#'Sitting on his throne of thorns nothing could reach him. Not even death. Much less life.' CRYING SCREAMING AND THROWING UP 😭😭😭
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sunlight and allegiance
The bone-king, tall and shadowed, comes to the knight and asks, “Will you aid me?”
The answer is no, of course, will always be no, should always be no. Sunflor is the last shining bastion of what came before the god-king, and she will not bow her head. Her sun-king is dead, and the bone-king killed him, and only his seat on the throne and her oaths prevent her from taking his head off. She stands in the doorway of her quarters (inside the bone-king’s castle, inside the home that has been conquered,) and she knows that “no” is not an answer she can give, so instead she says nothing. Her face, however, betrays her.
The bone-king winces, just the slightest twitch of his sharp-angled face.
“Please. Lady Knight. They will listen to you, if they listen to none other, and I am so weary of bloodshed. Are you not weary?”
“There would be no bloodshed,” she says, very carefully, “If you had never come here.”
The bone-king’s expression is… tired. Old, and drawn. She doesn’t know how old he is - he seems ageless, ancient and young all at once. “Of course there would be. Why else did you exist? A king doesn’t keep a land-blessed knight of sunlight and death unless he intends to use her for the slaughter. Are you telling me you had never killed before I came from the west?”
Sunflor says nothing, again, stubbornly silent. It’s not the same, she wants to say. That was keeping the peace, not war. I only slaughtered things like you. Threats. Monsters. Instead she drops her gaze to the floor, avoiding his old, dark eyes.
“Need I make this an order?” the bone-king asks, very gently. Sunflor’s jaw clenches, works in a convulsive scowl. She is sworn to the throne, not the man who sits on it. It was meant to make her a peerless, unbiased warrior, but it feels, now, like a weakness. She wants to throttle him, wants to reach down his throat and tear out the way things used to be, as though he had swallowed it whole and unharmed. But she cannot disobey an order from her king, however little he has earned the title.
“No. What do you need?”
“Thank you,” the bone-king says. He sounds relieved. She does not look at him, though the oath-bond pings with the righteous satisfaction of her fealty. It used to be one of her favorite feelings - it makes her sick, now. “Some parts of my land are still restless under my touch, and the kingdom loves you so much it burns. Come and help me coax it? Let us settle this gently, and with peace. I dislike the thought of having to stamp it down into fearful submission.”
“As you wish, my lord,” says Sunflor, because she is bound, and because she recognizes, through the haze of her rage and her grief, that it is better this way. Her king is dead, and a part of her is dead along with him, but no one else need die unnecessarily.
He brings her first of all down into the labyrinths of the castle, where Sunflor would follow her sun-king when he did his rituals and his prayers. She knelt by his side, gave him her strength when he faltered, let him pull draughts of power from her like blood. She is almost nostalgic for the dizzy, giddy emptiness of being drained, of being filled instead with sunlight and the slow earth-love of a country. Not enough to want the bone-king to do it, though. She has no choice.
The bone-king exhales, when they’re down in the wide, circular ritual-room, with the map of the kingdom stretched over the floor. There’s sunlight shining into the room from a window in the ceiling, though they’re dozens of feet below ground. The bone-king looks up at the sunlit window, inquisitive.
“A lovely working. Do you know the spell?” he murmurs, and stretches his fingers out to let the sun shine on them. Sunflor wishes for it to burn him, but it doesn’t. Just filters through his scarred fingers, making the webs between them glow faintly red, beams of light in the gaps. His flesh is slightly translucent, only the bones and the scars solid and pale.
“It is a place of the sun,” Sunflor says, shortly, and kneels in the place where she always kneels, where generations before her have knelt. Had they ever knelt here and hated like she hates the bone-king? Stupid question. Of course they have. The kingdom is nothing if not ever besieged by conflict. They hardly go three or four generations without an upset - her own sun-king was only a second-generation dynastic king, and she knows the knight before the knight before her had ended up falling on her own blade, distraught by the loss of her queen. There is a strange comfort in the solidarity of a generational anguish.
Deep breaths. In. Out. The sunlight is warm, golden. The room is ritually hushed, and the scent of old blood and incense and dust fills her nose. It’s familiar, reassuring, down to the faint grooves in the stone from where thousands of years of knights before her have knelt in the same place. She has a duty to her country, not only to her king, and she will fulfill it until she can no longer. The kingdom cradles her in its stone, and she draws strength from it.
The bone-king, watching, turns at last to stand over the map, closes his eyes, holding his hands out like he’s feeling along the top of a table. His hands are not callused in the way of one who wields a weapon, but blackened in forking patterns like lightning, from magic overuse. His fingertips are all scorched to a charcoal black. Those are recent - when she had battled the bone-king merely months ago, he had had much less prominent scarring. They are scars likely acquired in the battle against the sun-king, then. At least they managed to scar him.
“Here,” he murmurs, finally, hands poised above a part of the map like invisible strings tug his fingers down, and he crouches to touch a particular region on the map. He opens his eyes, and studies the landscape painted intricately beneath him. The knight watches him, looking from his face to the map and back. It does not surprise her that that particular demesne is giving him trouble - not when the forest loves its lady so much.
“What are your thoughts, lady knight?” the bone-king asks.
“That is the demesne of Lady Lily-greenery,” the knight says. “Her sister, Violet, was slain at your hand.”
“I see.”
“She was one of the sorceresses in the king’s guard, and they were very close,” the knight says. “Not as close as some-” close as he and I- “but. Close.”
“I see,” the bone-king says again, quieter. “Well. There’s not much I can do about that, now. I’ll play bloodgold to the lady, if you think it will help?”
“She’ll consider it an insult. The gold you bought with her sister’s death? No.”
“Mm. A wise consideration, Sunflor.”
“Do not use my name,” Sunflor snaps, and hears her voice break. “You haven’t earned it. Don’t you dare.”
There’s a long, fraught pause. “Apologies, Lady Knight,” the bone-king breathes, almost a whisper. It’s a concession she hadn’t expected from him, and she breathes in deep, breathes out the anger and sorrow.
“If you want her to support you, then you need to show her respect, and show her forest respect,” she says, as though nothing particularly interesting had happened. “She lost a lot, in the war effort. A lot of her forest’s vitality was drained to shore up the borders and strengthen the soldiers.”
“I’ll send her some of that power back, then. Weakens the remaining military resources that are undoubtedly brewing dissent, and strengthens a possible ally. And helps me fix the absolute mess my predecessor has made of this beautiful thing,” the bone-king says, and runs a gentle hand along the map.
“He didn’t,” Sunflor says, but it sounds like a lie to her own ears, a childish protest. It is not as though she hasn’t lain awake at night for years, hearing the kingdom in discomfort and weakness, knowing that it was stretched too far. She shifts in her kneeling, feeling herself sore to the bone though the kneeling hasn’t bothered her since she was knighted. “He did his best,” she amends.
“His best wasn’t very good,” the bone-king says, and looks steadily at her, eyes dark. His expression is opaque, unreadable. “He sought conquest and glory and didn’t have the means to manage it. I would never have bothered coming if he had not tried to conquer me in the first place, and I never would have succeeded against a kingdom as powerful as this if he had not already overextended it and strained its power and its patience.”
“The kingdom loves him,” Sunflor says. Her throat feels swollen and thick, and her hands fist in her lap. “It gave all it could for him because it loved him.”
“The kingdom loves you.” The bone-king’s stare is nameless, uncomfortably tender. “You gave all you could for him.”
“Not enough, clearly.”
“His weakness is not your fault.”
“His death is yours.”
The bone-king acknowledges this with a tilt of his head. “I am sorry.”
She laughs, ugly and shattered. It sounds wrong in the peaceful stillness of the ritual room, like a crow’s broken cackle. “Are you, my lord?”
He stands from the map, shrugs off his cloak and holds his hand out over the ugly seething of the forest’s magic. The trees sprout up from the map, the flat surface rising to give way to infinitely small trees, a mass of greenery. The sunlight in the room goes strange, and she feels magic brewing, simultaneously familiar and repellant. It is the comforting kingdom-magic at the same time as it is the cold, dark grave-magic of an enemy she has been fighting for years, now, and it itches at her like a scabbing wound.
It curls from the god-king’s fingertips, twining into the forest’s magic and settling in it. She feels it resist, struggle, but he does not fight back, even as it reaches for him in violence and fury. She watches his hands - he flinches, barely, when the magic sinks thorns into him, but he does not pull away. He merely offers the gift in open palms until the forest finally swallows it, and settles down.
“My condolences for your loss,” he speaks, into the whispering of the forest. “And my utmost respect and honor for your sister’s battle prowess. She fought well. I regret her death. I hope this goes some small way towards amends.”
The forest takes the message, and subsides back into the map, smoothing out. A discordant note in the kingdom’s magic quiets, turns a little further toward the main body of it.
“I regret that I caused you pain, lady knight,” the bone-king says, without looking at her. “I do not regret the sun-king’s death.”
“What could I possibly matter to you?”
“I underestimated the effect the kingdom’s power would have on me,” the bone-king says, instead of answering.
Perhaps, however, it is an answer after all.
The bone-king’s face is creased, sweat beading on his forehead. There are new pinpricks of red scars on his hands, and this is the point at which Sunflor would usually lend her power and her aid, let her king brace himself against her as the sturdy anchor-point of might and magic. She does not offer. The bone-king does not ask.
“May I go?” Sunflor asks, at last.
“...You may. I will need you again, though.”
“I am aware.”
Though her fealty-bond keens when she turns her back on the bone-king, alerting her he is in need of aid/strength/his knight, she does not listen. She climbs the stairs away from him, and does not look back.
(I FORGOT I HAVE AN @ LIST... it’s from 2018 so it’s very probably outdated rip. sorry if you get mentioned when you did not want to be! @trishaloach @toastyglow @acefruitloop @skye07 @m1sosazai @yoyoendlessstring @blue-tomatoes @catsfeminismandatla @lady-redshield-writes @alhena09 @emanonnosrep, @je11yfish-queen @gingerly-writing @dramaticvoiceover @writingmyselfintoanearlygrave @authorisada @reciclingbin @lushprocrastinatrix @timeenoughforamasterpiece @tedrakitty @haphazardlyparked @kiwisoap @silver56 @pacifiedperoxide @kooncat @severe-fangirl-syndrome @startledserpent @50-shaeds-of-fae @stritte @dorianelle @dhawandyke @churchyardgrim)
#my writing#original fiction#technically like stage 1 of enemies-to-lovers#fealty#hieros gamos#magic#fantasy#TURNS OUT WHEN U SOULBOND TO A CONQUERED KINGDOM IN LOVE WITH ITS LADY KNIGHT#THAT IS SOMETIMES CONTAGIOUS
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𝐈 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re a mangaka who draws from your own experiences to write your stories. your new editor disapproves this method.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: akaashi keiji x reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, hanahaki au
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: suicidal thoughts/ideation, blood, vomit, major character death
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2 k
𝐚/𝐧: this was written for the cheese cult’s hanahaki fic event !! djnfjdngjnjfnjnjngjn this took me so , so , so long to write because every version i wrote ended up hitting the same brick wall of unimaginable angst and believe it or not, this is probably the happiest version. i was supposed to post this two whole as days ago but hey , at least it happened
From over the cover of the fairytale he reads, the young boy boy peers at you with soft sage eyes — checking to see if you’re still awake. You are, but you’re careful to keep your eyes closed, face buried into the blanket.
