the she-sleen tired of the game. 

She did not quite behead him. When his guard dropped, dragged down by exhaustion and blood loss, she cut again with that strange sword and opened his throat clear back to the bones of his spine. 

Kamchak, Ubar of the Tuchuk, fell. I did not look away as his life bled out across the grass; I owed him that much. 

Systlin turned to us as Kamchak fell, fierce and furious. 

"There lies your Ubar." She cried this out, and I knew at once that she was used to speaking so that her voice would carry over battlefields. "Now we will have done with this! Is there anyone else among you who would challenge me? Because now is the time! If you wish to avenge your men, if you wish to claim the Ubar title...now is the fucking time! Because the next time I have to get out of bed to an assassination attempt, I am going to slow roast the balls of anyone involved and feed them to you." 

Silence. 

"Then." She hissed. "Who is the fucking Ubara here?"

I could say nothing, and I was not the only one to look away.

“That’s what I fucking thought.”

 Three days later

“Fuck.” Systlin dug her fingertips into her temples. She could feel a headache coming on, and it was only midmorning. “Fuck. What is wrong with this place?”

Dina gave an apologetic sort of shrug. “I cannot answer that for you, Ubara. But the Tuchuk had been preparing for the Love Games for some time, and it is considered the event of events on the plains. We could simply move the bosk on and skip it, though it will be noted.”

Systlin gritted her teeth. Her new warriors were not well trained enough to put up against those who had been trained, as she had, since they were old enough to hold swords. They were eager, she knew, but simply not yet ready for such a fight. It would be a slaughter, and she would not have it.

“Abominable fucking tradition.” She muttered. “What will happen to the Turian women placed at the stakes if we simply do not show?”

Her advisors glanced at each other and shrugged. “I do not know, Ubara.” Said Shayla, a fiercely intelligent woman. She had a keen mind for numbers and a genius for organization, and Systlin had promptly snapped her up to assist with logistics. Her former and very deceased master had kept her in a length of nearly transparent silk that barely counted as a scarf; now she wore a long bosk-wool skirt and a conservatively cut tunic, and her hair was braided and pinned up in a coil. “But I am not Turian.”

“It would be counted as a win for the Turian champions.” Dina said. “And they will be free to go. But the Tuchuk will be marked as cowards, and runners will be sent to investigate.”

“Ah.” Systlin relaxed a bit. “Well. That’s no problem. I don’t care what they think of us for now, and a few runners are easily disposed of. We simply do not go, then, and we will come back and deal with Turia when the warriors are ready.”

“The Turians,” interjected Mettna, a Tuchuk Free Woman. She also had a keen mind for logistics, and was the matriarch of a large extended family with many ties throughout the Tuchuk. Gorean laws or not, she ruled her family uncontested, and her word was law among them. Even her teenaged sons and nephews bowed their heads when she fixed them with a flinty stare. “Will consider the women the Tuchuk would have placed at the stakes theirs by default, and they will come looking for them.” A dark look; her youngest daughter Hireena had been among those intended for the stakes. “They take pleasure in breaking us to the collar and chain.”

Systlin’s hand tightened reflexively on her dagger. “If they come looking,” She said. “I’ll make drinking bowls of their skulls, and send the rest of them back to Turia.”

“Good.” A nod. “I simply wanted you to know, Ubara.”

“And it is appreciated.” Systlin tilted her head at Dina. “It would be good practice for the warriors. Fighting for real with your life on the line is much different than doing it in practice. I know that you are impatient, Dina, but I didn’t learn in a month either.”

Dina nodded. “When DO you think…” she trailed off.

“A year, perhaps.” Systlin shrugged. “It depends on how hard you train, and how many chances there are to raid and test yourself in small skirmishes. You’ve all thrown yourselves in heart and soul, and are progressing remarkably. Keep training, and you’ll be flaying slave masters sooner than you think.”

Dina looked mollified at that.

“So it is decided then. We continue to move over the grazing grounds, bide our time, gather our strength, train, and ignore this abomination called “Love Games.” Systlin nodded to each of them. “Ah, Shayla. I had meant to ask…you had located the stocks of that stuff you call the ‘releaser?’ And the stuff you call ‘sip-root?’”

“We have, Ubara. One or two of the women have requested the releaser. I gave it to them. I hope that was not…”

“Not at all. Such things are entirely up to the individual. Continue to distribute it to any who ask, and notify me if stocks run low. I am not adverse to raiding for more supplies of any sort, should they be needed. How many men remain living?”

“Thirty two of adult years. Many more nearing adulthood, though many of them have been…difficult. There will be problems there, Ubara.”

“I know. But those will be dealt with as they come. Children have not owned slaves or raped women yet, and I’ll not punish them for their upbringing. There’s hope of teaching them better yet.” She tapped her fingers against her thigh thoughtfully. “Your siproot, quite honestly, rather reminds me of stoneseed, from my own world.”

“And Silphium.” The woman named Elizabeth put in abruptly. “From mine. The Romans…an empire, some two thousand years ago…used it so much that it was harvested to extinction, but it was apparently quite effective.” She worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “I wonder…if this siproot was grown on Earth…there’s so many who don’t have access to birth control yet. It’s a hardy plant. It could change so many lives for the better.”

Systlin raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Stoneseed is considered a basic stock necessity for any civilized place on Ellinon, as siproot seems to be here. What is done then on Earth, to prevent unwanted children?”

“Well.” A helpless sort of shrug. “We’ve pills that work well, and barrier devices, but…well, in some places there’s not much, and while we’ve plants too many are toxic or don’t work well. So, in those places there’s just…nothing.”

Systlin hissed through her teeth in disapproval. “It’s a worthy thought, then. But before we can figure out how to return you to your own world, we must set this one to rights.” She rose, as did the other women in the wagon. “Thank you all. We will speak again later.”

Outside the wagon, she found her kailla, mounted, and went for a ride around the perimeter of the camp. She’d taken to doing so regularly; an early and hard lesson had been that people need to see their leaders.

Her father had ignored this fact. He’d died for it, with her brother, and the northern lands had dissolved into war for a decade.

After her circuit of the camp, she went to the field where the fighters were training. A few of the freed men had offered to help teach, and were so far proving helpful. Systlin had been dubious; the women of this place were so conditioned to expect nothing but brutality at a man’s hands that she’d wondered if it wouldn’t cause more harm than good. However, it seemed, after some tentative starts, to be helping both sides. The women were faster losing their ingrained flinching cringe when a man moved towards them, and the men, she knew, had been stunned by how quickly the women took to training. She’d heard them speaking to the still chained men about it, and arguing. She’d seen them as well cuff and get into yelling matches with a few of the sullenly furious teenaged boys who were nearing manhood, and had found their expected power ripped away in a moment.

The man named Carl Tabot was there too. He was still chained, foot to foot, and was simply allowed to correct errors when he saw them. She’d contemplated killing him; she was certain, in her bones, that he was guilty of the same atrocities of most of the other men. But she’d no proof, and the man was a skilled warrior; she’d only broken his leg rather than killed him for that, and because she’d noted the first time he spoke that he was not of these wagon people.

He spotted her, and glowered. She was more than certain that he’d happily stick a knife through her throat in her sleep if he thought he could get by with it. She smiled at him in return, the sharp, worrying flash of teeth that was famed and feared across the sands and the northern lands. He flinched, and glowered at her.

Fuck, but she would have given anything to have Foicatch there. The ingrained misogyny of this world ran deep, and she knew that words from a man would be more seriously taken than her words, however thoroughly she demonstrated that she was, in fact, the new superior power on this planet.

Actually, the idea was quite amusing. The men of this place had made it quite obvious what they thought of being ‘true men’, and that men not like them were ‘weak’ and ‘unmanned’. Foicatch, all six feet three inches and two hundred fifty granite-hewn, deadly warrior-trained pounds of him, could hardly ever be called either. But, like most real men, Foicatch was quite secure in himself and felt little need to loudly proclaim it for everyone to hear. He was, really, far more even-tempered and easygoing than she. He’d be mostly bemused by the arrogant, angry posturing and bellowing and rage of the men of this shithole.

Until he was not. It took a great deal to rouse Foicatch’s ire, but once roused it was terrible.

Systlin entertained the thought of one of the sullen, angry Tuchuk boys being dangled from one of ‘Catch’s hands, her beloved bellowing at the little shit, and smiled again in private amusement.

[shanastoryteller]

Would you mind writing more about Achilles? Also, a gods and monsters story about Helen would be interesting to see. :) have a nice day!

It hadn’t been a game.

He is seventeen years old, the strongest soldier inhis father’s army, the fastest runner and most skilled archer, and if he’s notquite the best swordsman on the island, well, give him another couple years. Dionis his brother in arms, his dearest friend, and Patroclus had thought theywould live together and die together on the battlefield. He’d thought Dion wasbeautiful and warm and that his hands were the perfect size for Patroclus’sown, if he could ever must the courage to take them.

He is seventeen years old when he’s proven wrong abouteverything he thought he knew.

It’s the middle of the night and he’s walking homefrom a long day of running drills, and then staying later than everyone else towork on his sword dances again and again until he feared his bones would popout of his arms. He’s almost home when he hears a woman scream, and then he’s pushinghis tired limbs to run before he can think better of it. W.hen he finds a manforcing himself on a crying girl in an alleyway he doesn’t think anything aboutpulling him off of her and punching him in the face.

Then it’s Dion looking up at him with a bloody noseand all the air leaves Patroclus’s lungs.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lips numb. Herecognized vaguely that they’re blocking the exit of the alley, that the girlis pulling her torn dress back up and can’t run until they get out of the way,but he can’t bring himself to move.

“What am I doing?” Dion wipes the blood from his face.“What are you doing? What’s your problem?”

He’s incredulous and pissed off and not evenremorseful, isn’t acting like he did anything wrong, and for a moment Patrocluswonders if it’s just a misunderstanding, if he’d interrupted something heshould have left alone, but he looks back at the girl, who’s their age, who’s huddledback against the alley wall with wide, frightened eyes, and knows that it’snot. “I’m telling my father about this.”

“About what?” Dion presses. “What are you so angryabout? You can have her if you want her so badly.”

Rage floods his body chases away any tirednessremaining in his limbs. “You – how could you act like this? You are in myfather’s army, your actions are his actions, and you attack a citizen, and thenpretend it means nothing? I’m telling my father about this, and when he hearsabout it, he’ll kick you from the army and you’ll return home in disgrace!”

Dion gets closer, scowling, and shoves him in thechest. “Are you out of your mind? My father will disinherit me if I get kickedout, don’t play around with me.”

“No one’s playing,” he says darkly, and shoves himback. “You’re pathetic. You don’t belong in my father’s army. If your fatherdenounces you it’ll be the least of what you deserve.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Dion says, and thecoolness of his answer makes Patroclus’s hackles rise, lets him know there’sgoing to be a fight based on his tone alone.

He doesn’t remember who makes the first move after that,but then they’re fighting, properly fighting, not sparring or messing around,and Patroclus is losing. He wouldn’t normally, but he’s been training for hourswhile Dion had left with all the other soldiers, and his friend’s hands arearound his throat and as his vision starts to go dark all he can think is thatperhaps Dion’s hands are not so lovely after all.

Then he can breathe again, and he’s coughing as he rollsover and pushes himself to his knees.

Dion’s blank eyes stare up at him as blood poolsbeneath his head, a bloody rock a few feet away. He looks up a little higher,and the girl is there, shaking with her hands wrapped around herself. “I – I’msorry, he was going to kill you, I didn’t mean – I was just trying to stop him!”

Right. Okay.

“Go,” he says, looking at his dead best friend.

“What?” she repeats, and she holds out her hands likeshe’s going to try and pull him upright, and he flinches. She freezes and deliberatelytakes one step back, away from him.  

“You’ll be killed,” he says, knows vaguely that he shouldprobably be gentler about this but those thoughts seem so far away from himnow. “He’s a general’s son, and they’ll kill you for what you’ve done. They won’tcare what he did to you or me. You have to go.” His father outranks Dion’s, buthe doesn’t think that’ll matter to his either of their fathers.

“I’ll tell the truth, for both of us, okay? Don’tworry about me. Neither of us will be hurt,” she insists.

Her clothes are simple but fine. She might be a lady’sfavorite servant, or maybe even a low ranking noble, but even if she’s someoneimportant enough that she’s right, that still means telling the truth. Thatstill means everyone knowing exactly what Dion had done, and the thought makesacid rise to the back of his throat. “No. I know what he was about to do to you,but no. You already took the man’s life. At least leave him his reputation.”

She swallows, leaning back from him. Before he can tryand apologize, she asks, “But what will you do?”

He’ll take the blame, of course. Otherwise they’ll golooking for Dion’s killer, and they’ll find her. “Go. If you die, then he’sdied for nothing, understand? If you’re both dead, then there was no point toany of this. So you have to live.”

She tries pleading with him, but he doesn’t listen, doesn’tanswer her, and eventually she leaves.

He stays in the street with Dion’s corpse until dawn, untilpeople start to fill the streets. They see him and scream. He’s silent as he’staken in and when he’s questioned he woodenly states that it was because of agame, that it was an accident, because if he says anything else, if they killthat girl for killing Dion, then it was all worthless. And he can’t have that,can’t stand that, even at the cost of his own life, his own reputation, hisfather’s reputation.

His father won’t look at him as he sentences him totwenty years of hard labor. Most people don’t make it past five, but he’s youngand he’s strong, so maybe he has a chance.

Patroclus hopes it kills him long before five years.

But he never makes it there, instead of being cartedoff he’s brought to a palace room in the middle of the night. Inside it is KingPeleus, the ruler of their small land.

“Your majesty,” he says dropping onto his knees andbowing his head. This has even reached his ears? He’ll never be able to bearliving now, with his king thinking he’s a murderer.

“Rise,” his king commands, and he listens, because whatelse can he do.

He notices, standing, just behind him, is the girl.

“This is Princess Polydora,” he says, and Patroclus’seyes widen. He’s heard of his king’s daughter from a different land anddifferent marriage, but he’d never met her, hadn’t known what she looked like. “Shetold me what happened, what you did for her, and what you were willing to sacrificeto protect the memory of your friend.”

“Yes, your majesty,” because he can’t think ofanything else to say.

The king is silent for a long time. “If you’re truly committedto ensuring your friend’s memory remains pure, then I can’t pardon you, and youcan’t show your face here again.”

“I understand,” he says. He doesn’t ask for a pardon.

A smile curls around King Peleus’s lips. “You’re agood man. I have work for you then, if you’ll take it.”

He inclines his head, because of course he will, forthis man who knows the truth and is good enough to offer him a pardon and kindenough not to force him to take it.

“I have a son,” the king announces, and Peleus doesn’thave the energy to be shocked although of course this new is shocking. “He’sunder a dangerous prophecy to befall a terrible fate should he ever become involvedin war, and so when he was born my wife took him and hid him in a far away landso that the Fates could not find him. She hasn’t even told him that he’s aprince. You will go to him, and protect and serve him, for your life is nowhis.”

He’d thought Queen Thetis was dead, but clearly not.

“Yes, your majesty,” he agrees, because going faraway from all of this to serve a prince, dedicating his life to his king’schild, may be the only thing left worth living for.

“Good,” theking says, and leaves without a backwards glance.

Patroclus is left kneeling, confused, and Polydora comesforward and offers him her hand, pulling him to her feet. “My brother’s name isAchilles,” she says, smiling, “and I think you’ll like him.”

gods and monsters series, part xxxii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

[adarlingwrites]

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

CW/TW: Non-con elements courtesy of Niragi

II

I never promised you an open heart or charity / I never wanted to abuse your imagination / I come with knives

“Game Start!”

Yamane shoves Sato behind a pillar, looking over her shoulder.

“Stay here and don’t move until I get back,” she instructs the younger girl, and Sato vehemently shakes her head.

“No! Don’t leave me, I don’t want to die,” she wails, and Yamane covers her mouth with her hand.

“They’ll hear you if you keep whining like that!” Yamane scolds her, panic rousing in her gut. She knows she’s being selfish; the kid is dead weight at this point. “We can’t stay together. If someone with a gun finds the two of us in the same spot, we’ll both die.”

Tears are streaming down the preteen’s face. Yamane’s expression softens, but she remains firm. “You have to trust me. Our chances of survival is higher this way. Stay hidden, and wait for the thirty minutes to run out. I’ll look for my own spot to hide in. Let those three take care of the other team. If the enemy finds you, don’t hesitate to fight back.”

With a reluctant nod, Sato finally relents. Yamane takes off her shades and places them in Sato’s shirt pocket.

“These are my lucky shades. I’ve gotten out of sticky situations while I had these on me. Hold on to them.”

Looking somewhat reassured, Sato wipes her tears away and nods. Turning her back on the preteen, Yamane slinks away to find a spot of her own. She quietly thanked herself for wearing dark clothes all the time. It makes it easier for her to blend in the dark. The only source of illumination in the arena are the futuristic neon lights.

“You’re being selfish,” a voice in her head berates her, but she presses on. Her survival comes first.

“Twenty minutes remaining.”

Loud shots reverberated in the enclosed space. The man with the rifle was randomly firing, making his presence known where he goes, almost daring the enemy team to seek him out. He sounds like he’s having fun and Yamane’s stomach turns. He’s enjoying the hunt.

On the scoreboard, one of the delinquents’ images got crossed out with a red X. At that point, Yamane felt relieved to be sorted with the dangerous men. She wouldn’t want to be in their line of fire.

“Team A has four players remaining.”

Then, Yamane hears the voices of the remaining delinquents.

“Man, that guy is a psycho! We have no chance against him and those other two crazy sons of bitches. We have to look for the girls,” one of them whispers, the trembling in his voice making his fear apparent.

“Shit, you’re right. They’re the weakest links, especially the kid.”

“Are we really okay with killing girls and kids?”

“Idiot. It’s either us, or them. We should take them out, then take out the weakest of the three. Then let’s hide from the two remaining psychos. As long as there are more of us than them at the end, we would survive.”

Yamane curses internally. They’re actively seeking her and Sato out now. She needs to find the men with the bracelets and rely on them for protection. That’s the only way for her and Sato to survive. Her street smarts can only get her so far.

“Fifteen minutes remaining.”

Waiting for the boys to pass, Yamane crouches and quietly moves from cover to cover, following the sound of gunfire. She makes a turn right, and comes face to face with one of the three men.

“You,” she whispers. “Hey, the boys are planning to target-”

With a loud bang, the man falls from a gunshot to the back, revealing the middle-aged man holding the smoking gun. On the scoreboard, the man’s face gets crossed out with a red X.

“Team B has four players remaining.”

“Shit!”

Yamane rolls to her side, narrowly avoiding being shot herself. Her bruised shoulder collides with one of the walls, and she holds back a curse, whimpering from the pain. Crawling, she rolls and sees the fallen man’s pistol, and she makes a mad scramble to grab it before hiding behind cover again.

As she crawled to cover, her wallet falls out of her skirt’s pocket.

Listening for the middle-aged man’s footsteps, Yamane leans against the cover, and when he’s near enough, she gets out of cover to fire, only for the gun to emit a soft click instead of a gunshot. The magazine is empty.

Instincts kicking in, Yamane yells as she tackles the man before he can fire his gun to her face. Still holding the empty pistol, she bashes the man in the head, over and over, until it was a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Hands shaking, Yamane puts the pistol down, and covers her mouth with her blood-stained fingers, looking at the corpse in disbelief.

Yamane killed someone.

The middle-aged man’s portrait gets struck. “Team A has three players remaining.”

Footsteps approaches from behind and she hears a laugh that seems to mock her.

“My my, looks like the mouse knows how to fight back after all,” the man with the facial piercings comments, stopping to admire Yamane’s handiwork.

Before she can retort, she hears Sato’s cries.

“Oneesan! Help!” the preteen sobbed, voice strained.

“Ten minutes remaining.”

As fast as her feet can take her, Yamane sprints towards the sound, taking her daggers out of their holsters. Desperate, she cries for Sato’s name, not caring if she gave away her position anymore.

While Yamane looks for the other girl in a frenzy, the man with the piercing notices the small black square near one of the pillars. He picks it up, and opens the wallet up. A few 100 yen bills and coins are nestled in it, along with Yamane’s IDs, one of which is her My Number card.

On it is some of her personal details. Minami Yamane. Born March 3, 1998.

And below that is her full address.

“Fumiko!” Yamane calls out.

“Oneesan!”

“Fumiko where are you?!”

“Please, save me!”

“Fumiko! Fumiko?”

There was no answer.

“Team B has three players remaining.”

Feet skidding as she turned a corner, Yamane saw the back of the delinquent boy, his bat, and Sato’s lifeless body on the ground, her neck twisted into an unnatural angle. Yamane didn’t have to look at the scoreboard to know that she’s dead.

“Five minutes remaining.”

“Well, that was easy,” the delinquent boy muttered, no hint of remorse in his voice. “One of the weak links is gone. Now for the other girl.”

Yamane didn’t know what came over her. She only knew this girl for a day, and she didn’t even want to keep her around, but hearing what that boy said about the two of them made her body shake with indignation. Then, something echoes in her mind, a memory from the decrepit pits of her childhood.

“Minami, you’re always the weakest link in this family.”

Screaming, Yamane charges at the boy and jumps on his back, her twin daggers sinking into his chest. With a strangled cry, the boy tries to shake her off, but Yamane holds on for dear life.

“Weak link’s right here, you piece of shit!”

“Three minutes remaining.”

Crying out in agony, the boy tries to shake Yamane off of his back, to no avail. Trying to dislodge at least one of the daggers, Yamane needed to finish him off so they could win. It doesn’t budge.

Then, she hears the gunshots and the slice of a blade, accompanied with screams of terror. Simultaneously, the other two delinquents’ portraits get struck.

“Team A has one player left.”

Relief flooding through her, Yamane will just have to wait this out. Or so she thought.

The struggling boy punches her injured shoulder, and Yamane lets out a cry, letting go of one of the daggers. In a last-ditch attempt to take her with him, the boy rams himself backward, bashing Yamane against the wall.

The mouse screws her eyes shut and endures the pain. They’re guaranteed to win now. She just needs to hold on. With another thump, Yamane crashes against the wall again, her bad shoulder colliding with it, pain blooming in the area once more, and she lets out a blood-curdling wail.

“Give it up, you bastard! Your team’s lost anyway,” she screams, pushing the dagger further into the boy’s chest.

“One minute remaining.”

“All my friends are dead, you stupid bitch! They’re dead! They’re fucking dead and I’ll be dead! But I’m taking you with me!”

Before the boy can crash against the wall again, slender fingers pull his hair, forcing him into a bow, and a katana slices through the boy’s neck, decapitating him. The blade misses Yamane’s forehead by mere inches; strands of her hair fell from her face.

Blood spurts everywhere, painting everything in the vicinity red, including Yamane’s face.

Holding the sword is the tattooed man, looking at Yamane with an intensity that halted her breath.

“Team A has no players remaining. Team B wins! Game clear. Congratulations!”

Pulling his blade back with little effort, the tall man didn’t say anything as the delinquent’s body slumped to the floor, taking Yamane with him. Pushing the dead weight off, Yamane retrieves the daggers from his chest with difficulty due to her trembling fingers and injured shoulder. She tucks them in her holsters, and shakily gets to her feet, looking at the severed head in horror.

Yamane tears her eyes away from the corpse, and turns to the person responsible for killing the delinquent. “Thank you,” she whispers to the tattooed man. He doesn’t utter a word to her. Yamane then gives him a deep bow, and limps away. She can feel his gaze burning her back once again.

On the scoreboard, a tally of their score was shown. The synthetic voice crackles over the speaker, announcing their score.

“Suguru Niragi. Two kills. Last Boss. Two kills. Minami Yamane. One kill, one kill assist.”

“Not bad.”

Yamane turns to who spoke, and it was the guy with the facial piercings, his lips almost touching the shell of Yamane’s right ear. She looks to her left, and the man with the tattoos is standing there too, sizing her up.

A warm tongue drags against her cheek, coupled with the cold sensation of a barbell piercing. This man just licked her. This man just licked blood off of her face.

“See you soon, mousy,” Niragi whispers, and smirks.

Paralyzed, Yamane could only tremble in her spot as she watched them walk away. The one with the piercings is toting his gun over his shoulder once again, striding confidently away from the arena, but the one with the hooded cloak and sword looks back at her, inscrutable.

“Last Boss, let’s go,” the one with the gun calls out to his companion, and Last Boss turns his back on Yamane, shuffling to the exit.

“What the fuck just happened,” Yamane whimpers to herself.

Taking tentative steps, she goes over to Sato’s corpse. The poor girl died with her eyes open. Gently, Yamane closed her eyes with her palm, and tears were threatening to escape her own. Then, her eyes wander to the shades she gave her. She picks those up, and begins to walk out of the arena.

If she were being honest with herself, Yamane is lonely, and having Sato around even just for a brief moment helped quell the loneliness.

With Sato’s dead, she’s all alone once again.

“You’re not lucky at all,” Yamane sneers, throwing the shades down the sidewalk and crushing it with her boot. Then, she starts the miserable trek home.

Exhausted, she pushes her apartment door open, and sees her reflection in the mirror as she removes her boots on the genkan. Bloody, bruised, and a total disaster, Yamane wanted to shatter her reflection on the glass, though her body is too tired to act on the impulse.

