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monstersandmaw · 6 months

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Male drider x trans male reader (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Commission number three! This one got away with me, for sure. Hope you folks enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!!

Content: trans male reader, some afab language to refer to the reader’s lower parts during non-penetrative, oral sex; chest area not mentioned. Kidnapping, some threat to life and mild injury (not from drider), brief mention of blood and stitches. Reader has submissive tendencies, enjoys being restrained, and the drider is gently dominant.

Wordcount: 10,123(!)

Running headlong into the dark pines that made up the forest which, according to your captors, had acquired such nicknames as the ‘The Bone Garden’, ‘Spectre’s Haunt’, and the ‘Blood Wood’ was probably not the wisest decision you’d ever made, but you’d been held by these thugs for four days of hard riding, and you were ready to risk it all to escape.

Had it really only been four days since you’d locked the door to your tidy little cottage on the edge of the village? With a gleaner’s bag slung over one shoulder and a basket in hand, you’d set out in search of the mushrooms that only grew at this time of year when the conditions were perfect — not hot and dry, not yet frosty, and just rainy enough. They loved the misty turn of the year almost as much as you did.

Without a care in the world, you’d stepped out along the weed-strewn gravel path that led through your herb garden, latched the wooden gate behind you, and meandered through the houses as the sounds of the village waking began to fill the air.

Gwyn had recently lit his forge and the rush of the bellows to stoke the heat reminded you of a dragon’s steady breathing; in and out, in and out. You’d snaked past the bakery just to swipe a fresh cinnamon roll before Garrick or Mercy or any of the woodcutters who also tended to rise early could finish them all off, and the orc behind the counter gave you the biggest one he had and a wink that made you just a little gooey inside yourself. “You’re a shameless flirt, Thom,” you said as you slid your coppers across the counter to him with two fingers.

“Hey, a man can dream, right, gorgeous?”

He was pretty fine himself, but he wasn’t really your type, and you’d made that clear when he’d asked you to dance at the first Spring Equinox dance you’d attended after moving to the village, then just a lowly herbalist’s apprentice. Ever since, you’d fallen into an easy banter of flirting that was destined to go nowhere, and it was harmless fun for both of you. You left the bakery with a smile on your face, and headed past Gwyn’s forge as you made your way north out of the village.

The smith, a colossal centaur with a dapple grey coat and a thick, white mane and tail that made anyone with long hair in the village green with envy, called after you and beckoned you over. “Headed north?” he asked with an uncharacteristic scowl.

“Yeah, why?”

“Take care, alright? Mercy said she’d seen sign of bandits in the area, and Willem said he’d heard talk of people being snatched when he took those fleeces to market last week. You shouldn’t be going out alone. None of us should really, not til things calm down.”

A little growl of frustration left you and you adjusted the gleaner’s bag on your shoulder. “I really need these supplies, Gwyn,” you said. “They’re ingredients I need to help fight off winter fevers, and if I don’t have enough, we could be in trouble come the cold in a few weeks’ time…”

“Can’t you take Garrick or Mercy with you? A good woodsman’s felling axe’ll do a hell of a lot more damage than that little sickle you’ve got on your belt…”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you breezed. “I’m not going to be on the main road anyway.”

“Please take care,” he rumbled, and you smiled up at the enormous blacksmith. He might have had the shoulders of a rock troll and iron-shod hooves big enough to knock down a castle door, with a big burn mark all up his left arm from an accident at the forge a decade ago, but he was the gentlest and most softly-spoken person you knew.

You cursed yourself three hours later when your basket of rare, purple mushrooms lay trampled to a slimy paste on the floor of the clearing and a nasty looking wood elf with a sneer and a cruel glint in her eye had her bow trained on you, while a second elf trussed you up like a solstice bird. Your head was ringing from the surprise blow they’d dealt you to the back of the skull, and you were lucky you didn’t have a worse concussion.

“You’ll make a nice little offering for the mage,” the female elf purred while her companion straightened and marched you on unsteady feet back towards the road. “Humans like you always fetch a decent price. Something about your blood being universal for most rituals, I think…”

There on the dirt road, four horses were waiting, three of which were a normal size while the last was built like a castle wall and large enough to carry the orc sitting astride it. The orc had one milky eye and the brand of a murderer across his right cheek. “Shit,” you hissed when you saw that, and the male elf laughed cruelly when you flinched as the orc swung down and prepared to heave you onto the back of the spare horse.