“The end,” the young boy finishes softly, closing his book.
He gingerly places the book to the side before sliding in next to you under the covers. You can feel his eyes on you for another moment before he takes a deep breath — there’s a secret, a confession, something on the tip of his tongue.
You never hear it.
You wake up with a start, a cough half-way up your throat. You cough and cough and cough until the first bud breaks air, tickling the back of your throat. You reach your fingers into your mouth and pull.
Bitterly, you stare at the withering bouquet in your hands.
The flowers are wet with your saliva — only a hint of blood coating the white of the petals.
When you went to the doctor about it, she said you were lucky. She said that your flowers were so small, you could go your entire life with an unrequited love and they would leave your respiratory system alone. She also added, no doctor in their right mind would perform a removal surgery on a person who was more likely to die on the table, then by their illness.
While cultivating roses would be painful, at least it would be a quick death.
Like every other day, you toss out the pathetic string of baby’s breath in the garbage bin as you head into the washroom to wash out your mouth.
You get off of the train at a quarter to ten — thankfully on time for your meeting.
Kaori gives a friendly smile when you enter her office. Even behind her desk, you can see her burgeoning belly. Despite pushing eight months into her pregnancy, she beams. In her smile, she wears the name brand brightness that they all share — the people with a requited love, that is. The lucky ones whose flowers weren’t fed with misery and tears.
You try your best not to resent her but your jealousy bleeds when you sit in the glossy, apple green chair.
“How are you?” Kaori asks, her gentle eyes watching you.
You give a vague shrug, a small smile. “Sad that this is it.”
She’s pleased by this answer, giving a laugh. It reminds you of blue bells rustling in the wind. “I’ll be back and ready to work on your next series before you know it.”
You give an empty chuckle.
There’s a knock at the door and you both look. A man stands in the doorway — staring at Kaori dryly. His plain neutrals are out of place in her bright office but her brightness doesn’t flicker as she waves him in. You play with the sleeve of your severely drab cotton blouse as you wonder if that’s how you look here.
“Akaashi! Glad you could make it.”
He gives a slight bow to Kaori first, then you. You stop fiddling with your sleeve and return the bow while seated. He takes a seat in the chair opposite to you (Kaori dubbed it the pineapple throne after its piss yellow hue). He’s too tall for it. It’s almost comical. You might write that in for one of your characters.
“(Y/N), this is Akaashi Keiji. Akaashi, this is (L/N) (Y/N).” She turns to you. “He will be taking over as your editor for the last volume while I’m on maternity leave.”
You look over at him — “Akaashi… Keiji?”
At an arm's length, you can see the gentle slope of his nose and the delicate curl of the eyelashes that frame the muted green of his eyes. There’s something that’s strangely familiar about him but you can’t put your finger on it. You know him. You don’t know how, but you do.
“I look forward to working with you.”
You smile, but at the back of your throat, you can feel a familiar itch beginning to grow.
Despite the connection your body draws to him, Akaashi doesn’t show any recognition in return.
He taps his pen lightly on the paper. “What’s going on here? What’s your plan for this girl?”
You peer over the desk to look at the character on trial — the panel shows the short haired girl spewing forget-me-nots into the trash bin. Immediately, you frown. It’s annoying that he doesn’t know her name. She is literally one of three main characters.
“Konoka?” You settle back into your seat. “She’s going to die.”
He looks up at you. “I gathered that much, but why?”
If the robot says it, it really must not make sense but then again, you doubt he even understood the nuances of the series if he couldn’t even remember Konoka’s name. “Because she has Hanahaki Disease.”
“Okay, but —” if you hadn’t been growing annoyed by his flat tone, you might’ve swooned at the softness, “forget-me-nots are small. She couldn’t possibly die of Hanahaki.”
“That’s why she kills herself.”
He’s silent for a moment, calculating his next words. “...You realize that she’s one of your most beloved characters, right? Your readers don’t want to see her die like that.”
“This is the trajectory the story has been on since she and Tanaka met again.” Your tone is more charged than you intend, but you can’t help but defend Konoka’s decision fiercely. “She has to commit suicide. It’s the only way she can move on.”
“Yes, but Kanoka—”
Pointedly, you cut him off, “Thank you for your opinion but I refuse to compromise on that.”
He purses his lips. “I sincerely ask you to reconsider.”
“I will not compromise my artistic integrity for your comfort.”
“Killing characters off isn’t profound. It isn’t always necessary.”
“In this case, it is.” Your cheeks burn red as you stand up for yourself — this fight is on a personal level. “I’m not killing her for shock value. I’m killing her because every night, Konoka dreams about Tanaka, and everyday, she wakes up and throws up flowers because she knows he doesn’t love her back. I’m killing her because there’s no one else for her. I’m killing her because the flowers won’t and that — that’s more painful.”
The silence in the aftermath of your rant is deafening. He says nothing to you for another moment, staring into the smoulder of your eyes with a calculating stare. It might be a mistake to appeal to the emotional aspect of it — after all, you sort of doubt he has any at this point — but, at the root of it, that’s what it is: an emotional problem.
“Fine,” he says. “You still have to redo this panel, though.”
Your mouth burns with a minty tang as you walk back into your room — drawn over by the buzzing sound of your ringer. Looking at the caller I.D., you have half a mind to throw it across the room and get back under the covers.
But, with all the professionalism you can muster at nine in the morning, you say, “Hello?”
“Are you finished with the second draft?” Akaashi’s flat drawl reverbs through the speaker.
You resist the urge to sigh. “Yes.”
“Can you come by the office to drop it off?”
“Today?” You scratch absently at your collarbone. “Uh… I can swing by tomorrow, but if you really need it today — you can pick it up from my apartment?”
There’s silence on the other line — likely weighing the pros and cons. In the weeks you’ve worked under him, you’ve noticed that he does nothing without proper evaluation.
“Is three o’clock alright?”
You’re in the middle of vacuuming when a knock at the door interrupts you. While you’re expecting it, you’re not any less annoyed. You open the door with a tight smile, manuscript already in hand. Akaashi gives a monotone greeting in his monotone clothes with his monotone face.
“Hello. May I use your washroom?”
You give a sigh as you open the door wider. “The door on the left.”
He enters your apartment, neatly putting his shoes by the door. You toss the manuscript back on the counter. You meant to send him on his way, but, because he’s already here, you put on a kettle to boil.
“I sincerely hope you reconsider your plans.”
You turn around at the comment, looking at your editor with a raised brow. “I’m still killing Konoka.”
He’s a different person when you look at him. For once, there’s something behind his eyes — a sharpness to his gaze. That feeling returns — the one that sees flowers tickling at your trachea.
Gravely, he repeats. “I sincerely hope you reconsider your plans.”
He must’ve seen your garbage bin. You feel ready to throw something else up now.
“Tell me about them,” Akaashi says.
“About who?”
“Whoever it is you’re willing to die for.”
“I…” You feel faint as you rub at your clavicle. “I don’t think you want to hear this.”
“That’s why I asked, isn’t it?”
So you do.
You swallow your pride as you tell him about the little boy you once knew. You tell him about the summer you didn’t leave each other’s side and how one day, while you were camping, you woke up next to him and he was coughing petals and buds and thorns. When his parents took him to the hospital, he never came back and you didn’t get to ask any questions before they moved away.
You tell him that you started dying that day. That the doctors told your parents that the surgery was too risky for your age. That when you came back a few years later, they told you that it was still too risky when the chances of your death were slim. Some days are better than most, you tell him, but because you never stop thinking about him, you’ll never get better.
It’s the same story that you are writing.
Akaashi looks at you for a solemn moment, watching you with incredible disbelief. He’s going to call you an over-dramatic idiot for wanting to die over a childhood crush. If it wasn’t your reality, you’d agree with him too. What a stupid reason to die.
But then, he coughs. When he moves his hands from his mouth, both your stomachs drop while you stare in horror at the soft petal, sopping wet with his blood.
His eyes widen the same time yours do. Immediately, the phone is in your hand, calling an ambulance.
He thinks he’s dying.
This feeling now, and the feeling from back then... They’re one in the same.
That night, you fell asleep facing him. Your button nose and dark lashes were illuminated by the glow created by his flashlight. It wasn’t until he peered over the cover of the book, he realized that you were knocked out cold.
“You’re so pretty,” he wanted to say.
Instead, a coughing fit seized him, which woke you in turn. He’d been complaining about a dry throat recently, so you disappeared to get him a water from the coolers outside of the tent.
When you came back, the sleeping bag was littered with bloodied petals. The chilled bottle hit the floor as you gave a blood-curdling scream.
This time, when Akaashi wakes up in the hospital, he’s already coughing. In rapid succession, four blood-soaked petals of varying sizes, the round bud they were plucked from, and two thorns spew from his mouth. He looks at you, startled, more emotion than you’ve ever seen him exhibit.
Your eyes are red rimmed and swollen.
Gently, you pick up the debris littering his lap and toss it into the garbage beside you. The thorns fall through the maze of baby’s breath you had also coughed up and hit the bottom of the bin with a dull thud.
"Keiji?” you sniffle, your voice soft. “How do you feel?”
“Not good,” he answers. Akaashi chuckles but you can see the blood dribble from his mouth. You wipe at his chapped lips with a tissue.
“The doctor said to call him when you woke up. Let me just —” You feel dizzy as you stand, maybe a touch overwhelmed. “I’m going to go get him.”
There’s a minuscule tug at your hand. When you look down at Akaashi, he’s watching you. His eyes are still a faint shade of green, but there’s a new shine behind them.
“Can I tell you something first?” You hesitate for a second. Then, you nod. “I hope you reconsider your decision.” In the chaos of the past few hours, you had forgotten the matter that brought you here. “I want Konoka to choose herself over Tanaka. Even if she coughs up flowers everyday... I want her to live.”
You take Akaashi’s hand — large, smooth, and cold — in yours. “I can do that.”
“I know that it hurts, but she needs to know that means she’s alive.” You squeeze lightly as his words resonate within you. “I haven’t felt pain in a decade. But, that means I haven’t felt anything. Right now?” He gives you a small smile. “I’m more alive than I’ve ever been.”