Stripping to her underwear, Yamane tossed her bloody clothes aside. “The blood is going to be a bitch to wash off,” she thinks. Cleaning herself off as much as she can, the mouse crashes on the couch, groaning as her injured shoulder bumped against the ear. She gives it a quick rub, looking for something to ease the pain, and she sees the box dye on the table.

Memories of the previous day move her to tears.

Sato was a stranger. She shouldn’t be shedding tears for her. It’s the harsh reality of this world: anyone can die. Yamane did the best she could to keep her safe, and she wasn’t even obligated to protect her in the first place.

Still, Yamane finds herself questioning if this girl’s death is her fault.

Sniffling, Yamane chokes on some painkillers and pulls the blanket over her head, which still smells like Sato’s cologne, too tired to move to her bed. She drifted to sleep with tears in her eyes.

Yamane is alive, and that’s all that matters. She’ll take what she can get.

There were no nightmares about the hellish things she had seen today, thankfully.

A sharp pain in her shoulder forces Yamane awake the next morning. In a hurry, she goes to the bathroom and sees it, the large purple bruise, tender to the touch, and her bone popping out of her shoulder socket.

The adrenaline from last night must’ve made her numb to her dislocated shoulder. It’s worse than she thought.

Though the previous game had given her extra days for her to rest, Yamane isn’t sure if she could heal completely before the next one. Even worse, a dislocated shoulder needs to be popped back into place. Though the injured one is her left shoulder, her non-dominant one, her mobility will still be affected.

Perhaps a trip to the pharmacy for more painkillers would help. Yamane made a mental note to look for the strong prescription drugs as well.

In the middle of getting dressed, she heard footsteps outside her apartment.

“Oh mousy! I know you’re in there!”

That voice belonged to the man with the piercings, Niragi.

“Holy shit, how did he find me?! What does he want?!”

Sweat is starting to form on Yamane’s brow, and she takes a quick note of her surroundings. Attempting to fight him might get her killed. Hiding in the bathroom would get her cornered. Her only escape would be the balcony fire exit. Yamane didn’t even bother finishing getting dressed and hauled her bag over her good shoulder, slinking as quietly as possible to the balcony as the pounding on her door grew louder.

The mouse came face to face with the tip of a sword.

Last Boss is standing on her balcony, and Yamane stumbled backward as he advanced. Behind her, she heard gunshots and the door being kicked open. The other man must’ve shot the lock.

A rat in a cage once again, Yamane found herself cornered at the edge of her bedroom by the men.

“Niragi, what should we do with the mouse?”

That was the first time Yamane heard Last Boss say anything. Niragi only snickers in response.

“How did you two find me?” Yamane asks, knees almost bucking from fear.

Retrieving something from his pocket, Last Boss takes out a black square. Yamane recognizes it as her wallet, eyes widening. The man opens it and takes out Yamane’s ID, before tossing the wallet aside.

“We didn’t expect that you’ll kill anyone yesterday, mousy,” Niragi taunts, pointing the barrel of his gun to Yamane’s chest. “Too bad you’re too slow to save your little sister. Who’ll watch your back now?”

Eyes widening in disbelief, Yamane gives him a cold glare.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions. She’s not my sister, and I can take care of myself, as I’ve shown you yesterday,” she replies, boldly, though her knees are shaking.

“Look at her, putting a brave face for us. How cute,” Niragi comments, turning to the tattooed man.

While Niragi was looking at his companion, Yamane bolted, but spindly fingers caught her and gave her injured shoulder a painful squeeze. Last Boss forces the mouse to her knees, and she stifles a broken cry. Niragi squeezes her jaw and makes her look at him.

“You are going to do as we say if you want to live,” Niragi hisses, dragging his tongue against Yamane’s cheek. “Stand up.”

Yamane doesn’t need to be told twice, with a sword and a gun pointed at her. “What do you want from me?”

“We want you,” Last Boss speaks up, pointing the sword to Yamane’s chin, and tilting it.

Yamane blinks a few times, and terror settles into her gut. Fighting would be futile, and so is fleeing. Freezing might only provoke them further. So Yamane does what she does best: fawn. Try to please them to avoid conflict and further trauma, just like she used to do long ago.

“Just as I thought. Men don’t change, even in this strange world, it seems.”

Taking a deep breath, Yamane reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra, and sheds the black skirt around her waist, leaving the two men staring in disbelief.

“Take what you want and get out of my apartment, then.”

While Niragi bursts out laughing and paces the room, Last Boss freezes, looking at her from head to toe with his mouth open. Bare and vulnerable, Yamane dared to raise her head, looking the tattooed man in the eye.

“Just do what you want to me then leave me alone!”

“Hold on, hold on,” Niragi almost wheezes, patting Last Boss’ back.

“Baby, if you want a good fucking, we certainly wouldn’t mind,” Niragi croons, his hand moving to fondle one of Yamane’s breasts. “But we’re not here for that yet. We’re taking you someplace nice.”

Furrowing her brow, Yamane covers her chest with her hands. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“After that stunt you pulled yesterday, we think the chief would like to have you onboard.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“You can’t refuse,” Niragi croons, his breath puffing against her cheek. That damned tongue flicks out of his mouth again, like a snake. The pattern on his shirt made Yamane associate him with the treacherous creature further. Niragi cocks his gun and points it to the woman’s chin. “Not with your injuries, you can’t. So what will it be, mousy?”

Looking at the two men back and forth, and weighing her options one last time in her head, Yamane gives them a relenting sigh. “Fuck. Fine. Let me get dressed. I don’t have a choice, don’t I?”

Pulling his rifle back, Niragi smirks. “Good girl. Watch her. We wouldn’t want our mouse to get away.”

As Niragi exits the room, the other man keeps his sword pointed at Yamane at all times as she picks up her clothes, his eyes not leaving her, but they roam at the expanse of skin. Yamane isn’t oblivious, and she’s not a virgin either; she knows where his eyes are going. Though he’s eccentric, or maybe outright insane, Yamane had seen that look before on faces of inexperienced boys she toyed with in high school.

“You could at least pretend that this isn’t your first time seeing a real woman naked, you know,” Yamane dares to chide him as she struggled to put her bra on. As she pulls her skirt up, cold, slender fingers close around the back of her neck, and Yamane tenses up, like a rodent trapped under a tiger’s paw.

“If you want to stay conscious, keep quiet.”

The grip he has on her neck is enough to make Yamane light-headed. Giving him two short nods, Yamane does as she’s told, and the pressure on her neck dissipates.

The mouse had decided that she’ll no longer attempt to piss this tiger off.

Sword pointed at her back, she descended the stairs, and Last Boss tosses her in the back of a car; a working car, to Yamane’s surprise. Niragi sits in the passenger’s seat, while a woman Yamane had never seen before is behind the steering wheel.

The woman looks at her through the rearview mirror and scoffs. “This is the thing you want to bring back to the boss? She looks like a wimp who raided a Harajuku goth store.”

Niragi chuckles, and from the corner of Yamane’s eyes, Last Boss is giving her one of his blank, wide-eyed stares.

“Just shut up and drive, Saiko. She’s our new pet mouse. That piece of shit that died in the game yesterday needs a replacement anyway. I think she has potential.”

“You can’t even refer to me by my name,” Yamane spits, making Saiko raise an eyebrow in amusement. “What makes you think that you have that dominion over me?”

“What a feisty pet you have,” Saiko comments offhandedly, eyes on the road.

All it took is Last Boss pointing his katana at her again for her to hold her tongue. Resentment roils in her gut at his power over her. Giving him a dirty look, the mouse crosses her arms and sulks in her seat.

“See what I mean?” Niragi chuckles. “We have her under a leash.”

“So, what’s your name?” Saiko asks her.

“...Yamane. Minami Yamane.”

Head bowed, Yamane grits her teeth as Niragi laughs. “See? Calling her a mouse is appropriate,” Niragi exclaims, placing his hands behind his head and leaning against the car seat. “Such a cute little dormouse, all trembling and afraid even after she beat a guy to death.”

Yamane didn’t say anything about his teasing, or ask him anything stupid, instead shooting for the important questions.

“Where are you even taking me?”

“The Beach.”

[ampleappleamble]

—

The next day was a frantic whirlwind of words and swords, the six adventurers rising at dawn to race up and down the docks and streets of Ondra's Gift, solving the problems of the district's desperate. Wherever they went in their attempts to fulfill the pleas of those in need, more work seemed to pop up before them: A trip to the local whorehouse to secure a priceless Engwithan relic and thus restore the honor of the Shattering Spear Clan was interrupted midway through by a negotiation with angry townies who had taken to attacking the Salty Mast's wealthier clientele in an attempt to drive down prices. An Ixamitli deckhand, sole survivor of his destroyed vessel, sought to recover a valuable scepter from the wreckage, and the subsequent search turned up the waterlogged remains of a murdered young boy, spurring an investigation. A mission to rid an abandoned lighthouse of its ghostly tenant lead the party to a fidgety sailor boy who pleaded for help recovering his captain's purloined chest.

By the time they'd gotten around to procuring the construct research Commander Clyver had commissioned– rescuing his hired animancer from a squad of Dozens thugs in the process– the sun was already setting again, and the harried little band of do-gooders was ready for a well-deserved rest. Axa, however, couldn't seem to force herself to relax, and so she paced anxiously as the rest of her crew leaned against a dilapidated building on the northwestern end of the Gift and took a badly needed breather.

"Told ya she's just like that," Edér panted, amicably clapping Pallegina on the back. The look she shot him in response could have given a Glamfellen frostbite.

For Sagani, it was easy enough to recognize a procrastination tactic when she saw one– her own older children were experts at attempting to get out of tending to their more difficult or loathsome chores by "accidentally" taking too long with the easier ones, conveniently running out of time and hoping their father might just forget to make them do it tomorrow. Axa's insistence on running herself ragged aiding every troubled soul they met was almost certainly influenced in no small part by her inclination to avoid seeking out the catacombs, entering the temple, confronting the cult. And it didn't take a genius to see why– she was afraid, obviously, of what might be waiting for her down there in the dark, and understandably so.

Of course, the huntress saw no need to point any of this out to her. Axa wasn't one of Sagani's kids, she was a grown woman– a stubborn, strong-willed one with her own ways of handling herself, and reminding her of the daunting task ahead of her would probably only make her want to tackle it even less than she already did. She may be putting it off a bit longer than was advisable, but sooner rather than later she'd swallow her fear and get to it, provided she felt supported by her comrades rather than pressured.

Now, if only she could think of a way to discreetly impart that nugget of wisdom to the others...

"By the Visions, Aloth, the catacombs aren't going anywhere," Axa snapped, plugging up her waterskin and wiping her mouth as the elf shrunk away from her. "It may shock you to learn this, but they'll still be there tomorrow, after we've had a chance to rest up and recover from today. What's the big rush, anyway? We're helping people here. Or is that not good enough for you?" She couldn't bring herself to look at him, shame burning her face as she huffed and puffed, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the cobblestones beneath her feet. She was in the wrong, and she was being a bitch, and she knew it.

He tried not to take it personally, frowning down at the anxious and clearly overwhelmed little woman, but it still hurt him to be lashed out at like that, especially by her. "Be that as it may," he hissed, struggling against the urge to spout curses at her in Hylspeak, "might it not be somewhat... unwise to leave it for too long? I'm sure I don't need to remind you that you're not the only one in our group that this 'Leaden Key' has antagonized." He glanced at Kana, who looked just as surprised that Aloth was speaking up for him as Aloth himself was. "And the sooner we can infiltrate their base of operations and find out just what the Hel they think they're doing, the better."

Awrigh' laddie, well said! Mayhap ye've a pair after all–

"Be quiet," he growled into his collar as he turned away, ears and cheeks quickly reddening.

Luckily for him, Axa was too focused on feeling sorry for herself to hear his last comment. "I know," she muttered, trudging away up the wet, dirty street, her companions following dutifully behind her. "I know it's important. And I know I have to find them and... stop them, or question them, or whatever it is I'm meant to do. I just..."

She stopped in her tracks suddenly, sniffed, squinted at the air. "What's that smell?"

Kana stepped closer. "I was wondering that myself just the other day. Rather fishy aroma this side of the sea, wouldn't you say?" He smiled his broad, gleaming smile, jumping at the chance to change the subject and so help to relieve the tension in the group.

"It is not the sea," Pallegina declared grimly, staring ahead at the tightly shut gates to the adjacent district. "What you are smelling is the dead."

As soon as she said it, everyone seemed to recognize the odor all at once. Kana's broad, friendly grin shriveled into a grimace, Edér's eyes went wide as he quickly relit his pipe, Aloth covered his mouth and nose with his hand. Even Itumaak seemed to react to the paladin's words, his hackles rising.

Pallegina herself sneered distastefully, speaking slowly and with gravitas. "It happened shortly before my arrival in the Dyrwood. Some months ago, some sort of... misfortune struck the district of Heritage Hill. There is not much known about the situation for certain, and those who do know anything about it keep their knowledge behind lips tighter than a miser's purse. All I can say for certain is that no one passes through the gates, entering nor exiting, and the stench of death rises steadily from within."

Axa had heard what she'd said, had listened and processed the words. But her attention was fixed firmly on the stone tower in the distance, the top of which was just barely visible over the walls keeping the rest of the city safe from whatever was in Heritage Hill. On the massive, familiar-looking machine perched atop the tower like a vulture, waiting for the city to die so it could swoop in and take its sustenance from the corpse.

–the machine buzzing to life, spinning madly, churning the essence in the air– her soul bubbling up out of her body like a pot of milk boiling over, being yanked violently away in the unnatural wind– Heodan and Calisca, their mouths opened horrifyingly wide in a silent scream– his voice–

–Are you ready, initiate–

"I'm ready." She clenched her tiny fists, pointed nails digging into her palms, and spun around to face her compatriots. "I'm ready now. Let's go find those catacombs. Let's go to the temple of The Queen That Was. To the Leaden Key."

Sagani reached out, gave the orlan's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We're right behind you, Watcher."

—

[barbex]

For dadwc, a fenders prompt for them sharing food? I love anything fenders ❤️

Thank you for the prompt! I didn’t quite get to the sharing food part but they do talk about food and cooking so I think it still counts. This is written for @dadrunkwriting and a continuation of this and this and this one, now also on AO3, just not this chapter yet because I really did drunk writing here and I need to check this over tomorrow before I post.

Bounty Hunter AU fenders.

The world shrinks. It's like being in the fade, everything kind of blurred and unfocused. Only Fenris is real. His lips are real. His body, lithe and tall and pressed against Anders, is real, so very real. Anders moans into Fenris' mouth, chasing the feel of their tongues against each other. Their teeth clack in their urgency; or maybe it's lack of practice? Anders doesn't care. 

He rolls his shoulders forward, wrapping his arms around Fenris, despite various pointy bits of his armor digging into his skin. He slides his hand up over Fenris' back, avoiding the razor-sharp edge of the giant sword, to slide his fingers into the elf's white hair. A moan, or a purr rises from Fenris' chest and he leans even closer at the touch. 

Anders curls his fingers and scratches lightly over Fenris' scalp with his nails. Fenris groans, his pointy shape somehow melting to Anders' form. It takes some insistent poking into Anders' sides for him to release Fenris' mouth.

"Ouch."

Fenris stares at him, his impossibly green eyes wide and his lips red and puffy. "I hurt you?"

"You're very pointy." 

Fenris raises his hands and looks at his gauntlets. "Sorry."

Anders strains after Fenris as he moves backwards, straining after those delicious lips. "Please, Fenris." He isn't above begging.

Fenris leans forward, his lips almost touching Anders'. But he stops himself, only his breath intermingling with Anders'. "This is not a safe place."

Anders lets the world back in and looks around. The sun has come around, rays of sunlight creep into the alley. Their hiding place will soon be exposed. 

"I have a room at the brothel." Anders shrugs. "It's clean and we can even get something to eat. If you want..." He doesn't quite know how to end this sentence. A passionate, spontaneous kiss in an alley is a different thing than asking a deadly hunter into your room with your comfortable bed. Makes you look kind of desperate. Which he is. Very. "I could cook you something."

Fenris' lips widen into a smile. "You can cook?" 

"Health potions and dinner. I'm a catch." Anders winks at him. Hopefully, it covers the fluttering of his heart. 

"Lead the way." Fenris steps to the side, giving Anders room to go past him. 

Anders can't take his eyes off him as he steps out of the alley. The sunlight falls on Fenris' white markings, making them glow. "Andraste's breath, you're so beautiful."

Fenris eyes widen and then he grabs Anders' arm and shoves him to the side. "Run!"

An arrow flies past Anders' head and he runs. He spares a look over his shoulder to see Fenris following him, and just runs as fast as he can. Dodging into a dark alley, he skids to a halt in front of a door and shoots a quick ice spell into the lock. Pushing the door open with his shoulder, they both tumble into the dusty warehouse. 

Fenris' accesses the room with lighting speed. "To the upper level." He takes two steps at a time and runs along the gallery until he finds cover behind a pile of debris and barrels. 

Anders follows him, digging in his pocket for a lyrium potion. He cowers down next to Fenris, coughing from the dust, and swallows the potion. He pulls a face. "Bah, I hate taking these on an empty stomach."

"Mage." Fenris frowns at him.

Anders sighs and looks over their cover. "I liked it better when you called me Anders."

Fenris' voice is suddenly right next to his ear. "Anders."

A shiver runs over Anders' body and he digs his fingers into his thighs. "Yes?"

"I need your range attacks. Can you provide that?"

"Anything," Anders blurts out. "I mean, if I had a staff it would be better, but I'll do my best."

The door flies open and something moves. Anders has just enough time to create barrier before the first assassin is on them. Several figures, barely visible as shadows or distortions of light, move through the building and only the displacement of dust warns Anders so that he can throw a barrier over Fenris. 

Fenris jumps up and whirls around, his giant sword cutting through limps like they're made of pudding. Anders focuses on his barriers and the occasional healing spell. Anything more precise requires a staff.

An ice spell hits Anders, momentarily taking his breath away. He turns around, locating the mage and runs towards him, barrelling into him before he can finish his spell preparation. "Too slow," Anders yells at him and punches him in the face. 

The mage falls over backwards. "They taught you that in the Circle, didn't they?" Anders sneers. "All that long and careful preparation." He grabs the mage's staff and weighs it in his hand. "Totally unnecessary." 

Anders wraps a barrier around himself and walks to the top of the stairs. He rams the staff into the wood and yells, "Never taunt a mage!" With a thunder, his spell explodes, dousing the lower level in a storm of fire.

The attackers scream and run out of the door, but then the wall behind Fenris explodes and another group of assassins runs towards them. Fenris jumps over the balustrade and Anders follows him. Small fires still burn on the ground from the firestorm. 

Archers take position on the upper level, and the other attackers slowly come down the stairs.

Anders twirls the staff and steps back until his back hits Fenris'. "This is bad." 

"Yes it is." Fenris looks around slowly. "These are bounty hunters and Crows. They must have banded together. I've never heard of such a thing happening before." He glances at Anders. "You must bring an incredible reward by now."

"Well, I take a compliment when I can get it." Anders twirls his staff again. The archers nock their arrows. "You should have just killed me when you had the chance. Would have spared you all this trouble."

"Tempting," Fenris says with a snort.

"Oh really, you — "

The door flies open again and two attackers silently sink down, rolling down the stairs with knives sticking out of their throats. After a blink of shock, the battle dissolves into chaos. 

Anders does his best, keeping a barrier around them and killing the archers before they can become a problem. Fenris cuts down anyone who's getting close to them. But there aren't many who make it that far. An elf rushes trough the assassins with deadly grace, hardly visible in his movements, while a qunari with a battleax takes care of the rest. 

A few minutes later it's over. Corpses litter the floor, their blood seeping into the ground.

Fenris lowers his sword and looks at the only other people still standing, an elf and a qunari woman. "Why are you helping us?"

The elf looks at them with a dazzling smile. "Let's just say, I'm currently in the process of restructuring the Crows." He pulls down his head for a small bow. "My name is Zevran Arainai." 

The qunari woman comes down the stairs, hefting her battleax over her shoulder. Her long, grey hair has a few streaks of red.

"And she is?" Anders asks.

"She likes to be called Katari."

Fenris lays his head to the side. "That means 'the one who brings death' in qunlat."

Anders turns to Fenris in surprise. "You speak qunlat?"

"A little." 

Anders is thoroughly impressed.

"My friends," Zevran thankfully interrupts before Anders can start gushing. "You should leave this city. Even after all this death, there will still be freelancers around who consider you a jackpot."

"Yes," Fenris says. "We're leaving."

"I need to get some things from my room." Anders hides the staff under his coat and peers out of the door.

"That is foolish," Fenris says. "They'll be waiting for you there." 

"I'll be careful." The alley looks peaceful, and Anders takes a careful step outside. He looks back to Zevran and throws his moneybag to him. "Thank you for your help." 

Zevran throws the money back to Anders and shakes his head. "Just keep me in your good memory."

"Thank you." Anders walks towards the brothel, Fenris at his side.

"Foolish mage," the elf growls.

"I need my staff, my potions, my coat and if you want me to cook for you, you'll be grateful for my herbs and spices."

"Don't complain to me if we'll be dying for herbs and spices," Fenris grumbles.

"Also..." Anders glances at Fenris and grins. "My corset is there."

A blush turns Fenris' whole face red. "Let's hurry."

[disastermages]

This is chapter 15 of the au where Xiao Xingchen raises Wei Wuxian

--

Dozens of footsteps and misplaced shouts sound above them as Xiao Xingchen moves towards the path they’d followed down into the cave, his eyes wide and searching for any sign of Lan Qiren or Lan Xichen standing at the mouth of it. The two of them had disappeared shortly after he’d watched his grandmaster walk into the freezing pond, a white butterfly fluttering down and landing perfectly on Lan Qiren’s hand, and then they’d been gone with only a quick nod thrown towards Xiao Xingchen.

“Xingchen?” Song Lan calls, his husband’s hand catching his wrist as Xiao Xingchen starts up the path they’d taken into the cave, steadying him and pulling him back when his foot meets with a patch of ice.

A moment of wordless conversation passes between them, Xiao Xingchen’s fingers sweeping over Song Lan’s wrist once before they both turn around.

“Sect Leader Wen was correct.” Xiao Xingchen says, his eyes falling onto Lan Wangji sympathetically before they move onto Wei Ying and then to his grandmaster, “Xue Yang has returned to Cloud Recesses.” He tries not to sigh as he says it, the fingers of his free hand flexing around nothing as Wei Ying steps forward.

“Uncle Xiao? What are we gonna do? Grandmaster hasn’t destroyed the Yin Iron yet.” Wei Ying says glancing over his shoulder at Lan Yi and Baoshan Sanren as Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan take another two steps closer to their nephew and Lan Wangji.

“A-Ying, Uncle Song and I will guard the cave’s entrance so our grandmaster can destroy the Yin Iron, you and Lan Wangji will find Sect Leader Lan and Grandmaster Lan. Do as they tell you and don’t argue.” Xiao Xingchen speaks quickly as he looks into his nephew’s eyes, his hand coming up and brushing his hair out of his face before his eyes glance over to their grandmaster. Baoshan Sanren’s eyes are hard, but she doesn’t disagree, her mouth pressed into a fine line. She wouldn’t have the strength to fight after she destroyed the piece of the Yin Iron, even after recovering for a week and a half. “Stay together, don’t take unnecessary risks.”

Xiao Xingchen looks at both of them then, as if he could press the words into their minds by doing that alone, but before he can say anything else, Song Lan is speaking. “Come back to us in one piece. Both of you.”

For a moment, it looks as though Wei Ying is about to argue, his mouth pulling downwards into a frown and his fists clenching at his sides, but Xiao Xingchen stops him with a shake of his head. “Uncle Song, Grandmaster, and I will take care of things here, A-Ying. I wouldn’t send the two of you out there unless I was sure that you and Lan Wangji could manage on your own.” He didn’t want to send either of them off to begin with, but his options were limited and the sounds of hurried footsteps were getting closer and closer to them.

“Be safe, be careful, and look after each other.” Xiao Xingchen continues, letting his hand settle on his nephew’s shoulder now, squeezing it once before he pulls Song Lan off to the side with him. “We’ll be here when you get back, A-Ying.” It was a promise Xiao Xingchen didn’t have to think twice about making. They would find A-Qing after the fighting was done and Xiao Xingchen would dress any injuries any of them may have gotten, just like he always did.

Wei Ying and Lan Wangji only stand in the cave for a moment longer, a silent conversation of their own passing between them before Lan Wangji nods, Bichen clutched tightly in his hand as he and Wei Ying start up the path side by side, their paces hurried.

Any other time, Xiao Xingchen might’ve called after them to take care not to slip on the ice, but now, he can only watch them until they’re out of sight, his throat feeling dry, even as Song Lan’s thumb swipes over the back of his hand.

“Let them get ahead, then we’ll follow.” His husband murmurs in his ear, and Xiao Xingchen nods, forcing himself to look away from the last spot he’d seen them. Song Lan’s hand drops away from his suddenly, only for his arm to wrap itself around Xiao Xingchen’s waist, their hips bumping together for just a moment. “They’ll be alright, Xingchen, they’re both strong and they’re both smart, they’ll come back to us.”

