ronanelymusdoyle-blog
I'm a visionary, not a prophet
A logician. Spellcaster. Superior to all except one.
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‘You didn’t know I’d be here.’
Another truth that he couldn’t hide from was poured into him by her words. Or more, by the tone in her voice. He had not allowed himself to be saddened by the night, hoping to cultivate a hollow sort of anger, but Sapphire had put it there in the room with them. He didn’t respond to her words. The logic in them was too absolute. And she had proven herself perceptive enough to read it on his face, anyway.
“A leash,” he said, not hiding how preposterous the suggestion was. He shook his head with the grace of a boy about to throw a tantrum. Hadn’t he told her to stop asking stupid questions?
“It’s the call of the wolf, Sapphire. Second in command is where I belong.” His shoulders squared as he spoke. He meant it, felt it, as a declaration that he was royalty, because in a kingdom where the sovereign was given his mandate by magic, who else would be the next in line to the king, if not for the best magician?
And yet, everything was going wrong. Everything in his life, his mind, his body, all of his plans were filling with the tension he refused to name. One that was crowding itself against the borderline of his conscious thought. One that Ronan thought, despite himself, that his master could take away if he chose to, but had probably placed there.
Sapphires blonde locks suddenly felt more real to him than his own thoughts did. He starred at her, only a short distance separating them. She was nothing - not even a wolf. His fingers itched to touch her, not with malicious intent, but something less sharp that he was suddenly, profoundly, disgusted with. He closed his fists against the ache and placed them in his pockets.
The World’s Most Fearful Embrace || Freya + Ronan
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freya-halwyn:
Thankfully the idea of strong spirits was as attractive to Ronan as it was to Freya, and, startled as she was that he was tonight’s customer she was keen on pulling answers out of him like teeth. Granted, seeing as his teeth were prone to transform into canines, he was certainly apt to bite back.
“Cheers,” she said politely, accepting the scotch.
Silence between them accentuated the distant howls and giggles throughout the Rose and she resisted pulling her robe tighter. Not a sign of timidity - they were both caught off guard, but he was the one in her room. It odd that she would be half-undressed, but that he would be too.
Ah. She couldn’t very well lie, not in the face of such an idiotic question. “Why else would I be here, Ronan?” She drank again. “I lost my loyalty to the Guild the moment I agreed to help Matthon. No going back. I’m tired of theft and daggers.”
Slowly and carefully, Freya set down her glass on the side table, watching Ronan’s eyes as she placed her hands in her lap instead of keeping them up.
“And why are you here? Matthon not acquiescent to all of your needs?”
‘Why else would I be here, Ronan?’
His eyes flashed at the insult of her response. When he’d asked it he hadn’t really been thinking of the practical considerations of her life. He had meant the question in the sense of wondering why she would so effortlessly be here ruining his plans like she could waltz in and out of them as she pleased. It was in the same kind of way he had wondered why she had ended up fighting giants with him. Or why she had been in the fucking vault in the first place.
But as a practical question it still had a great deal of merit to him. Ronan had not bothered himself with really learning about the Thieves Guild. Before the heist, he knew only that Matthon would be leaving it and, in doing so, would put it in danger. He did not know that Sapphire would be voiding her membership somehow by participating in the heist - he hadn’t even known she would be participating in it to begin with, so of course he’d payed her no thought before hand.
But, from her perspective it would have been obvious, because why did any woman end up at the Rose? They had nowhere else to go and did not want to be criminals.
Even this was new information about Sapphire to him. He supposed at the back of his mind somewhere he must of thought she had a family, or maybe something like his own past associations. He had assumed that, like his Master and himself, she had chosen to throw away a life. But her answer told him that she was totally dependant on herself, except for the hospitality of the local heretic.
She lowered her hands and he found his temper quietly swelling with the degree of failure he was currently sitting in.
“Because my Master sent me to kill you.”
The World’s Most Fearful Embrace || Freya + Ronan
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freya-halwyn:
She would have been more frightened if he wasn’t so obviously caught off guard, and, though the two had only a brief encounter - if escaping guards and bouldering giants to a hideout with a power-hungry ex-thief signified an ‘encounter’- Freya sensed Ronan was not the type to be found in compromising positions, specifically the one at present. He was contemplating something in his gaze, probably whether to knock her out and make a run for it.
He downed his scotch. She kept her hands up, but slowly stepped closer.
Freya refrained from rolling her eyes. “Look, maybe. But you’ll get no further than pure speculation.” She gestured to the decanter.
“Pour me a glass, will you,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, flexing her feet and pointing her toes.
Fuck. She was right. He hadn’t even stopped to consider that her brain might be a threat to him, or his own. He had only considered her body and how it could land him bloody or behind bars.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She came closer, thankfully obeying his orders to keep her hands up. He tried not to show how much of a relief it was when she asked for a drink.
“Of course,” he said, “where are my manners?” Maybe he could drown the entire debacle in good breeding and reasonable scotch. He poured her one and edged close enough that he could pass it to her carefully. Back on the couch, he looked at her again.
Distantly, some of the night sounds of the Rose echoed through its halls. It sounded like a grown man was giggling in one of the rooms. It was weirdly distracting, and he did not appreciate it because somehow it made sitting across from Sapphire like this even stranger. And because Ronan was trying to have a serious moment as he figured out what to do.