Gently letting go of him, you say, “I’ll get you the doctor.”
You wince when he coughs again — loud and wet. A confession in this final hour won’t do anything. The withered flowers have to come out somehow.
Still, “I love you,” you try.
He smiles weakly back at you. “I love you too.”
𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @akaashichigo @drainedjaz @haikkeiji @annalyn-annalyn @mlkytobio @sosugasweet @cali-writes-sometimes @simping4ratsumu @shishinoya @from-left-to-write @akaashit-baeji @kxgeyamasmilk @agaassi @hanibuni @cupofkenma @kawanisshi @milk-n-writings @thiccbokuto @shinsukestan @sufiawrites @wakaitoshi @skyguy-peach @fern-writes-ig @briswriting @kawaiikraykray @bubbleteaa @miyuswriting @raevaioli @ouikarwa @hakueishirei @pineapplekween @estherwritess @keiji-n @achoohq @badlywritten-hq @mochibeaa @oinkanna @chxrry-wxne @spudicide @airybby @asranomical @karmasuna
#akaashi x reader#akaashi keiji x reader#akaashi x you#haikyuu fanfiction#cheesecultficevent#hanahacheese#akaashi keiji#tw suicidal thought#tw suicidal ideation#tw major character death#tw blood#tw vomit#writing
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a fortnight had passed since cedric tyrell had returned to highgarden; a fortnight that had stretched to seem to seem almost like months, even years during the darkest moments of his despair. the man had spent many a sleepless night staring at the canopy above as his mind spun; so many decisions, so many possibilities, so many outcomes that could put so many at risk. he thought of the impending battle further north, where the river king’s men awaited support from the reach, stationed at their garrisons along the border of the mountains of the moon. he had heard news that alaric tyrell had split up his men; sending the first ten thousand the week before, and the second half on the crack of dawn. and how little of a surprise that was; for the tyrells had made their allegiances known, and had a long stretch of borders to protect from surrounding enemies. he thought of harlon flowers, a man who had perhaps been the only constant in his entire life up to this moment, understanding of his own detached ways whilst remaining steadfast, loyal, and a visionary; a symbol of what cedric wanted their homeland to someday become once again.
he thought of his sister helena, no doubt suffocating beneath the heavy burden of duty; she was most like a queen when she was aware of all the facts, and could play her cards well; cedric knew his ominous silence since his departure would be unhinging her, day by passing day. but what were he to do if his letters to helena were intercepted, and she were implicated in a plan that could easily be seen as treasonous by their tyrannical brother? he thought of alaric himself, once the golden man of their line; a family orientated man, who balanced the burdens of ambition and honour, long before the dragons sore over their fertile fields. and it was whilst cedric tyrell laid there, staring above at the canopy in the pitch black, did the final thread tying their brotherhood sever; it was not in a dramatic rage fuelled by family tensions and jealousy, but a silent realisation. cedric tyrell had no brother, but a king. a king of thorns.
the strange sense of emptiness seemed to spread and course through his veins as the man raised himself from his restless slumber. their biggest strength in this game of thrones was their bounty; a surplus of harvests, of population, of land. their large army was both a blessing and a curse; depending on where in the great game they were to be stationed. sending ten thousand men to the river king was enough of a throne in his people’s side; not the people of the reach, but the nobles he had come to consider his companions in the months that they had spent together. the likes of the arryns, brynden tully, loreza martell, even the lannisters themselves; for though there was much for tyrin and cedric to discuss once they met again, he would not wish to see the lannister king and his family perish. an extra ten thousand men could prove to be the final nail in their coffins; and for cedric to do nothing, then he may as well send them their accompanying shrouds.
he had not done anything that could be considered impulsive, lest he spur the king of thorns into too grave an action to ever take back; the man had spent the last fortnight making his petitions to see the king, planting his seeds and hoping they would prove fruitful. alas he heard nothing but sorrowful silence; a silence that cedric himself had almost sent himself spiralling into. but now there no time for patience, no time to wait for his seeds to flourish; he had until dawn. the man got himself ready in what felt like a flurry of movement; the guards stationed were in the precarious situation of guarding a prince in his own right - they left him mostly be during the night, remaining in the gathering area of the small, tucked away building cedric called home in the furthest corner of highgarden. upon meeting with the bastard hightower, the conversation was brief - they knew their best course of action, and what each would do to get there.
it took him an hour to figure out the best course of escaping after he slipped through an open window; though in the end he had found himself slipping into a baker’s wagon, leaving the castle after delivering his assigned amount to stock up the kitchens. cedric laid as still as he could behind enormous sacks of flour, watching as they rode past the castle’s three rings of defensive walls; beginning his journey down the hill highgarden was raised atop, toward the fork in the road that would head north to goldengrove, or east to cider hall. as the wagon slowed to a halt, the baker seemed to be engaging in some discussions with a passing merchant, regarding the likes of rising taxation to pay for a war that was not their own. using the opportunity to slide himself from the wagon and onto the pebbled road, wiping some excess flour from his tunic, he managed to sneak from the situation to sit and wait beneath a mighty oak. and wait he did.
he heard them before he saw them, the thunderous sounds of ten thousand feet marching; they were in their regiments, spread over the acres of the field as they started their long journey north. the men flew flags of a thorny, golden rose emblazoned upon a dark green backdrop; though cedric felt less and less like a part of a house that would support such traitorous behaviour. the man remained patient, waiting for their lord commander to come into sight; he was expecting the king of thorns himself, but to his surprise he found himself looking at the sigil of house hightower; a striking white tower, engulfed in red and orange flames. the sight of the lord hightower had somewhat surprised him; they were a house that historically preferred trade over war, and only found themselves roped into conflict when forced. apart from their targaryen queen, who had perhaps caused the dance itself. cedric knew the lord of house hightower well; they had hosted him many a time over his youth when cedric would leave behind highgarden, though since the ten year war, the hightowers had been offended at house tyrell’s mostly neutrality; not when a woman of their own was in the red keep of kings landing.
the conversation was tense as the men stepped aside to talk beneath the old oak tree; cedric knew to throw persuasion aside in this matter, for the man had known him since he was a boy, and there was little use in persuading a man who was admittedly much wiser than he was. “and when the king recovers from his current state of stress and tension, only to find out his council allowed him to be so easily manipulated by the tullys and the riverlands?” cedric questioned the man, his arms over his shoulders; it was the truth, as alaric would turn on his closest nobles should his ventures fail. a madman will never accept his delusion, after all. “i ask you to trust me, lord hightower; if not for the sake of the kingdom, then for yourself, as your fortunes and mine are more tangled than either of us could possibly know.”
house hightower had already taken a blow as the blacks won the dance of dragons; they could not risk falling out of a favour with the tyrell king too, despite the growing tensions between the houses due to alaric tyrell’s neutrality during the ten year war. in the end, the lord commander listened; but only due to the matter of his own personal fortunes. cedric knew that there was no way of stopping the ten thousand men that had already set off for the vale; however as he watched lord hightower begin to command his men to cease walking, there were multiple faces cedric noticed in the crowd, faces of guards and men the man had seen somewhere along his travels in the reach. oldtown, highgarden, brightwater keep, horn hill. cedric bellowed, getting himself onto a horse and riding along the gaps of the regiments..
“your king has realised the manipulation of a pretender and strangers of essos and has sent me to intercede with you for the love he bares his men. since when have us reachmen feared trouts and masked men, and cast aside our honour and patience to the beck and call of a king who dares rob what was never his? since when do we cast aside our virtues of patience, abandoning our families and our abundance of harvest, to run to join a war with tails between our legs? grover tully is a fraud who means to march you all to your deaths. i pray you think, men. in our history, who has ever been able to penetrate the vale?
if you fear the gods, you will honour your oath to love and protect your king from outside forces; just as i protect him, as my only brother. stand with the family who ensured you bowed to no dragon, no lion, no stag, no wolf, none but your own who know the fields and how to reap what we sow, to yield what has long since been planted. the king will know of your honour, and your loyalty should you cast aside your weapons. return home. your women and children will be safe, and you shall be rewarded once this plot has been unravelled.”
the sound of weapons dropping to the floor filled the air, as the men cheered; for it seemed there was a sense of unity once again, that their kingdom was once again whole. but cedric only held the gaze of lord hightower; they both knew this day was only beginning.
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War Creatures (Ch.26)
Pairing: Loki X Reader
Summary: In a crossover of the Nine Realms and Westeros, you find yourself in the dawn of a rebellion. Odin, Lord of Pyke, has made alliances with your family, House Grover of Highgarden. Your father’s army will join Odin’s army to overthrow the King and take the Iron Throne. There is just one cost to this alliance.You must marry the dark, young prince Loki.In a world where Kings do as they wish, where war is an oncoming storm, and peace is nothing but a dream, you are lost but brave. Loki is more powerful than he seems, and love will grow from the flames of war.
Words: 2436 // [AO3 Link]
Elise looked at the war table with wide eyes and shaky fingers. She was a beautiful, blonde sunflower among weeds and thorns. She dared to be gentle in a world of turmoil. However gentle she was, she was never raised to be nothing more than my lady in waiting. Her fingers touched hills and castles, but none of that made sense in her head.
“Malekith comes from the North?” she asked, pointing towards the snow covered lands. I shook my head.
“No, Frost Giants come from the North. Malekith is an Elf. His family comes from the South.”
“And there are two kinds of elves?” Elise pointed towards the South. She touched the top of a figurine.
“Yes, long ago, there was a civil war between the elves. Light and Dark. The royal families muddied their bloodlines, so there was no telling who the true heir to the throne was. Ultimately, the Dark Elves won. So, Malekith has the throne. Understand?”
“I think so,” Elise bit her lip. It had been a long day of learning for her. She knew most things. What I did every day, what choices I made for the castle. When it came to valuable information, such as history and current events, Elise felt lost. As if someone had taken her mind and shook it, scrambling bits of information everywhere. I put my hand on top of hers before she touched another piece.
“Let’s stop here,” I said. Elise smiled, grateful for the break. When we stepped out of the Lord’s chambers, I watched Loki give his own private lessons to Fandral who seemed to be learning much faster than Elise. Loki held individual notes and letters in his hand. He tossed away each one as they both studied through it. The papers fell through the moon door, floating away in the wind.
The Moon Door bothered me less, but I still remembered flashes of memory that invaded my mind. It didn’t matter now. Loki would never let anyone touch me like that again. Neither would Elise. She gripped me tighter and consciously pulled me away from the hundred foot drop.
“When do you leave?” Elise asked. Her arm around mine still held on tight.
“Soon, I think,” I answered honestly. “I try not to involve myself too much in war planning. Loki gets tired of talking about it all the time, and it hurts my heart to think of Thor and Sif as our enemies.”