There’s undeniable hope in Song Lan’s voice as he speaks, the sound of it comforting enough to make Xiao Xingchen lean  against his husband for just a second as he closes his eyes tightly. He’d trained Wei Ying himself, he and Song Lan both had, they’d seen his improvements, and Lan Wangji’s cultivation wasn’t something to be ignored either, they would be alright, Xiao Xingchen could believe that.

“We shouldn’t stay down here too much longer.” Xiao Xingchen says, his weight resting against Song Lan’s side briefly in answer before he’s stepping away again, turning to look at his grandmaster and Lan Yi. “Grandmaster-” Xiao Xingchen starts, but Baoshan Sanren shakes her head.

“Lan Yi and I will seal the exits from here,” Baoshan Sanren says, stepping away from Lan Yi for the first time since she’d seen her, though their hands still linger in each other’s, “I’ll take care of the Yin Iron once I know that the two of you are out of the cave, but not a moment sooner, Xingchen.” Knowing his grandmaster, there would be wards, powerful ones, sealing off any possible entrances, they might be weakened when the Yin Iron affects his grandmaster’s qi, but surely, Lan Yi could reinforce them with her own.

Looking over at Song Lan once more, Xiao Xingchen nods, “We’ll be going then.” He bows to her quickly, but when he looks up, Baoshan Sanren is shaking her head at him, the hardness in her eyes softening.

“Take care,” Baoshan Sanren says, her words quiet enough that they don’t echo in the cave, but they still make Xiao Xingchen stop, his shoulders dropping as he turns his head back to look at her. “I expect to see both of you standing in front of me once this is all over, Xingchen. Now go.” The hardness has returned to Baoshan Sanren’s eyes then, and so has the tension in her shoulders and the straight line of her back.

“Yes, Grandmaster.” Xiao Xingchen answers, inclining his head as he and Song Lan start towards the cave’s entrance again, their grips on each other’s hands tight.

Any other time, he might’ve teased Song Lan over his sudden inclusion in his grandmaster’s demands.

~

Fierce corpses seem to litter every corner of Cloud Recesses as Lan Wangji and Wei Ying make their way through, all of them in varying degrees of agitation and unrest. Some of them scratch and claw at the both of them, some fall hiss and shriek as Bichen and Suibian cut through them, and others just drag their feet listlessly until one of them comes close enough to be noticed.

“There’s so many of them,” Wei Ying says at Lan Wangji’s back, a pant to his voice as he blocks another attack before it has a fraction of a chance of hitting Lan Wangji, “were there this many last time?”

Lan Wangji hadn’t had a chance to count the fierce corpses last time, he’d been too hurried, too intent on eliminating the source of them that he hadn’t thought of it. “I don’t know.” He says, pulling Wei Ying back by the arm as a particularly aggressive fierce corpse comes snarling forward, Bichen slices cleanly through it’s gut. “Brother or Uncle might remember.” They’d barely made it more than a mile away from the cave before they’d walked right into the middle of a cluster of corpses.

Still, neither of them had caught sight of Xue Yang once, they’d only broken up the clusters as they’d gone and the corpses hadn’t yet pushed any further in. It makes something bitter rise in the back of Lan Wangji’s throat. Xue Yang had made his presence known the last time.

When the last puppet in this cluster falls, they push forward, their shoulders pressed tight as they make their way out of the backhills and deeper into the mountain. They would have to follow the damaged trail laid out by the puppets and the rest of Lan Wangji’s clan if they wanted to find either his uncle or his brother.

Normally, Wei Ying would be talking at his shoulder and Lan Wangji would be content to listen, but they’re both near silent now, their swords still unsheathed as they cut through one of the thickets, taking care not to step on each other’s heels or trip on the uneven ground.

He’d expected something to be here, another cluster of corpses, or perhaps junior disciples hidden away between the stalks of bamboo, but there’s nothing beyond Wei Ying and himself besides a sticky, static feeling that digs its nails under Lan Wangji’s skin.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying starts, his voice a whisper in Lan Wangji’s ear, but then he’s gone and anything he might have said is cut off as Lan Wangji whirls around and catches sight of two blurs dressed in black, one pushing the other one backwards as Lan Wangji’s stomach drops and his grip on Bichen tightens.

“Wei Ying!” His voice is barely muffled by the bamboo as he flies forward, his eyes wide as Xue Yang and Wei Ying crash into the stalks, black smoke pouring off of Xue Yang as his hand grips Wei Ying’s throat. How had they not seen him? They’d been alone in the thicket only a few minutes ago, where had he come from?

Scowling, Lan Wangji pushes forward. He doesn’t have time to ask these questions, not when he sees Wei Ying raise his own hands and wrap them around Xue Yang’s wrists, trying to pry his hands away from his neck. Suibian isn’t in his hands anymore and Lan Wangji doesn’t have the chance to grab it before he’s moving forward and slicing at Xue Yang’s side with his own sword, barely taking note of the way even more resentful energy pours out of him.

Xue Yang only laughs as though he hadn’t even felt it, though his eyes are frigid and cruel when he turns them onto Lan Wangji. “Isn’t it against your clan’s rules to interrupt? This young master has been on my mind since that day at the temple.” There’s a lecturing tone to Xue Yang’s words as he speaks, his hands tightening on Wei Ying’s throat as Lan Wangji watches as Wei Ying shifts his weight onto one foot and begins to bring the other one up. Wei Ying looks Lan Wangji in the eye for one moment before he kicks Xue Yang away suddenly, cutting off anything else he might’ve said.

In one, quick movement, Lan Wangji side steps Xue Yang where he should have crashed into him and comes to stand in front of Wei Ying instead, Bichen pointed outwards in front of him as Xue Yang rights himself. “Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji asks, glancing back quickly when he hears Wei Ying cough behind him.

Instead of answering, Wei Ying bends and snatches Suibian off the forest floor and presses himself against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. There were going to be bruises on his neck, but Lan Wangji tries not to think about that, even as his hackles rise at the thought of it.

“Two against one isn’t fair.” Xue Yang remarks childishly, though he’s already called his own sword into his hand and is letting it dangle by his knees.

“Two against one?” Wei Ying argues, taking another half step forward and Lan Wangji pushes off the need to nudge him backwards, refusing to look away from the spot where Xue Yang stands. “How many fierce corpses did you bring to Cloud Recesses? Do you really want power that badly?”

Xue Yang laughs again at that, as if Wei Ying had said something hilarious and something flares in Lan Wangji’s gut, sending another quick glance back to Wei Ying. “Young Master Wei really is just as they humorous say! I’m just some hooligan from Kuizhou, what do I want with power?”

For just a moment, one of Lan Wangji’s eyebrows twitch and his frown begins to pull even deeper. There was no reason for Xue Yang to continue talking to them like this, he should have attacked by now, but he makes no move towards them.

It’s the cracking of a twig underfoot that disrupts any illusion of the three of them being alone, Lan Wangji’s shoulders becoming rigid and taut as he and Wei Ying both look across the clearing and see that they’re circled in by fierce corpses on every side now. When had he called for them?

Lan Wangji tries not to think about the corpses that are wearing his sect’s colors.

Wei Ying’s back presses against his and Lan Wangji breathes in deeply, his eyes still on Xue Yang as he smiles and crosses his arms at them. The corpses come no closer, though they still growl and claw at them, the ones standing closest to Xue Yang looking more agitated than the rest, undoubtedly because of the nearness of the Yin Iron.

“I wonder if these young masters can handle this many puppets while I’m away?” Xue Yang asks, false confusion passing over his face before it’s replaced by a grin that stretches from ear to ear.

The corpses part like grass in front of him as he turns and leaves, drawing in closer to the two of them the further he goes, though some of the agitation fades in his absence. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying calls, and out of the corner of his eye, Lan Wangji sees the frown on his face.

“Focus.” Lan Wangji says, though he still reaches back and drags his thumb over Wei Ying’s wrist, feeling his pulse quickly before he pulls his hand away again, “Diligence is the root, do not get distracted.”

Despite the corpses surrounding them, he hears Wei Ying laugh, the sound of it ringing out clear in the thicket and clearing the dust of Xue Yang’s cruel laughter.

Lan Wangji almost misses it when Wei Ying strikes out first, Suibian flashing in the pale sunlight.

~

Xiao Xingchen had expected to hear something when they’d emerged from the cave, but there’s precious little happening as he and Song Lan stand on either side of the entrance, his grandmaster’s qi changing the energy of the ward to a strict “keep out”, rather than the pleasant disorientation put forth by the Lan sect. Distantly, Xiao Xingchen wonders if any of them would be here if that had been the intention of the ward to begin with.

Thus far, no more than a handful of fierce corpses had staggered their way into their sight, and the few that had made a valiant effort of growling and trying to bite at them before they were struck down by either Shuanghua or Fuxue.

“I don’t like this.” Song Lan says quietly, his grip on Fuxue relaxed, but his stance wide and ready. “We should have heard something by now.” They haven’t even received a butterfly or any other kind of message, and Xiao Xingchen won’t pretend that it doesn’t make him anxious too, his mouth pressing into a fine line as he stares out across the trees.

“They must be keeping most of them towards the front.” Xiao Xingchen says, Shuanghua buzzing in both his hand and his head as he digs his thumb into the grip of it, the sword hadn’t been quiet since the attack had started, but Xiao Xingchen pushes it down. He was almost certain that Fuxue was in a similar state, but Song Lan hasn’t commented on it.

A flash of black robes breaks through the treeline, and for a moment, Xiao Xingchen feels a spark of hope, but it quickly turns into a stone in his stomach as his grip tightens on Shuanghua.

Xue Yang twirls his sword in his hand as he walks towards them, looking every bit like the cat who got the canary. Xiao Xingchen steps closer to his husband on instinct, their shoulders crashing together as Song Lan moves to do the same.

Any other time, Xiao Xingchen might’ve smiled fondly, he might’ve slipped their hands together and held on tightly, but not now.

“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen speaks loudly and clearly, still holding Shuanghua at his hip, rather than brandishing it right away, “you will be brought to justice today.” He had no way of knowing what Wen Qing had intended for Xue Yang’s punishment, but with the crimes Xue Yang had committed against Baixue Temple and Gusu Lan piling at their feet like fabric, nothing but death would be kind.

His words bring Xue Yang to a stop a few feet in front of them, his head cocking to the side before a chuckle shakes his shoulders. “Daozhang seems so sure of himself, I wonder if you know what your nephew is doing?”

Xiao Xingchen’s first instinct is to argue, to tell Xue Yang that he knew Wei Ying could handle anything thrown at him by someone like Xue Yang, but he bites it back and raises Shuanghua slowly, the movement in tandem with Fuxue.

He and Song Lan move forward suddenly then, Shuanghua and Fuxue crossing like a pair of scissors aimed for Xue Yang’s throat. They very narrowly miss their mark when Xue Yang bends over backwards, kicking up dust as he spins around to face them again, the grin on his face dropping away into a sneer.

“I’m going to enjoy turning Wei Wuxian into a puppet so I can watch him kill both of you.” Xue Yang spits, raising his own sword and charging at them now. They both dodge him, though the loose fabric of Xiao Xingchen’s sleeve is caught before he can fully get out of the way, serving as a distraction while Song Lan slips behind Xue Yang and takes a swing at his legs from behind.

Xue Yang cries out and his knees start to buckle, though he rights himself and turns his attention onto Song Lan, resentful energy seeping out of him and blood, dark and thick, presses out as though Xue Yang himself were already a corpse.

Watching as Xue Yang tries to drive his husband into a tree to corner him, Xiao Xingchen draws a talisman out in the air, adding every extra flourish he’d seen his nephew use as he casts it in Xue Yang’s direction. The spiritual thread ties itself around Xue Yang’s ankles perfectly, tripping him and disappearing, though it gives Xiao Xingchen just enough time to come stand beside Song Lan, white sleeves still fluttering in the sun.

“Are you alright?” Xiao Xingchen asks quickly, a frown on his face as he watches Xue Yang climb back to his feet with just a little bit of difficulty, his lip split and bloody from where he’d fallen face first into the dirt.

“Fine.” Song Lan answers, their shoulders pressing together again as they both take a quarter of a turn. It was the first move that they’d seen Wei Ying and Lan Wangji trying to mimic after seeing them do it. “Are you? I thought his sword caught your arm.”

“Just my sleeve.”

“There’s a joke there.” Xiao Xingchen tries and fails at not rolling his eyes at his husband, though the smile returns to his face easier now, though it’s only a small thing by the time Xue Yang is fully on his feet again.

Their next movement should have been the end of it, it should have been the thing that kept Xue Yang down until Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen could find them, but then, as if they’d been hurried, Wei Ying and Lan Wangji come rushing through the bushes, both of their robes torn in places, though only Lan Wangji’s clothes show the stains of old blood and dirt.

Xue Yang laughs again, his teeth bloody as he snatches his sword up, sparing one look towards Xiao Xingchen before he’s flinging himself forward and driving his sword into Wei Ying’s abdomen, only to pull it out and then press one of his own shards of the Yin Iron against the wound, resentful energy swirling all round them.

“A-Ying!” Xiao Xingchen screams as Wei Ying pales right before his eyes, blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. He doesn’t know if Song Lan moves with him when he goes running towards him, he barely notices that Lan Wangji has cut Xue Yang’s arm off, he only sees the Yin Iron land in the dirt next to them as he takes his nephew into his arms, gently lowering the both of them onto the ground.

“A-Ying, A-Ying, say something.” Xiao Xingchen pleads, dragging his hands over too warm skin as Wei Ying coughs, his own hand covering the wound. Something too dark to be blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth and Xiao Xingchen dabs it away with his sleeve, uncaring if it stains.

Behind him, he hears the sound of a blade cutting through something, something heavy and dense as it falls over, but Xiao Xingchen doesn’t dare turn to see what it is, he doesn’t have to. “Uncle Xiao-'' Wei Ying coughs, his grip weak on Xiao Xingchen’s robes as Xiao Xingchen strokes his hair out of his face, panic rising as the trickle begins anew. “Uncle Xiao, I don’t feel so-” Wei Ying cuts himself off with another round of coughing, using his uncle’s robes as leverage to pull himself up, blackness falling out of his mouth with every cough and shiver.

The next time Xiao Xingchen looks away from him, turning his head in either direction in search of something, in search of help, Song Lan and Lan Wangji are kneeling at either end of Wei Ying’s body, Song Lan’s hand holding Wei Ying’s hair out of the way while Lan Wangji watches with wide eyes and his mouth agape.

Xiao Xingchen should do something to comfort him, he knows he should, Lan Wangji is barely older than Wei Ying, but when he tries to open his mouth, nothing comes out and suddenly Wei Ying is even heavier in his arms as he passes out, burning forehead pressed against Xiao Xingchen’s neck like he was four years old again.

“He’s not dead. He’s not,” Xiao Xingchen gasps when he hears Song Lan breathe in too quickly his grip tightening on their nephew, his nose pressed into Wei Ying’s hair, “he passed out, that’s all.”

Xiao Xingchen doesn’t fault his husband for checking, watching as he reaches out and presses two fingers to the side of Wei Ying’s neck and finding his pulse, sluggish, but still there. He doesn’t back away afterwards.

Xiao Xingchen is grateful for it.

~

“Let me sit with him for a while, it’s my turn.” Song Lan’s voice is a deep whisper, but Xiao Xingchen startles all the same, his back protesting the movement after spending so long in the same position sitting at Wei Ying’s bedside.

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, though he curls his hand around the one Song Lan has rested on his shoulder. “What if he wakes up for two minutes and I’m not here?” Wei Ying’s healing coma had started a week ago, his core struggling far too much to fight off the resentful energy’s infection for him to stay awake longer than a few minutes, his sleep fitful and riddled with nightmares, even with Xiao Xingchen sitting next to him.

The only thing that seemed to settle them was whatever song Lan Wangji had been playing for him, though neither Lan Qiren nor Lan Xichen knew the name of it, and Lan Wangji only looked away bashfully when Xiao Xingchen had asked.

“If he wakes up, I’ll send one of the doctors after you and I’ll try to keep him awake until you get back,” Song Lan urges, dropping down onto his knees beside Xiao Xingchen, his hand sliding down his arm before he twines their fingers together. “A-Qing is asking for you.” A flash of guilt takes root in Xiao Xingchen’s stomach, then, his eyes closing and his grip on Song Lan’s hand tightening.

A-Qing knew Wei Ying was hurt, and she knew that he was asleep, but neither Xiao Xingchen nor Song Lan could let her see her brother like this, Lan Yi and their grandmaster had stepped in to care for her when Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan couldn’t be with her.

“Alright.” Xiao Xingchen says around the lump in his throat finally, bracing himself against the wooden frame of Wei Ying’s sickbed and ignoring the way his knees protest the very idea of moving. He holds onto Song Lan’s hand as long as he can, their arms stretched out even as Song Lan takes his place next to Wei Ying, fixing his bangs with his free hand when he thinks Xiao Xingchen isn’t looking.

A-Qing is still fighting off sleep when Xiao Xingchen slips into her room as quietly as he can, her unbound hair a tangled mess when she sits up to meet him. “Is Xian-gege okay?” She asks quietly, her arms still wrapped tightly around his neck as he moves her into his lap, careful not to pull at any of the tangles as he strokes through her hair.

“He’s trying to be.” Xiao Xingchen answers, it was the same answer he’d given her whenever she’d asked. It was better than telling her no, better than telling her that he mostly stayed the same, even after Xiao Xingchen had almost emptied out his own spiritual energy in hopes of speeding up his recovery.

He feels A-Qing’s frown before he sees it, her hand holding onto the front of his robes as tightly as she can. “Is Xian-gege going to die?” Her voice is small, but Xiao Xingchen feels himself freeze, his own throat going tight.

“A-Qing, why are you asking me that?” Xiao Xingchen hopes his voice is gentle, he doesn’t pry his daughter away when she buries her face in his neck, his thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek, “Did someone tell you that he was going to?”

“I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I sneaked in when you and A-Die were talking to the doctors.” A-Qing sniffs and Xiao Xingchen tightens his arms around her, he wouldn’t punish her for this, “I just wanted to see Xian-gege, no one here plays with me like he does, not even Grandma and Auntie Lan.”

Swallowing thickly, Xiao Xingchen presses his cheek to the top of A-Qing’s head while he tries to find whichever words wouldn’t make this worse. “It’s okay that you miss your Xian-gege.” Xiao Xingchen speaks softly, starting to rock the both of them, his hand dropping to A-Qing’s back, stroking up and down as he lets her cry. “A-Die and I miss him too, A-Qing, but he’s trying his hardest to get better, we have to let him rest.” Xiao Xingchen says it because it’s true, because it’s easier to make himself believe it when he’s saying it to his daughter.

They sit in silence until A-Qing’s cries dry up and turn into odd hiccups every few seconds, though they still don’t pull apart from each other. “Baba,” A-Qing sighs, sleep beginning to weigh her down again, but she still makes the effort to pull at the front of her father’s robe, “can I sleep in Xian-gege’s bed with him?”

Xiao Xingchen smiles despite himself, a dry chuckle easing out of his chest as he shakes his head. “A-Qing, you still kick in your sleep, you might hurt Xian-gege by mistake.” Xiao Xingchen has a fading bruise on his calf to prove it, but he doesn’t tease her for it, he only reaches up and pinches her cheek gently.

A-Qing pouts at him, but she doesn’t argue, she looks too sleepy to even think about it. “How about I stay with you until you fall asleep?” Xiao Xingchen tries, bringing their rocking to a stop and pulling just far away enough that A-Qing can see him clearly, “Does that sound fair to the honorable Qing Sanren?”

Xiao Xingchen tries not to let the relief show on his face when A-Qing only nods, already half asleep on his chest.

~

“Do you remember the first time you called me Uncle Song instead of Song-gege?” Song Lan asks his nephew, replacing the damp towel on his forehead and fixing the quilt, despite the fact that Wei Wuxian hadn’t moved an inch.

It had been his turn to go grocery shopping in the small, nameless village they’d wandered into, and he’d taken Wei Wuxian along with him if only to give him something to do. It only took him a few weeks to understand that Wei Wuxian was perfectly capable of making his own trouble if he didn’t have anything else to keep him busy.

It was only funny until Wei Wuxian had almost burned both of their eyebrows off, not that Xiao Xingchen’s laughter wouldn’t have been worth it.

“You were arguing with me, because I wanted to get radishes and you wanted to get potatoes.” Song Zichen’s voice takes on a half chastising tone now, Wei Wuxian still argued with him about radishes and potatoes, but Song Zichen had long since given up on trying to win the argument. He’d also long since stopped looking at Xiao Xingchen for help whenever that particular argument came up.

The memories don’t come as quickly without Wei Wuxian jumping in to remind him of things, but Song Zichen could remember the important details, even when he thinks his nephew’s face might’ve moved, but he can’t be sure in the dim candlelight. “You stuck your tongue out at me and told me that you never liked radishes when your Uncle Xiao made them for you, so why would you like them when your Uncle Song made them for you?”

This is usually the part in the story where Wei Wuxian would interrupt him again, bemoaning the way Song Zichen had picked him up and slung his seven and a half year old body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or a sack of radishes, if Song Zichen felt like teasing him more.

He’d only brought it up to Xiao Xingchen hours after they’d put Wei Wuxian to bed. He hadn’t known what to expect, but he hadn’t expected Xiao Xingchen to smile the way he did.

“If you’re fine with it, and he’s fine with it, I’m fine with it.” Xiao Xingchen had said, kneeling across from him with their campfire catching in his eyes, and Song Zichen had nearly stopped breathing right then and there.

If he’d had any more control over his own body, he might’ve leaned into the kiss that Xiao Xingchen pressed into the corner of his mouth before he got up and walked away, but he’d only been able to watch, his chest burning hotter than the fire right next to him.

He’d never told Wei Wuxian about that part, there hadn’t been any reason to, he and Xiao Xingchen had never once hidden their relationship from him or anyone else.

Clearing his throat, Song Zichen leans down and straightens the quilt again, tucking it around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders this time. “I don’t think I ever told you how happy it made me when you called me your uncle for the first time, I always thought you just understood it.” Slowly, carefully, Song Zichen reaches forward and brushes Wei Wuxian’s hair out of his face, the same way he’d seen Xiao Xingchen do it so many times. “So I’m telling you now, A-Xian, if you can hear it.”

He doesn’t expect a response, and he drops the basin in his hands when Wei Wuxian groans and calls his name, his eyes screwed shut against the candlelight.

The porcelain splinters and bursts and there’s water all over the floor as Song Zichen turns around and sinks down to his knees again. “A-Xian?”

“Uncle Song,” Wei Wuxian whines again, opening one eye and covering the other with his arm, “I’m hungry, is it dinner time yet?”

~

Xiao Xingchen closes A-Qing’s door as quietly as he can behind him, the bright moon casting his shadow in a long path in front of him as he comes to stand in the middle of the courtyard, his face turned up.

Wei Ying had written about how beautiful Cloud Recesses was at night in one of his letters, though Xiao Xingchen hadn’t seen it until now, it might’ve been worth copying down mountains of rules about sneaking out and obeying curfew.

Or at least it would have been, if Xiao Xingchen’s thoughts hadn’t been interrupted by the sound of someone’s disgust above him. “I could swear that Emperor’s Smile used to be stronger than this, it tastes like water.”

It’s the resigned exasperation in his grandmaster’s voice that makes Xiao Xingchen’s shoulders sag with relief, looking up and catching sight of her as she settles in against the tiles.

“Careful, Grandmaster,” Xiao Xingchen warns, watching as Baoshan Sanren raises her eyebrows at him minutely, “A-Ying told me he and his friends got flogged for drinking alcohol in Cloud Recesses.”

“Lan Yi’s great grandnephew doesn’t scare me, Xingchen,” Baoshan Sanren answers, taking another sip of Emperor’s Smile and grimacing at the taste of it, “not with a beard like that. Come up here if you want to speak.”

“I have to get back to A-Ying.” Xiao Xingchen excuses himself, bowing quickly and starting to walk away, but his grandmaster’s voice stops him again.

“He isn’t dead, Xingchen, how long are you going to keep vigil like he is?” When he turns around, Baoshan Sanren is sitting up properly, her elbow resting on one raised knee and a frown on her face as she watches him.

His cheeks burn as though she’d just slapped him, his mouth opening and closing as he shakes his head, but she only sighs. “Come up here.” She commands again, sitting up straight moving into the lotus position when Xiao Xingchen complies. “Did Cangse ever tell you about Yanling Daoren?”

Xiao Xingchen knew the story of his sect brother, but he hadn’t heard it from his sister, and the thought of it makes his eyebrows knit together as he shakes his head, “I only heard the story after I left the mountain, Cangse never told me.”

“The one time that girl ever listened to me.” Baoshan Sanren sighs again, looking up at the moon for just a moment, “What story did you hear about him?”

“Only that he was one of your most favored disciples and that he left the mountain intending to do good, but ended up walking a crooked path and died under a thousand swords.” The story sounds childish coming out of his mouth, but it’s the only version Xiao Xingchen knows, and it had been told to him by an old woman just after he’d left the mountain.