He could not think of a question to ask that would not give away how much this had surprised him. She was fucking right. Without talking, there’d be nothing more than speculation. He would have to...admit to Sapphire that he was not, in a sense, entirely in control of what was happening tonight. Abhorrent, the very idea of it, but in the pursuit of knowledge, what could he not endure? He was the second most powerful creature in the realm, after all. Was he not?
The distant sounds stopped. Ronan seized on the silence and, channeling as much of his patrician upbringing as he could, asked, “Why are you here, Sapphire?”
The World’s Most Fearful Embrace || Freya + Ronan
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The only saving grace was that he had not let his mouth hang open. That was literally the only thing in his favour, from the fact he was weaponless to the partial bulge in his trousers.
Sapphire was an elf and he was no fool. If he attacked now, she'd get her fair share of scratches in and, regardless of the rest of it, he would have to run from the Rose bleeding in his undergarments. No way he’d make it out of Cair Paravel without guards on his blood trail.
That was not how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be fucking royalty. Instead bloody Sapphire was standing in the doorway with her hands up.
"Just," he clenched his teeth, "stop asking stupid questions, will you." He wanted to kick the furniture but, knowing it would draw attention, settled for downing the rest of his scotch.
“Keep your hands up,” he said, as he reached for the decanter and poured himself another one.
Because what excuse was there to spin? What could he possibly say now that she had been alerted to his presence in the city? With nothing else to say, he said the first thing that came to his brilliant mind.
“You certainly look appropriately fuckable.”
The World’s Most Fearful Embrace || Freya + Ronan
#matthon is always in control#of both ronan and saph#and ronan hates it#and now ronan is the least in control of the three of them#and it's fantastic#gifs:saphire
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padriacoflanternwaste:
“ >:) “ - Eleanor, Tumnus and Theodora
@ronanelymusdoyle
i just wanna point out that modern day florist au with these three are possible, tho
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The World’s Most Fearful Embrace || Freya + Ronan
Two weeks he had spent, two weeks, crawling around the city in search of his target. One sight of Sapphire and he would have been able to put a dagger through her throat, but fortune was neglecting him. He had been forced to pass his nights at establishments like the Seven Stars, drinking consuming meat and mead with the masses. Intelligence leaked out of his mind with every conversation he was forced to endure with them, but what else could he do?
He had even gone so far as to venture a few trails in the city in his wolf form, but he could not risk being spotted by the guards. Or Brynjolf and his underlings, who would surely have cause to find and kill him after what Matthon had done to their order.
Who was this girl to think she could just fuck with his life like this?
He needed a fucking night off. Just one night with the company of someone who did not smell like goat and manure, and whatever warmth he could get from between a woman’s thighs.
Theodora’s eyes tracked him as he moved through her lobby, analysing his every micro-expression, as she always did. As a repeat customer, she had no trouble recognising him in his disguise even though he had been forced to dress like a farmer, like his father, rather than the scholar he was to carry out his mission. It itched beneath his very skin. And was that a flicker of pity in her eyes? Disgusting. For that he kept their conversation was brief, lest she begin going on about misguidance and loneliness. Or fucking Aslan. None of which had ever applied to him.
Eschewing his usual probing of her philosophies surrounding her stupid cause, he asked after her ‘priestesses’. She had someone new delivering teachings, that she said perhaps he might fall into a connection with. He concealed his scoff beneath a polite smile and exchanged his gold for her services. Theodora escorted him to his room for the night.
As soon as she departed, he stripped off to his trousers and a white undershirt. Now he could breathe deeply again. He poured himself a drink from the comfort of a finely upholstered lounge. Maybe the woman would take her time and he could lose himself in a book for a few moments?
A blonde woman walked in. Ronan glanced up, ready to make a quip, but it died on his tongue.
It was Sapphire.
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Ronan excelled at silence. He’d spent his childhood in the kind that suffocated families, had revelled in the kind that saturated minds and libraries. This one was new to him though, he found, circling their safe house in his wolf form. It was not simply the sound of safety, a lack of pursuit by the Pretender’s guards, but rather of a nation holding its breath. He shivered, in love with the knowledge of his part in making this moment in history happen.
His ears pricked up. Master was calling. Ronan changed and gathered his discarded clothing as he approached the safe house. He followed Mercer in, buttoning his waistcoat as he went, to find Matthon ready with orders at a mangled desk. There had been a miscalculation. Sapphire and the associate Brynjolf were not the neatly tied ends Ronan had thought they were. The silence was not safe for them after all.
‘—she’s not dead then?’
Ronan set his jaw, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It was perfectly obvious in his mind - Mercer would be sent to kill the girl and the beau, and their little band would be on their way to grander endeavours. Except...oh. Shit.
“I am your assassin now?”
dusty black coats and red right hands | matthon & ronan
The air had finally stopped buzzing outside and a calm settled over the room. Even the insects slept this early in the morning. There hadn’t been time to breathe since the heist and the lovely, terrible thing he’d done. And now Matthon sat in a very large wooden chair in the room he’d designated as his bureau until he’d eventually take Cair Paravel and have a room of his own – throne, too. He watched his dagger’s point waver ever so slightly from where he had punctured the desk’s surface. He sighed, stood from his chair and walked to the door, stuck his head around the corner and called, “Ronan! Mercer!” He returned to his desk chair and waited.