“I understand,” Elise nodded. “To think, I am to be a lady of the Eyrie. I have a husband who is not only a Lord, but a high ranking knight. This is our home. My best friend will be the Queen of the Nine Kingdoms.”
“You think I’ll be Queen? What of Sif? Or Frigga?” I asked. “Loki’s mother has much more experience than I do. Sif already has an heir.” Elise nodded her head.
“Do not compare yourself to others. You may be younger than both of them, but you have something they don’t.”
“Which is?”
“The love of the people,” Elise smiled at me. I shook my head.
“That’s a ridiculous—
“It’s not. You do. Everyone at Highgarden loved you. I would get jealous chambermaids who wanted to serve you. Loki’s men have looked at you longer than they should have. I remember watching Loki berating one of his men for speaking about you in a romantic manner. I believe he wanted to sweep you away, and Loki nearly blinded him so he may never look at you again. The dwarves? They worshipped you even when you were lying to them.”
“People love me that much?”
“People adore you that much,” Elise corrected me. “You were made to be queen. Many people want to serve you, be with you, and follow you. My house and family will follow you to the very end. I know that much.” Elise’s fidelity to me was unnerving and never ending. I had been too blessed with her by my side.
“I will miss you,” I kissed her cheek. “What will I do without you?”
“You’ll be fine without me,” Elise looked around her. The Eyrie was a large castle sitting on top of a high peak. Its defenses were known across the nine kingdoms as the best. Elise’s fingers shook. I took her hand again. She was safer than she realized.
“You’ll be fine. You know so much already.”
As the days passed, Elise caught on while I packed up to leave this home. It did not feel the same as leaving Highgarden. Highgarden will always be my home. The Eyrie was where Loki and I made our home. It is where we fell in love; where we made love for the first time. This was a different kind of sadness.
I mounted a horse with my back straightened and my eyes looking forward. I glanced behind me to see Elise still standing at the gates. Her sad smile imprinted on my memory. I looked forward again, my hands gripped tight on the reins. My horse started to jog up to Loki’s horse.
He looked ahead until he noticed me next to him. His green cape draped behind him. His golden horns were polished and sat proud on his head. Loki smiled proudly.
“You look like a queen,” His blue eyes went over my outfit. I wore golden armor across my shoulders. A green cape also draped behind me. Instead of horns, I donned a golden crown of flowers. The very same crown that the kind dwarves gifted me.
Several dwarves stood behind us ready to march. Each one covered in armor and weapons. My own men held Highgarden banners high while Iron Island men stood next to them. Three different armies all stood behind us. It felt intimidating to see all of these men to depend their lives on me. For a moment, I wanted to run away back to Highgarden where everyone and everything was safe.
“Darling?” Loki’s fingers brushed at my cheek. “Are you ready?” I looked forward once more. The land before us will filled with no promises, impending violence, and it possibly held the deaths of several of our people. My stomach filled with dread.
“No,” I answered quietly. A queen would not show her weakness to her people. But I was no queen. I felt my breathing become shaky. Soon, a green mist slowly surrounded me. I inhaled it and felt calm again as if nothing happened. I raised my eyebrows to see my husband put his left hand back into his glove.
“I’ve been practicing that one,” he started. “I noticed how nervous you’ve been. I only wanted to help.” Loki’s new captain, Xerxes, rode up to us. His wild hair blew in the wind while his almost black eyes found mine.
“Everyone’s ready on your command, your Majesty,” he told us. He held my gaze for a moment longer and then looked towards Loki waiting for confirmation.
Loki nodded his head. We both watched Xerxes ride away on his horse, commanding everyone to march forward. This was it. We were seasoned in battle and seasoned in attacking and protecting a castle. This was progress. This was moving forward.
Again, I was reminded how beautiful the land of the Nine Kingdoms could be. Green pastures and nature took their course on this land. Some saplings reached their tiny branches towards the sun so they may be blessed with its warmth. Other trees seemed to touch the sky, already in the sun’s favor.
“Do you remember the last time we rode together?” I asked my husband to pass the time.
“We came to the Eyrie together,” he answered.
“But as friends. And only a friends.”
I watched a smile form on his face. His joy was infectious. “I remember that too. Why do you mention this?”
“Because we’ve grown so much. It still amazes me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t surprise you. My mother is incredibly crafty and clever. She’s the one to arrange this marriage. She knew your father hated the King. She also knew how many men you had and what a stronghold and strong ally Highgarden would be.”
“And me?”
“Your father spoke highly of you. I don’t think he spoke highly enough. You are much more than what I expected,” Loki frowned. “I do mean that. Back then, I was still upset and heartbroken. I treated you terribly.”
“You had to plan war.”
“I avoided you. I didn’t want you. It was a mistake. All of it. I should’ve known from our wedding night.”
“Our wedding night? What do you mean? You went off to plan an attack with my father.”
“No, no. Something else happened that night. Something I thought you wouldn’t be comfortable with knowing.” Loki told me. He rode a little closer. My ears peaked in interest.
“Tell me,” I said.
“How much do you remember of that night?”
“I remember the bedding ceremony and how much we hated it. I remember having you alone for only moments until Fandral came to collect you because of an urgent notice. Then you left.” I explained. Loki frowned again.
“Do you remember e saying goodbye to you?” he asked earnestly. The memory came back, but it was so long ago for such a small detail.
“Yes, he’s expecting you in the war council now,” Fandral looked at me. “As lovely as your bride looks, I’m afraid your wedding night will have to wait.” I smiled. Loki didn’t say a word about my dress or me the entire night, but it was nice of his friend Fandral to say something so nice.”
“I apologize, my lady,” Loki said. “Despite my attitude earlier, I was looking forward to tonight. I hope you sleep well.” Loki placed another kiss on my cheek. The same warm feeling washed over me.
“I kissed you on the cheek.” Loki turned the reigns to the left, following the road into the woods.
“You did, but what of it?”
“It was shortly after that it started to happen. The magic,” Loki continued. “After I left you alone, I did go straight to the war council with your father. He felt bad for taking me away from you, but I sensed he didn’t exactly warm up to the idea of us being together. We started to discuss things when I first felt it. There was a heartbeat in my arm and it was not mine. I ignored it, thinking it must be nerves. But then it continued.”
“Continued?”
“The heartbeat would come and go. Sometimes it would be calm. Other times it would be excited. I didn’t realize what it truly was until the day I used my magic to hurt you. When I sent you back, the heartbeat quickened and almost stopped. I realized then what it was. Soulmate magic.”
“Soulmate magic? Is there such a thing?” I asked confusedly. It was a hard thing to believe, but Loki had proved that magic existed and it was real.
“There is. I wanted to test it out. When you ran and no one could find you, I used that magic. I manifested it into leading me to you.”
“And that’s how you found me,” I finished the thought for him. “What does it mean?”
“It means that you and I are tied to one another, sealed with this magic. It means that my mistake of denying you, avoiding you was almost dire. I could’ve lost you. I will never made the sae mistake again.”
“Is that why you were eager to take me up on my deal? The friendship vows?” I asked. Loki nodded. The sunlight broke through the trees in the woods. The light played with his face.
“Since that day I found you in the maze, in the middle of the battle, I believed that we were soulmates. I belonged to you, as you belong to me. So many things have happened since then, but I still believe that,” Loki chuckled. “War. It has made a creature out of me. I crave power. I want justice. I fall deeply for a girl from Highgarden. I think the Fates mean to make me into a War Creature, so I am no longer human. Just a man who is a slave to his own emotions.”
“Then that must make me a War Creature as well, don’t you think?”
Loki cocked his eyebrow. “Explain.”
“I have found myself so strangely loyal to you. My anger against Malekith has grown with each day. I want nothing but to see him burn and those children returned to their families. A sadness grows inside of me whenever I think of how much loss has happened. My heart breaks, but yet you mend it back together. My desire for you has only blossomed. I, too, am a slave to my emotions.”
“The Fates have made us both War Creatures, it seems,” Loki smiled at me. Xerxes rode up to both of us again. His horse close to my side than Loki’s.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted. “Scouts have reported back to me about the perfect camping spot in the woods. They say it will be an excellent spot for the cloaking spell you mentioned.”
“Lead us there and we will make camp then,” Loki ordered. Xerxes nodded his head and rode off.
“Cloaking spell?”
“I’m afraid there is a lot to explain, but know that you are safe with me always,” Loki promised. We approached a dip in the woods. The land was covered in leaves and soil that was never used for farming. Trees shielded everything from the sun. As our caravan made their way down into the dip, I watched Loki and his other high ranking colleagues stay at the border of the dip.
Their hands changed positions quickly and I watched a brown-red border rise from the ground and form a barrier between us and the outside world. The barrier was patterned with crossing lines and linked circles. It didn’t disturb the trees or the rest of nature. The barrier formed a dome above my head and closed. Then it disappeared as if nothing was there.
What couldn’t Loki do with magic? I wondered.
My stomach turned and I felt a large of amount of pain inside of me. I clutched my body and held it together. A healer ran up to me and supported me with her own strength.
“My lady, are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I looked around me. My vision was not blurry. My head went fine. This was not poison. This was something else.
Taglist: @angelicshinigami @sugarwastaken @carilov09@disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @i-theredqueen @sleepylunarwolf@trashpandabarnes @loki-0fasgard @crazylittlewitch
#war creatures#loki#Loki Laufeyson#loki odinson#loki x reader#loki/reader#loki imagine#imagine loki#marvel fanfic#mcu fanfic#loki x oc#loki/oc#got crossover
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The Duchess I/III
MASTERLIST
Pairing: Bucky x reader ; Steve x reader
Warnings: A man hitting a woman on her cheek during a heated argument.
Word count: 2.1k
Summary: The Duchess of Manhattan likes her men regal. Y/N Stark grew up loving the king, but when the tables turn and the lovers are torn apart, she aims her arrows at the second in line for the throne.
THIS IS A MINI SERIES SO NO TAGGING SORRY X
Series masterlist can be found here
A/N: Written for my bae @caplansteverogers
The royal palace has always been a place of mixed feelings. When you were younger and your father was still very much in love with his second wife, your mother, you could roam the palace at all hours of day and not a soul would blink an eye. You’d play in the royal garden with your bow and arrow in an attempt to impress young prince Bucky. Then you’d race each other to the pond where you’d find young master Steve feeding the ducks, the bastard son of King George. The three of you would stay at the water until nightfall and the palace guards came looking for the prince.
But once you reached the desirable age of 16, the king of New York took note of your exceptional beauty, a beauty all men wished to possess but none could claim except the prince, for Bucky captured your heart a long time ago. Nevertheless, before the prince was even born, his father King George made an arrangement with the richest Duchess of all, Natalia of Queens, to unify their strengths with a marriage between prince Bucky and her daughter Natasha.