“A thousand swords?” Baoshan Sanren scoffs, her eyebrows raised high and the bottle of Emperor’s Smile still held in her hand even though she can’t seem to stomach it anymore. “Daoren was the first to leave the mountain,” Baoshan Sanren confirms, her eyes looking far away while her thumb picks at the white thread wrapped around the bottle, “he and I fought about it, but I couldn’t stop him from leaving. I wanted to stop him, I tried to stop him, but he left and I ordered him to never return.”

Xiao Xingchen tries to sit still as he listens, his face dropping off into a frown as he taps his fingers against his knees. “I still wandered after he left, sometimes I would hear stories about him, and it was enough for me to know that he was safe and successful, but twenty years after he’d left the mountain, the stories started to change. People he used to help called him cruel, others said that he had taken to killing without blinking, but I didn’t believe them, not at first.” Despite the taste of it, Baoshan Sanren takes another sip of her wine, her eyes burning into the door of A-Qing’s room now.

“Eventually, I sought him out. I thought that I would find the same, kindhearted boy I’d taken in when he was young, but I found a tyrant, Xingchen. He was waiting for me when I got there, resentment pouring off of him like water, I didn’t understand how it wasn’t strangling him until I saw that the sword he was using wasn’t the one I forged for him, it was different, it felt darker, and I felt sick just looking at it.”

“What happened then?” Xiao Xingchen asks, feeling the same way he’d felt whenever Cangse would tell him ghost stories when they were younger.

“I tried speaking with him, but he was too far gone, he would only try to attack me, the sword had infected his heart and his core, I had to make a choice, Xingchen. I could either let him die at the hands of the people he’d wronged, or I could give him the kind of ending I could only hope for if I’d been in his place.”

Looking at her face, Xiao Xingchen watches as a single tear rolls down his grandmaster’s face, her eyes closing and the bottle of Emperor’s Smile shaking in her grip. “I made my decision and I didn’t leave the mountain for fifty years afterwards. I don’t regret doing Daoren that last kindness, my only regret was that I’d been too stubborn to help him before it was too late.”

Xiao Xingchen’s mouth hangs open now, his tongue refusing to work, but Baoshan Sanren keeps speaking, “A month after my seclusion ended, I found Cangse.” A watery smile replaces the rueful expression that had been on his grandmaster’s face, and Xiao Xingchen regains the ability to shut his mouth. “I waited with her for hours for her parents to come back, they must have loved her, I thought, they wrapped her so tightly in a pretty red blanket and set her down in a basket to keep her safe, but no one ever came for her and she’d started screaming and she didn’t stop until I picked her up. I knew it then that the universe had forgiven me for Daoren, so I took her back to the mountain with me, I named her, and then I raised her, and then I raised you.”

No more tears fall from Baoshan Sanren’s eyes, but she’s still blinking away wetness when she turns to look at Xiao Xingchen.

“What-” Xiao Xingchen starts and stops, swallowing and digging his nails into the tiles beneath them, “What does this have to do with A-Ying?”

“When Lan Yi and I pulled A-Qing out of his room earlier, I checked him, and I checked his core.” Baoshan Sanren smiles again, shaking her head slowly, “He’s fighting his infection, that boy is stubborn enough that it hasn’t spread past his wound.”

Suddenly, his grandmaster’s hand is on his cheek and Xiao Xingchen can only blink, “Wei Ying is going to live, Xingchen.”

Before Xiao Xingchen can answer, someone is calling out to them from below, “Young Master Wei is awake, Xiao Daozhang, Honored Sanren.”

[teacupfulofstarshine]

pattonella part 9: virgil sweetheart PLEASE learn how to read the room i’m begging you

cw: mentions of injury, mentions of death, nightmare, anxiety attack, mild angst

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7 // part 8 // read it on ao3!! 

“can i please be cleared to read books on my own now?” logan says. “because i love the sound of virgil’s voice, but i’m sure he has better things to be doing than sitting here reading to me at all hours.”

“shut up, there’s nowhere i’d rather be,” virgil says. he flushes immediately, but logan just smiles and reaches for his hand. remy rolls his eyes and peers into logan’s eye. 

“you were nearly killed by a horse, prince logan, i think you can afford to relax just a little.” logan huffs, sounding very much like a small child, and virgil smiles. “still, it’s been about a week . . . i suppose i can clear you. but no strenuous activity, and the second you start feeling any pain or discomfort or anything out of the ordinary you come and tell me, you understand?” 

“crystal clear,” logan says, sitting up a little too fast and wincing. remy glares suspiciously at him, but doesn’t offer any additional commentary. “i am looking forward to the ability to walk around without you two constantly hovering over me as though i am made of spun glass.” 

“maybe if you would stop running into danger,” remy mutters. he reaches out and ruffles logan’s hair softly, and the prince doesn’t immediately bat his hand away. “i’m still sending healing potions with your meals, and you will drink them all.” 

“yes, mother,” logan huffs playfully. remy rolls his eyes again and flounces out of the room. virgil has never seen a real human flounce before, but there truly is no other word to describe what remy is doing. 

“i bet you’re happy to be off bed rest,” virgil says. 

“ecstatic,” logan sighs. virgil stifles a yawn behind his fist, but logan immediately picks up on it. “what was that?”

“uh . . . a yawn?” 

“why are you yawning? has your sleep not been optimal?”

“not really . . .”

“why has it been -” logan’s eyes widen in recognition, and he frowns. “oh . . . i - i apologize, virgil.”

“why?”

“you have been awake because you were taking care of me. you have been foregoing sleep and tending to your own health because you have been so concerned for mine. i am so sorry, virgil, i did not mean to make you think that you had to -”

“shut up,” virgil interrupts. “you honestly think i would have been doing that shit if i didn’t care about you? if i didn’t give a fuck i would have fucked off and let someone else do it. i lo - i - um - i care about you a lot.” 

logan looks at him, hair adorably ruffled, eyes wide and pretty, face flushed pink from being buried under mountains of thick, warm blankets in the sunshine, and virgil immediately shoves a pillow into logan’s face to cover his massive blush. “shut up!” 

logan laughs softly, putting the pillow on the floor, and reaches out to take virgil’s hand. virgil huffs irritably, but he lets logan take it. “come and lay down, virgil. you are clearly exhausted. you must rest. you have dedicated your entire life this past week or so to caring for me, and that cannot be easy.” 

“it’s not work,” virgil says, remembering an old sappy book he’d read once. “not to me. not if it is you.” 

“i know,” logan says softly, “but you are tired. sleep, my dear. please? for me?” 

logan gently tugs on virgil’s hand, virtually no force behind it, and virgil topples onto the bed. he shuffles around, keeping his face pushed into the duvet, and manages to settle laying on his side, staring into logan’s eyes. this close, he can see all the freckles that cluster around logan’s nose and eyes. 

“you have stars on your ceiling,” virgil says, “and they’re on your face, too.” logan’s face turns a little pinker, and he smiles, reaching up to tuck a curl behind virgil’s ear. 

“you’re not sleeping,” he says. 

“how can i sleep when i’m looking at you?” virgil says. he bites his lip immediately, he can’t believe he said something so sappy and gay to the prince, but logan smiles and gently drags his thumb across virgil’s mouth. 

“don’t bite your lips,” he murmurs. “they’re so soft. i love to kiss them.” he leans forward and gently pushes his mouth against virgil’s, and virgil closes his eyes and exhales into the kiss. 

“here,” logan hums, carding his hand through virgil’s hair. virgil snuggles up to his chest, draping an arm over logan’s hips as he slots his legs in between his. “when i was small, before -” his chest hitches slightly under virgil’s ear. “- before my mother died, she would sing to me, and thomas used to sing it for roman and i. perhaps it will help you. i can put no magic in my voice, but i can sing.” 

“whatever you want,” virgil murmurs. “i’m sure your voice is beautiful.” 

logan takes a few deep breaths, inhales, and begins to sing. “A naeoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth Mise rid' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhan . . .” 

virgil is so taken with the beauty of logan’s rich voice that he isn’t sure how he manages to fall asleep at all. 

*~*~*~*~*

everything is black, and suddenly remy appears, shining a small light into logan’s eyes to assess the severity of his concussion. past. 

everything is black, and suddenly logan appears, stroking his hand through virgil’s hair, mouth open, eyes half-shut as he sings. present. 

everything is black, and suddenly roman appears, sword raised in front of his chest, blocking one, two, three blows before an arrow pierces his shoulder, his chest, his stomach, his neck. 

future.

*~*~*~*~*

logan is half-asleep when virgil bolts upright, eyes flaring purple, screaming. “virgil -”

“something is wrong, something is wrong with roman!” virgil shrieks, voice warped and distorted and strange. logan feels his heart turn to ice and drop into his stomach. 

“what is wrong with my brother?” 

“i had a vision, he was fighting, he got pierced by arrows and he went down and something is going W R O N G logan!” 

before logan can stop him, virgil is on his feet, scrambling out of bed so fast he almost faceplants onto the ground. he’s out the door before logan can stop him, but he’s on his feet almost immediately to chase him. 

*~*~*~*~*

“are you sure this is a good idea?” claire says. her hands are clasped behind her back as she studies the map roman has spread out on the table. it’s covered in red x’s and dotted lines, surrounded with candles, with a dagger sticking out of a particular clump of trees. 

“we know that’s where they’re hiding,” roman says. “they won’t attack this village as long as we’re here, they’ll wait until we decide to ‘abandon’ these people and then they’ll raze it to the ground. we have to strike at the root of this issue, and that means attacking their hideout. we ride at dawn.” 

“prince roman,” claire says, “you know that i am your most loyal advisor. i would request permission to speak freely.” 

“granted, claire, always granted.” 

“prince roman, i think this is foolish. they let us find that base easily, too easily. i suspect it is a trap.” 

“they’re probably setting one,” roman sighs, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. “but what do you want me to do? not attack? we know that they’re there, we know that they’re planning something!” 

“wait a day or two,” claire says. “take some time to plan a strategy. send a scout to see if there are any obvious traps that we can plan for. we have to play this smart so that we don’t end up losing soldiers.” 

“so we don’t end up losing me, you mean.”

“you are the prince of our kingdom, prince roman. you have two brothers waiting for you at home, not to mention the newly-discovered lord sanders. we cannot risk bringing you home as a corpse.” 

“you don’t have to coddle me, claire, i’m not made of glass!” 

“i never suggested as much, prince roman,” claire says coolly. “i am merely reiterating that you should remember that you cannot throw yourself recklessly into danger with no consideration of those waiting for you at home. i will leave you to your thoughts. should you choose to march in the morning, we will of course support you, but i suggest you reconsider this plan.” 

she ducks out of the tent, and roman sighs, running his fingers over the depiction of the sanders manor in the corner of the map. “patton . . . i want to come home to you . . . but i have to free these people. how do i balance this?” 

he pulls the dagger out of the map and twirls it around in his hands. he has a lot of thinking to do.

*~*~*~*~*

“i’m not sure this is okay for me to do,” thomas says, looking hesitantly at the dais. the king’s throne stands tall and regal, with the queen’s throne smaller but no less regal beside it. 

“you are the crown prince,” joan, the advisor beside him, says. “it is your right.” they hold out a small velvet pillow with the circlet of the crown prince resting on it, opal gleaming rainbow in the morning sunlight. 

“i’m not the crown prince,” thomas protests. “roman and logan aren’t married yet, i can’t legally be named the crown prince, and i’m not allowed to wear that or - or sit on the throne, or do any of this!” 

joan sets the crown on the dais and reaches out to gently take his hand. “prince thomas . . .”

“dad is still alive,” thomas says, eyes watering. “he’s weak, and he’s sick, but he’s not dead yet, i’m not - i don’t have to replace him yet . . .”

“i’m sorry, prince thomas,” joan murmurs. “i didn’t realize that it would affect you like that, i -”

“it’s not your fault,” thomas sniffles, wiping at his eyes. “i know you guys don’t think about it like that, but - but it’s my dad, you know? i know the kingdom is going to lose its leader soon, but - but i’m gonna lose my dad, you know?” 

joan nods, squeezing his hand and offering a handkerchief from their pocket. thomas takes it, dabbing at his face. “thank you, joan.”

“of course, prince thomas. you can stand on the dais if you want, since you still have to receive -” 

the door to the throne room slams open, wood ringing against stone, and thomas whirls around. before he can even reach for the hidden dagger he carries on his person always, before joan can step in front of him, virgil is speeding across the room. there are two guards behind him, trying to catch him, but virgil is outpacing them rapidly. 

“virgil?”

once he gets closer, thomas gasps, taking in details. his hair is unkempt, his clothes are askew, and his eyes are glowing solid purple. “crown prince thomas,” he says, and thomas winces at the distortion of his voice. “i have had a vision that must be brought to your attention immediately.”

“you can see the future?” joan gasps. 

“what did you see?” thomas asks. 

“prince roman is in danger,” virgil says. “there will be an attack, and he will be killed by arrows. we must aid him immediately.” 

there’s a watery noise from behind virgil, and he spins around to see patton standing behind him pressing his hands over his mouth. “roman - roman is going to die?” 

the purple in his eyes flickers away. “wh - patty?” 

“roman is going to die?” patton repeats, hurrying forward and grabbing virgil’s hands. 

“not necessarily,” virgil says, putting a hand to his head and beginning to sag forward against patton. “i - the vision showed him dying, but it also showed that giant horse killing logan a week or so ago, and he’s still alive.”

“we have a chance to stop it?” thomas says. virgil turns to look at him. 

“i - yes, your highness, i think there is a chance to save him.” 

thomas nods. “are you sufficiently prepared to travel?” 

“i can be in an hour at the least.”

“good. take a party of guards and go after roman.”

“i’m coming too,” logan says, striding through the doors. “remy cleared me from my concussion earlier, i’m going.”

“me too!” patton says. “i’m going with you, if roman is in trouble i have to help!” 

“i can’t risk you both,” thomas starts, but logan glares at him. 

“are you telling me that if father was well and running the kingdom, you wouldn’t be grabbing a sword and riding after him?” thomas winces, and logan lifts his chin victoriously. “exactly. i am going with virgil, and so is patton. roman is worth the risk.” 

thomas exhales. “go and pack, then. meet me here in an hour with a plan.” logan nods, whirls around, and hurries out of the room with virgil and patton on his heels. thomas hums, turning to joan. “i need you to bring me a specific volume of the history of the kingdom from the library.”

“of course, your highness. may i ask what for?” 

“i think i just found logan’s loophole.” 

[lunarthedragon]

Demon!Jaskier Part 2

Part 1: here

+++

He had been so many things in his past. So many iterations and forms. So many bodies and lives.

A boy with bones so fragile he needs braces to walk, but who never dies. Never dies. Never dies. His smile bringing joy to his small village.

A girl, deaf, who is shunned by her family but taken in by the sirens that cannot sway her with their songs. She is vengeance on the tide, her hands louder than her tongue.

A man filled with anger - at the world, people, himself - who sets into motion some of the most gruesome wars known to man.

A woman with thunder in her steps, mighty and heroic, wearing armor forged by poor workers and wielding a damaged sword she found lodged in her father’s ribcage.

An elf who slips along the blood-drenched fields, washed with the screams of his people, delivering mercy upon the suffering and as his tears mix with the blood.

So many lives. So many timelines. So many worlds.

Nothing ever looks the same, feels the same, but it is always him-her-they. Returning and returning, wanting to live and learn and grow in a way his brethren refuse to. 

He will be better.

+++

Sometimes, when people want to get at Geralt, they choose the cowardly method of going after his bard. They believe him to be an easier target and hope for an easy prize.

Geralt always worries, even though he never says it. Jaskier can feel it, wafting off of him as he charges into the temporary prison and sees the dead bandits-mercenaries-fools already strewn across the ground.

Over the years the Witcher has learned and accepted that Jaskier has a profound talent for getting into trouble, but also getting out of it.

Still he worries.

Even when he knows of Jaskier’s true nature.

A group of bandits abscond with him to their camp, set to bribe the Witcher.

The night has barely fallen when Jaskier runs into Geralt on his way out of the bandit camp, blood smeared over his hands and face, yet his clothes miraculously untouched.

“Are you okay?” Geralt still demands, reeking of concern.

“They tore one of the buttons out of my doublet. How do you think I am doing?” Jaskier grumbles, ignoring the concern, even though it makes him feel all warm inside. Like the shadows are stretching with a brighter sun. Like some of the darkness boils back.

It is a good warm.

He does not need worrying, though. He does not need rescuing. He has been a damsel before, but he has never been in distress. 

Still... it can be a little nice... on occasion.

+++

Jaskier tells Geralt some of his own stories.

His words have been prettied and empty for so many years, the occasional story bracketed from when “Jaskier” began and the present. 

Now, he tells Geralt anything and everything. Of worlds far beyond his own. Places hidden away unless you know where to look. History long forgotten.

Geralt pretends not to listen, but his awareness is firmly planted on Jaskier when he talks of these things. It appears these stories can even intrigue a grumpy, old Witcher.

“The monsters in your song,” Geralt suddenly cuts in one night when Jaskier is recounting his life as Damalt, a “Wastelander” from far, far away many years ago, where he hunted monsters not unlike a Witcher. “I said they didn’t exist, but...”

The Witcher looked deep in thought and it takes Jaskier a moment to realize he is talking about when they first met. “You were not incorrect,” he assures, smiling, “They do not exist... in this world. Alas, I occasionally get my histories jumbled up when high on adrenaline. Terrible habit, that.”

“It must happen often, then,” Geralt huffs. His pride is wounded. He is meant to be the monster expert, and yet...

“I often call out the wrong name in bed,” Jaskier replies with a shrug.

“That’s hardly terrible,” Geralt’s lips twist and a brow arches.

Jaskier shrugs. “Sure, unless you say it like, ‘G̸͙̅̀Ŕ̸̠̖ḥ̶̀͋h̸̘́K̸̥̇͒̐͛͋͗̏b̶̥͕̠̪͉͛̆ą̶̘͈̟̼̰̟̓̌̀̐T̶̝̠̙̍̽̈́̄̈́C̶̥̫̝͐̄͋́̏̀ḧ̶͍̟̟̠̫̎́̇̈́h̸̬̅́Á̸̬̱͎̗̓̃͂̇͊͠L̴͕̗͛̀̓̔̾̂̈́ͅ.’”

Geralt has leant back as if smacked, his eyes so wide the whites are visible all around his irises, and his mouth is hanging open.

It makes Jaskier laugh for five minutes straight.

+++

He cannot eat salt. It will not kill him, but it causes the closest thing to an allergic reaction in him that he could ever have.

It burns where it touches tongue or skin or organs or bone. He feels it deeper than the flesh, the body, and he writhes, like a black, foaming slug. It makes him screech but no one hears, air running cold until icicles form but no one shivers, a chittering vibration that sets ears bleeding but no one cares.

He cannot eat salt.

+++

The thing in the mansion is ancient. Almost as ancient as him. He can hear it long before the mansion - dilapidated, abandoned, hopeless, taken back by nature - comes into view.

Geralt doesn’t hear it. He keeps walking, looking out for the monster on the contract.

The monster is gone, if it was ever here to begin with. Dead, dead, dead. Like the air and the earth and the sea. Dead but ancient and crawling without moving.

And Geralt doesn’t hear it.

“We shouldn’t go closer,” Jaskier finally says - voice not-quite-right at the edges, like a burning photo - because Geralt knows. Knows what he is. Accepted what he is. It is fine to speak up and protect that which he holds dear. That which he cares for more than he should.

Geralt is looking at him now, confusion in his eyes, and he wishes he could put into words that they need to stay away from that mansion because the thing inside will be the Witcher’s undoing.

He can move on, find a new body, find a new life, but the flesh bodies with the fleshier souls of mortals do not have that privilege. And he quite likes this particular mortal.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, voice low, stepping towards Jaskier as if to protect.

“E̴v̵e̶r̴y̷t̵h̷i̶n̴g̸,” his voice twitches around something too big and forces it back down. “It will kill you. You need to get away.”

“Is it a spirit of some kind?” Geralt asks, his face set in concern. Jaskier offers a nod. “Is it like you?” Jaskier opens his mouth to reply and it rushes out.

“Me but not - screaming where I whisper - the fly in your soup the fly on a corpse - bear trap on your leg gnaw it off gnaw it off - viscera from an eye split in half - war as bloody as birth - ”

Geralt grabs ahold of his arms and drags him away, sprinting in the opposite direction as the mansion, and Jaskier has never sensed fear on the Witcher like he does in that moment.

They don’t return to the town they came from. They never completed the contract. There was no monster to kill.

Instead, in complete silence, they make camp and Jaskier curls up tight to Geralt’s side under a thick fur. If he shakes a little, drained from a battle that never happened, Geralt doesn’t say a word and only holds him closer.

+++

Djinn are an ancient spirit as much as Jaskier is. Not horrors, but rather entities. Embodiments. Powerful and feared and unable to flee from the imprisonments of man.

They hate the things that Jaskier is. Envious of him and his brethren. They are not as ancient as he, but they possess powers long forgotten.

Jaskier should have stopped things sooner. “I can’t sleep,” Geralt had said as he fished for a djinn. Jaskier had seen the problem, seen the issue, knew the outcome, and he should have just stepped in forced a stop.

Instead, he tried to talk Geralt down. Claim a lovely cup of chamomile tea with honey and whiskey would do the trick! Perhaps a back rub to sweeten the deal? Just please get away from the water. Please.

It doesn’t work and the jug in Geralt’s hands sends Jaskier into a panic, shooting out to grab ahold of it and tugging. Geralt doesn’t let go. Just glares at him.

“Seriously, Geralt, you’re being ridiculous! This isn’t going to help you. They’ll trick you and put you to sleep for good, never to rise again. How can you not see--”

The jug opens with a “pop!” The engraved lid in Geralt’s hand, jug in Jaskier's, and he can FEEL the energies around them shift. Compress. Tug and squeeze until it is hard for him to breathe.

“Nothing happened,” Geralt growls to himself, looking around, growing more and more frustrated, but Jaskier’s attention is glued to the surface of the lake. There is a shadow there that hasn’t taken form. Watching without eyes. Laughing without lips.

A djinn’s aura is not a scream or a cry. It is a vibration. A roll of thunder and the long, belting roar of a giant.

They stare at each other, through eyes beyond this plain. Eyes that see each other for what they truly are. Wind is picking up, actual wind, the sky darkening, and with the first bolt of lightning the djinn attacks.

He screeches, unholy and enraged, as claws-talons-teeth, dig into the parts of him that go unseen. Black veins form on his body, growing and growing and growing, hands and eyes pitch black as he lashes back. A piece of him catches on a piece of them, rendering-cutting-ripping, until lightning flashes above like a scream. Like a scar.

Black oozes from his mouth with the next clash, veins surging along his face, his stomach, his legs, everywhere. His hands are grasping without moving - so many hands, too many hands - and he tears the djinn in two, flinging it away, but a bolt of lightning like a blade severs an arm. A leg. There’s a hole in his chest that bleeds black.

He hears a voice, deep and frantic in a way he isn’t used to. Terrified. He’s not meant to be terrified. Not for Jaskier. He...

“Stop!” Geralt yells out, loud as the storm, and time holds still. The djinn is still there, present, hovering, deliberating, before it pulls back and away with a thin smile despite having no lips.

Ah. Geralt has the wishes.

Isn’t that lovely?

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, sounding desperate and too close and Jaskier looks to his side to find he is laying on his back and Geralt is kneeling beside him. He looks horrified, his emotions apparently so sudden and strong he is unable to hold them in.

“Hi,” he says, black blood gurgling out with the word, smiling in such a way his dark eyes crinkle. He doesn’t think it puts Geralt at ease, though, with the way he seems to flicker. Stutter. Then lurch forward like he wants to hold Jaskier but stops himself short.

“You’re... you...” Geralt isn’t one for words, but when he does talk he doesn’t usually stutter. Jaskier doesn’t like this.

“Djinn and demons like me do not get along,” he offers. He feels tight in his skin, too much wanting to leak out. To crack more of his skin and ooze free. Fill the air. Fill the world. Fill everything.

He holds it in, but he can feel more of his body turning dark with more and more veins. The hole in his chest hurts.

“Could you pass me my arm and leg, please?” he asks kindly and, apparently too shocked to argue or question, the Witcher lurches sideways to scoop up the severed limbs. He hands them over and Jaskier takes them gratefully, before setting his arm to the bleeding stump.

It stinks, like rotten eggs, and Geralt’s nose wrinkles up but he doesn’t move away. Jaskier wonders if he’s in shock.

The limb knits back onto his body, slower than usual, but not unexpected for a wound like this. He does the same to his leg, pleased to have all four limbs back, less of himself wanting to leak out. He is still covered in black veins, though, with dark eyes.

Still, he turns to Geralt, who looks lost. He reaches out to lay a hand against Geralt’s cheek, the Witcher flinching but then pressing back into his palm. “See? I am fine. Death means very little to me,” he assures, his voice still full, like he has too many teeth-tongues-throats, but far more normal than it once was.

“You have a hole in your chest,” Geralt says lowly, seeming unable to speak much higher. Jaskier tries to think about what this must be like from Geralt’s perspective. His only friend, a demon of unknown power, changing horrifically  and having a fight with an invisible force. Then, being torn apart before his very eyes...

Yes, perhaps this response was a bit more understanding...