Normally, if you were going to be tied up and bent over something for some rough treatment, this was not how it went. There was absolutely nothing fun or consensual about the way these bandits chucked you over the back of the horse and lashed your hands and feet to the tack so you didn’t slide off. The orc guffawed and spat off to one side when you cried out on impact as your ribs creaked and your lungs expelled all the air they’d ever contained in one ugly grunt. After that, you did just about everything you could to move with the rhythm of the cantering horse, but it was probably the most miserable experience of your life. When the group slowed to trot, the motion was so painful that you actually slipped into unconsciousness for a while, only to be jounced back some time later.

At the crossroads about ten miles north of your village — the furthest north from your little patch of paradise you’d ever roamed — they met up with a couple of other riders who had apparently been on a recce of their own to look for more people for this blood mage or whoever, but they got laughed at by the orc on his enormous, cantankerous horse for not finding any victims and rode off again without joining the party.

So, it was just you, alone in the wilderness, being taken gods-knew-where, by two feral elf siblings and a murderous orc. Stowed like a sack of potatoes over that rangy, stinking horse for five hours of hellish riding, you were barely conscious. When they eventually stopped to make camp that night, they did let you relieve yourself in relative privacy, but once you were done, they hauled you back to their pack animals and lashed you to a tree next to them so that you couldn’t hope to escape. You could still smell the stink of them though, and it was enough to turn your empty stomach.

Their food was revolting, and their company equally repulsive. They joked loudly about all the cruel things they’d done to people in the past, and you sat there wondering why you hadn’t let Gwyn talk you into going out with the woodcutters. There were mushrooms where they were currently coppicing hazel for the winter, but no. No, you’d decided to be adventurous and clever, and to collect only the best mushrooms for your salves and tonics.

Four days later, you were almost ready to give up.

The mage’s castle they were taking you to was legendary in the northern reaches, and no one who was taken there against their will ever returned. Tales of blood magic and horrific rites involving chimera and creatures brought back from the dead had entered the local lore, and now apparently you were going to be drained of your precious blood for whatever this necromancer had planned next. And the price of that precious blood had been discussed and debated by the bandits for the last day.

Personally, you agreed with the female elf and thought you were worth more than a couple of weeks’ wages in gold, but you had no intention of allowing yourself to be squeezed dry like an orange for your blood. So, after the group stopped in a dark and snow-mottled pine forest after the fifth day of hard riding, you enacted your plan. You’d been plotting it all day, and hoped you weren’t too delirious and weak to pull it off.

When they’d let you relieve yourself the previous night, they’d not bothered to tie your hands together or watch you, since there was nowhere for you to go. You knew woodlands though, and you were pretty confident that if you gave them the slip in the dark, you could take care of yourself in the wild for a few days. Long enough to get back home anyway.

So when they started their daily round of bragging and trading boasts about how many vampires they’d killed or how they’d survived the venom of three different nagas in the same attack, you made your move.

If that darned twig hadn’t snapped, you might have got away with it, but when the male elf barked, “Oi!” into the gathering dark and swung his lantern around, you knew you’d messed up.

Breaking cover completely and legging it into the endless ranks of black-barked pine trees in the fading light of day seemed like the only option now, so you began crashing through the debris and dead branches that had gathered beneath the choking canopy of dense pine needles overhead.

These woods were different from any you’d known before, and something dark and foreboding lingered there like a shade above a gravestone. These woods were not kind. The air was not fresh and sweet like it was between the beech and oak back home. It pooled and festered, stagnant between the rough sentinel trees, and the lower branches seemed to reach their sharp, bare fingers towards your face as you ran like a rabbit from the pack of hunting dogs behind you.

Your toe caught a root and you stumbled, and in the space where your head had just been, an arrow whizzed through the air and sank into the tree ahead of you with a thunk that almost made your heart stop. Your lungs were burning already and your legs felt shaky and weak after your rough treatment and half-rotten rations, but a brush with death that close shocked you to the core. The water they’d given you had been rancid, and your stomach churned as adrenaline curdled in your gut, but somehow you forced yourself on into the darkness.

Their voices dwindled, muffled by the carpet of fallen pine needles, until a shout went up and another arrow flew past you. This time, it left a searing pain in its wake and you clutched at your ribs where the hunting broadhead had torn through your skin. Luckily, it was superficial, but it hurt like hell and it was bleeding. Blood might draw predators out of the darkness, if your blundering and their bellowing hadn’t already.