So when king George realised Bucky would never look at any other women ever again as long as you were in his life, he promised your father all the richness and all the land his heart desired if he sent you away from the palace and to your aunt. Your father, the duke of Manhattan Tony Stark, was now the Duke of Manhattan and Staten Island, where your aunt and uncle resided. The offer of the king was too good to turn down and thus young Y/N joined her aunt Wanda where she lived with her brother Count Pietro, both unmarried.
You remained with your aunt Wanda and uncle Pietro for several years, forging relationships stronger than the ties of blood. You met a young farmer, Clint Barton, and his wife Sarah along with their two kids. It was Clint that taught young Wanda and Pietro all they needed to know to uphold their county after their parents died an untimely death. It is thanks to Clint that young Count Pietro managed to keep his father’s people thriving and strengthened the community.
It was also Clint that comforted you when the letter came the day before Christmas, demanding your return to court as a lady in waiting to the new queen. King George had been involved in a so-called hunting accident and unfortunately laid down his life the next morning. The coronation of the new king, king James, was to coincide with the announcement of the engagement of King James to Duchess Natasha Romanova of Queens. The letter had been signed by king James and delivered by his half-brother Steve Rogers, the Duke of Brooklyn, who per request of the king was to personally escort you back to court.
“My old friend,” you great the blond with a gratuitous smile. Steve has definitely aged with grace and he looked quite valiant in his grey suit with gold cufflinks.
Steve presses a chaste kiss to your cheek as a greeting. “It’s been too long, Y/N. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing… Duchess Stark.”
“Oh please,” you wave away the title as if it means nothing, “Don’t call me Duchess Stark. Duchess will do just fine for formal events. But in private, you can always call me Y/N… Steve.” Getting into the car with him, you inquire about the situation at the household of the Duke and Duchess of The Bronx. “I’ve heard many rumours but I doubt they are true.”
“After the Duke’s death, Duchess Carter and her daughter Sharon have found refuge at court. As long as they are at court, they’re under the protection of King James. But if they wish to return to the Bronx, the people will have their head within the hour. The fate of the Bronx now rests with the king but my guess is that that’s exactly why he called you back to court.”
This spikes your interest and you easily betray your curiosity by exposing your expression to any signs of confusion and excitement. “The Bronx is Manhattan’s neighbour and it’s my belief he wishes to make you Duchess of Manhattan, Staten Island and the Bronx, as you have always been loved by the people all over New York.”
Pursing your lips, you reply rather sourly. “I have my father to thank for that. A lousy family man but always good to the people, throwing luscious balls for both the elite and the commoners. Everyone was welcome, always.”
Resting a hand on your knee, Steve leans in to whisper something in your ear, mindful of the driver as he too is employed by the king. “He also means to take you on as his mistress.”
“I see,” you answer dryly, clearly not amused by Steve’s revelation. “He can’t have Queens and Manhattan, not even for sake of tradition.”
It is a well-known secret that the eve of the announcement of an engagement, the king also announces his mistress. He or she is then brought to his chambers after the official ceremony, where they will consummate their silent agreement. Yet the king’s mistress is also the king’s favourite and usually granted with either title, land, money, or other precious goods. Yet you already have a title and more land than you wish, money doesn’t fancy you either so there’s nothing that he could offer to persuade you.
Once you arrive at court, you are rushed to your quarters where you are left to your own devices, preparing for the occasion. There is however an impressive collection of gowns waiting for you in the dressing room, all hand-picked by Bucky or so Steve tells you. Eventually your eyes fall on a soft red-pink ballgown with roses stitched on the skirt of the dress.
The Duke of Brooklyn awaits your arrival at the end of the hallway to escort you to the grand hall where the festivities are taking place. His eyes are glued to your dress, scanning you from head to toe as he checks out your bosom as well.
“You do know something is missing right?,” he queries playfully, stepping behind you and asking you to lift up your hair to he can put on the necklace he purchased for you. Or rather, the necklace King James purchased for you, a ruby diamond embroidered in gold.
Offering his arm to you, his joyous expression soon turns serious again. “Don’t speak to the Duchess Natasha,” he warns immediately, a threatening undertone cutting like a knife into your skin. “With the Bronx, you will possess far more land than her, and if Bucky means to marry us off to each other… The only thing Natasha’s power will rely on is her money, and the kingdom needs money or Bucky wouldn’t be marrying her.”
Turning towards your friend right before the doors to the ballroom, you whisper under your breath in a sharp timbre. “I am not marrying you, Steve. I will only marry for love, nothing less.”
Your eyes soften when the lights falling on Steve’s face reveals his shattered hopes. Cupping his cheek you watch how he leans into your touch regardless of your rejection and you realise that no matter what, the Duke of Brooklyn will love you forever, just like you will love Bucky forever.
The king is sitting on his throne, with his future queen next to him. The crown weighs heavy on his head, even though the coronation and announcement of his engagement ran as smoothly as he had expected. But there’s a thorn in his eye, a gilded rose dancing in his line of vision. Duchess Y/N Stark, now the Duchess of both Manhattan as the Bronx by his command, is waltzing away on the melodious tunes of the orchestra.
Getting up and strutting toward the centre of the room where she is laughing at something funny Steve’s just whispered in her ear, all guests make way for the king as I wave at the orchestra to keep playing. They don’t seem to mind the interruption, Y/N’s eyes as innocent as those of a doe but with a heart of a stallion, Steve’s broad posture as warm and welcoming as ever. They truly are a match made in heaven, I might convince myself.
Once I lace my arm around Steve’s shoulder, after the initial curtesy and politeness, I grin widely at my eldest friends. “I am so glad you could make it.” My voice is somewhat sincere, breaking a little under the pressure of keeping a straight face around the love of my life. “I am so glad I found you together as well since I have good news for both of you.”
“She already knows, Bucky,” Steve interrupts me before I can tell her I’ve decided to make the biggest mistake of my life and arrange her wedding to Steve without her permission. “And she said no.”
Am I infuriated by her insubordination? No. Am I pleased she isn’t following my orders and kissing my ass like all those other fuckers? Yes. But does that mean she’s off the hook. Absolutely not. “Y/N, a word, please,” I sneer while gripping her upper arm tightly, ghosting through the masses as casually as possible. But the guests are too busy enjoying the luxury and splendour of the palace to notice what’s going on behind the scenes.
Instantly taking her to my private living room, I press my lips to hers ardently yet violently as my anger and longing consume me completely. The clock strikes midnight on Christmas morning when she gingerly gives in and kisses back.
“I didn’t know kissing people at midnight on Christmas morning was a thing…,” she chuckles softly when she pulls away, chest heaving slightly.
Sliding my lips down her neck and onto her throat, she moans with a little giggle once my lips close around her pulse point. “It is now.”
“Are you trying to change my mind about marrying Steve?” Pushing my chest very gently, she tries to create some distance between us. “Because I won’t. I should be your queen, Bucky, not Natasha.”
With a deep, shuddering exhale I make it clear to her that I will not take no for an answer. Batting my hands away when I try to pull her to my chest, my hand lashes out and strikes her across the cheek. I have never hit a women nor would I ever do so, or so I thought. But Y/N inspires the demon inside me and I am beyond myself when I can’t have her and can’t have my way with her.
Clutching her cheek in the palm of her hand, she takes long strides away from me, her face contorted in pain and surprise, disbelief but mostly betrayal. Then the mask covers her true emotions as if turning the page of a book, her face cold. “Your wish is my command,” she replies with a monotone voice. “Goodbye, King James.”
I let her slip away without another word, my heart falling into its grave.
Finding Steve isn’t hard when you’ve grown up inside these walls. By the river, where the ducks still reside, I find him kneeling and trying to lure a mother with her baby ducks with some pieces of bread he stole from the banquet.
“Steve…,” you call out his name but instead of walking over to you, he beckons you to come to him instead and try gaining the trust of the ducklings yourself. Because you have a heart for animals, of course you agree and soon your dress is stained by the fresh, green grass.
The fluffy ducklings shuffle closer and closer until one eventually takes the bait and the others follow naturally. They are so cute and cuddly you can’t help but shelter one in the palm of your hand and pet the adorable little creature before giving it back to the mother.
“What did Bucky say?,” Steve inquires gingerly, his eyes cast downwards in anxious anticipation.
Clearing your throat, you stand in front of the blond with your head held high and a straight back. Even though the decision falls hard on you, there’s no way you can take back the words you said to Bucky. You have torn him from your life and thrown the pages into the fire. And vengeance is a peculiar beasty, much like ambition and blind adoration.
“Steve,” I mumble to his lips, our breaths mingling in the freezing air of night. “Tell me… How much would you like to be king?”
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Another day, another Subconscious preview, and I am blazing through this book! Like, I thought I was going to have to fight through tremendous writer’s block due to switching gears into new characters, but nope! Looks like all those years of preparation are paying off!
It was somewhat interesting, as Sir Mane reflected as he settled into luxurious chair in his private box at the Ava Adore Theater, how wars are named.
Certainly there seemed to be little rhyme or reason. Some, especially single battles, took their name from the place whose soil soaked up the blood. Others from the date in which they happened. Still others got their titles from what was accomplished, such as the Tyrannical War or the War of Jewels. Whatever the case, there just seemed to be little consistency between them.
Take the two most significant wars in Nightmare history. The Nightmare War, in which Thelonious the Silent decided that he was no longer content with ruling over a full fourth of Nod and tried to take the whole pie, was named, of course, after the people who started it, who fired the first shot, who were the most central players in the whole dismal, bloody affair. And ultimately, they were the ones who lost, losing their Progenitor in the process with no heir to take up the mantle of Monarch. The interesting thing to note was that at the time, it wasn't known as the Nightmare War. After all, the Nightmares weren't even called the Nightmares back then, as the one who would provide the name hadn't even been born yet. From all accounts, it was known as the Screaming War while it was still in progress, with the rename occurring much later, starting off as a nickname that eventually took hold and became official in the history books.
On the other hand, despite its similarities, the Marauder War took a different road. Like its elder brother, the Marauder War had been started by the Nightmares. They had been the aggressors, the instigators, the ones who bore the responsibility. As was the case with the Nightmare War, they had done so out of greed, seeking to steal something that they had no right to. In both cases, they had been wholly unprepared for their enemies' response, leaving them a broken and bewildered people, with less standing than they had begun with. And finally, though the Nightmares had taken the brunt of the damage, the end results had still sent shockwaves throughout Nod, forever changing its destiny.
The difference was that the Nightmare War had been named after the losers, as an eternal reminder of their greed and stupidity. On the other hand, the Marauder War was named after the victors. Before they had brought the Nightmares to heel and forced their surrender, the Marauders had been seen as little more than pests, nuisances that bore watching but had little to do with Nod's affairs. So long as they remained in their world, they weren't worth the effort to bother with. Funny how things changed.