“It will heal,” he says, but looks down at the hole, black blood gushing from it still, coating his front and back. He hadn’t gotten that from a bolt of lightning. This was a cursed wound.

Not enough to kill something like him, but enough to be a nuisance.

“I may abandon this body,” he considers aloud, “Find a new host. This will take years to heal.”

“No,” Geralt says suddenly, moving forward and grabbing Jaskier’s shoulders. “No. Tell me how to help. This is my doing--”

“This is not your doing,” Jaskier says, head tilting.

“I should have listened.”

“You should have,” he agrees, “But this is still not your doing.”

“Just...” Geralt looks down and away, avoiding eye contact. Jaskier still tries to catch his gaze anyway. “Tell me what I can do...”

“It is a magical wound,” he begins and brings a hand up to run his knuckles over Geralt’s jaw. It is so close and vulnerable, he can’t help it. “It needs magical treatment so that I might do the rest. I sense a sorceress in Rinde, the next town over. Powerful.”

Geralt looks up, listening intently. His face is set again, under control as it usually is, and his eyes are determined. He nods. “To Rinde,” he says as he stands and carefully urges Jaskier up, too.

There is a sense of vertigo upon standing and the black veins flair, spreading then receding. He feels disoriented, deep to the core. Perhaps the cursed wound was doing more to him than he thought.

“I think...” he begins slowly as Geralt leads him towards Roach, who is far enough away not to be spooked by the fight, but close enough to still be within sight. Geralt has a firm hand on his closest arm and the other arm wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to support him.

“I think I need to pass out, now.” And he goes down to the sound of Geralt’s worried exclamation, the world blurring until it is void. It is nothing. It is all.

+++

Definitely gonna make a part 3! Also likely to put them all together, eventually, and put them on Ao3 later! Tell me what y’all think!!

Tagged users that commented on part one: @meody90 @zoeyszone @patrycjami-chan @emthegiantnerd @onelonelyforgottenbiscuit 

[writingfromkitchenator]

The Mad Dawn

Written for @sdavid09 Tale Teller’s Fright Night 2020 ~ Thank you so much for this amazing opportunity and challenge!  This was awesome fun as someone who has a deep love for horror and felt real good to be able to write something like this!

Happy Halloween everyone!

Inspired by Dawn of the Dead

Inspired by Mad World by Gary Jules

Set several months after the battle of the five armies, Erebor is awoken to bells ringing in Dale, a bleak warning for what comes over the course of the night and into the dawn.

Pairings: Thorin x F!OC (previous), Dain x F!OC (current)

Words: 3,811

Warnings: Zombies, grief, minor talking of blood and fighting (nothing intense or graphic), major character death and reanimation (it is zombies after all), bleak future outlook.

The bells sounded in Dale, ringing through the darkness in the middle of the night.

Feet hurried, left the warmth of their beds, hastily pulled on armour as they scurried to the gates of Erebor.  Fear of the not so distant memory of a dragon clung to the dwarves, murmurs filling the halls as some sat still, holding their breath.

At the gates, a messenger arrived, pale faced and stammering, and it took a few minutes for the words to come from him, the bell continuing to ring.

“The dead,” He croaked.  “The dead are rising.”

The dwarves were confused for a moment until screaming began within their own halls and soldiers threw themselves into action, shaking off the thought of the messenger at the gate, even as he screamed after them.

“They’re rising from the lake!  The dead have returned!”

Orders were given, hurried footsteps marching loudly through the halls before falling silent.

Dain was shouting, but no one was listening, the soldiers all having stopped to stare, another army approaching from the halls of the dead.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Dain breathed, the glistening dead eyes staring back at him, sending a cold chill up his spine, unlike anything he had felt before.  “Get the Queen!  Get her out of here now!”

Myara was on her feet, pacing the bedroom, the bells still sounding in Dale, a sound signalling doom was upon them.

There was a knock on the door and she hurries to throw it open.

Dwalin stood there, his expression grim.  “We need to go.”

“What? What is happening?”  She asked as Dwalin marched in and started gathering a few small items into a traveling pack.

He swallows, casting her a look, one that drifts down to her swollen stomach.  “I think it’s best if you don’t know my Queen. We need….we need to go.”

She rests a hand on his arm.  “Dwalin…”

Dwalin shakes his head.  “Get dressed Myara.  Please.”

A cold chill settled over her, the hair rising on the back of her neck, and she moves as best she can to throw on travelling clothes and what armour she could, the sword on her belt looking strange against her stomach.

“You know I will defend you with my life,” Dwalin said quietly, an odd note in his voice as he waited by the door.  “As will anyone in Erebor, but I will warn you now…” He swallows.  “This is unlike anything we have faced before.”

Out in the hall, Bofur and Nori waited, both pale and afraid, although doing their best to hide it.

Myara looked between them and then at Dwalin again.  “Please.  Just tell me.”

Dwalin shakes his head and takes her arm, starting to lead her down the hall.  “Trust me, nothing I say will be able to prepare you. Let’s hurry.”

Soon, Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Oin had joined them.

“Gloin has already got his wife and son out,” Oin explained.  “They’ll meet us there.”

“And Gloin?” Dwalin asked.

Oin’s expression went grim.  “Has gone back to the fighting.”

Myara looked at Dwalin.  “Where is Balin?”

He shakes his head.  “I do not know.”

Their footfalls seemed to fall oddly in the halls, against the backdrop of the ringing bell, the shouts of soldiers, and Myara had a growing feeling she had felt before, long ago, when a dragon had attacked.

A blood curdling scream made them all freeze, all of them arming themselves as they stared into the darkness at the other end of the hall.

Dwalin went forward slowly, cautiously, his axe out in front, trying to see through the dark. His grip was tight, too tight, his hands slipping as sweat built up from the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Myara almost screamed, tears filling her eyes at the sight coming down the hall towards them.

“Thorin…” Dwalin breathed, his axe lowering slightly.  “Thorin please…no…”

Several months of decay had twisted Thorin’s features, the cut that had been sealed was now split and oozing thick black blood, his skin an ashen whitish green. He shuffled towards them, lifeless eyes on Myara.

Myara thought she was going to be sick, her fingers subconsciously finding the bead in her hair, the bead that Thorin had not long put in before the battle of the five armies, seated securely above Dain’s.

“Thorin, don’t-don’t come any closer.  I meant it.” Dwalin’s voice cracked, his feet carrying him slowly back, the others all tense.

It seemed that none of the soldiers had had the heart to fight him.

There is a further shuffling noise behind Thorin, and Fili and Kili join him, a low groaning growl leaving their throats, and Thorin’s hand reaches out for Myara.

“Go,” Dwalin said thickly, turning away from the sight.  “Go!”

Several hands forced her to move, hurrying her in the other direction from the horrible sight. Her chest ached, her heart broken again. What had they done to deserve this horror?

“Where is Dain?”  She managed to ask, her voice soft and broken.

“In the front lines,” Dwalin said, casting her a worried look, but still constantly glancing behind them, worried that the shambling corpses of their friends would follow.  “He will try and meet us there.”

“Dwalin-”

“Myara, we all swore to protect you and Thorin’s child,” Dwalin said.  “Swore with our lives, no matter what would come. Dain is doing this protect you.”

She hangs her head and focuses on moving, doing her best not to think about how this could turn out, about she could lose all those that she loved.  It was to ignore the grief of what she’d seen, but she knew if she was to survive, she would have to.

Winding passage after winding passage passed them in a blur and Myara looked over the edge of one of the many bridges in Erebor, normally lit in golden light. Fire burned below, illuminating the soldiers fighting off the dead that seemed to fill the halls endlessly, many in varying states of decay, but the freshest were those from that horrible battle, weapons still in hands as if it had been sealed around them in death, and she knew the soldiers were grieving once again.  She caught a flicker of red hair, of a mighty shout, but it quickly disappeared in the ocean of bodies beneath her and she was hurried into another hall before she could call Dain’s name.

The bells of Dale went silent.

They hurried past another hall and a loud screech caused them to freeze, several corpses shambling towards them, some of them old and some of them very fresh, bleeding wounds still fresh under their armour.  This lot was moving quicker, Bombur, Bofur and Bifur all sharing a look and nodding, stepping between the oncoming dead and the rest of the group.

“No-”

“You need to go,” Bofur said, giving a nod to Myara.  “We’ll deal with these and catch up.”

Dwalin takes Myara’s arm again and leads her on, his expression grim.  The sound of fighting followed them for a long few moments before all fell silent once again, their footsteps falling softly through the hall.

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she keeps herself silent, her grip tight on her sword. Erebor would not fall today, not after everything that it had already been through, not after they had not long got it back, she had to believe that.

A deep rumble echoes through the ground, making the group stop and a fear filled look to pass between several of them.

“It’s not possible,” Dwalin breathed.  “No, I refuse to believe it, not with all this going on as well.”

He marched ahead and the others slowly followed, Myara still keeping her head held high.  All of them grew more anxious the further they went.  Why were the dead rising?  Why were they being haunted like this, after all that they had suffered? Those that they had loved, those that they had already mourned, now seemingly after them and their blood.

Another rumble goes through the halls, dust falling from the ceiling and Myara mourned, as she knew the others were, mourned that they were just getting back their homes, their lives, and now this would change everything again.

There was a kick in her stomach and Myara let out a steadying breath.  She had no choice but to survive.  She had to survive.

They reached the secret entrance just as there was a roar outside.  They had all been there, they all knew that sound.

“Mahal have mercy on us,” Myara breathed.  “This cannot be happening.”

Footsteps sound suddenly behind them, and Dwalin and Nori quickly step in front of Myara, Oin, Dori and Ori stepping in close on the sides.

With a limping shuffle and the shine of blood on his head, Dain stepped into view, his face pale under the blood, an equally injured Bofur was hanging on his shoulder.

“We need to go,” Dain grumbled.  “We need to go now.”

Myara hurried to his side and helped him, while Nori took Bofur, a pained grin on his face.

“You should just leave me here.”  He said grimly.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gone for.”

“Not a chance,” Nori said firmly.  “I think we’re going to lose enough today as it, without you staying here.”

Bofur laughs grimly, but it quickly silenced by the pain, holding onto the worst of the wounds as best he could.

“What is happening?”  Myara asked, trying to see the extent of Dain’s wounds.  “I saw…I saw…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, the ache in her chest too much, but by Dain’s grim expression, he understood.

“I saw him too,” Dain said quietly, taking her hands and kissing them gently, his own expression pained.  “But we cannot dwell on it.  There is nothing that we can do for them.”

Screeching and growls come from down the hall.  As quickly as they could, they hurried out the door and swung it closed behind them.

Outside, Myara stared out towards Dale, her breathe stolen as she saw fires burning once again, but her attention was only held briefly as an all too familiar roar cut through the air, earning all of their gazes.

A large dark form was in the sky, coming from where Lake Town was still being rebuilt. All of them standing there knew what the form was, and they all watched helplessly as it headed towards the burning city.

“This isn’t happening,” Ori said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking.  “Smaug was dead, we all saw him fall.”

“We saw a lot of those we’ve seen fall,” Dain said grimly.  “It seems that the gods have abandoned us tonight.”

A green light filled Smaug’s chest and even from where they stood they could make out the rotting dark red scales, the black arrow still embedded deeply into Smaug’s chest.  The fire erupted from his chest, illuminating the sky in a vivid green glow.

Dain’s hand rests on Myara’s lower back.  “Do you think you can get down alright?”

Myara’s jaw clenches and she nods, Ori and Dori leading the way so she can follow, Dwalin and Dain close behind, Oin and Nori taking up the rear, helping Bofur as best they could.

“Where is Tula and Gimli?”  Oin asked, huffing a little.  “They should have been here.”

“Tula is no fool,” Dain said.  “She knew that they could not have waited long.  Hopefully we find them later.”

The night felt so cold as they reached the ground, Myara’s arms wrapping around herself as they waited for the others to get down.  There were screams in the distance, and her gaze turned towards the gates of Erebor, the fires still burning brightly, enough to illuminate the figures struggling there.  A wave of nausea struck her, and she managed to just get a little further away before she was sick, the stress all a little too much.

Dain was there in a flash, his hands rubbing her back gently until the vomiting eases, and she breathes deeply, getting herself back in control.  “Easy love, take it slow.  You are going to need all the strength you can muster to get through this.”

Myara nods, barely listening, feeling a ringing starting in her ears.  Whatever had caused these events was nothing normal. Whatever had called Thorin back, had brought Smaug back, it seemed to be against her people.

There was more screaming and she looked back up towards Dale.  “Is…is there nothing we can do?”

“We could not even hold them at bay ourselves,” Dain said, helping her straighten out.  “I stayed as long as I could before we were overrun.  I was not proud in calling a retreat.”

Myara rests a gentle hand on his arm, earning his gaze where he was hiding his pain.  “This is beyond any of us Dain.  We will get away and find help.  We can-”

There was a shout and they turned, seeing Bofur practically falling on top of Nori, pulling away from Oin, but there was a snarl leaving him, one that was cold and empty, almost animalistic.

Dain moved first and shoved Bofur off Nori, Bofur’s body thudding into the stone with a sickening crack and sat there, unmoving, his hat sitting soaked in blood next to his head.

“What-what happened?”  Nori asked, his face almost white, staring at Bofur.  “He…he went limp and then-then-”

“That’s what has been happening,” Dain growled, cautiously approaching Bofur.  “They’ve been dying and then getting back up, sometimes partly eaten.  Not much seems to slow them down, although a sharp knock usually disables them, at least for a time.”

A stunned silence sat around everyone, even as Dain crouched next to Bofur, gently prodding him, his expression pained.  Slowly, he sighs, and gets back to his feet, shaking his head, earning more than a few grief stricken expressions, Dwalin cursing silently under his breath.

“Tonight has been a tragic night,” Dain said.  “We need to get moving now, before it gets any worse.”

“But Bofur…”  Nori said, his face still pale.

“There isn’t anything we can do now,” Dain shakes his head and re-joins Myara.  “We must move on before they realise that some of us have gotten out.”

Myara sniffs and shudders, her mind almost numb now to what was happening, but she couldn’t rid herself of a bad feeling that had been growing her since she’d seen Thorin earlier.  Dain’s hand rests gently on her and she nods, starting to lead them all away from the distance screams and the sickening roar of the dead dragon.

“How will others get out?”  Ori asked quietly as they walked.  “There has to be something else that we can do.”

“There are many paths through Erebor,” Dain said.  “And as much as it pains me to say it, they will have little choice but to try them.  The hoard that we were facing was nothing to be taken lightly.  It may just be the end of the world as we know it.”

A chill goes up Myara’s spine and she finds herself stopping dead in her tracks, Dain almost running straight into her, his hands resting on her for a moment before he sees what she’d stopped to stare at.  Quickly, he moves in front of her, the others reacting accordingly, all pretending they couldn’t see the shake of the sword in her hand.

“Thorin…” She breathed, her voice barely audible even in the silence that suddenly seemed to surround them.

“You will go no further,” Dain said loudly, even as more figures begin to step out beside Thorin.  “This is not your world anymore.  You will return to where you came from.”

Dawn was approaching, the light starting to peak over the horizon, illuminating the walking corpses more and more.  Myara stared with wide eyes as Thorin starts to approach, unaffected by Dain’s words, and it was only now that they could see the Arkenstone still clutched tightly in one hand, but it was no longer rich and vibrant, reminding her of starlight, now it was blood red and dark, but still unmistakable.

“I will give you one last warning,” Dain’s voice went low, into almost a growl.  “Whatever creature you are, you will leave and you will not return, releasing all those you have under your spell.”

A low snarl in the air and it took them all a moment before they realised that it was coming from Thorin, or what had once been Thorin, because none of them could be certain that they could even call him that anymore.

“My…ara…”

Myara’s breath caught in her throat and the tears started again, shaking her head, not wanting to face the reality of this, her chest aching so much.  If it wasn’t for Dain’s protective hand on her, then she knew she’d be running, and she knew that she wouldn’t stand a chance, not against Thorin, or whatever this things now was.

“Dwalin,” Dain’s voice was quiet, firm.  “I want you to take Myara and I want you to get as far from here as you can.  Do not stop until you can find somewhere safe, or someone that can help.”

“Dain, you can’t-”

He glances back at her, his expression set.  “I am sorry love, I know that you deserve more than this, but for you survive, for our people to have a chance, this must be done.  Oin, go with them.”

“I can’t lose you too,” Myara said.  “I can’t…I can’t see you like this too.”

“Dwalin,” Dain’s gaze left her.  “Please. Your duty is to your king, and this is your kings final order.”

Dwalin swallowed and nods slowly, stepping in beside Myara, even as she stares at Dain with tears in her eyes.  “What…what about the others?”

“It is their choice,” Dain said grimly, holding Thorin’s cold, dead gaze.  “It is an honour to have fought by all of you.”

Dwalin looked around at the few others left as Oin stood by Myara’s other side.  Dori, Nori and Ori all nodded grimly to him and moved and stood next to Dain.  With a final glance back at the growing number of dead, they could now make out a few more faces, Fili and Kili, Balin and Gloin, and many other soldiers and citizens, that they had laughed with, spoke with, and they knew that there wasn’t a choice left.

“It has been an honour my King,” Dwalin said, taking Myara’s hand.  “I will do all that I can.”

Dain nods, his grip tight on his weapon as the horde slowly approaches.  “My Queen…I’m sorry that we didn’t get more time.”

Myara felt herself go back to end of the battle of the five armies, of having too much to say and too little time to say it, of suddenly feeling like the world was being pulled out from under her feet again, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that built up from her chest.

“It’s not fair,” She whispered.  “It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not love,” Dain said.  “But you need to go.”

Dwalin and Oin start to pull her gently away, the weight of the situation sitting heavily on their shoulders.

“I love you…” Myara managed to get out, her voice broken, tears rolling down her cheeks as her hands rest over her stomach.

There was no chance to say anything else, the four dwarfs standing alone against the approaching dead, even as Thorin’s gaze follows Myara as Dwalin leads her away.

Myara can’t watch anymore, turning away, her eyes blurred with tears, letting herself be led by Dwalin and Oin, know she would go back if they so much as let her go or got her to focus.  Dwalin and Oin remained silent, both in their own grief, and knowing that the sudden task before them, was going to be even harder than the one they had not long come from.

Eventually, as the morning light spilled over the land, the sun just beginning to peak, the three of them stopped and looked back from their position on a ridge. Dale and Erebor were burning, the distant figure of Smaug crawling its way to the gates of Erebor.

The worst though, the worst was the horde, they could all see it clearly from where they were, a large group of dead, men and dwarves alike, all together, all moving slowly, and the three of them on top of that ridge could not bear to look too long, just in case there was another face they recognised.

Myara sighs and pulls her hood over her head, not wanting the see the world any longer as she stares at her swollen stomach and wonders just what will happen to them now, of how she was meant to raise a child in a world like this.  She didn’t want to face the fact that she was going to have to start again, she felt like she’d started again too many times, and now this time, it was almost alone, only the two others by her side and whoever ever they could possibly find in this mad new world.

Dwalin rests a hand on her lower back, earning her gaze, and she can see the grief and despair matched in his gaze, can see the same questions burning away in his mind, but he just nods, his expression stony, one she returned.

There would be time to grieve later, time to speak and try and answer those questions, but for now, again, they had to move, had to find safety, maybe a friend. There was no time to focus on those big questions, or the self-despair that sat in the backs of all their minds.

“Hopefully we can find Tula and Gimli,” Oin said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Hopefully they came this way.”

“Just keep your weapon close,” Dwalin said, shouldering his axe.  “We do not know what the paths ahead will be like.  Let’s just start by getting as far away from here as possible.”

Oin nods, casting a glance at Myara, his expression turning worried, seeing her head down, her face hidden beneath her hood, hiding herself from the world as much as the world was hidden from her.  Dwalin just shakes his head slightly and the two men share an understanding look before helping her away this place.

Silence followed them, no birds singing in the dawn, no beasts stirring from slumber, no voices starting as they start the day.  In that silence, it’s just the three of them leaving their world behind, Myara’s hand tightly wrapping around the two beads in her hair, a soft sob leaving her, a sob that seemed to echo through the ages and be the voice of the times to come.

[makerkenzie]

Golden Crowns and Golden Shrouds

As you know, I’ve been working on a critique of the Martells’ plan to punish the Lannisters and restore the Targaryens, so as I was reading the Dorne chapters in AFFC, I came back to Myrcella. 

Book version, she has a misadventure with Arianne which gets her maimed and nearly killed. She loses an ear and gets a fat chunk sliced off her face. She’s still alive! But someone who was supposed on be on their side tried to kill her. It was a split-second’s unexpected movement by her horse that made the difference between her ear and her life. 

Because she’s survived a near-miss and lost a body part, I started thinking: if not for Maggy’s prophecy, I might think book-version Myrcella won’t die young after all.

It’s 2020 and life is short, so I’m gonna show you my new crackpot theory! 

Let’s take another look at Maggy’s prophecy:

“Three questions may you ask,” the crone said, once she’d had her drink. “You will not like my answers. Ask, or begone with you.”

Go, the dreaming queen thought, hold your tongue, and flee. But the girl did not have sense enough to be afraid. “When will I wed the prince?” she asked.

“Never. You will wed the king.”

Beneath her golden curls, the girl’s face wrinkled up in puzzlement. For years after, she took those words to mean that she would not marry Rhaegar until after his father Aerys had died. “I will be queen, though?” asked the younger her.

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be … until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”

Anger flashed across the child’s face. “If she tries I will have my brother kill her.” Even then she would not stop, willful child as she was. She still had one more question due her, one more glimpse into her life to come. “Will the king and I have children?” she asked.

“Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you.”

That made no sense to Cersei. Her thumb was throbbing where she’d cut it, and her blood was dripping on the carpet. How could that be? she wanted to ask, but she was done with her questions.

The old woman was not done with her, however. “Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,” she said. “And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”

“What is a valonqar? Some monster?” The golden girl did not like that foretelling. “You’re a liar and a warty frog and a smelly old savage, and I don’t believe a word of what you say. Come away, Melara. She is not worth hearing.”

“I get three questions too,” her friend insisted. And when Cersei tugged upon her arm, she wriggled free and turned back to the crone. “Will I marry Jaime?” she blurted out.

You stupid girl, the queen thought, angry even now. Jaime does not even know you are alive. Back then her brother lived only for swords and dogs and horses … and for her, his twin.

“Not Jaime, nor any other man,” said Maggy. “Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close.”

“The only breath we smell is yours,” said Cersei. There was a jar of some thick potion by her elbow, sitting on a table. She snatched it up and threw it into the old woman’s eyes. In life the crone had screamed at them in some queer foreign tongue, and cursed them as they fled her tent. But in the dream her face dissolved, melting away into ribbons of grey mist until all that remained were two squinting yellow eyes, the eyes of death.

Maggy tells Cersei too little and too much. She doesn’t exactly lie but her answers are deliberately deceptive. She knows Cersei will think she means something else and doesn’t bother to elaborate. 

There’s some debate about some parts of the prophecy. Which is fine! If you’ve been following my blog for more than a few months, you probably know I seem to be in the minority in those debates. So I feel like: well, in for a star, in for a dragon! Hold my shade-of-the-evening and have a seat, babe. 

Let’s go through the prophecy line by line.

“When will I wed the prince?” she asked.

“Never. You will wed the king.”

Cersei assumes that means she’ll wed Rhaegar after he becomes king. Turns out she weds King Robert after he’s killed Rhaegar.

“I will be queen, though?” asked the younger her.

“Aye.” Malice gleamed in Maggy’s yellow eyes. “Queen you shall be … until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”

Cersei thinks this means another queen, and at this stage in the story she thinks that younger queen in Margaery. But see: Maggy never actually says queen. She just says there comes another. Just...another person. For all we know the YMB could be Jon. Seriously, though! The YMB doesn’t need to be a literal queen. For a long time I liked the idea of the YMB being multiple women. Right now I’m leaning towards Brienne as the sole YMB. Because that means Cersei is also deceiving herself about the meaning of “more beautiful,” and Brienne is ironically called the Beauty. But also because of this:

Anger flashed across the child’s face. “If she tries I will have my brother kill her.”

Wouldn’t it be the most delicious irony if that doesn’t work out because the YMB has already taken Jaime away from her? We don’t really know what form “cast you down and take all you hold dear” will take, and there’s plenty of room there for interpretation. Taking Jaime’s attention from her is definitely something in that area.

“Will the king and I have children?” she asked.

“Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you.”

If Maggy were answering honestly, she would say you’ll have children, sure, but they won’t be conceived with the king. Instead she just lets the little girl sit there with her confusion.

“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds,” she said. “And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”

Every word in the sentences above is controversial. I’m gonna make it worse.

We’ve long assumed “gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds” means Cersei’s children will all be crowned monarchs, and they’ll all die young. Cersei seems to think it means that.

But what if...she actually doesn’t mean that? What if this is Maggy’s way of telling Cersei her children will not be the king’s children? What if “crowns” does not refer to literal crowns, but to her children’s blond hair? 

And gold, their shrouds: okay, so, when each child dies, they’ll be wrapped in a golden shroud. 

Does the prophecy say anything about when the children die?

“When your tears have drowned you” ----> This could mean a lot of things. Does it mean Cersei’s lost all three of her children? She thinks so. 