It was two days hence the heist, and only one since his encounter with Brynjolf in the woods. For the time being all had remained fairly quiet. They dared not venture from the safe house lest some traveller or guard or Pevensie catch their sight or scent. But now he was worried, and regret nagged at the back of his mind. He’d made a mistake with Sapphire and Brynjolf. He’d let his theatrics overpower his logic. Leaving her on that hill to die was cruel. His body went warm when he thought of it, that betrayal. But he’d teased her location to Brynjolf, to injure him as well. And now he feared the worst – he had found her. Should have just ripped her throat, or his. He did not care for them. That wasn’t it. But more so, they had been a part of his story for so long, to cut them out seemed like cutting a part of himself. And he wanted them to see the end, to witness his greatness and power, to lose the war. It would be taking out half the fun to kill them off so early. And he loved the fun of it all.
There was a knock on the half open door. “Come in,” he said, waving his hand passively. He looked up into Mercer’s rodent eyes and Ronan’s clear ones. “Sit,” he instructed. They sat. “There is an issue to attend to. An issue with our good friends,” he gestured to Mercer, “Sapphire and Brynjolf.”
“—she’s not dead then?” Mercer interrupted. Matthon shut his eyes for a moment.
“There is a possibility she is alive. A possibility she is with Brynjolf.”
Mercer scoffed and cursed under his breath. “Fucking hero, thinks he is.”
Ronan was quiet, observant, listening. Matthon cleared his throat. “Sapphire might remember our location. And if so, she will no doubt share it.”
“So you want her dead, then? Definitively?”
“We need to relocate. Quickly. I need you to start searching now, Mercer. Not too far from here, but far enough that should Sapphire remember, her information would be fruitless. Go now. Please.”
Mercer blinked then nodded assuredly. “As you wish, Matthon.”
He waited until Mercer’s footsteps dwindled from earshot and turned to Ronan. “You’ll need to find her, understand?”
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Ronan cried out in relief the second he reached the safety of the tunnel. He whirled and made ready to close the door. That was when he saw the girl again. She was a sprinting shadow, barely ahead of a storm of stone. One of the giants swung at her; it missed by a hand’s breadth.
The door stayed open, Ronan’s fist closed limply around the handle. He could not help but stare. The blade was going to come back. And it was going to reach the entrance before she was, if she did not hurry. The girl sensed his thoughts.
She stopped, turned around. In his mind he could see the arc of metal that would cut cleave her in two. His hand left the handle - he watched it move like it did not belong to him - and closed around the bruised flesh of her arm. He yanked her body flush against his. There was a moment of sweat and fear as the sword hit the archway. The giant screamed out his failure.
She moved before he did, her hands reaching out to grab the door. He copied her, both his arms moving around her body to help pull the door shut. It was the least loving, most fearful embrace in the world.
‘Thank you,’ she said faintly. He could only just hear her, the giants were still roaring, but it was there.
He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t think of anything, in fact. He had never read a book like this. He doubted he could even write one. A kind of groan came from him. It was all he could manage in terms of acknowledgment.
She took off. He followed, managing to keep pace. She looked a mess and he would not look any better with his torn chainmail and bloody scratches. There must have been blood dripping form his body. He glanced behind them, wondering how much of a trail would be there.
There had been so much blood. And none of it magical. Worse, none of Peter Pevensie’s had been spilled. Which meant they had gone through all of this and Ronan had still failed. Because they would all have to go through more of it still.
Her footsteps halted. He turned and saw the signs of death all around him. A guard stepped out of the shadows. His hands were shaking, but he might have been an apex predator for how Ronan’s eyes went wide. “Don’t move! Don’t or I’ll - I’ll run you through!”
Ronan’s mind was as thick as snow. He could not remember what to do.
Thankfully there was a burst of red and the balding man dropped to the floor. The girl got the worst of it, but Ronan could feel small droplets of his blood running out of his hair.
But his Master was there. They were safe. Ronan fell to his knees.
He kneeled, sobbing out his thanks and begging for mercy, until his Master ordered him to run again.
[END]
Eureka || Ronan and Saphire
“Legs!” she warned - he pulled his legs into his chest just in time, narrowly escaping amputation. She exhaled, relieved for him but by no means relaxed. Sapphire looked away from the stranger and up - the other giant’s arm and club were plunging to the ground where she lay. She rolled to the side - the club - which seemed to be made of something much stronger than wood - struck the cobbled stones; they tinkled like glass figurines in a groundshake or windstorm. Sapphire gasped, but just as quickly as fear arrived, so did an idea. Just as the giant rose his arm, Sapphire looped her arms around his wrist.
As she flew up into the air she immediately she regretted the decision. Her organs moved inside her unpleasantly. The giant raised his arm higher, Sapphire braced herself with the momentum and swung with her legs. She slammed her boots into the giant’s face - it bellowed and flung its arm; she went flying. Her body crashed into the stone floor and she seethed through her teeth. Her ribcage rattled. But she was significantly far from the giants, and that mattered more than anything. She scrambled up but faltered - her ribs ached. And then she heard the stranger yell run, run run. She saw him adjacent to her, a little further ahead - but she could see the door, the exit in front.. She took off. With a glance behind she saw the giants not far behind (blood dripped slowly down the giant she had kicked’s face) - how were they so quick with their size?