Another difference was how much time had elapsed. The Marauder War had only taken place a scarce seventy-four years ago, and many still lived that remembered it. It was recent enough to pervade public consciousness, and was a sore enough subject in many circles that joking about it was considered poor taste.
Naturally, the only thing to do then was to produce a rock opera about it.
The Table and the Tunnel was certainly a controversial production. It retold the events that had led up to the Marauder War and the circumstances of its ending in broad strokes. The personalities of its players were exaggerated, their motivations twisted and several key moments ignored while others warped. To this the producers were unapologetic, citing artistic license. "An entertaining production is more important than historical accuracy!" claimed its writer. To this, critics had been unimpressed, as it was exceedingly clear that the goal of the play was to rewrite history, demonizing one side while propping up the other as misunderstood heroes. The agenda was as clear as day, and the producers' stalwart refusal to admit as such had earned them some very vocal opponents. Protestors were common sights at performances.
Of course, all of this combined with the attractiveness and charisma of its leads and an undeniably catchy soundtrack meant that it was a smash hit. The price of a ticket was obscene and often sold out well in advance. And as one of its principal bankrollers, Sir Mane had profited greatly from its success.
However, money was not the reason he had personally invested in its production. He had more than enough already. No, his reasons were much more personal, and the play's success was satisfying to him on a deeply intimate level. He would have ensured its production even if not a single ticket were ever sold. And he had already seen it three times.
The lights dimmed, and the babble of voices in the audience below, the overwhelming majority of them Nightmares, died down to be replaced with loud cheers and whistles. Smirking, Sir Mane settled down to enjoy the show.
But as the opening chords of the rock ballad The World Beneath began, he became aware that the door to his private box was opening behind him. Frowning, he turned in his seat, wondering who could be so bold to interrupt him and why the guards he had stationed outside had let them through. It had better be good, or they had better be dead.
A plain-faced young man, barely out of childhood and dressed in an ill-fitting tux, walked in. Sir Mane's icy blue eyes were already cold and malicious, something that newspaper caricatures took delight in emphasizing. But now they were downright frigid. If there was one thing he hated more than being interrupted it was children. Already he was mentally figuring out how to dispose of the body.
His hands stuck into his pockets, the young man smirked at him. Then without so much as a greeting or an apology he walked over to slip into the empty seat next to Sir Mane.
And with that, the boy's death warrant was signed.
But before Sir Mane could translate murderous intent into action, the boy's features dissolved like the picture in an old-fashioned, poorly-tuned television. When they came back into focus, Sir Mane found himself sitting next to someone else entirely.
The man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, with northern European features, a strong, clean-shaven jaw, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, and storm cloud eyes as cold as Sir Mane's. Though old age was still far away, his face was lined with the wrinkles of a much older man, denoting a man accustomed to submerging himself in weighty affairs. His charcoal black suit now fit him exquisitely. There was a gold ring set with a ruby on his left hand, and a large golden watch on his right wrist. The side of his lip curled up in a manner that might be a smile and might not be. Either way, it did not reach his eyes.
Slowly exhaling, Sire Mane settled back into his chair. "Your Highness," he said, his tone conveying nothing but respect. "This is an…unexpected pleasure."
Prince Claudio Borgia nodded cordially. The eldest son of King Savio Borgia, Claudio was the crown prince of Kanon, a title that might be meaningless in light of his father's immortality, but given that both the original Antoine Borgia, Progenitor to the Kanon, and his son and heir had met with untimely ends three hundred years apart, Claudio's chances of one day taking the throne were higher than one might expect.
Whether or not that should happen depended on who you talked to. Certainly, there was no denying that Claudio was far more intelligent than his passionate, impulsive father, and would make a far more competent Monarch. However, he was also considerably more ruthless, considerably more dangerous, and considerably more feared. It was whispered that Savio had fathered him upon a Nightmare woman. Those that believed so were fools. One didn't need to be a Nightmare in order to be dangerous.
"Clearly," Claudio murmured in his soft, deadly voice, one that was often described as being like a velvet sheathe covering a killing blade. "Apologies for disturbing you, Sir Mane. But if word got out that we were speaking, then uncomfortable questions might arise."
Sir Mane frowned. "Then…forgive me, but wouldn't surprising me at a public venue still cause whispers to spread?"
Claudio's not-a-smile grew ever so slightly. "It is of no consequence. No one save for you recognizes me for who I am. In fact, no one save for you can even see me right now."
Sir Mane slowly breathed out. He was not a man without power. In fact, were the whole of Nod placed onto a list, he would rank in the upper echelon. But the power wielded by the Monarchs and their families was nothing short of terrifying.
Down below, on the stage, the actors playing the parts of Lord Eric of Thorns and the nefarious Dr. Croencore were singing a comedic duet listing all of the Marauders' worst traits, of which they had several. Lord Eric was already a handsome man and the actor selected to portray him had been cast accordingly. However, by all accounts. Dr. Croencore had not been easy on the eyes, and the things he had done had made him an unpopular figure in history. As such, Sir Mane had made sure that the person selected to play him was darkly handsome, with a commanding stage presence, formidable acting ability, and a deep, bass voice with no fewer than three musical numbers. Even the play's harshest critics admitted that he stole the show.
Even Prince Claudio seemed impressed. "You know, my little sister has the soundtrack to this play. This piece is a favorite of hers."
"Really," Sir Mane said. "I'm surprised that your father would allow this."
"Oh, he doesn't," Claudio said amiably. "He doesn't even know. The old man hates this play. In fact, he tried to have it banned from ever being performed anywhere in Kanon
"I remember," Sir Mane said. He didn't ask what the prince was even doing there. When Claudio wanted to tell him, he would. "He doesn't object that strongly to how we portrayed the Marauders, does he?
Claudio chuckled. "Well, he does appreciate how the Marauders knocked the Nightmares down a peg or two dozen. That in itself has caused him to look upon them favorably. But no, it's less of that and more of how well you made the Nightmares look."
"Ah."
Claudio shrugged. "The Nightmares killed our Progenitor and his successor, my father's grandfather and father. He is one to hold a grudge. Understandable, but wearying in the long run."
"And you?"
Another shrug. "I never knew my great-grandfather. I respect him, of course. But I never knew him. And I barely remember my grandfather. The Nightmares deserved their humiliation, yes, but that was a long time ago. If the current regime wishes to make amends, I say it's best to let them. Besides, we cannot allow ourselves to remain blind to the threat the Marauders pose."
The edge of Sir Mane's mouth twitched just a centimeter. It lasted less than a second, but Prince Claudio caught it.
"See?" he said, his smile finally becoming something real. "You agree." He looked back down to the performance, where the primary antagonist was taking the stage for his introductory number. As was customary, the audience booed him with enthusiasm. "The Marauders have not been shy about using their stranglehold on the Nightmares to push their influence out into our world. You know this. Jacob Draco especially grows bolder every year."
"Does he," Sir Mane growled.
On the stage, the character of Jacob Draco, Super Clanmaster of the Marauders, began singing his appropriately bombastic trash-metal signature song, bragging about his schemes and designs on taking all of the world of Nod for his own. The actor was a particular point of pride for Sir Mane, as he nailed the slimy, conniving, duplicitous character with perfection, with grating, nasal singing voice to boot. The fact that he hadn't even hit puberty yet had garnered him much acclaim, and the rest of the cast were quick to let people know that the actual boy was the sweetest thing ever and nothing like the vile person he played.
"Sir Mane, please don't plead ignorance," Claudio said as they watched the fictional depiction of the actual person they were discussing. "You know full well that he's already purchased a number of industrial properties, many of which you yourself had your eye on. And we have reason to suspect that he's been making a push into the entertainment industry as well. We know you've already been undercut several times and had assets you already owned bought out from beneath you. He is aggressively pushing into your territory. And we both know how protective you are of what's rightfully yours."
Sir Mane felt his jaw tighten. He didn't really have the best poker face, true, and Prince Claudio's words were scoring several hits. "What do you want from me?" he said, his voice hoarse.
"Your assistance." Prince Claudio steepled his fingers in front of his face as he continued to watch the performance. "We are in the process of putting together, shall we say, an organization, one that will be tasked with stopping the Marauders in their tracks and force them back into their tunnels."
Sir Mane had to snicker at that. "Good look with that. You know how the Marauders are about their rules. Hurt one, and you bring the whole swarm down on your heads."
"True," Claudio admitted. "But there is something of a loophole, a place where, according to their own rules, anything goes."
That made Sir Mane blink with surprise. No, he couldn't be suggesting what it sounded like he was suggesting. "The Unconscious?" he said, perhaps a bit more loudly than he should have. "You're taking the fight to the Marauders in the Unconscious?"
Unperturbed, Claudio merely said, "There are many who feel that they've been given free rein to plunder dreams long enough. There is more than sufficient reason to suspect that their thieving has had a negative effect on the dreamkind that spawn from dreams that they've stolen from." He quirked an eyebrow, his stormy grey eyes glancing meaningfully at the man sitting next to him. "Besides, if the rumors that they've begun kidnapping fetal dreamkind before the dream has even ended are true, then that in itself is more than enough reason to put a stop to things."
Sir Mane was shocked. Part of the reason why nobody had bothered to do anything about the Marauders until the Nightmares' misguided attempt to steal their power was that, for the most part, the Marauders kept their activities restricted to the Unconscious, sneaking into dreams and taking whatever odd baubles caught their eye. Conducting raids upon those who lived in Nod was heavily frowned upon, which was something of a relief, as killing, harming, or holding a Marauder against their will in Nod was tantamount to an act of war, as the Nightmares had been surprised to find out. Besides, with the Warrens that they called home being inaccessible to anyone but themselves, stamping out their nests was all but impossible, whereas they could strike anytime, anywhere should they be provoked. As such, so long as the little rats kept their plundering restricted to dreams, then the rest of the world had to content itself with pretending that they didn't exist.
The war had changed that. The Nightmares had broken those rules, and had paid the price for their foolishness. And ever since then the Marauders had been growing more and more bold. There were rumors of raids taking place on the smaller settlements, farmsteads, and unclaimed territories. People claimed to have seen Marauders walking the streets, plain as day. One particularly disturbing incident had occurred only a few weeks ago, in which a group of drunk young men had attacked what they swore was a Marauder raiding party but had turned out to be group of schoolchildren walking home from the theater. Luckily there hadn't been any serious injuries, but it did speak to the growing fear that came from the Marauder clans breaking their traditional borders and everyone being unable to do anything about it.
However, like Prince Claudio, there was a loophole, a way to strike back without violating the Marauders' strict code. The Unconscious itself, where the dreams of humanity created the denizens of Nod, a virtual no-man's-land as far as the Marauders were concerned. According to their rules, those who entered a dreamer's dream did so at their own peril. And while no Marauder would dare take advantage of that loophole to murder another while in a dream, there was, as Claudio had just pointed out, nothing preventing someone else from doing the same.