However: Myrcella has her cousin Rosamund Lannister of Lannisport with her as a handmaid and occasional stunt double. They go into a lot of detail about how much Rosamund looks like her and how they’ve used her to conceal Myrcella’s whereabouts.

Up close, Cersei would never mistake Rosamund for Myrcella. At a distance...someone might mistake her corpse for Myrcella’s and report it to the queen. 

I don’t want Rosamund to die. And maybe she’ll be fine! But I also suspect we haven’t yet seen how much Rosamund does for Myrcella. Just saying: a little girl of similar age and size and similar coloring is available. If Cersei thinks her children have all died, she may be mistaken.

As I was quoting: “When your tears have drowned you, the valonqar will wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you.”

This is one of those debates I mentioned earlier. Cersei asked Maggy what valonqar means and Maggy ignored the question. Septa Saranella told her it’s High Valyrian for “little brother” so Cersei thinks it’s Tyrion. 

Most people think it’s Jaime because he’s technically younger than Cersei. I’ve looked up the High Valyrian vocab, and it does mean younger brother, or a younger male cousin via the father’s father, but I don’t think Maggy’s using it to mean Cersei’s literal brother. 

If Maggy were actually saying that Cersei’s brother would wrap his hands around her throat (and there’s another snag: Jaime doesn’t have plural hands to wrap around anything), then she would induce the same confusion in Cersei by saying to her, “your little brother will wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you.” She’d be thinking Jaime, who’s only younger by minutes, and of course Cersei would think she meant Tyrion. 

But Maggy doesn’t say that, does she? Maggy, who speaks the Common Tongue well enough to turn phrases like “cast you down and take all you hold dear,” suddenly needs to use Valyrian to mention a younger brother? Really? Some of my restaurant co-workers called me mami and that doesn’t mean I’m their mother. 

What’s more likely: that Maggy suddenly forgot how to say “younger brother” in the Common Tongue, or that she’s using the Valyrian because she means something that doesn’t translate? And Cersei hasn’t stopped to consider that because Cersei doesn’t speak other languages?

I think it it means something else. Maggy lets her think it means little brother, and like everything else Maggy tells her, it’s not that simple. 

ANYWAY I WAS TALKING ABOUT MYRCELLA.

Golden crowns and golden shrouds, she says. Joffrey’s worn a golden crown and Tommen’s now wearing a golden crown. Someone’s already tried to put a crown on Myrcella and it didn’t work out. Golden crown can also be a flowery way to describe a head of pretty blond curls. Given Cersei’s marriage to a king from a consistently black-haired family, her children having blond hair is more newsworthy than their wearing literal crowns made of literal gold.

Gold their crowns and gold, their shrouds. When Maggy brings up shrouds, that probably pertains to their deaths. “Shroud” can refer to whatever the corpse is wearing at the funeral. Lord Tywin’s gold armor, for example. It could be a gown made of cloth-of-gold? Anyway! The image of Cersei’s children shrouded in gold suggests that when they die, they will be entombed as Lannisters, not as Baratheons. Doesn’t say anything about the circumstances or timing of their deaths. 

Book-version, Myrcella has survived a near-death experience with a disfigured face. Someone tried to crown her; didn’t work. Someone tried to kill her; she lost an ear. For Myrcella to come that close to dying, and lose an ear in the process, only to die in some other mishap while she’s still a kid? Feels sloppy. 

Uncle Tyrion survived a near-death experience and lost his nose. Uncle-Dad Jaime lost his sword hand and found a way to keep going. Lady Brienne nearly died in the fight with Biter and got a big hole chewed in her face. Now Myrcella’s survived a murder attempt while losing an ear and part of her cheek. Seems like she’ll be in good company with House Lannister. The golden shroud can come later; much later. Decades later. 

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind pt.5

oh look, another chapter no one asked for! For some reason this story looks like a collection of one shot poorly glued together, but technically (”if you have to use the word technically you’re already in trouble” Cit.) I know where I’m going. 

I kept hinting at a very specific scar I think Aiden has, so here’s the story of that scar. Awkward love confession ensues. 

All my love to everyone that reads this mess, please let me know what you think! <3

***

They were hunting a wyvern, somewhere outside Sodden. 700 crowns had been promised for the head of the beast. Well,  just the poison, to be honest, but the point was that the creature had to die.  It was their last job before heading north and eventually parting for winter.

They'll never get that far.

Killing any wyvern-like monster is complicated business, those fuckers are huge and sharp just about everywhere, not to mention poisonous. When they manage to dispose of the creature without any severe accident it doesn't feel right for some reason, call it Witcher senses or however you want, but things don't add up. Lambert can still hear Aiden's voice telling him that it's too many corpses for just one beast.

He grits his teeth when he hears a growl immediately followed by the sound of rustling trees and claws scraping on stone. He looks to his left at the Cat exploring the northern side of the cave and Aiden is staring right back at him, he gracefully waves a hand in the general direction of the sound and put on his best I Told You So attitude: there will be snarky remarks about this later but he kindly spares him the comments, for now.

Suddenly, there's nothing graceful about the way he tumbles to the ground, red seeping through the blue and black of his armor like sand in a child's hand. He's running to Aiden's side in a heartbeat, that's all it takes for panic to fill his system like the stench of blood fills his senses. He sees the armor pierced where the tail of the beast tore through the plates and they both know that whatever can dig through metal like that can also do an awful lot of damage to the flesh and bones underneath. Lambert already knows that something is very wrong.

He falls to the ground next to his Cat and he desperately clutches his body, catching the sweetly sick trace of poison still lingering in the air: one look at the wound is enough for his fear to spike and eat him up whole. It's too much blood even for a Witcher.

"Aiden?" Lambert's voice is shaking like his hands as he brushes a few locks of damp curls out of his lover's forehead, feeling the familiar beating sound of his heart growing even slower than usual.

Aiden blinks a couple of times, pain coursing through his entire body and stealing his breath away as he tries to speak. "That...ugly, uh?" Lambert can barely hear his whisper above the noise of the beast outside, the growling so loud it almost rivals the thumping of his own frightened heart echoing in his ears. He reaches for a vial of White Honey while he keeps an eye on the pale form in his arms.

"Just...drink this, alright? I'll...I'll fix this, I can fix this, just...hang on for me,  okay?" He supports Aiden up while he helps him drink the potion, helplessness and desperation washing over him in dark waves as all he can do is stare at the blood staining his clothes and dripping to the floor. Lambert tightens his grip on the Cat's shoulders as if holding him was his only way to keep him whole, to not let him slip away from him.

He can see it on Aiden's face that it hurts to breathe, his eyes are clouded and unfocused and he feels as if a cold hand was squeezing his own heart in an iron grip. 

"Lambert, you don't have to..."  His whole body tenses up, green eyes go wide for a second before fluttering close against the rising pain and shock of the poison.

"Aiden?" He tentatively calls him again but there's no answer this time. Witchers may be strong and powerful, but so is the wyvern's poison, and not many live to tell the tale. An unfamiliar ache climbs inside him and he tries to blink burning tears away from his eyes as he carefully lays Aiden back down.

Lambert can hear the monster above them digging his sharp talons in the stone on the side of the mountain, and his senses are telling him to focus, to move, to prepare for the fight, but all he can do is stare at Aiden's pale complexion, too grey and ashy even for a witcher. There's a part of his mind spiraling into fear and shutting down cause Aiden could die, Aiden is wounded and he doesn't know how to fix it, he doesn't know how to help him, and why I never know how to fix anything?

He tentatively takes another look at the wound, moving the damaged pieces of the armor aside, exposing the torn blue fabric and skin underneath. The potion is reducing the blood flow but it's a slow process with a gash that deep. The broken sound of pain Aiden makes is like a punch in his guts and the only thing he has to offer in consolation is a pathetic string of whispered "I'm sorry"s.  

Lambert digs through his own pack in search of clean bandages to wrap around Aiden's chest while the noise around them grows with every passing second. If the growling and screeching of the beast is any indication, it must be massive. And they unintentionally made it furious because they killed its mate. 

Lambert is frantically looking around searching for shelter but he knows there's nowhere to hide in the cavern. The cave is bare except for the opening on the north, where the sharp tail came lashing out before. Going outside is out of the question, Aiden already lost too much blood and he doesn't dare to move him, but they're too exposed here.

The dark tail of the wyvern whipping out again distracts him from his panic and it's enough for him to focus on the task ahead. His only chance of saving Aiden is keeping this thing out of the cave. He is willing to make peace with the fact that this is where he dies, in a godsforsaken corner of the world where his life is worth exactly 700 crowns, but he's not ready to resign Aiden to the same fate.

Lambert cuts the rest of the blue shirt open and securely ties the bandages over the wound. Their packs are well within Aiden's reach, pouch with their potions already open for when he wakes up, if he wakes up, there should be enough White Honey for him to at least drag himself back to their horses and into town. It's a plan, it's a shitty plan, but it's his best chance at keeping the man he loves alive. It will have to be enough.

***

There's a deep ache in his bones and his left side is scraped and bruised but he wastes no time thinking about it. It was a sloppy job, not his best witcher work but it's done, and for reasons beyond his comprehension, he's still alive.

When he stumbles back into the cave and to Aiden, the Cat is barely breathing and he looks a fraction closer to death with every exhale. He can't smell any lingering traces of poison, though he's not really in the position to call it progress, considering that there's still a hole the size of his hand just beneath Aiden's ribs and he saw the white of the bone with every breath while he was bandaging him earlier. Earlier seems a lifetime ago now.

Lambert starts to slowly take off the rest of the armor, trying to jostle the unconscious Witcher as little as possible. He makes quick work of the familiar buckles and clasps he learned to know, for he has undressed him so many times before, desperate to feel the warm skin under his hands or taking his sweet time and taking him apart. Never like this though, never with the dark cloud of death looming dangerously over his head.

The only sound out of Aiden's lips is a muffled groan when he cuts the bandages open to swipe a wet cloth around the gash, and the rational side of him knows it's better if Aiden doesn't wake up in the next minutes cause cleaning and stitching a wound that size is not something anyone would want to go through awake. His rational side though is not enough to stop him from thinking the worst, and he wants nothing more than to glance into the piercing green eyes he loves once again.

He cleans the edges of the cut again before picking up the needle and thread, willing his hands to stop shaking as he starts to slowly close the wound, focusing on the repetitive moves to calm his mind. His entire self is focused on one single thought: Aiden is dying. And in rapid succession, he's everything I have.

It's not the first time he patches Aiden up. Part of the reason why they know each other's scars so well, physical and not, is because they stitched them up themselves, bruised skin and broken spirits alike. The physical ones were less complicated though, it's easier to check the progress of healing when you can see new skin blooming under an injury. Being a Witcher sped up the process by a lot, so in two days a deep claw mark across a forearm would be like new, but mutations or not, no one knows how long it takes for a damaged mind to bloom anew over the past suffering.

-

The night is endless, and the darkness trickles away at such a slow pace that it seems the sun forgot to rise. The Wolf doesn't even try to sleep, he sits by the fire with his back against the wall, cleaning and sharpening his swords with his eyes lost in the dancing flames.  

It physically hurts him to keep staring at Aiden. He looks like he's sleeping but Lambert knows it's all wrong: it's not natural how still he is, how he doesn't even flinch once, his eyelids are not fluttering like when he's dreaming, his breathing is not regular like it should be when he's resting after a hunt or they're curling up in a patch of sunlight-warm grass, and the beating of his heart, the sound that lulled him to sleep so many times, falters in a disturbing rhythm.

Lambert doesn't remember being this scared in his entire life. Sure, there was fear during the trials, it was a different kind though, he was just a kid back then. A couple of times he came back from a job badly wounded and almost out of potions and he knew he was tiptoeing dangerously close to the end of the Path, but losing his life didn't scare him. There was not much to lose, to begin with. Sometimes it even sounded like a relief, no more Witcher bullshit, about fucking time.

But he was not the one bleeding in a cave, it was not his miserable life on the line here. This was different, he was losing something important now, something that mattered, something he needed. He couldn't lose Aiden.

There is a word for this mess inside of him, for the sharp twist in his heart he has been feeling every time he sees Aiden's crooked smile but it's out of reach for someone like him. He tried to ignore it and shove it away, pretending it was not there and acting as if they were no more than friends with the benefit of sex and watching each other's back during hunts. And it was already more than he should hope for, surely more than he deserved.

If he allows himself to believe that he can have something nice, that he can feel something more than rage just for once, there will be a price to pay. Not with gold, but with the suffering and the loneliness left behind after your friends or loved ones are gone. Life on the Path was solitary for a reason, it was nothing short of presumptuous of him to let himself get close to someone. It was a delusion he already entertained, and one he promised he wouldn't do again. He is not made for love, and he is surely not made to be loved.

Lambert can easily imagine his brothers' reaction if they were ever to meet Aiden and find out they've been together. He can feel the disapproval and rejection radiating off of them as if they were right here in front of him. And worst of all, he can see the disappointment in Vesemir's eyes crystal clear. You will bump into other Witchers on the Path occasionally, the old man said, most of them will even welcome the company, Griffins and Bear especially. But you stay the hell away from Cats and Vipers, they'd kill their own brothers for the right price, don't think they wouldn't kill another Witcher just for fun. Aiden didn’t kill people though, but that makes for a very poor argument.

Will they kick him out of Kaer Morhen before or after he explains? Will they avoid him every time they meet on the Path, pretend they don't know him, act as if he's already dead? He's always been the resident School of the Wolf failure after all, the thought of his family's refusal scares him, but it won't be a surprise.

What scares him even more than his family's reaction though is Aiden leaving. It's some kind of miracle that he hasn't left already, and to be fair, Lambert expects him to go every single time they reach a city big enough to offer employment to the both of them.

If he stayed until now it was just because it was a suitable agreement, more hunts, more coins, fewer expenses, and awesome sex. Love was not part of the deal. Aiden could always go back to the Caravan, ditch him, and pick a different lover in every new town. It's a mystery why he hasn't done that yet. Why would he ever stay? He's hardly worth the trouble.

Aiden's pained groan shakes him out of his thoughts. As he lets go of the last of his knives, he turns to look at the stirring form a few paces away. He's met with the reassuring green of his eyes, a little bloodshot and tired, but very much alive. It's more than what he dared to hope a few hours ago.

Aiden looks down his chest at the red-stained bandages, his mind filling the blanks of what must have happened after the wyvern got him, before whispering: "You patched me up pretty good, uh?"

Lambert doesn't answer, the surge of relief flooding him overwhelms him for a second. He shouldn't care this much, but he does. Dammit, he does. "Well, I have another scar for my collection. Did you kill it?" Lambert makes a vaguely affirmative sound and points to a set of vials with a sleek blueish liquid inside. Their 700 crowns of poison, that's how valuable their life is.

Aiden slowly sits up, taking in their surroundings. "Seems I was pretty useless for the main action." He stares at Lambert, yellow eyes trained to the fire, and lets go of an exasperated sigh. He can feel that something is off because the Wolf seems determined to avoid looking at him.

"Lambert, talk to me, will you? Did you stitch me just to ignore me?" Aiden's voice is quiet in the cave, just a whisper over the fire, and Lambert almost wants to pretend he didn't hear it. He has nothing to say, nothing he can say. Because he has too much to say, and he's worried that if he starts talking he'll spill something stupid.

"You died," he finally breaths out. "I saw you...passing out...and...and you were...." Lambert signs at his chest as if that explains it all, unable to find the words to justify the urgency in his voice. "...Dead, and I...I didn't know what to do."

"I'm fine!" Aiden moves closer to where the other is sitting by the fire. He didn't miss the shiver in his tone. He lays a hand on his knee, squeezing it in a way that was meant to be reassuring, but it only makes Lambert think about how much he'd miss his touches, how much he'd miss his eyes, and his voice, and his smile, and all the little things he forces himself not to think about.

"I'm fine Wolf. You killed the wyvern and harvested the poison, you did everything right." He pats the dressing wrapped around his torso like it's no big deal and Lambert wants to scream at him or throw something at him, maybe both, cause he shouldn't be this easygoing and calm, not after he almost died and Lambert feels like his whole world has turned upside-down.

He moves his hand to cover the one on his leg, a sudden need to reach out, to touch, to feel that Aiden is really alive and he's not just dreaming, but he lets it drop back in his lap after a second, he doesn't dare to touch him back, not yet. "I didn't know what to do without you," he whispers lowering his eyes.

"It doesn't look like you needed my help at all, I was pretty passed out."  Aiden starts picking at the bandages, slowly untying them, and Lambert looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, the ghost of his touch still lingering on his leg and he realizes that he's screwed.

"That's...you know what, nevermind." Totally screwed. Not only he was stupid enough to fall for someone, but it also had to be this Cat, someone he can't have. It had to be someone he so obviously doesn't deserve.

"Are you trying to say you'd miss me? I'm flattered Wolf," Aiden says as he raises his eyes to meet the yellow ones with a little smirk on his lips.

"Unbearable, that's what you are. And to think I even stitched you up." This, Lambert knows how to do this. It's easy to pretend nothing changed if he doesn't let himself think about it. Crushes disappear with time, with a little bit of luck he'll manage to avoid saying something utterly ridiculous like I love you.

"Oh come on, you love me! And, I'm a great fuck." "I do....Fuck, I meant you are." Dammit. He wants to run as far as his legs will carry him, cause he fucked up, he fucked up so bad now, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to look Aiden in the eyes again. He shouldn't have said that, why in the world would any sane person ever say something stupid like that?

Aiden drops the bandages he's holding and looks up at Lambert, pupils wide and swallowing the sea of sparkling green around them. Aiden's eyes always seem to be able to pierce a hole in his soul and see past whatever mask or cover he wears, sometimes he's just nice enough to not call Lambert out on his bullshit.

"Shit, I didn't mean..." This is not how it's supposed to go, they don't say things like that, they're supposed to bicker until one of them grows tired of the game and either stop answering or push the other against the first flat surface available.

"Don't you dare take it back now." Aiden's voice sounds deeper, and there's no trace of the rejection or disgust Lambert was expecting. He moves too quickly and he sits right in front of him, so close to his stretched legs that he can feel the heat of his skin underneath his trousers. Stupid Cat habit of always being in his personal space. He can't think when he's so close.

"I won't hear it if you take it back now," Aiden says, there is a trace of something in his tone that Lamber heard before, but he's suddenly very conscious of how beautiful Aiden looks, and he can't place it. Nobody should look so fine after almost dying.  How someone so gorgeous could ever feel something for him?

"I thought you were never going to say it." Lambert surprisingly finds himself with an armful of Cat, arms wrapped around his shoulders and chest pressed against his, he's whispering something Lambert doesn't catch, and all he can do is stare in front of him in disbelief. He's desperately trying to make sense of Aiden's words, why he's holding him instead of pushing him away and leaving, but his mind is a blank slate.

It's hard to think about running away when Aiden's scent is all around him, and the rhythm of his heartbeat is back to the normal comforting sound Lambert is used to. Instead, he brings his shaking hands around Aiden's waist, gingerly touching him like he was afraid to break him. "I...You died and...I...Can't lose you." It just feels right to have Aiden in his arms and it's so easy to get lost in him and pretend the real world is not waiting for them just outside this cave.

"I know, Lambert, I know. I love you too." Aiden's breath tickles the side of his neck, and he knows it must be obvious to the Cat how his heart rate is spiking, rushing to keep up with the confusion in his head.

"You...You what?" Lambert asks, and his voice is shaking. "It's a mystery how you never noticed, honestly." He feels Aiden's smile against his skin while one of his hands trails to the back of his neck, fingers curling at the nape.

"Why?" Aiden doesn't answer, he moves back enough to bring their lips together, a soft purr rumbling in his chest. This can't be real. He'll wake up in a second or two in their bed at the inn and none of this will be real. None of this can ever be real.

Aiden breaks the kiss just to whisper "Why not?" against his mouth, sharing the same breath for a second before tangling his hand in the dark hair, licking Lambert's lips and demanding entrance. The only thing better than holding Aiden is kissing him, and Lambert can feel the naked skin under his palms so blessedly warm and alive, and he's reminded in an instant of what brought them here. Did Aiden say he loved him too? A low moan involuntarily escapes his throat, and all he can focus on is the feeling of his lover's tongue moving against his own.

When they break apart to catch their breath he can't help but splutter out the burning question he can't swallow: "You should be miles away from here." Aiden looks at him, one hand gently brushing his cheek, the touch of his fingers a real presence anchoring him to reality. "But I'm still here."

"I'll hurt you, you know me...I'm not good at this." Lambert gestures vaguely at the space between them as if it held the confused shape of his feelings and he was trying to give it some definition. If he could be ashamed, he'd probably be blushing to the roots of his hair.   "I know. So will I. And I'll forgive you. As I hope you'll forgive me." Aiden presses another kiss to his lips, just a small touch of warmth. And just this once, Lambert believes him. Cause why not, right?

***

Lambert is leaving Toussaint tomorrow and he can't help but think back to the main events that brought him here years ago. Everything is different now. He swore he'd do his best and more to never feel the same dread he felt after that nasty business with the wyverns, but it was not enough.

His room at the inn is unbearably hot in the mid-summer afternoon and he's almost glad to head back north. He heard of a griffin contract south of Temeria, he can make it in a week or so if he travels fast. He glances out of the window and down to the street, the white cat he saw before is still sleeping on the chair just outside the bakery. If the small animal were to wake up, Lambert could see again how green its eyes were. The baker doesn't have a cat, of course, he doesn't, never had, Lambert already asked.

Seven. That's how many times his miserable brain decided that it would be so much fun to play tricks on his eyes and convince him there was a cat. Seven animals. Different colours, different types, different places, but always the same pair of green eyes. He should consider seeing a healer at some point. Maybe he's been cursed. Or maybe he's been haunted. The hunter being hunted by a monster he can’t slay, how fitting.

Time seems to pass in such a weird way lately, the days all have the same colours and the same scent of melancholy and sadness. Summer was Aiden's favourite time of the year, it made him all soft and relaxed in a way that made even Lambert feeling warmer for more reasons than just the weather.

He never liked summers. Nothing fun about wearing and armor when you're sweating all the time. That's what he always thought, or at least until he saw Aiden comfortably napping under the sunlight, all sprawled out in the grass and purring contently, his skin was hot to the touch and as much as Lambert didn't want to disturb him, he was irresistible.

He has so many memories of sunny days spent fucking on river banks, napping in the shade of a great tree, or cuddling in a cheap room rented for a few coins until sunset, when they could start traveling again unbothered. Yeah, summer was not so bad after all. Or maybe it was just being with Aiden that made things better.

Someone once told him that sweet memories could help a person through dark times. Lambert wants to find that someone and punch him in the face several times cause no, it doesn’t work like that. His memories were not helping or making him feel better, they were making him go crazy and he’d rather tear them right out of his mind one by one than spend another night thinking about Aiden or other cats with green eyes.

That's a lie. He could never live without those memories now, they are part of the baggage that makes up his life, and sometimes it's a heavy burden to shoulder, but forgetting sounds even worse than carrying that weight around. It happened, he loved someone and it was real, he was more than a monster in someone else's eyes and that was worth the pain.

[im-fairly-whitty]

The Witcher Wolf: In Plain Sight

Two years have passed since Geralt was cursed with the ability to turn into a wolf whenever his medallion is removed, a curse that’s turned into a blessing now that he and Jaskier are partners in everything they do.

It’s no exception when they discover a Nilfgaardian army bearing down on Cintra, headed straight toward a certain child surprise. With Jaskier’s help and Geralt’s enchanted medallion they must find a way to get into the palace, make sure Princess Cirilla is safe, and get out with her in tow if needed, regardless of Queen Calanthe’s orders.

[Chapter 1: Into the Fire]  [Chapter 2: Old Friend] [Chapter 3: Bad Luck] [Chapter 4: So Much For Being Smart]

Chapter 5: Secrets

Geralt had been inside a besieged city several times before Cintra.

He knew what it felt like to be able to taste fear in the dead air as those trapped inside waited. A kind of waiting that was heavy with the anxiety of knowing time had already run out, that you could do nothing and that nothing could be done. A whole city that knew the cards had already been dealt, and that their only chance of survival rested on the increasingly slim chance that the enemy would make a wrong move.

Because two days had passed with Cintra surrounded by the Nilfgaardian armies and all the guests from the banquet the night they had arrived were still anxiously locked down within the castle walls. It was no secret that Queen Calanthe had miscalculated this game, and that she had few possible moves left to her to try and win it.

One possible move in fact, Geralt realized as he stuck close to Ciri’s side in the palace courtyard, watching Queen Calanthe trot her warhorse back and forth across the gravel as she shouted a rousing speech to her troops with a voice amplified by one of her mages.

This royal army she was about to lead out to the front lines was her last move. This was the final card to play that had been dealt to her. And it was a weak one.

Geralt wondered how many of the soldiers in the stiff, spit-shined ranks lining the courtyard realized that.

“They’ll be okay Wolf, don’t worry.” Ciri said to him, her voice shaking a bit as she stood straight.

Geralt whined, pressing up against her comfortingly as she rested a hand on his ruff. Her fingers held tight to his fur, betraying her anxiety as they watched Calanthe and Eist complete the ceremonial rousing of the troops before battle.

“I know you’re worried about them,” Ciri whispered, the girl clearly talking more to herself. “But they always come back from battles alright, you’ll see.”