Shit, you hadn’t thought about the horrors that probably dwelled in a place like this.

The bandits had been crowing about the ghouls and rabid cannibals that supposedly haunted these woods, and you’d passed plenty of skeletons along the roadside on your journey, your down-turned head providing you with a first-class view of them as your half-lame horse had jolted past them at its permanent, slightly-panicked jog. They hadn’t all been pack animals and horses lying in the ditch either. Some of the skulls had been humanoid, and there had been the horns of a minotaur at some point. This was a place where living things entered unwillingly, and most of them never left.

Forcing yourself onwards, you clutched your stinging side, but they were closing on you. The orc was thundering through the forest like a boar on a rampage, and the elves were quick as shadows.

“You little shit!” the female shouted from right behind you. Something heavy hit you across the back of your knees and you tripped and fell hard onto your palms as a flung tree branch rebounded off onto the forest floor. The force of the fall sent your cheek smashing into the muddy ground and you cried out as she landed triumphantly atop you and turned you over, smacking you full in the mouth out of sheer frustration.

“Gotcha,” she grinned. “You’re gonna pay for running, little rabbit,” she added with a laugh as she hauled you to your feet.

You kicked her knee from the side as hard as you could and she yowled like a cat dropped into a bath, letting go of you to stagger sideways, limping. The thing about being a healer is that you also know the weak spots where it can hurt most.

Before she could turn on you again though, something moved in the trees behind you and you all froze. The orc crashed to a halt nearby breathing hard, and the elf’s brother came over to help her stand while she spat curses at you that would have made a pirate’s ears bleed.

“What is it?” the orc growled, low and tense.

“Fuck knows. Tie him up again and let’s get the fuck back to camp,” the female elf wheezed. “I’m gonna drag him behind my horse for the rest of the way there. Shit that hurts!”

“Quiet,” her brother hissed. “Something’s out there.”

“Then let’s get fucking moving!” she countered.

You turned to glance over your shoulder and caught the shape of something white drifting in the distant trees just as the orc spotted it too. His grip tightened on the haft of his huge war-axe, and he took half a step back. Until then, he’d been the one who’d seemed steadiest; unshakable and immovable as a cannon, and he hit just as hard. Now though, he looked spooked and scared.

“They say the Death-Spinner hunts in these parts,” he said, eyes wide as he looked from side to side. “A massive white drider that strikes from the shadows and wraps you up in his web and sucks you dry…”

“It’s been too long since someone sucked you dry,” the female elf sneered at him, though the remark came out feebly and she looked around her in a twitchy, nervous motion. “Your blue balls are making you hallucinate. Come on. What are you waiting for?”

“He’s got other names too, you know,” her brother interrupted, reaching for you with a jerky movement that halted when the steady rhythm of something moving nearby rose above the whispering of the wind in the canopy. “Soul-Eater, The Weaver Ghost…”

“Please, the Death-Spinner is just a myth…” the female on your right hissed.

“Decidedly… not,” came a thin, harsh voice from the trees ahead, and your captors just bolted.

The supposedly tough bandits – the ones who had been talking about selling an actual person to a bloodmage to use in some disgusting ritual; who had joked just the previous night about flaying a minotaur like a cow on a butcher’s block; who had told you that there was nothing out here that would give a single, flying fuck about you – had fled with no more than a shriek and the clatter of boots in the dead underbrush, and left you alone with the being they called ‘Death-Spinner’.

“Better and better,” you spat, still tasting blood in your mouth from where the elf had cracked you across the mouth. “First it was ‘sold to a blood mage’ and now it’s ‘death by drider’.”

A pearlescent pale leg speared down out of the gloom that gathered between the black pines, its ivory chitin shining softly. Shaped like a thin, curved shard of polished bone, the limb moved with slow, silent grace, and it was joined by a second, needle-slender limb, then a third and a forth, until the white underbelly of the creature loomed large into your limited pool of light, followed finally by the lower part of a humanoid torso, and the large, armour-plated abdomen of the creature.

The whole of the eight-legged being was utterly colourless.

White and pendulous as the moon, the drider’s chitinous body looked like drifts of wind-blown snow that had then set into solid ice, swirling and churning across its body to rise in small peaks and troughs at the joints and high points of its legs and over the swollen curve of its abdomen.

The humanoid torso melted upwards at the hips from the body of the spider, and two, smaller, pincer-like limbs — pedipalps — were angled slightly inwards, both ending in single, wicked talons and looking like they were ready to spear you through the middle in the blink of an eye.