Each step ached throughout her body but her adrenaline and determination dissolved much of the pain. She ran, and ran, and ran. The distance through the door to the tunnel shrunk, the door no longer a small hope far ahead, but a realistic possibility. It was still open - Matthon or Mercer’s doing.
Sapphire and the stranger reached the door, but the giants had gained. She heard the wind-stirring backhand motion before she felt it. The stranger was ahead of her - he crossed into the tunnel but stopped and looked behind at her with widened eyes. Sapphire mistakenly turned around - the giant’s broadsword was so close - in mortal fear she braced herself for the blow but suddenly felt a hand grasp her arm and pull her backwards. The blade hit the archway horizontally - she would have been severed in half. Goosebumps ran the length of her body. The two dark elves reached for the door and slammed it shut. The roar of the giants only muffled faintly. “Thank you,” she breathed, torn between hate, fear, and gratitude.
They ran the length of the tunnel. And where was bloody Matthon and Mercer? It seemed as though they’d run halfway through the tunnel - halfway before she was out of this place. It felt darker than before, there were less lit sconces. She ran in the dark with the stranger, their labored breathing was the only thing she could hear, ringing in her ears. And then they reached a lit spot - there was a torch left on the ground and shining on the wall was a sprayed mural of blood; both slowed. Suddenly a figure jumped in front of her - a guard - the balding guard from before.
“Don’t move! Don’t or I’ll - I’ll run you through!” He spoke uncertainly, fearfully, but with a voice that was trying to be brave.
There was a brief pause where nothing was said. He blocked their path - they had no weapons - and all at once another dark figure loomed, a black shadow against the fallen torch’s light. It all happened so quickly, she hardly processed what she saw. Matthon - he raised his arm against the guard - at the end of his hand, his nails extended long, like claws. They thrashed against his supple neck and Sapphire felt warmth splatter across her face. The guard yelped and fell to the ground.
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The girl looked like she was going to break. Small minds were wont to do that, he thought, but she took his hand and gave advice. “Make a sharp left - through their legs.” She was a thief and she spoke like one. Considering their circumstances he decided to listen.
They emerged from the hallway that was less bloody than the one they had come from. A blow came towards them like a landslide. He dived right, forgetting her for the wrath of metal slicing between them.
He hit the floor with his shoulder, roaring in pain as bits of stone fell around him. He writhed and noticed one giant pulling something from the wall - sword, club, fist, he couldn’t tell.
The other giant grunted, already swinging his blade again in a backhand stroke. Ronan pulled his knees to his chest, just avoiding amputation as the metal screamed by him. He leaped up, rolling off his back and kicking forward in the same motion. He couldn’t waste a second.
He couldn’t even draw a weapon. The giants were too bloody quick for beasts of their size. A fight would mean death. He was not even sure where the girl was.
“Run!” he yelled. But he was not even sure his voice was audible over the fight.
He darted forward. The beats were roaring like an ocean in a storm. It cowed him. For a second he hesitated, grimacing. A foot the size of a tree trunk CRASHED into the floor in front of him, burying itself partly into the stone. Ronan felt the wind move his hair. The shockwave buzzed through the pads of his bare feet.
He hit the giant’s leg, too unbalanced to be able to stop in time. He ended up almost hugging it, clinging onto it in shock. It shifted again.
For just a second Ronan could not believe that the giants could move their legs faster than he could move his mind. But he vaulted over it, using the giant to push off with his hands.
A glob of spit from the giant splattered over Ronan’s neck. And there was nothing but the distance between himself, the giant, and the door.
“Run, run, run!”
Eureka || Ronan and Saphire
Sapphire squinted her eyes at the twisting, writhing figures. There were the two Cats, she knew. But then a wolf, and great hunched form that lurched forward. She saw the face of a beast, but the rest of the body looked similar to her own though swelled and rough. The wolf tore and ripped into the leopard; its head twisted and pulled. The leopard yelped as it buckled to the floor. Blood sprayed.
And then a howl filled the small hallway, echoing and enveloping the air. The howl dissolved into a humanlike scream. She watched a body break and reform. It was the stranger. The other looming figure felled the jaguar. The strange figure settled and writhed for a moment. Sapphire didn’t want to believe what she saw, but her eyes didn’t lie. It was Matthon, an elf - and yet a beast. Her eyes widened. Matthon and Mercer took off to the end of the hallway; she was alone with the stranger, this other shapeshifter.
She wanted to shove away his hand. She wanted to shove him. But incongruous to her shock, her fear of these beasts, was a knowing desperation that if she didn’t grasp that hand, she’d never make it out of the castle. She would crumple from the weight of what they’d done, from the reveal of who they were. She took the stranger’s blood-speckled fingers. She wanted to break each one. But she needed to survive the night.
By the time they reached the end of the tunnel, Matthon and Mercer were gone. The stranger and Sapphire ran hand-in-hand, she wasn’t allowed to slow down. His bare feet whispered on the stones. “Make a sharp left,” Sapphire murmured instructively. “ - through their legs.”