After two days of spending nearly every moment at Ciri’s side--hearing every thought and worry she told only to him as the chill of the lockdown settled over the castle, letting her curl up next to him when she awoke in the middle of the night with nightmares, even managing to coax rare smiles and laughs out of her with his doggish antics despite his own consuming worries about Jaskier--Geralt was entirely fed up by now with her not knowing who he truly was.

He wanted to be able to do more than be her secret mute companion, he wanted to gather her up and get her out of this doomed city to somewhere safe, to find Jaskier and get all of them away before Calanthe’s last desperate ploy failed. But without Jaskier and the medallion all Geralt had been able to do was wait just as uselessly as everyone else trapped in the castle. Waiting for the right moment to reveal himself. Waiting to catch another hint of Jaskier’s scent. Waiting for Nilfgaardian soldiers to spill into the castle and cut all of their throats.  

A roar of a cheer filled the courtyard as the queen finished her speech, raising her sword in a show of might as she got her horse to rear impressively. A show that did nothing to change the fact that Geralt was sure that most if not all of the men crowded into the courtyard would not be returning from this foray as whole corpses, let alone alive.

The troops seen to and now beginning to file out of the courtyard, Calanthe and Eist trotted over toward them, dismounting when they got close. The queen and prince regent were both in full armor but Ciri still rushed to hug them anyway, her anxiety finally leaking through.  

“Be good for Mousesack, little cub,” Eist said, kissing her forehead and ruffling her hair with a smile. “We’ll be back before you know it, just as soon as we run these bastards off our land.”

“What if you don’t?” Ciri asked, eyes wide with fright.

“Then-”

“We will.” Calanthe interrupted. “We always win.”

Eist gave her a grim look, “It does the girl no good to coat a hard future in honey, Calanthe.”

“Is it better to admit defeat before we’ve even reached the battlefield?” Calanthe shot back. She looked away for a moment, then back to Ciri. “If something were to happen to us you would still be cared for by the court advisors, there are plans to keep you safe Cirilla, but we’ll be back soon so we won’t need them.”

“Alright.” Ciri said bravely, clearly not at all alright judging by how painfully tight her grip on Geralt’s fur was.

“Your majesty, if I might have a word?”

Geralt looked up at the approaching man and bristled to see it was the man from the banquet, the one with a grey streak in his hair who had smelled of Jaskier. Geralt scented the air as the man drew closer, barely managing to keep himself from growling even when he didn’t smell anything of Jaskier on him.

Calanthe nodded to the man, kissing Ciri on the cheek before waving her away to follow one of her ladies in waiting and beckoning Mousesack over instead. Geralt hesitated, knowing he was supposed to follow Ciri

“I’ll bring Wolf in with me in a minute Princess.” Mousesack said to Ciri with a smile, seeing Geralt’s hesitation. “I think he wants to be outside a bit longer.”

“Master Wilhelm has been creating contingency plans for getting Ciri to safety.” Queen Calanthe said as soon as the princess was out of earshot, her voice sounding twice as tired as it had only a moment ago. “If anything does happen to Eist and I then you’re to follow his direction, Mousesack.”

“And what is the plan?” the druid asked soberly.

“There’s seven plans at the moment, none perfect.” Wilhelm said grimly. “The pieces on the board are still moving so I won’t know which is the best until the fatal hour arrives.” He looked at the queen. “Although the longer we wait the worse our options will be...”

“We are not removing Ciri until we absolutely must.” Calanthe said, irritation in her voice. “We still have a viable chance at beating them back today, I’m not going to needlessly bundle my granddaughter out the back gate and into the waiting hands of the enemy because I was too afraid.”

“Your majesty, we are in dire straights.” Wilhelm said carefully. “No one would dream of judging you a coward for taking advantage of what few choices you-”

“I must join my troops.” Calanthe said sharply, putting her helmet on and looking away. “If the worst does happen you are to inform Mousesack of the best option for saving your future queen. Mousesack, you are to guard her with your life.”

“Yes your majesty.” Both men said in unison, bowing as Calanthe walked away.

Mousesack put a steadying hand on Geralt’s head as they turned to head back into the castle.

“Mousesack.” Wilhelm said.

“Yes?” the druid asked, pausing.

“You’re an old friend with Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, are you not?” Wilhelm asked casually.

Geralt froze, looking up to see the druid just as stiff.

“I am, I met him decades ago.” Mousesack said carefully, looking like he was trying very hard not to glance down at Geralt.

“You haven’t heard from him recently, have you?” Wilhelm asked, looking at him.

“You know her majesty has banished him from her lands.” Mousesack said slowly. “To contact him while serving in such a high position in her court would be near treason.”

“As the royal spymaster it is my profession to foretell the future and maneuver to the best possible version of it.” Wilhelm said, looking at the druid. Judging by the look in his eyes Geralt guessed the man hadn’t slept in two days. “And I see only one future Mousesack. We all die. Those of us who are very lucky will have one of the small bottles the kitchen staff are filling with poison as we speak. The rest of us will exit this life rather slowly with war cries glorying the eternal flame in our ears and a Nilfgaardian blade in our bellies.”

“Wilhelm, why are you telling me this?” Mousesack asked, voice dry. Geralt could smell the unease seeping off him.

Wilhelm leaned in close to whisper in Mousesack’s ear, quiet enough that only Geralt’s witcher hearing could be able to eavesdrop.

“I have extremely good reason to believe that there is a witcher lurking somewhere in the city and that he may in fact be interested in the princess’ wellbeing.” Wilhelm breathed. “If you have the ability, communicate to him that if he appears now it is my duty to put him to death on sight, but that the moment Calanthe is reported dead my loyalties lie with Ciri, at which point I would very much like to give him the princess, his bard, and the fastest three horses in Cintra with as much cover fire I can muster. Is that clear?”

“There is no response I can give that would not be counted as treason.” Mousesack said, just as quietly as he looked away across the courtyard.

“Which is why I do not ask one of you.” Wilhelm said easily. He patted Mousesack on the shoulder and then walked away, leaving the druid and the wolf to watch him leave in stunned silence.

Geralt watched the spymaster disappear back into the castle and a growl bubbled up through his shock. The man might know Geralt was in the city, but he didn’t know he was a wolf which meant he hadn’t broken Jaskier yet. Most importantly, if he’d offered Jaskier as a bargaining chip in the message he’d given Mousesack that meant the spymaster had his bard, which made him a very dead man once Geralt got his teeth on-

“Don’t you dare go after him.” Mousesack hissed icily, his hand locking onto Geralt’s collar before he had a chance to move, instead dragging him in the opposite direction back to the princess’ chambers. “Don’t you dare be so foolish Geralt, I will slam you down with magic before you even get two steps in his direction.”

Geralt whined and growled but angrily followed the druid as they entered a long marble hallway lined with pillars.

“I know he made it sound like he has the bard, but we don’t know for sure and it will be suicide to try and find out before Wilhelm wants us to.” Mousesack said. “Wilhelm is a good spymaster but he’s a good man too Geralt, if he’s using Jaskier as a bargaining chip he’ll keep the bard in good condition, he’s not the kind to cause harm where it’s not needed.”

Geralt’s ears were still pinned back with a whine. You don’t know that for sure, and there’s all kinds of pain a spymaster can cause in two days without killing a man.

“If Wilhelm thinks the city will fall then we can be sure that it will,” Mousesack continued. “The greatest difficulty will be getting the medallion from him before-”

“He’s magic isn’t he?”

Geralt and Mousesack jumped, looking over to see where Ciri was leaning out from behind a pillar she’d been hiding behind.

“Princess.” Mousesack said, voice suddenly very dry. “I...”

“I saw you talking to him, really talking to him. Don’t try to pretend it was nothing just because I’m a child.” Ciri said, tilting her chin up. “I know he’s different, I can tell he knows what I’m saying to him, and he feels different than other dogs do. What is he really? A doppler hired to keep an eye on me? A wolf you enchanted to be smarter to protect me while I’m in the market?”

Mousesack swallowed, looking around helplessly, glancing down at Geralt.

Geralt scented the air, paying attention this time for any other scents in the hallway but found nothing that would indicate a second eavesdropper. Well. There was no hiding it now was there? Not with so little time left to them before things got truly bad.

He trotted over to Ciri, pushing his nose against her palm before looking back at Mousesack expectantly. Tell her.

“Excellent.” Mousesack said, scrubbing a hand across his face with an exasperated sigh. “Two instances of treason in the same five minutes. A truly excellent afternoon.” He snapped his fingers and a ripple of magic surrounded the three of them.

“Just to keep anyone from overhearing us.” Mousesack explained when Ciri looked at him. “Cirilla, do you know what the law of surprise is?”

“It’s that thing in stories, isn’t it? Where someone gets a reward for helping someone?” Ciri asked, looking confused. “I had a nurse who used to tell me stories about it when I was little, but then she left and no one else tells me those stories.”

Geralt winced, trying not to think about what had happened to the poor nurse for such a flagrant indiscrecion around the princess.

“Well many years ago your grandfather King Roegner was saved by your father.” Mousesack said, glancing around uncomfortably, as if Calanthe would leap out of the shadows at him at any moment. “In return he was promised your mother through the law of surprise, a claim he made when she was of marrying age. Your grandmother was...unhappy with the arrangement, but there was a man named Geralt who stepped in to keep your father from being...stopped. After Geralt helped convince your grandmother to allow your parents to be together your father granted him the law of surprise, and the reward was you.”

“Me?” Ciri asked, her face screwing up in confusion. “You mean like a betrothal?”

“No, not like a betrothal.” Mousesack chuckled. “You are his child surprise, destiny has decreed that you belong to him as much as you ever belonged to your parents or grandmother, more even.”

“Then why haven’t I ever met him?” Ciri demanded. “And what does this have to do with Wolf?”

“Your grandmother forbade anyone from ever speaking of him.” Mousesack said. “He was forbidden to ever return to Cintra and your grandmother would have killed him if he’d tried, she is afraid of losing you like she was of losing your mother.

“As for Wolf,” Mousesack sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Apparently in the last few years Geralt has acquired the ability to transform into a wolf under the right circumstances. When he heard about the Nilfgaardians he came into the city disguised to make sure you were safe. And you found him first it seems.”

“Oh.” Ciri said, blinking in surprise and jerking her hand away from Geralt’s head.

Geralt swallowed, looking up at Ciri. If she was frightened or decided she felt betrayed or disturbed by the revelation he would have no choice but to give her as much space as he safely could. A beginning to their relationship that he’d desperately been hoping to avoid.

“I’m sorry for petting you, Geralt.” Ciri said, looking unsure as she addressed him, but to Geralt’s surprised relief she didn’t smell frightened. “I hope you didn’t mind too much, I didn’t know you were a person.”

Geralt wagged his tail, panting in a doggish smile as he nudged his head back under her hand. It’s alright.

Ciri smiled, relaxing a little as she pet him again. “Well if you don’t mind I suppose we’re alright then.” She frowned. “But this does mean I won’t forgive you for chasing the cook’s cat if you really do know better. I don’t suppose you can talk? Or change back into a person?”

“He can’t speak in this form, and he won’t be able to change back until...the time is right.” Mousesack said, glancing at Geralt’s subtle shake of the head before glossing over the problem of the missing bard, the missing medallion, and the fact that the right moment would be the death of Ciri’s grandparents.

“I heard you talking about Jaskier the bard.” Ciri said, her eyes brightening. “I haven’t seen him since two birthdays ago, I miss him. Why were you talking about him? Does Geralt know him? Is he alright?”

“He, ah.” Mousesack looked at Geralt who gave no real reply, trusting Mousesack to say the right thing. “He’s alright as far as we know, he’s in the city and he’s due to meet up with us soon. He’s Geralt’s partner, so we’re just a bit worried about him is all because of the siege.”

Ciri clapped her hands, her expression looking torn between delight and concern. “You’re his partner! You’re the one he sang all those love songs about then, how lovely! Oh, but is he really alright then? Can’t we bring him to the castle sooner so he can be safe too?”

Geralt sighed. It was probably for the best that the princess mistakenly thought the castle would be any safer than the rest of Cintra if her grandmother’s forces failed, but it was going to make for a terrible revelation in the almost guaranteed occurrence that a sober messenger arrived at the castle gates in the next few hours from the battlefield.

“He’ll be here as soon as he’s able.” Mousesack said with a thin smile. Doubtlessly thinking the same thing as Geralt. “But until then Geralt must remain a wolf and we all must keep very quiet about all of this, understood princess?”

“I understand. I’m eager to see Jaskier again after so long though, I hope he comes soon.” Ciri looked at Geralt curiously. “What does Geralt look like when he’s a person?”

“He slays monsters for a living, he’s big and strong and mean looking, even if he’s secretly a caring and honest man underneath it all.” Mousesack said, smiling at Geralt’s huff at the description. “I haven’t seen him since before you were born, but last I know he had long white hair and golden eyes like a cat that shine in the darkness.”

“White hair?” Ciri asked. “So he’s old then?”

“Older than anyone you’ve ever met, but he looks much younger than I do.” Mousesack said with a wry smile.

“Well, I’m excited to get to speak to you and have you able to speak back.” Ciri said, hugging Geralt’s neck.

He wagged his tail at her, nosing at her ear affectionately despite his unease. Because at least after several days of everything going wrong, this one thing had gone well. There was no telling what the coming hours would bring with Calanthe’s ill-fated foray into the battlefield and they still didn’t know where Jaskier or the medallion were, but at least this one small thing had gone alright. Ciri didn’t hate him for his secret and she was even eager to see Jaskier too.

If only Geralt could escape the rising anxiety that came from knowing that this could very well be the last thing that would ever go right for any of them.

[Read Chapter 6: The beginning of the End]

------------

Ciri: "Hey Mousesack, watcha' got there?"

Mousesack, clearly having just been speaking to a wolf: "A smoothie."

[ratmonky]

Wicked

Sorry, this is extremely self-indulgent. I just have a thing for villains with eyepatches. 

Anyway, I just realized that both of my favorite villains from comedy/action animes have the same VA. So I’ll take this opportunity to make an awful joke. You thought it was Dio but it was I, Shinsuke!

AO3 Link

Warnings: dub-con, forced cheating (idk)

Word Count: 3.1K

The heavy metal door opened with a loud creak, turning all of the tall guard’s attention to the two expected guests.

“Welcome back, sir,” the guard’s attention almost faltered when he saw the feminine figure behind Takechi.

“Good evening.” Takechi’s large hand was wrapped around your arm, holding you tightly in place as he stared at the guard with his wide eyes. “Why don’t you greet the guard as well?”

You struggled with Takechi’s hold on your arm. “Let me go,” you hissed. “If my friends find out about this, they’ll kill you all!”

“That’s not a formal greeting.” Takeichi patted on your head, forcing you to bow your head, “She might be a little feisty but I think that’s because she’s drunk. She’s the leader’s VIP guest!” he spoke to the guard.

“We can’t treat the leader’s guests poorly. now, can we?” Takeichi added with an eerie smile on his lips. He decidedly ruffled your hair to annoy you.

“No, sir!” The guard opened the door to the ship.

Takeichi sighed. “I have work to do, I’ll leave her in your care. Make sure to take her to the leader.”  

“What if she causes any trouble?” As suspected the guard was skeptical of the decision the leader had made.

God, had Takechi done all of this for nothing? He was out in the streets ever since the morning to take you here. Now he had to listen to some unimportant guard’s worries. He just wanted to get this over with.

“She’s a good girl,” Takechi promised as he combed your hair with his long fingers. “You just have to take her to the leader’s room.”

You turned your head to glare at Takechi. You didn’t know where you were or who they were but if there was one thing for sure, it was that Gintoki and Katsura would make these people regret kidnapping you. “You’ll pay for this, Gintoki will kill you if-”

“I’m a feminist yet I have my limits, miss. If I’d have to, I’d kill you without hesitation. It wouldn’t matter if you’re a VIP guest or not. Don’t make me do that,” Takechi squinted his eyes, threatening you in his own way for you to behave. “Now,” his hand on your head slides onto your shoulder to push you forward. “Let’s not make the leader wait any longer.”

You stumbled forward but the guard caught you before you could fall face forward onto the metal floor.

Taking advantage of this moment of vulnerability, you pulled the guard’s sword and pointed it at both men. You took a couple of steps back to put distance between you and them. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. I don’t care who your leader is or who you are. Take me back, now!”

“Unfortunately, I can’t disobey the leader’s orders,” Takesugi didn’t react to you obtaining a sword at all. He was oddly calm.

The guard on the other end seemed like he was about to faint.

“If you don’t want me to kill you and then your leader, you’ll take me back.”

Takechi sighed audibly, “There hasn’t been a man in the whole galaxy who could take on Takasugi Shinsuke,” he sounded merely irritated. “What makes you think you’re special?”

You looked at Takechi in horror, your hand holding the sword started to shake violently. The name Takasugi Shinsuke had struck a chord, you had heard of the name, many times. You teared up as your body started trembling in fear, you couldn’t even grasp the sword’s handle right because of the way your hands were shaking. The sword was heavier than any other sword you had held before or was it your limbs that were heavier?

You couldn’t stop trembling, your cheeks were wet from your tears. The image of Shinsuke that came up in your mind made your throat clench. The soba you had eaten for dinner with your boyfriend and his friends earlier almost made its way back into your mouth.

Fighting was futile, you knew that. You would never admit it out loud though. Ever since you had met the four Joui rebels for the first time during the war, you were afraid of Takasugi. But unlike your feelings of him, when you joined the group, Takasugi had grown fond of you almost too much.

Takasugi had trained you to be scared of him, his image and his name.

You were thrown back in time, there was this thick, bitter smell of blood lingering in the air and the fields were full of corpses. Your eyes widened as your breathing became erratic and uneven. The grip you had on the sword loosened, the loud metallic ‘clunk’ sound of the sword hitting on the floor echoed in the empty hallway of the ship.

“You’ll be fine,” Takechi took a step closer towards you and gently walked you to the guard. “As long as you listen to us that is.”

Takechi gestured towards the hall, “Don’t make anything difficult.”

The guard took his sword from the floor and put it back in its case before showing you the way. You couldn’t dare to speak but instead got lost within your own frantic thoughts as the guard walked you towards what you guessed was the monster’s inn.

No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t think of a way out of this ship. You didn’t have anything with you. Takechi had caught you off guard when you were returning home after a night of drinking with your old friends. Both Gintoki and Katsura had offered to walk you home but you had refused. You had thought it was better if they took care of the blindly drunk Sakamoto but now you regretted turning their offer down.

You barely reacted when the guard shoved you inside a room with no lights on. In the dark, you couldn’t see anything, there wasn’t a single light source.

The door closed audibly and you turned to the sound. “Hey!” you called out to the guard who took you here but the door was already closed., there wasn’t a handle on the door either. Or at least you couldn’t find one in the pitch dark of the room.  

You punched at the door in frustration. “Let me out!”

A rustling sound coming from behind you made you flinch. He was here. You could tell by the smell. Your head was swimming within the scent of his cologne and smoke. You knew who this smell belonged to. He was clearly trying to taunt you in here, where you couldn’t escape. Typical Takasugi. Enjoying the fear he had threaded into your soul as always. Perhaps that was the reason why you were here. So he could have some sort of sick entertainment for himself.

“I’m not scared of you,” you called out, your voice trembled in fear, there was no way you could hide the pathetic tone in your voice.

“Oh, really?” came a voice right next to your ear.

The color drained from your face, your legs shook uncontrollably and you lost your balance, falling backward onto what you guessed was a bed.

Just how much power did he hold over you?

The familiar voice started laughing at your miserable attempt of showing bravery.

Your eyes had finally adjusted to the dark and the first thing you saw was the outline of him. He stood in front of you menacingly, facing your way, watching you with some sort of sick amusement.

“Why am I here?” You spoke in a softer tone, trying to get up from the bed to find something to fight him with.

“How long has it been?” He ignored everything you just had said, “We last saw each other when you decided to leave with Gintoki.”

It had been a long time since you had last seen Takasugi and honestly, you had hoped you would never have to see him again. You wanted to imagine this as a bad nightmare, before long you would wake up in Gintoki’s bed with a hangover, right?

You slowly made your way to the edge of the bed, your feet touched the ground. As you got up the floor creaked loudly. “You’re not the likable type to keep in contact with.”

“Ouch, that hurt,” Takasugi chuckled lowly and you heard a heavy click as he turned on the lamp on his nightstand.

The small light coming from the lamp was enough to illuminate the entire room. You finally got a good look at the room. It was clean and neat. Everything was in place, although there weren’t that many things in the room to start with. There was a bed, a nightstand, and a desk.

He stood leaning onto the desk, where he possibly sat and spent his time planning his new terror attacks. The desk was covered with folders, he had a library full of books next to it and his walls above the desk were decorated with the newspaper cut-outs of your friends.

The pictures of all of you together looked haunting. You couldn’t remember why you were smiling in every single one of them. Maybe it was what people called smiling through the pain.

Your eyes landed on the tall figure, lighting his pipe.

There he was, Takasugi Shinsuke.

He inhaled the smoke through his pipe, his eye was on you, watching you intently.

“Why am I here, Shinsuke?” you spoke clearly, hiding your hands that were shaking violently behind your back.

“You look pretty,” his eye landed on your face and then to your body. “Have you been eaten well?”

“Shinsuke, please,” you pleaded, ah, his name on your lips sounded like a prayer.

Takasugi pulled the chair from his desk and sat on it. He moved sluggishly slowly, he took another drag of smoke from his pipe before talking. “I need to get patched up.”

He unfastened his kimono just enough to give you a glimpse of the small cut on his chest.

Your lower lip started trembling. He had to be fucking with you. All of this, the trouble his men went through to kidnap you and the time he wasted… all of it just because of a small cut on his chest?

He didn’t need to be patched up, he was mocking you. He didn’t need a reason to have you here.

“Please let me go home,” you sobbed. You didn’t care how pathetic you sounded anymore, you would do anything to go back to home. “I need to go back to Gintoki.”

“There’s a first aid kit under the bed.” Takasugi exhaled the smoke with an evil grin on his face.

“Shinsuke, listen to me-”

“Don’t make me wait, you know how impatient I am.”

“You have to let me go,” you begged him in tears. “I don’t want any of us to fight anymore.”

“Are you disobeying me?” He didn’t miss a single tone, he put his pipe away before he got up from his chair and took a step forward. “Do you really want to take that chance?”

You took a step back, mirroring his actions.

“You’ve always been so stubborn.” he started walking towards you, forcing you to walk backward. And you did. You took a couple of steps back until you stumbled over the bed and fell backward.

A yelp left your lips as you fell on the mattress, laying on your back. You tried to lift yourself off of the bed but Takasugi climbed on top of you. “If it were Gintoki, you’d be helping him without hesitation, right?”

You noticed his gaze on your bare legs sticking out from your kimono. With a desperate attempt, you tried to cover them.

That made Takasugi chuckle, “Aren’t you a little too shy?” His hand landed on your inner thigh, caressing the soft flesh before kneading it gently. You flinched when Takasugi ran his fingers up your thigh. His other hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look at him in the eye, his smoldering eye wandered over your cute eyes before stopping on your lips. “Or… are you scared?”

Takasugi smirked as his hand went further under your kimono, out of shock you closed shut your thighs but fingers were already brushing against your panties. “But this girl’s excited,” he scoffed as he cupped your pussy.

You softly gasped, your cheeks flushed bright pink. “Stop it.”

Your words made his lips curl upwards. “Or what?”

“Gintoki will kill you,” you gritted your teeth.

“Ah, really?” His hand cupping your chin went to grab a chunk of your hair tightly to forcefully tilt your head. “But I don’t think I can stop.” He buried his face to the crook of your neck, making you tremble as he inhaled your scent and exhaled his hot breath on your pulse. “Not when I finally have you here, alone .”

“Please,” You tensed under him but he didn't seem to notice. “Gintoki-.”

“You shouldn’t call out some other man’s name when you’re with me,” Takasugi’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck.

Tears started running down your cheeks right away. When you loudly sobbed, he pulled his face away from your neck and his half-lidded, hazy stare found you. He brushed your hair back from your face, tucking it slowly behind your ear. “I like seeing this terrified look on you, it suits you very well,” he purred, wiping your tears with his knuckles.

Pausing for a second, he looked at you with a bored expression.  “Don’t cry now,” swiping his thumb across your lower lip, he pressed it on the corner of your lip and gently pulled it down to slightly part your lips. Then he lowered himself over your face, pressing his chest against yours until his lips met yours.

His hand between your legs crept inside your panties. Takasugi ran his finger between your folds and smiled against your lips because of how wet you were. His growing erection between your bodies poked your stomach as he shamelessly ground you into the bed. You gasped softly into his mouth, your hands weakly pushing at his chest.

He moaned encouragingly to get you to kiss him back and started using his entire arm to finger your twitching cunt.

The pleasure made your head spin. You couldn’t focus on anything, you hardly noticed how he had slid out of his kimono and his free hand that was stroking his cock.

He decidedly pulled away from the kiss and with using a single hand, he put you on his lap, his fingers left your pussy to rub on your clit with his thumb instead. “Do you want me to stop?” he took a staggered breath.

“Yes,” you stammered yet your body said the opposite. Your hips rolled forward each time he pressed his thumb firmly over your clit.