Sir Mane slowly breathed out. This was…this was going to change everything. "It's still dangerous," he said. "Dreams don't last long enough to set any proper traps. And where are you planning on taking any Marauders you capture?"
"I never said anything about capturing them," Prince Claudio murmured.
Silence.
Back on the stage, the current song came to an end, as Sir Eric of Thorns lamented the circumstances that had driven him to such extremes. The applause eventually died down, and as the room darkened to signal a scene change, Sir Mane said, "What you're proposing is extremely dangerous. Sure, it's a loophole, but you can't expect the Marauders to do nothing. They'll declare war regardless."
"Some will want to, yes," Claudio responded. "Others won't be so eager."
Sir Mane frowned. "Meaning?"
"We have reason to believe that tensions have started to rise between the clans. They were always a disorganized bunch, squabbling and competing amongst themselves. They united during the war, certainly, but that was a long time ago. As we understand it, the fact that Jacob Draco kept the power he accumulated during the war has rankled some nerves, and whatever goodwill he gained for winning is now all but spent."
Now this was interesting. Sir Mane's own sources had also said as such, but nothing had been confirmed. His brow furrowed, Sir Mane leaned in closer and listened.
"If you'll recall, it took some time for the Marauders to fully commit to the war, and that was after the Nightmares had blatantly violated their rules," Claudio continued. "It wasn't until the purpose of Dr. Croencore's experiments came to light that they panicked. It is our hope that striking at them while respecting the letter of the law of their rules will further inflame those tensions, driving a wedge between those who wish to strike back and those reluctant to enter into another conflict."
"Maybe, but that'll just make them more reckless," Mane countered. "Even if there isn't another war, the pressure will just motivate Jacob to accelerate whatever he's doing."
"Indeed," Claudio said with a soft smile. "We're counting on it, actually."
And then Mane got it. "This is what you need me for, isn't it?"
Claudio nodded. "No one knows the extent of Jacob Draco's push into our world like you do. No one's resisted him as long as you have. As his principal…business rival, you're in a unique position to upset whatever it is he has planned. Only now you'll be doing it with our backing."
"Really. And are you sure they'll be so anxious to have me? After all, I am not a popular figure in many circles."
"Oh, your necromantic hobbies don't bother us much. We're not looking for public support. We're looking for results." Then Claudio make a cursory scan of the audience below them. "By the by, are those two infamous monsters of yours about?"
"They're where I need them," Mane answered, his voice betraying nothing. "Back to the point, what if war does result?"
"Oh, I feel that's inevitable at this point," Claudio said, his tone disturbingly casual for such a weighty pronouncement. "But this way, we'll be in a far better position to fight back and eventually crush them when it does. Furthermore, you'll have our full support and protection should they turn their destructive attention toward you and your properties."
"Ah. And if I may, who exactly does we include?"
"Why, all of us," Prince Claudio said. "The Kanon, the Desios, and the Sahks. The Nightmares are, of course, excluded, but we have every reason that should open hostilities erupt, they'll be more than happy to throw off the Marauders' yoke and throw in as well."
Mane's head jerked back. "What? Are you serious?"
"I am." Then Claudio grimaced. "Well, for the most part. We're still ironing out the details. The Four Thrones have never been known for being agreeable with one another, but we're making headway. It helps that it was King Azul the Golden's idea."
Now Mane was outright stunned. "Azul is part of this?"
"He's spearheading it, actually." Claudio shrugged and chuckled. "Of course, Father is being contrary, but I'm sure he'll come around. The Sahks are…more or less on board, but with them, who can tell really?"
Mane leaned back into his seat, thinking. This…this changed everything. If what Prince Claudio was saying turned out to be true, then the social and political ramifications were going to be huge. Three of the four dreamkind kingdoms cooperating to exterminate the Marauders once and for all? The Nightmares themselves finally free to seek bloody vengeance? Jacob Draco, cornered like rat, his machinations laid bare while his support base crumbled? The Marauders themselves falling into dissolution and infighting? This was going to shape history for centuries to come!
Of course, dissention or no, the Marauders were going to resist. Even with all four kingdoms united against them, they were sure to put up a hell of a fight. No one really knew the full extent of the resources they had at their disposal, and even if they went down, it was fair to say that they were going to take a number of their enemies down with them. And just by being involved, Mane was going to become a prime target. They were going to try to ruin him, destroy everything he had worked to build, maybe even kill him.
But then, they were going to do that regardless, and with this level of support there was nothing he could lose that he would be unable to rebuild tenfold. And he relished the chance to take the fight back to that conniving snake. Besides, he was very, very hard to kill.
But still…
"There's still problems though," Mane said. "What about the Warrens? We still have no way of accessing them. Dr. Croencore's research was never completed, and he's been missing for years. What if they see this coming and start leveraging the Nightmares against us? What about-"
"The problems and risks are numerous, yes," Claudio said smoothly. Mane bristled at the interruption, but he didn't dare make an issue of it. "And we will be more than happy to discuss them with you at length. But for now, we don't need a sounding board. We need an answer. Are you in or out?"
Mane frowned. "Hypothetically speaking…if I say no, what follows?"
"Then I thank you for your time and leave you to enjoy the rest of the play," Claudio said. "You sacrifice only the opportunities that are to come."
"And you'll trust me not to blab?"
"I don't see how you'll be able to, seeing how I'll be taking all memory of this meeting with me when I leave."
Sir Mane wasn't surprised. Though he was far more resistant to mental manipulation than most people, even his mind would be a cakewalk to alter for a member of one of the royal families. "Fair enough," he said. "I'll have to think about it first."
Claudio nodded in agreement. "Quite reasonable. Take all the time you need. However, before you begin, there is something else I feel I should point out."
Mane was instantly on his guard. This was it: Claudio's trump card. "What is it?" he said guardedly.
Leaning over to whisper into Mane's ear, Claudio said, "He's here."
"What?"
"Jacob Draco. He's here. In this theater."
Mane inhaled sharply through his teeth. "What?"
Moving away, Claudio gestured with one hand out toward the audience. Specifically, to the box across from Mane's. In it sat an unremarkable young man and woman, both of them seeming to be in their late teens or early twenties (though when it came to age, appearance accounted for little) and were dressed wealthily enough to not seem out of place, with the boy wearing an olive-green suit and golden spectacles with thick green lenses while the girl had on a low-cut, frilly red dress and a large red flower stuck into her dark hair. Standing behind them were four men in dark tuxedos, obviously bodyguards.
Mane did not recognize them, and that in itself set off alarm bells. They had bought a ticket for one of the private boxes in his theater, watching his show! He ought to not only know their names, relations, and accomplishments, but also have their parents on speed-dial!
"That's him?" he said, his voice lowering to a snarl. "Are you sure?"
"Quite," Prince Claudio murmured. If he was at all offended at having his word questioned, it didn't show. He made a vague motion with the fingers of his right hand.
Before Mane's eyes, the occupants from the other box changed. Though their outfits remained the same, the boy and girl both shrank in their seats, becoming children nearly a decade younger than they had been. The boy's face darkened, his slicked-back hair thickening into black curls, changing from a bland Caucasian to adopting more Mediterranean features while the girl's complexion paled, her hair darkening and her face changing from English to Korean. As for the large men behind them, they also shrank, turning from burly men to burly teenagers. Though his eyes were shielded by his glasses, the boy was clearly disgusted, his nose wrinkling as he watched the stage. There, Dr. Croencore had little Ellen Richardson strapped to the titular table and was exasperatedly trying to convey his intention to her while the girl cluelessly misinterpreted everything he said, turning the scene into an Abbott and Costello routine.
Mane inhaled deeply through his nostrils and hissed it out through his teeth. That was him. Jacob Draco, in the flesh, accompanied by more of his Marauder filth.
"If you doubt what you're seeing, I remind you that I don't need to cast an illusion in order to manipulate you. I could simply dominate your mind and be done with it," Claudio said mildly. "The only illusion I've created is the one that that admitted me to your box and continues to make it seem that you are sitting alone, enraptured with the play. All I've done here is let your eyes pierce through their own glamour." He waved his hand again, and everyone in the far box regained their false faces.
"I'm not doubting you, your Highness," Mane growled. "What I am, however, is wondering what he's even doing here."
"Oh, that's easy enough. If my rival produced a smash hit musical about what a wicked fellow I was, I would want a closer look as well, if for no other reason to ensure that my songs had the potential to become breakaway pop hits."
Then, as if acting on some sort of cue, the disguised Jacob Draco shook his head and got up to head for the door at the back of the box. Two of the guards immediately followed suit, with the girl and the other two remaining.
"And there he goes," Claudio observed. "Perhaps he knows something's up, or simply had all the stage slander he could stomach. Odd he would leave his date though. Maybe he's just going to the restroom."
Mane took a deep breath. "Right then."
And then he stood up and made for the door.
Before he went too far, Prince Claudio reached up with one hand to grab him by the sleeve. He waited until he had Mane's full attention before saying, "Careful. You do anything to harm or detain him and the war is started prematurely. If you kill him, he'll just become a martyr, and someone else will take his place. We want him destroyed, not dead."
Mane gritted his teeth, but he managed a short nod. "I won't hurt him," he said hoarsely. "I'm just going to show him the door."
Claudio said nothing. The way his eyes bore into Mane's was warning enough. He released Mane's sleeve, and the Death Knight straightened out his coat and continued on his way, out the door, his gloved hands clenching into tight fists.
…
As Sir Mane stormed through the richly decorated halls of the Ava Adore Theater, he pulled his cellphone out of the pocket of his great coat. A few flicks, and he had brought up the theater's camera system, which told him immediately where Jacob Draco was and where he was heading.
Curiously, the Marauder Clanmaster was not making for the stairs, as the first thing a Marauder would do upon sensing danger would be to rush for the ground floor. Instead, he and his muscular entourage were instead moving around the top floor, making their way towards…
Despite his anger, Mane still smirked with amusement. So, it turned out that Jacob really did just need to use the restroom. Well, that was convenient.
Pocketing the phone, Mane continued his relentless march toward his nemesis. As he did, two other figures emerged from separate hallways to fall into step just behind him without losing stride, their long coats swishing as they walked. One was an exceptionally tall Pacific Islander with a neatly trimmed black beard; a large, black leather coat over his tailored black suit; and a wide-brimmed black hat. The other was a white man of average height, with a brown leather trench coat, spiky brown hair, and far too many tacky golden chains around his neck. The tall dark man scowled, the smaller white man smirked, and they matched each other's gait stride for stride.
As Mane turned the corner, he saw a few men gathered around the restroom in question, looking rather annoyed. Stationed in front of the door were the two guards, both of them standing with their arms folded and their expressions blank, staring silently at one especially peeved looking old man in a grey tuxedo who was loudly demanding if they knew who he was and what their names were.