She couldn’t hear any commotion ahead. Mercer and Matthon must have figured something out, or managed to pass them unnoticed - though that seemed unlikely. The hallway ended - how strange, she thought briefly, of everything that had transpired there, all that was changed.
The stranger pulled Sapphire at a hard left. The legs of the giants didn’t move and for a moment she remembered Isla - stone. Could Matthon have done it? And then - suddenly - a blast of air erupted from the swinging wallop of a long broadsword. Sapphire and the elf released their hands and fell to the floor. The blade struck the stones between them - they began to scramble.
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Ronan felt Matthon’s command in the fibres of his heart. The woman heard it too, the call of the Wolf, even though she was not one. Finally, she came.
They sprinted, Mercer leading and his Master next. It was just a matter of the spearmen and the Cats at present.
Thankfully he was wearing the boiled leather and a vest of chainmail, instead of a knight’s proper armour, because he would need his Wolf form. Sprinting, he let free his claws. His Master was making to fight the Jaguar. Ronan would take the Leopard then.
He leaped, his teeth sliding into the night like spears. The air whistled over his skin, like a moon calling to him. The distance closed between them. The Leopard snarled, jaws opening. Ronan’s teeth found purchase. There was the roughness of fur, the taste of flesh, and finally the hot red of blood. Its nails dragged through him and he was aching, but if felt like truth. He ripped his head from side to side.
The flesh tore, a stringy toughness tugged on his incisors, and something broke. The crack echoed in his ears, like a glacier splitting from itself. Beneath him, the Cat sank to the ground. Ronan removed his teeth from its neck. The sweaty frenzy was done.
Next to him Pack Master, was vaulting off the back of his own kill. He bared his pointed teeth in glee. He was a Wolf in that moment. He just was one. He tipped back his head and sang it to the world.
The howl became a cry of ecstasy and then a scream of pain as his body began to thin and smoothen. Soon he was his elven form again.
The chain mail hung lose about his neck, the rings split all down his middle. His boots had been destroyed. The stones were smooth against his feet and cold against the warmth of his blood. He appraised his body, finding a number of cuts from the broken links and one long set, obviously from the Cat’s claws. He was splattered with red.
He remembered the escape and turned, breathing hard. The woman was looking at him. Matthon and Mercer were already ahead of them, their footsteps fading into the corridor.
There were giants to pass.
He extended a hand, in the same way a genteel boy of his upbringing might to a Lady to help her into a carriage. “Now,” he said.
Eureka || Ronan and Saphire
After the unfamiliar man spoke, there was a moment of silence - Matthon stiffened, anger flashed across his eyes; Mercer stepped forward, looking at Matthon; Sapphire’s eyes-widened and she said nothing, only stared at the frozen statue of Isla before her. Isla’s eyes were frozen in her direction, locked in contact full of understanding, sadness, and what she considered hope. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t break Isla’s last moment. Give them my love. And then beneath that composed, beautiful stony face was the stony figure, a figure in a combative stance holding out a frozen dagger that still remained halfway lodged in Matthon’s abdomen.
The moment passed and everyone moved quickly and methodically, except Sapphire, who struggled to break her lusterless gaze with Isla. If she looked away, that last living breathing moment would vanish. Matthon inhaled and stepped backwards. He growled with pain. The three dark elves stood together near the door; Matthon held his stomach.
With the other hand Mathon leered and pointed a finger at her threateningly. Her gaze with Isla broke. “If you’re captured for stupidity, I will not come back for you.” She remembered his early promise before nightfall. “Move,” he said. It wasn’t an suggestion. She thought for a moment his teeth looked like points.
Sapphire snapped out of her growing despair and disbelief. The implications of their situation became apparent and she shoved her emotions aside. She had to get out of the Vault. There were guards; they had no weapons. Her safety depended on these people, these thieves in black. She met them at the door and they went out, back into the dark.
There were two spearmen, two grey Cats, and the two giants. There were four of them. Sapphire calculated - she could move quickly enough past the giants if they managed to get past the spearmen and Cats. She could handle a guard, maybe two. Fighting without weapons was her forte. The four thieves lunged, bodies clashed and ducked, side-stepped weapons they didn’t have themselves. Sapphire didn’t watch the others, she focused only on one spearman. She tuned out the Cats’ snarling and growling.
Disarming the spearman was the first hurdle. The darkness of the hallway was a disadvantage to both, but a small advantage to her singularly. She couldn’t see the spear, but her armor was blacker than tar, and the spearmen couldn’t as precisely see her either. She used her long ears to decipher each blow’s direction. The spear came like unseen lighting towards her neck and she ducked down to the ground, barely escaping. Once lower, Sapphire slammed her foot with every force she had into the guard’s shin. He buckled down as she shot up, grasping the spear with both hands, adjacent to the guards’. She shoved back at him, knocking the guard in the face. She wretched the spear away and quickly thrust it behind her. Then it was all hands and fists, knees and hard boots. She grabbed the guard’s arm as he punched and thrust it down, giving a blow of her own - but not before she’d received a few of his. The left side of her face throbbed, her eyebrow was split. Finally, Sapphire twisted the guard’s arm around and whipped him into the wall. She stamped into his shin, knocked upwards into his jaw, and sent an elbow flying into the side of his temple. He slid down in to a heap.