The drider wore no clothes, and patches of white chitin formed a kind of armour up its humanoid torso: over the hips but skirting around its lean belly, then up over its shoulders like pauldrons and creating natural bracers and gauntlets along its long, wiry arms. Its hands, you saw as it dipped a little lower into the faint glow from the elves’ abandoned lantern, were clawed, but its slightly curved talons weren’t like those of a mammal. They were simply an unbroken extension of the chitin that covered its hands and forearms.

Its face remained mostly out of sight, wreathed in the upper shadows of the trees, but you got the impression of two reddish eyes glinting at you in the dark, and long, silk-white hair flowing down its back.

“You’re bleeding,” came the slightly hoarse tenor that made your skin prickle. A creature that large should have a deeper voice, but the mellifluous timbre of the drider’s tone made you think of sirens luring sailors to their death with sweet songs and empty, deceitful promises.

“Only a bit,” you choked out, stepping back and catching your heel on the branch that the female elf had used to trip you. When you fell hard onto your backside, you caught the glint of steel in the sea of rust-red pine needles all around you, and realised that one of the elves had dropped their precious sword in their haste to escape this creature.

In a rush of blind panic, you snatched up the unfamiliar weapon and held it aloft. “Stay back!” you barked.

The laugh that rippled out of the drider chilled your blood.

“Please,” it crooned, and then it loomed down out of the shadow and into the light, squinting its two scarlet eyes against the sudden brightness. “As if a little stick like that could hurt something like me.”

The sword fell from your fingers as weakness washed through you, and you bit back a sob. “Please,” you said instead. “Please, they brought me here to sell me to a necromancer, but I… I don’t want to die like this either.”

“Die?” the drider said, and its red gaze flickered to the wound in your side. “You won’t die from that. A few silk stitches and a rest, and you’ll be good as new…” It frowned again, its white eyebrows pulling in like a loose thread in a perfect tapestry. “You’re filthy,” it said, and you noticed a diagonal scar cutting across its pale mouth as its lip pulled up on one side in a gesture of revulsion.

“Yeah, well, you try being thrown over the back end of a bandit’s horse for five days and see if you’re still that pretty at the end of it,” you retorted, exhaustion making you bold and just a little bit stupid.

The drider laughed, the sound like autumn leaves rolling down the road, and you paused. It sounded genuinely amused.

“Come, human,” it said, holding out a clawed hand. “Let’s get you somewhere where you can rest in safety.”

“Safety? What… What about… all that ‘Death-Spinner’ stuff?”

The drider paused, its huge body hanging in the twilight like a pearl. “I have no interest in consuming sapient creatures, but the rumours help to keep people out of my forest. It’s as much for their safety as mine,” it went on. “There are nastier things even than me in these parts.” The self-deprecating venom in its tone drew you up short.

“You don’t seem so bad…”

“Thank you,” it replied with flat sarcasm.

You took three more steps towards the drider before your legs gave out. In a flash faster than thought, the drider darted at you, and before you could even flinch, strong, armoured arms had caught you and lifted you up.

“You poor thing,” it crooned, and you looked up properly into its face for the first time. “You’ve really been through it, haven’t you? Easy now. I’ll take care of you.”

“Why?” you breathed, trying not to let your treacherous muscles relax into the solid frame that held you. You felt the chitin of its chest against your shoulder as it bore you along in a strangely smooth, gliding motion, the dark trunks of the trees whipping past in a blur.

“Evidently I have a soft spot for brave and lost creatures,” the drider smiled. “My name is Feluän, by the way.”

You exhaled your own name in return, and then said, “Isn’t Feluän an elven name? Some prince or something…?”

“You know your history,” the drider chuckled. “Yes, he was a prince of the snow elves a long time ago. I came across it in a history book I picked out of a caravan that was destroyed by a band of gnolls once. Their tastes run more towards beer than books…”

“I chose my own name too,” you said, the consonants feeling thick and slurred as the tiredness seeped throughout your whole body and the pain in your side mounted. “You’re a male drider then? If you named yourself after a prince, I mean. I don’t know anything about your kind really. Never… Never met one before.”

“Hush for now,” he said, squeezing you a little more tightly into his arms and drawing a moan unbidden from your lips. Gods, even in these circumstances, it felt so good to be held like this. “But yes, I am.”