As Mane and his escorts approached, the old man turned his furious attention to him. "Ah, there you are!" he said as he stormed over. "Mr. Mane, I'll have you know that I have been a loyal patron of this theater for years, and never once have I heard of anyone being permitted to clear the restrooms for their private use! This is an absolute-"
"Sir Mane," Mane corrected automatically, his eyes looking past the old man to focus on the guards, who were uncrossing their arms and now looking rather nervous. "And you're right, Mr. Pendanski. We don't permit that."
One of the guards raised a hand to his earpiece while the other reached inside his jacket. Wrong move.
Moving so quickly that those gathered around gasped, Mane suddenly had his hands around the necks of both guards and had them lifted up against the wall. He tossed them to either side, where his associates were waiting.
"Don't move, junior," said the white man in the brown coat in his thick Australian accent. He yanked out one of the sprawling guard's earpiece and crushed it in his hand and leered down at the dumbstruck Marauder. "Or this night's gonna get real interesting."
The tall dark man didn't even bother with threats. He merely disarmed the other guard and stood with his boot planted against the struggling boy's chest.
Without bothering to watch the proceedings, Mane shoved the restroom door aside and went in.
Like one might expect, the Ava Adore Theaters restrooms were as pricey as the rest of it, with each toilet having its own room set in the wall that including a small, private sink, mirror, a television screen keeping its occupants up-to-date with the performance, and cosmetics tray and refreshment table; potted plants; a central fountain; black marble floors; white marble sinks with golden faucets; and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. One of the doors was shut.
And from inside, Mane heard a toilet flush, followed by a rushing faucet.
The stall door opened, and Jacob Draco emerged wiping his hands, still wearing the false face of the bland young man that had granted him access. He apparently had not heard Mane come in, as he didn't seem at all hurried. In fact, he was idly whistling his stage character's signature song.
Then he caught sight of Sir Mane standing there, staring at him, and he froze.
Mane smirked. "Enjoying the play?" he said.
Before Jacob had time to react, Mane was on him, clearing the distance between them in less time than it takes to blink. Seizing the boy by the lapels, he lifted him up and shoved him against the wall.
"Wha, whoa, wait!" Jacob shrieked out, his hands clawing at Mane's arms. "What are you-"
"Shut up," Mane growled. He would have shut him up himself by squeezing his throat, but he was dancing along the line as it was. "Drop the act, Jacob. I know it's you."
Jacob stared down at him, his thick, green glasses giving the gaze an insectoid look. Then he sighed, his body relaxing.
Unlike when Prince Claudio had dropped his own glamour, Jacob literally seemed to shed his, the false face and added height flaking away from him like ash that fell around Mane's hands to disappear before touching the floor. It was like watching a snake shed its skin. In fact, it was exactly that.
"Well," Jacob said, dropping the high, Western American accent he had been using in favor of his natural voice. "I believe the term is 'busted.'"
Mane was not amused. "You have some nerve coming here. What are you doing here, Jacob? This is my theater."
"I wanted to see the rock opera," Jacob responded with a wry smile, his lips opening enough to display two rows of large, sharp, predatory teeth, like those of a wolf, though given his mascot, a dragon would be more accurate. If he was at all concerned with being hoisted into the air by the notorious Death Knight he didn't show it. "And I have to say: the songs are catchy, but surely you could have given me a better voice than that."
Even with rage reddening his vision, Mane was aware that this was the first meeting between himself and the infamous victor of the Marauder War, who held the entire Nightmare government by a tight leash. That might have meant more had Mane not been the boy's elder by several centuries and still remembered when the Marauders were nothing more than a few back-alley gangs of runaway children, stealing food and picking pockets to survive, with the Warrens nothing more than a distant fantasy. Plus, the way Jacob was confidently smirking despite his peril was all kinds of infuriating.
It also occurred to Mane that he had it within his power to make this meeting between them the last, to tear those disrespectful lips right off his face and smash those pointed teeth. The Nightmares would probably thank him.
But even as his body tensed with the thought, he suddenly found himself locked in place, his limbs frozen. Grunting, he tried to move, but it was like an invisible block of ice had set in place around him. He could move his eyes, twitch his nostrils, and tighten his muscles, but any movement beyond that was denied him.
No, Prince Claudio's silky voice spoke into his mind. Do not.
Mane gritted his teeth, but he acquiesced, his body relaxing. And suddenly, whatever it was that had held him in place was gone.
"Cat got your tongue?" Jacob said wryly.
Mane's eyes were already dark, but that comment lost them some color still. He slowly lowered Jacob to the floor and set him down. The threat was not gone though. He still towered over the boy, boxing him in between himself and the wall. For his part, Jacob stared back from behind his thick, green coke-bottle glasses.
"You are not welcome here, Marauder," Mane growled. "Leave."
Jacob quirked an eyebrow. Then he reached up and removed his glasses from his face.
His eyes were two orbs of pure silver, glinting in the light from the lamps.
"I bought a ticket," he said as he pulled out a silk handkerchief and used it to wipe down his glasses. "I broke no rule. I see no reason why I should not-"
In answer, Mane pulled his wallet from his pocket and extracted several bills. "Here," he said, flicking them at the boy. "Your refund. Now get out."
Sighing, Jacob placed his glasses back on. "Sir Mane, why the hostility? You are no Nightmare; you're not even a dream. As far as I know there is no reason for quarrel between us."
Mane wanted to take the smirking snake by the throat and crush it. He imagined how it would feel, the flesh crumpling between his fingers, listening to that insipid voice gasps and pleadings harshen into a croaking death rattle. "Jacob, don't take me for a fool. I know it was you that stole NamTech from me. I know it was you that bought out those Sierra farms out from under me. I know it was you that blocked me from those contracts in Mascaline."
Jacob tilted his head. "All's fair in love and capitalism, is it not? Business is business, and-"
"You are a Marauder," Mane snapped. "Your kind scurries in holes and tunnels and steals from dreams. You have no place in Nod. You have no right."
"Do I not? That's an interesting thing to hear from your lips. After all, you are no dream yourself. You may not be human, exactly, but you are still a dreamer, or you were. You're even more a stranger a stranger to Nod than I."
Mane bared his teeth in a gorilla grin. "Yes, you are correct. I am not a dream. I came here when the ways were still open. And in the hundreds of years since, I have integrated myself nicely with dreamkind. You? You rejected your claim, you and the rest of those dark children, sniveling about in your tunnels. I have earned my place, you forfeited yours. Now, will you leave, or will I have to test your people's loyalty? Because I hear there are many in the Warrens who would be relieved to see you gone."
Jacob's face hardened then. The boy's poker face was better than Mane's, yes, but Mane's comment had struck a nerve. So, it seemed that the reports of dissention between the Marauder clans had some merit.
"Very well," Jacob said shortly. He straightened out his jacket and moved around Sir Mane, not bothering to pick up the money on the ground. As he walked, his glamour rebuilt himself, giving him half a foot in height and a different face. Mane stood in place, watching him like a hawk.
Before Jacob reached the door, he paused. "By the by," he said, his hand on the metal push bar. "I have a complaint."
"I don't care," Mane said.
Jacob ignored him. "Demonize me if you wish. Drag my name through the mud if it makes you feel good about yourself. But your portrayal of Ellen Richardson was unwarranted. She is a victim, and what Dr. Croencore did to her was beyond the pale. Tell me: does it give you pleasure to portray her as a joke?"
Mane thought for a moment. Then he said, "Why, yes. Yes it does."
"Hmmm." Releasing the door, Jacob turned fully to face him. "Someone sent her a Table and the Tunnel DVD, you know. She cried when she saw how you made light of what happened to her."
"Good to hear," Mane said. "Now get out."
Jacob said nothing more. He merely turned and marched from the restroom. As the door swung open, Mane saw that Jacob's date and the other two guards had apparently joined their companions, with all five of them being lined up against the wall while Mane's two monsters casually stood guard.
Jacob paused upon seeing them, clearly recognizing who, and what, they were. In turn, they smiled twin predatory smiles at him, with the tall, dark one tipping his hat while the other bowed mockingly at the waist. Moving in synchronization, they motioned toward Jacob Draco's companions in an "after you" gesture.
Jacob grimaced. Then he walked over to the terrified girl and gently took her by the arm and hastily led her away from the gaggle, his four guards quick to fall in step behind them. The restroom door swung shut.
It was only then that Mane allowed himself to exhale. Though he had broken no rule, he knew that that altercation was going to have consequence. Despite his youthful appearance, Jacob Draco was not one to suffer such an insult. Perhaps his interference into Mane's business had been nothing more than simple conflict of interest. But from here on out, it was going to be personal.
Good.
Mane picked up a moist hand towel from a silver serving tray and used it to wipe his face. Discarding it, he left the restroom.
Some of the men had dispersed at the first sign of violence to find some less jealously guarded restroom while the braver and more curious remained, along with a few new faces attracted by the action. One of them was the elderly Carl Pendanski, who seemed shaken that his wishes had been carried in such a violent fashion. "Good God, man!" he sputtered. "Was that all really necessary? It was just-"
"The situation has been dealt with," Sir Mane announced to the stunned onlookers. "The restroom is once again open to the public, and those who thought to claim otherwise have been…banned." He smiled grimly. "My sincerest apologies for the disturbance."
With that he turned and stormed back the way he came. Behind him, his two monsters silently sauntered off to wait until they were needed again.
…
"That was a bit close to the skin," Prince Claudio remarked as Sir Mane returned to his box. "I do recall instructing you not to harm them."
Exhaling, Mane slumped back into his seat. Below, the play had entered the end of the first act to enthusiastic applause. "I'm in," he said.
Claudio smiled grimly. "I thought you would be. You more than committed yourself just now."
Mane's hands were trembling where they gripped his seats' armrests. He quickly clasped them tightly over his chest. "He's going to respond. Try to destroy me out of spite."
"I am confident in your abilities to resist. You have, after all, survived considerably worse."
"That I have," Mane said hoarsely.
Nodding, Prince Claudio stood to his feet. "Well, I must be off. Unfortunate. I was enjoying the show. If you could send my sister Valerie a signed cast photo, I would take it as a kindness." He patted Sir Mane on the shoulder. "I'll put you in touch with our Lord General once he's ready."
"Lord General?" Sir Mane frowned. "This organization is to be military?"
"Some aspects, yes. I personally see them more as a special police."
"Ah. And who is this Lord General of yours? Anyone I know?"
"No, I'm afraid. He's new to the game, but I promise you'll be impressed." Then, like the Cheshire Cat from storybooks, Prince Claudio started to fade from view, his body becoming more and more transparent. However, before he vanished completely, he left Sir Mane with one last thought. "In fact, you might say he was made for this job."
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