She turned, grasping the floor blindly for the spear. When she felt the wooden handle securely in her two hands she stood and turned around. Mercer was finishing off his guard. And further down the hallway she saw four moving bodies - beasts, whose snarls sent chills down her spine’s length.
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Eureka || Ronan and Saphire
The Giants moved aside the moment they saw the Princess Consort. He urged her forwards and abandoned her to his Master as soon as he was able.
He was too busy with his analysing. How could he get Peter Pevensie inside the Vault now that he was all the way down here? Could he simply dash back up and pluck the Imposter King from the Hall as well his wife? Would that be possible? He really thought not. The giants might be fooled once, but he would have to pass them again an additional three times if he were to fix this mistake. Once to leave without Isla, once to bring Peter in, and a third time to leave without him as well.
The image of success swam before him: two lovers dead inside a tomb of gold, a Queen frozen with her face fearing death and her King in stone beside her, heartsick with grief. What a tale that would give the historians! And what a sight it would be for the lowmen, when his Master paraded them single file through the Vault to see.
But even besides the giants, there were the other guards to consider. They were lowmen and untutored, the lot of them, but the grip they had on their spears was anything but relaxed. Ronan’s chances of slipping by them were slim at best.
But the fact of it, even more important than the romance of a great tale, was that killing Peter was such a crucial part of their plan. If they killed Peter on the same night they took the wand, the other monarchs would never be able to stand up to them, not with their best military commander gone.
Ronan had to brave the giants. It was his place to. He peaked around the corner of the great door, trying to think of an excuse to get by them.
But before he could take a step forward, two grey Cats shot into the hallway, swift and silent as arrows. They slid through the legs of the guards, mouths moving. In unison the spearmen turned their heads to look at Ronan. Before he could blink, some of them moved into combat stances. There were shouts.
The yellow eyes gleamed at him through the darkness. Ronan felt the chill of knowledge sweep through him. It had happened. Peridan’s ‘head’ had been revealed. Their great plan was ruined.
Ronan pivoted and threw open the Vault door and found himself stepping into a museum. The Princess Consort was standing in place, a line of black moving slowly up her hairline, her eyes already frozen in time. She was turning to stone, he realised. She was turning to stone right in front of him.
He wanted to yell, to leap into the air like a madman and shout ‘eureka’. He wanted to write every detail of it in his journal until his fingers bled and the ink turned his skin blue.
But they had to leave.
There were two others in the room. One a man and one a woman. He paid them no attention. “Master,” he called. “Guards! They’re stirring. They’ve found it. We have to go.”
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To Kill Peter Pevensie || Ronan and Isla [Drabble]
Ronan gave a final twist and the ‘head’ of the Vaultkeeper pressed tightly into the ancient helmet. He dipped a gloved finger into the blood at the severed neck and drew the letter ‘V’ on Peridan’s cheek.
His Master had left an arm on Peter Pevensie’s throne and sent back a second one with Eithne. There had been a leg buried in the same place where Eithne’s ‘body’ had been several years ago, and another one placed in Susan Pevensie’s bedroom. Peridan’s head was to be the fifth and last message for the people of Cair Paravel. At least, it would be the last message of its kind.
The red substance was gelling in the material of his gloves by the time he was done. Ronan tore the gloves off and tucked them in the box beside the grizzly gift. It was not as clean a message as he would liked to send, but there were too many guards about to risk keeping them on his person. Not with that scent on them.
He closed the box without bothering to fasten its ornate clasp. The upper floors were crawling with guards and someone would be along to check on the room in any moment.
He opened the door and heard boots striking stone in an adjoining hallway even as it was swinging shut behind him. He dashed into another passage. If they had Dogs with them Ronan would be dragged off to the dungeons well before he could get anywhere near Peter Pevensie.
The footsteps seemed to follow him as he moved, but he forced himself not to run. He and his Master were so close now. They just need to tip one last golden domino and the entire Kingdom would be sure to follow after it.
The guards split off into another hallway and before long Ronan made it into the passage his Master had taught him about. It was guarded by a tapestry so he had stashed a pack of supplies there earlier. He knelt and found a flask of water and a bar of soap to wash his hands. He held his fingers to his nose and sniffed once he was done. There was no scent to it his that elven nose could detect besides the suds. He pulled on a clean pair of gloves.
Ronan made one a final adjustment to his uniform, placing a helmet on his head, before striding forth to join the main thoroughfares again. Soon he would be second in command only to his Master, the Rightful King of Narnia, but tonight he was playing the plebeian, dressed in the armour of the castle guards. His Master had procured the armour from some guard or other several days ago and had it delivered to Ronan’s room at the Rose. The red lion of Narnia did not suit him either in style or philosophy, but it allowed him to walk the halls almost as if he were invisible.
He slid into the throne room, scanning it for his prey. Past the dancing Calormenes and the pyramids of chocolate, Peter Pevensie was visible in one of the faraway corners. At this distance he was merely a golden crown on a golden head towering a foot or so above the group around him. By their silver and blue finery they had to be Galmans. As Ronan watched, the Impostor King stooped to give his ear to a crone dressed even more richly than he was. That would have to be the Queen of Galma, he realised. He did not exactly look pleased to be talking to her.