“Really?” he raised a brow, squinting his eye as he rubbed tight circles over your clit.

You couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed it. Not when your juices were leaking out from your pussy, soaking your thighs and his kimono, exposing your arousal of the situation.

Nobody knew you were here. You didn’t need to act tough anymore. You had nothing to prove to anyone in this room. Takasugi knew you better than any of your friends, even better than your own boyfriend. Takasugi knew what made you feel happy, scared, sad and what made you feel amazingly good.

“I’ve missed you.” Takasugi’s words left you petrified. The walls you had built over the years came tumbling down one by one. All of that mental sanity you thought you had built up dropped.

“Do you want me to continue?” he rephrased it.

“Shinsuke,” you softly sighed, nodding sheepishly.

Takasugi smirked at your reaction. Then he pulled at the tender skin of your folds just enough to expose your soaking wet entrance to his hungry eye. His other hand held your hand tightly and guided it onto his cock.

When your hand wrapped around his cock, he let out a breathy laugh. Takasugi leaned forward to take your tit peeking out from your kimono in his mouth and his hands went to fiddle with the ribbon of your kimono. Once he managed to unfasten the ribbon completely, his hands slid up your body, taking your kimono with them. You took your hand away from his cock only momentarily to help Takasugi and shrugged your clothing off your shoulders.

As you were about to rewrap your hands around his cock, Takasugi abruptly lifted you up and slammed you down onto his cock.

You let out a whimper, your lips parted and moaned his name in need.

He had already pushed himself balls deep into you, filling you up to the brim so perfectly. He gritted his teeth as your walls pulsated around his cock, and roughly thrust inside. He grabbed you by your sides, his nails digging into your skin as he mercilessly began pounding in your pussy.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and your fingers twirled around his long straight hair, moaning quietly into his neck each time he hit a sensitive spot. Takasugi’s thrusts became stronger and more animalistic each time you screamed or whimpered.

“Needy,” Takasugi said, continuing to mercilessly thrust into your pussy, “aren’t we?”

Your eyes rolled back to the back of your head, completely lost in the sweet ecstasy of his cock stretching you out. The squelching sounds coming from your pussy were louder than the sound of the running engine of the ship.

“Shinsuke,” you breathed his name in between your sweet moans of pleasure, “more.” Your hips were moving to meet his rough thrusts, begging for him to give you more.

Takasugi slammed into you with an amazing force, tearing a silent scream out of you. He started to fuck you frantically almost immediately. His hand went to rub tight circles around your sensitive spot.

You began shaking, your legs nearly gave up from under you but you managed to slam yourself onto his cock a couple more times before your walls clenched around him.

He let out a low hiss as your walls tightened around his cock and pushed inside of you for the last time, spilling his entire load inside your unprotected fertile cunt with a loud moan.

You didn’t dare to speak once Takasugi pulled out of you, it was still hard to grasp the reality of the situation for you. You two hadn’t spoken for over many years and the first thing you did was to cheat on your boyfriend with him.

Gintoki would be so disappointed. Not at you but at himself, for not walking you home. He would blame himself for this and this would add fuel to the slight hatred he had for Takasugi. Though none of it even mattered anymore.

You were far too tired to care.

Closing your eyes, you wished to wake up in between your boyfriend’s arms when you opened them the next time.

But Takasugi wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime sooner.

[ashleyswrittenwords]

The Queen’s Tournament III

A ZeLink Fanfiction (Part Three of Three)

(Art by the wonderful @ramibriidge)

Summary: Princess Zelda is ready for her coronation. Her court, however, is not. In an effort for a King, the ministers pressure the crown princess into agreeing to marry whoever champions in a tournament any man in the kingdom can participate in.

Note: I’m so crazy happy that this little story gained so much traction! You all are so nice and I’m truly indebted to you all. In the future, I’ll have a bunch of other cute little fics like this one - so please follow! I also am continuing How to be a Queen, my very long ZeLink fic. She’s my baby. 

The Queen’s Tournament

The sun was just as relentless as it had been the days prior. This time, however, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to give momentary reprieve. Zelda wondered if the masking spells also staved off the sun’s assault. The princess was never the one to tan, but she hadn’t had an issue up until now. The present problem was the excessive sweat already dripping from Yoland’s forehead as the announcer rattled off rules that her attention span couldn’t afford.

There were three others in the open space. Lord Ganondorf was sizing up his decided opponent across from him, a man whose name slipped her mind. He was a sword smith for the castle armory, she remembered vaguely. She tried to recall where else she had seen his face, but the blue eyes from across the way burned holes through her. In an attempt to release nervous energy, she thumbed at the cuff of her sleeve and diverted her gaze to the ground.

Yoland hadn’t had the opportunity of speaking with Link this morning. Each contender was escorted to opposite entrances of the theater and ever since the awkward reintroductions were being said, the hero hadn’t stopped glaring at her. Even from so far away, the energy he directed at Yoland was beyond unwelcoming – it was borderline obsessive. Zelda racked her brain for reasons why but came up short. There was some semblance of camaraderie yesterday when Link took the liberty of distracting Ganondorf. Even their brief exchange was amiable. Link had even smiled!

And a different encounter the night before… well, it hadn’t stopped plaguing her mind. The memory had slipped its way under her skin and to the very depths of her mind. Each time she closed her eyes to sleep that night she could only see the way he looked at her – wanting, needing, but unable to verbalize it.

But now it was as if that hadn’t occurred.

Dark brows drew towards each other. Maybe it was a guy thing? Something that Zelda couldn’t understand despite looking like one. That only worried her more.

Her attention drew to the choice of weapons that were laid in the center of the arena. She had already made up her mind of what to choose: The thin longsword in the middle. It looked light enough for her build, but long enough for a decent reach. It was also a weapon she had the most experience with. Lord Ganondorf would probably pick the Desert Saber – a long curved blade with a thick guard at the base. The blacksmith would probably choose a similar weapon with his stature being just as bulky as the lord.

“Gentlemen!” A deep yell echoed off the walls, “Thirty seconds!”

The unsuspected announcement jolted Zelda and her heart pounded in her chest as a group of women shouted her alias behind her. Then, the voice counted from ten.

Seven…

Five…

Three…

Two…

One…

Yoland lept off his back foot and sprinted forward. Wind rushed past his ears and the only sounds were of his heart and the dull yells from the stands. Sweat meshed with the leather gloves as a hand wrapped around the handle of the chosen blade. Yet, the sword wouldn’t rise from the clay. For a short moment, Zelda peered upward to see why she was suddenly shaded from the sun. Then, an elbow collided to the side of her head.

It happened in a split second, and the motion of her jerking brought the blade loose from under Link’s boot. She stumbled to her feet and struggled to steady her gaze. Link was parrying an onslaught from the Gerudo politician and to her left the blacksmith was making his way to her. The events caught up to her and she readied her stance, parting her feet evenly on the ground.

Before the man reached her, Ganondorf rushed him and barely gave Yoland a second glance. Rushed footsteps sounded off towards her and Yoland raised his blade just as Link crashed his own down. The sudden pressure on the thin metal made the smaller man sway, but he rebounded quickly.

Link moved wordlessly, but vigilant. It barely gave Zelda space to collect her thoughts because she was so preoccupied with watching his feet. With each step and slide, she flashbacked to their training and used his actions against him. The hero slowly grew frustrated with the little show of progress and bared harder into a slash towards Yoland who gritted his teeth in surprise. The tip of the blade cut into the navy fabric of the tunic and Zelda knew she needed distance. Link could easily overpower her with such a heavy-weighted sword in this proximity. All he needed was to corner her.

Therefore, she took the moment to double back.

A cry rang out and the stands were shouting something that she couldn’t make out. It had apparently drew Link in as well as he lowered his weapon slightly to look over at the other two fighters.

Ganondorf had cut deeply into the arm of the blacksmith, who had dropped his weapon in pain. Blood ran down his arm and he screamed out again at the sight. Zelda looked between Link and the man for a moment, question invading her features. The only way for someone to drop out of the sparring was to admit surrender.

The lord was looking annoyed and stepped towards him. With the butt of his guard he brought it sharply upon the blacksmith’s crown and the man crumbled like a corpse. Yoland gasped involuntarily.

With dark eyes wide with alarm, Yoland turned towards his opponent, “He’s going to kill him.”

Link had almost turned his head to negate the statement, but as the Lord picked up the man’s head by his hair with the sword in his grasp there was a shout.

“Ganondorf, stop!” It was Link. His brow was creased and his defensive body language towards Yoland dropped to face the Gerudo man who was now looking irritated at the interruption. “You’re not to kill him!”

“And what’s to stop me?” The man grimaced.

This time, Yoland spoke. “He has obviously surrendered.”

Ganondorf tilted his head to the side. As a taunting motion, he leaned down to the blacksmith as if he were listening intently. “I’m afraid he has nothing to say!”

Link looked at Yoland, a glint in his eye. In that short moment, an unspoken agreement was made. They’d take care of their business with each other after this immediate threat was dealt with. Yoland gave a short nod before addressing the aristocrat again, “I won’t let you harm him again.”

The Gerudo snorted, “You? The hero wannabe I could understand, but you? Pathetic.” Yoland winced as the unconscious body of the blacksmith crashed into the ground once more. He approached slowly, wiping the thick blood from the peak of the blade. Lord Ganondorf was a large man in both stature and demeanor. Even the few armored men that stood at the entrance closest to them waited idly. Again, Link met his eyes and he motioned towards the group. If they could disarm or incapacitate Ganondorf, they’ll interfere. But until then…

Ganondorf sauntered over, leering at the two smaller men. His yellow eyes intensified under the sun and Yoland narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look so fearful. Aren’t you the man that could cross realms? How has life been like since giving up that Master Sword for the cozy retirement life of being the princess’s lapdog?”

Link was the first to make a move. His sword harshly met the politician’s own which knocked him off balance. Before the Gerudo could react to the aggression, Yoland went to slash at the wrist that supported the blade. A fist collided into Yoland’s stomach, air fled from his lungs and his body crashed to the floor. The raven-haired man gaped for air. The aristocrat’s boot kicked into Yoland’s midsection, robbing him of recovery. A wounded wheeze escaped him.

A pair of boots appeared before him and Ganondorf was forced back. There were short exchanges as Yoland came to his knees.

“Always in the way, aren’t you Hero?” The Gerudo spat.

Link held his own, “Only yours. No need to get jealous.”

“It doesn’t matter what they call you,” the lord grunted as Link brought his blade down, “You’ll always be a peasant worthy of only pity in her eyes. This won’t change anything.”

Yoland stood now, breathing shallowly. Internally, he hoped the aches were temporary. Ganondorf had his back to him now, facing Link instead. The latter doing a show of enrapturing the large man in conversation. With a gulp, Yoland left his weapon in the dust and ran forward. He wrapped a forearm around the man’s neck and tightened the hold with the opposite arm. He yelled out Link’s name with hurry in his voice.

As the arms tightened, the politician raised his blade with the inability to shout. Link reacted by hitting the blunt of his sword into Ganondorf’s dominant hand. The weapon fell, and hands swiped at Yoland who felt the world turn sideways.

The guards that previously hung to the side approached now, prying the oversized man off with handcuffs in their grasp. Too busy choking, Ganondorf spat curses and shouts. Just past the disarray, Zelda sighed in relief at seeing the assaulted blacksmith coming to.

“That was unpleasant,” Yoland said, dusting off his trousers. Link didn’t reply and Yoland saw why. The glint in his eye was gone, replaced with distaste once more. With eyebrows raised in alarm, he fumbled for his weapon as Link came towards him. Zelda within was beside herself. The ally she saw in him wasn’t in front of her anymore and his expression was jarring, but she couldn’t linger on it for long. It wasn’t time for Zelda, she needed Yoland to be present.

He searched the opposite man’s face, “Can’t we breathe for a moment?”

“Why were you in the garden?” Link snarled, lunging towards him.

Yoland deflected the attempted blow. Surprise met his features and his heart pounded adrenaline. It had occurred to Zelda that it was Link that made a noise in the garden this morning. Her heart lurched in her chest, but by his demeanor he hadn’t seen her until after casting the spell. If she had waited any longer he would have known. Yoland didn’t display Zelda’s worries, instead he grinned. “Private matters.”

Staying spry on his feet, Yoland watched Link’s footwork and matched it. It was clear Link wanted answers because he was being easy on her, like when they trained. The only difference being that he meant to injure instead of teach. Speaking of Link, he looked beyond irritated, “What does that mean? Why were you outside Zelda’s terrace?”

She didn’t mean to laugh, but it came out anyway. It was easy to voice what one could gather from the awkward predicament. “What’s it to you? Maybe we have a thing going on.”

The look on his face confirmed what he had been thinking prior. Zelda regretted her words, but it was too late. Whatever preconceived notion he had conjured was confirmed. He lowered his sword for a moment, his head tilted in disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Yoland took the opportunity to aim his own blade at Link who blocked it at the last second. They were caught in a stalemate. “You never told me why you were here,” Yoland grunted out, struggling against Link’s added pressure.

“Do you really want to know? Or are you just trying to distract me?” Link said as his opponent side-stepped out of the stalemate and Link slashed his blade through the air. The move reminded him of something he couldn’t pinpoint.

Zelda knew she couldn’t beat him in strength. Again, she had to find distance and escape somehow, “Humor me.” She crouched to kick at his feet. Perhaps if he trips, she could disarm him. The action didn’t follow through and he dove to the side.

He stood straight, breathing heavily. Courage stirred in Zelda to see that she had kept him going for this long. Link shook his head in exasperation, “I just want to give her a choice.”

Yoland guarded himself, but his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“When I win,” Link cracked a grin, “I’ll ask her what she wants.”

Their blades clashed again. Yoland blinked as if his statement didn’t register. “What if she says no?”

He didn’t unlock his eyes from his opponent. The blond hair stuck to his forehead now and his breath came in short pants, “I’ll leave. Or whatever she wants me to do. I thought about faking my death to get out of this place. Would be nice to see the mountains this time of year.”

A bitter laugh came from the black-haired man, “You’re bluffing.”

But he wasn’t and Yoland’s laughter settled to silence. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I thought about it for a long time,” Link plainly said. As if it were nothing. Zelda felt nauseous. Her face felt like fire and the heat wasn’t helping.

“S-so,” Yoland fumbled backward, their blades parted as Zelda scrambled to get a grasp of what he was saying. He didn’t really want to marry her? With surprised eyes, Yoland ducked at a sudden slash towards him. Eventually, she found her voice, “What if she said yes? What would you do, Hero?”

Link frowned. He acted as if he didn’t understand. Reason fought through her flustered mind and she narrowed in on her advantageous situation. Yoland kept eye contact but bared down on his left foot and swung with all his might near the hilt of his sword. Link hadn’t expected it because his blade flew out of his hand. Yoland’s foot hit him squarely on the chest and kicked him backward, the man toppled over.

Yoland cleared his throat, breathing heavily now as he looked down at the bewildered hero. “What would you do?”

“I’m not stupid,” Link coughed, but reacted by grabbing the ankle of the unsuspecting man. “I’d marry her if she wanted me.”

Zelda yelped as her back hit the ground. Reflex brought her right arm inward along with the sword. It ended up below Link’s neck who looked precariously between it and Yoland’s eyes. He slowly backed up and Yoland didn’t move to stop him. It was Zelda’s head that was spinning.

She stood and met him as he retrieved his weapon. They were both out of breath. Link froze for a moment. He took a step closer and stared.

“What?” Zelda breathed out, turning to see what was behind her. There was nothing but open air. “What?” She repeated. With an arm raised she attacked where he parried lamely. The sword fell to the dirt.

His expression was indescribable, then he grinned.

“Link,” she was getting frustrated, “This isn’t funny.”

Link was laughing now. “You win.”

Zelda cocked her head to the side, “What are you- Stop it!” She stomped her foot on the ground, but it didn’t stop him.

The man looked towards the tower where the announcer was and shouted, “I forfeit!”

Then, Zelda noticed the quietness in the stands. With a glance at her hands, she understood why. Her masking spell had slipped. Her hands were no longer had the tan callousness of a man. They were pale and the only imperfections were the scrapes and bruises of today. She dropped her weapon and reached back to grab her braid. The locks were blonde.

“The…” the announcer seemed to step away and was speaking to another person, “The winner of the Queen’s Tournament is… Princess Zelda?”

The crowd irrupted in mayhem.

  “Ridiculous.”

“It’s for show, Zelda. He’ll be used as an example. He won’t be convicted.”

Zelda pointed at the one of the fabric pieces a maid held out. They were the same hues of blue, but evidently to the designer they were not. With a shake of her head she spun around to Impa, “How was he supposed to know and why wasn’t I told?”

“For your protection. Your coronation is a week away and-”

The princess sputtered, “My protection? He’s supposed to be the one helping to protect me!” She stomped around the advisor with fire in her eyes, angrily picking out goblets for the celebration.

“They put Link Forester behind bars for threatening me with a weapon,” her eyes were wide with disbelief and Zelda spoke breathlessly. “How am I supposed to put up with that? I am the acting queen and they went over my head.”

Impa sighed, exhausted. “They aren’t thrilled with your… display. You know that. We are down to days before a proper crowned monarch ascends to the throne after two years of absence. The ministry will pull every trick to disgruntle you before they no longer can.”

A deep flush crept up Zelda’s neck. It was born from a sudden frustration and the thought of Link. She hadn’t seen him since the tournament. They were barely able to speak a sentence until she was dragged away to be assessed for injury. Zelda had never been opposed to marriage, if anything she was annoyed with the idea of match making made on other’s part. She wanted to be in control of her life and if that meant wanting a man in it, then it will happen. Being of royalty, she learned early on that the criticisms and judgements of others had to be isolated from her own or else she’d be a vessel others controlled.

She cleared her voice, turning back to her mentor. “Where is he?”

“The holding cells,” Impa said before realizing her mistake, but it was too late and the princess had already brushed by her.

  ‘You know,’ Link thought, ‘It could be worse.’

Sure, the floor was cold and the only place to sleep was on a wool blanket with a myriad of holes. And the bathroom wasn’t the cleanest, but the soldiers he did know brought a generous amount of food for his meals and sometimes a maid came by with extra blankets. So yes, Link supposed it could be worse.

Link heard from rumors that they tried to have Zelda abdicate after the tournament, but once it went public there were protests in the streets. Borderline riots, from what he heard from one stationed guard. “Good,” was all he had replied. Because it was. There was no one’s approval Zelda cared more about than her peoples’. Link knew she felt bolstered by that and no doubt her attitude towards the house of ministers worsened. Now, they were saying her coronation was next week.

The tournament itself was two weeks ago now. He tried to say something to Zelda before they parted, but there was nothing that could prepare him for her presence. When her blade was touching his throat, he had watched her eyes change from dark to light. It was, to say the least, a shocking moment. It was no wonder how Yoland matched his footwork so well, but it was also obvious that she had practiced beyond what he had seen. Link was proud and maybe a little embarrassed by the things he had said to her throughout the tournament.

They had arrested him only a couple days ago under the pretense of attempted treason, which confused him to no end. He was actually on his way to pack for an escape, but there wasn’t much he could do about several armed castle guards storming into his room in the middle of the night. So, here he was waiting for a trial, which could take weeks if the court wanted it that way.

Link looked up from his place on the floor towards the stairs that led to the holding cells. There sounded like an argument occurring outside. The door opened and more shouting. His ears twitched up at the voice.

“Do you know who I am?” There was a clanking that rattled down the stairs and a sword landed at the foot. Another clinking was heard being wrestled with.

“Your Grace, please! I can’t allow you-”

Light steps bounded down the stairs and a form appeared, her colorful skirts were hiked up above her ankles and her head was turned to interrupt.

“You can’t allow me to what? See my own subjects? Remind me, sir, who did you swear your allegiance to?”

Zelda had the same effect on him as she always has. She stole his breath away and her casual beauty forever enraptured him. The princess didn’t have her crown on today, meaning there weren’t any public appearances. Her blonde hair spilled down her shoulders and she was impossibly perfect. Now, she was muttering her grievances and taking care to step over the fallen blade. She scanned the cells until her eyes rested on him. Zelda paused in her steps.

Link found his voice, “What are you doing here?”

She walked over slowly with a ring of steel keys in her grasp. Zelda looked thrown off, as if she was shocked to see him. “I- What are you doing here?”

“Well, I am incarcerated for harming the crown,” he jested. Zelda’s frown deepened and she fiddled with the keys, beginning to test them in the lock that separated them.

Link came to his feet and met her at the door. Concern flooded his mind, “What are you trying to do, Zelda?”

“I’m trying to get you out. This is stupid.”

He reached his hands through the bars and stopped her own. Their eyes met and he watched her brow crease in confusion. “You’re getting into trouble and you’re not even queen yet.”

“I’d rather be in trouble then leave you in here under false pretenses,” she said, looking up at him with an annoyed expression. But behind her eyes was a tinge of sadness. He smiled softly at her, “If you wait a week, you can pardon me yourself.”

“No! I… I want you there.”

Link looked thrown off by her comment. “That’s nice, Zel, but-”

“Were you telling the truth at the tournament?” She searched his eyes desperately. Her cheeks were reddening. He blinked in confusion, she was talking fast, and he could barely keep up, “What?”

“Two weeks ago. After Lord Ganondorf was dragged off the field. Were you telling the truth?”

Her hands grasped around his and Link felt his heart jump in his chest. Her head was just barely resting on the bars and he wanted nothing but to make whatever was causing her distress to go away.

“What part?” His lips quirked upward ever so slightly. “I only remember talking to a man with a peculiar name.”

“Link!” He heard her stomp her foot like she did then. “I’m serious!”

Link’s forehead touched to cold bars as he watched her frantic eyes and he wondered briefly why. Now the comparisons between the untrustworthy man and Zelda made sense. It was a wonder to him that he hadn’t figured it out, but if Link were honest with himself, he was never the type of man to draw logical conclusions with someone like Zelda involved. She was horribly intoxicating. With a heavy breath he spoke, “About why I was there?”

She nodded slowly and he felt like he couldn’t breathe with such big eyes on him. He didn’t feel like this against Zant. Sure, he was nervous. But Zelda was different. She was beautiful, strong, and unbelievably stubborn. “You’d been dragging your feet for the days and weeks leading up to it. Sadness and anger don’t suit you well, Zelda. Of course I was telling the truth,” Link smiled softly.

Her breath caught and Link thought he had said something wrong. Before he went to apologize, Zelda spoke up, “Marriage. W-what about being married? To me?”

“Marriage?” He leaned back to get a full look at her. Zelda’s face was blotched in red and she watched his reaction with wide eyes, “I’m sorry! I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

“Being married to you?” Link said again, his smile wavered, “Zelda, a man wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t dream about being with the most beautiful woman in Hyrule at least once.”

She looked expectant, but nervous. Her voice was uneven and her eyes never straying. “Even you?”

Link had to steady himself from doing anything rash. Her lips were so close and he thanked the goddesses for the bars separating them, though if she leaned closer…

“Yes,” his voice dipped low, “Especially me.”

He leaned down, watching her reaction as he did. She didn’t move and he couldn’t control his composure without her pushing him away. A part of Link wanted her to do just that, tell him no, or move back to give him some indication that what he was doing was wrong. But despite his silent rationale slipping away, she did none of those things. Instead, she waited for him with eyes flickering to his lips. Without a moment longer, Link eagerly pressed his lips onto hers and they were softer than he ever fantasized about. Her hands traveled upwards to his forearms until they were stopped by the bars. She breathed deeper into the kiss and Link was convinced she was a drug he’d forever be addicted to.

Far too soon, she pulled away and without catching her breath she spoke breathlessly, “I love you. Marry me.”

Between being dazed by her kiss and her words, he felt light-headed. The world passed by him as he stared dizzily at the woman who waited timorously. “I love you- wait, what?” He felt like passing out.

“Marry me?”

“But what about your coronation?”

She shook her head, “I don’t care.”

“Your cabinet, the ministers, the people?”

Again, she shook her head fervently as Link stared bewildered at the woman before him.

“I don’t care about them. I know what I want and I want you.”

He couldn’t stop the beating in his chest and the smile that painted across his lips. Despite the whirlwind of weight being dropped onto him and slowly coming to the fact that this may be the single most important moment in his life, doubt gnawed at him. His eyes searched the ground and his palms grew sweaty. “Zelda, are you sure you want me? I… Everything Ganondorf said wasn’t all false.”

“I’ve never been surer about anything than I am right now,” she spoke with a steady voice. Even had he lied to himself and refused her hand, there wasn’t a power in this world to keep Zelda’s stubbornness from winning. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You do have the keys, love.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I thought that meant getting in trouble, Link.”

“I believe we’ve surpassed trouble at this point.”

“Fair point,” she nodded, laughing lightly until she managed to shove a key into the lock. The rusty hinges creaked as the door opened. Link brushed a hand through his hair, “You know the implications of me marrying you, right?”

“I know, and frankly I think you’ll do fine,” she smiled as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m just a goat herder from South Hyrule. I can’t offer much. I don’t even have a ring,” Link beamed at her with pure adoration in his eyes.

Zelda hummed, “I don’t mind.” Her smile dropped, “You never said yes.”

Link grinned wryly, his lips already itching for another kiss. “Yes. Yes one-hundred times over to marry you.”