A grin spread across the elf’s face. All he had to do was march up to Peter and say that there was a matter at hand and he would jump at a reason to leave. Ronan was thinking he could have him halfway to the vault before Peter even asked what the matter was about, when a shadow glided in front of him.
He was a moment too slow in wiping the scheme off his face. “What is it you want, soldier?” It was a Mountain Lion who spoke, one Ronan had often seen trailing after the Impostor and his family.
A string of curses blossomed in his mind but, dressed as a common guard, he had no choice but to stop. He put on his best lowman’s accent. “I...I need to see King Peter, m’lady.”
“That one there’s a Dame,” came another voice, filled with unmistakable authority. “Why do you need to see my husband?” Ronan found he was being addressed by the Princess Consort. She came towards him, regarding him no differently than she might have a kitchen dwarf.
He bowed and let his eyes linger on her as he straightened. With his mind on her dress, and the way her breast ripened her figure so fully beneath it, Ronan could half understand why that knight had gotten himself in so much trouble for her some years ago.
He licked his lips and dodged her question. “I was ordered not to make a panic, Y’majesty, just to speak with the High King.”
He made to move past her but a shapely eyebrow raised, commanding him to explain himself. Ronan felt his palms grow damp. He was not just going to be able to slip away with a nod, a smile, and a stupid look on his face. She was in a position to seriously disrupt their plans.
“There’s...” he paused, thinking about what to say. He had to make Peter come down to the vault. But he also had to do so without attracting a great deal of attention. If too many guards came with them his Master’s plans would violently unravel.
“It’s...something inside the vault, y’majesty.”
“So call the guards then,” she whirled, her lips already parting to do so.
“No!” He cut her off, his voice urgent. “I was ordered to bring the High King so that someone could see inside the vault.” The fur on the Mountain Lion’s back stood up. Whether it was from the mention of the vault, or his tone of voice he was not sure. “Y’majesty,” he added, hoping to sound more differential.
Neither of them seemed convinced, and frankly he could not blame them. Ronan was a man of learning and truth, of fine blood and superior intellect. He was not made for lying and skulking about in shadows and storerooms. Perhaps he could stir some compassion within her? “I was ordered, y’see. The sergeant’ll ‘ave me running drills for a week if I don’t get His Majesty, y’see. Please.”
Isla did not look as if she cared about him running drills, anymore than she cared for him taking Peter away on whatever mission this was. “Send the Wolves and Dogs. Now.” The Princess Consort was not even addressing him, he realised, but the Dame. The implication was clear. If there was something troubling happening, especially in a vault where magic was stored, it might have been related to the attacks that had been confounding the Pevensies and their Constables for so long. She would not be allowing the father of her child to wander down there into so much potential danger.
But Ronan could have smiled. This was a good an opportunity as any. “They sent me, y’Majesty. The Wolves did. They told me to tell the High King that there’s none o’ that scent around the castle, but that High King Peter must come. I was ordered that.” This time he said it much more convincingly, because it was true. The Wolves had sent him, after all. It helped that other Sniffing Beasts patrolled the room around them, alert but leisurely.
He could see the Princess Consort’s mind turning it over. Surely if something was amiss there’d be ripples running through the guards? But everything was still. “I’ll ask the King myself y’Majesty...save you the trouble,” he pressed.
Come on, he thought. If she just let him through she could go back to her babe, and her wine, and soon enough she could have at that knight and his new armour all she liked.
The Princess’s face set and Ronan knew that she had come to a decision, for better or for worse. “I’m a Pevensie, soldier, and my husband is currently engaged...If the Wolves say there’s no danger, then I can get inside the Vault as good as anyone else in my family can.” Ronan felt his blood go cold, but what more could he do?
The Mountain Lion spoke and made to head off. “As you command,” she said.
“No, no. Stay with Tommen,” the Princess Consort replied, kissing her son’s head. “I’ll take the general guards. I trust the Wolves if they say it is safe, but the other guests might not.” She glanced back to where the Queen of Galma was once more. “It really would not be wise to cause a panic.”
She inclined her head and Ronan had no choice but to follow as she slipped out one of the side door. He cursed her and her Lion as he did so, but that was not going to make the Impostor come with them.
Once they were in the halls, she waved a magnificently gloved hand like she was casting a spell and a group of footmen closed in around them.
Ronan was sweating profusely now, despite how cold he felt, racking his mind desperately for a way to restore his Master’s plans to order. It was always Peter they needed to get rid of, not his whore of a wife. But perhaps they could do that too. If he got the Princess to the Vault quick enough, maybe he would have time to come back for the King as well. “Y’majesty,” he asked, “might we please hurry?”
She gathered her skirts up in one hand and broke into a trot. “Yes,” came her stuck-up voice. “Let’s get there as quickly as we can.”
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Ronan had his orders. He stepped towards a small table without wasting any time. On it sat a book, a lantern, and a bronze plate with shavings of bark and small leaves on it.
Of course, the most important item there was the book. It was one of several he had stolen from the library at Cair Paravel. In it was the knowledge of other worlds. Other worlds! And the inhabitants of Narnia had ignored its value for so long the cover had been blanketed with dust the first time Ronan lifted it from its shelf. But it would be used last.
He took up the plate first and placed it on the stone above Peridan’s head. On it was collection of dried hawthorn, hellebore, and shavings of bark taken from the stubble on Peridan’s chin. Next he removed the candle from inside the lantern. The wax it was made out of was a muddy colour, having been spiced with hemlock and tea leaves, both important for the spell. He carefully touched the flame to the kindling. It caught.
Holding the book before him, although he knew the incantations by heart now, he said the words out loud. For a moment everything remained as it had been, but as he took his next breath the chill had vanished from the winter air. Slowly the lines of red glowed, first dully, like dying coals, and then with all the fury of a wildfire.
Ronan shut the book with a snap and noticed that Peridan had shut his eyes. Their edges were crinkled with fear. Ronan touched a hand to the dryad’s shoulder. “You know it’s not personal, master oak. In the same way it’s not personal when the fields are harvested for their grain or the mines for their stone. Some things just have more utility than others.”
“Ronan,” came his master’s voice. He obeyed directly. Moving from the field of the spell.
Smoke was gathering over the ritual site.
Can The Devil Speak True? || Ronan and Peridan
The Madman and his Sorcerer emerged from the tree line and Perridan closed his eyes. He asked that Aslan, that someone, anyone, might discover the plot the Madman was engaged in before it was finished.
“Lord Treasurer,” said the Madman.
“Cur,” said Perridan, and immediately grit his teeth in pain. Just the act of speech was costly to him under their power. The two smiled as if impressed by the dryad’s spirit and another flash lit Perridan’s eyes, this time of indignation.
The sins of his captors were as numerous as an army, as were their crimes. Here they stood, coveting a camp that belonged to the High King, holding a fellow Narnian hostage through the violation of a magic so holy no dryad could exist without it, in order to cast a spell that no one had a right to, least of all them. And all of it done in the pursuit of treason and civil war.
But there they stood above him, hands clasped behind their backs like lords or gentlemen. He wanted to draw his sword and strike them down, to come at them with his hammer-like fists. He would even have reduced himself to spitting, or raking his splintery skin into their eyes. But thanks to their magic he was frozen in his anthropomorphic form and was all but incapable of movement.
There was a pause as the Madman surveyed the work of his lackey once more. Perridan tried to do the same but could not raise his head. He strained his eyes, looking to his sides with his peripheral vision. There were lines of red painted over the stone he lay on, in the shape of a square and a circle. He was centred in it, spreadeagled, ready for the spell he knew Ronan was about to cast.
He knew the lackey had cast this spell at least fives times before, although Perridan had only been present for four of those, and even then he could hardly remember them. When he cast his mind back to those nights when he’d been called forcibly from his tree and his soul, it was as if his memory had filled with incense so think and musky he could not think and his own skin and grown over his eyes until he could not see.
The voice of the Madman came. “Well, no use now in waiting, Ronan. Begin.”
#PiecesAndPeaces#gifs:peridan#just to be clear they're not burning perridan alive#i'm going for like a cross between a summoning and poly juice potiion
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Can The Devil Speak True? || Ronan and Peridan
The valley was breathtaking in its severity. Ronan strode through the forrest nestled in its basin, his elven eyes straining to catch glimpses of the sky. It was likely that his movements were, at that moment, being written among the stars.
He pictured great clans of centaurs gathering in council, bending their heads together, debating what course of action would be best to take. They would be choked with fear if they were aware of what he was about to do.
He smiled, his teeth biting into his lip. Even beasts as wise as the centaurs were incapable of understanding what was so plain to him; predicting the future did not matter, not when one was capable of making the future for themselves. And, he reflected, as the sound of pine needles crunching under boots reached his ears, tonight he and his master would do just that.
“Master,” he said.
“Ronan,” came his voice. It had a tenor to it that belonged to the rightful king of Narnia, at once murderous and exalted.
They surveyed each other a moment, their eyes sharing the same gleam.
“Set?”
“Yes, all,” replied Ronan.
His master nodded. They turned and strode towards the camp. “How has he been faring?”
No doubt his ears had already picked up Peridan’s breathing, faint and laboured, on the night air.
“It’s definitely made him ill,” Ronan yawned. “But it won’t affect the magic.”
“You seem tired.”
There was a note of concern his voice, but Ronan knew it was not for his welfare. Their plans relied on his abilities tonight. “The spell calls for precision, but not strength.”
“Mmn.”
They emerged into the camp, directly approaching the great slab of stone that lay in it’s centre. It was an axe head in the size and proportions of those used by giants. Judging by some of the older craters in the cliffs, a battle had once been fought here, probably dating back to The Age of Conquest. Ronan suspected that he would find skeletons beneath his feet if he were to dig. He often wondered was uses a giant’s bones could be put to.
The valley had certainly been occupied more than once in its existence. Peter Pevensie’s army had constructed a camp here, on the border between Narnia and Ettinsmoore, during the war against the giants. In Peter’s case it had been the staging ground for a war against the giants.
For Ronan and his master it was the staging ground for a war against Peter Pevensie.
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The original photo used for the Peaky Blinders Series 2 DVD cover.
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