The journey through the dark forest passed in a hazy blur, until you had the vague impression of torchlight and soft firelight and you were laid down on the softest surface you thought you'd maybe ever touched in your life. A long, deep groan left you and you suddenly didn’t care what happened to you.

“I’m going to stitch you up,” came the drider’s voice from somewhere nearby. “It might hurt. I can use a little of my venom to numb the area if you like…”

You nodded, not wanting any more pain, and out of the corner of your eye, you watched the drider’s white body move in the blurry shadows of the cave. He loomed over you and pressed the tip of one clawed finger to his upper canine, before bringing it to your side where he’d hitched up your shirt just enough to access the glancing wound from the arrow. A blissful numbness crept like winter ice across your skin, and you let the drider tend to you.

Tiredness claimed you not long after, but you had the distinct impression of a warm cloth being wiped gently across your face and hands before blackness washed in and you slept.

Over the course of the next few days, Feluän tended to your wound, and you forgot to be afraid of the strange creature. Centaurs had always held a fascination for you, with their animal lower halves and their humanoid upper bodies, and the way the drider moved was no less fascinating. When he wasn't tending to you, he was weaving linen and silk into the most wondrous bolts of fabric. His cave was dotted here and there with trinkets that he’d clearly pilfered from the sporadic ‘visitors’ to his part of the world, but aside from that, the cave was just that: a grotto carved out of a rise in the ground in the middle of a dank, desolate forest.

“You live alone?” you asked on the first evening you felt strong enough to get out of bed without his help. Until then, he’d forced you to stay still, and honestly, you’d been only too happy to let him boss you about and carry you around. He was sweet, but he didn't take no for an answer, and he didn’t let you wheedle your way out of anything either. Your best ‘puppy-dog’ eyes had crumbled his iron resolve a bit though, and finally he’d let you get out of his soft, cosy bed to join him by the gentle light of flames in the fire pit at the centre of his cave.

Feluän nodded. “Yes. I have spent my whole life alone. Driders are not sociable with each other by nature, and most people fear us too much to want us anywhere near them, as you saw yourself when your captors realised I was there.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you said as you took the carved wooden cup he offered you. It had some kind of sharp, pine-needle tea in it and he looked embarrassed that that was all he could offer you to drink apart from water. In the few days you’d been there, you’d had some kind of game broth which, while nutritious, hadn’t been particularly flavoursome. “I didn’t think I’d find anyone out here more intimidating than that orc, but you managed it.”

Across the fire, his ruby red eyes glittered and he laughed, tilting his head in your direction. He didn’t always meet your eye, you realised, and you wondered if his albinism affected his eyesight. “I live to serve,” he purred.

“The way you behave, I’d say you live to be served, but what do I know?”

Again, he laughed. “You offering, little human?” he said, cocking a white eyebrow in a way that made you feel a little dizzy.

“I might, if the rewards for service were worth it,” you replied archly, sipping the sharp tea. Its flavour reminded you of the tinctures you brewed at home, and of the people who would need you as the autumn drew to a close and winter began to coil around the edges of the village. Your shoulders dropped, and you sighed, steam from the cup swirling in front of your eyes for a moment.

“You clearly don’t think I could offer you much,” he said dryly.

“It’s not that,” you said. “It’s… I have a responsibility to the people in my village. I’m a herbalist, and the whole reason I was captured was because I was out looking for ingredients that would help fight winter fevers. If I don’t get home before the snows settle in, they’ll suffer.”

He shifted his weight where he was resting casually with all his long, spiny limbs tucked close to his pendulous body, and you realised he was feeling uncertain. “It must be nice,” he began in a new, faltering voice that you’d not heard from him before. “Nice to have people… who need you. Who… Who look to you for protection…”

You laughed softly and shook your head. “I wouldn’t say I provide any kind of protection — you want an orc or a centaur like Thom or Gwyn for that — but I help people where I can, and they’ve been good to me. I was apprenticed with their previous healer, and when he passed, I took on his mantle.”

“Tell me about them?” Feluän asked, red eyes blinking slowly in his frost-pale face. His long, white hair fell down loose to frame his high cheekbones, and the scar on his mouth was the only element in his face that interrupted the otherwise perfect symmetry of him, and it made you want to press your lips to it and see what it felt like beneath your kisses.

You looked away.

“Tell me about them before I take you back tomorrow?”

“Wait, take me back? You’re coming too?”

“You’ll never make it out of these woods alive without me,” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t go to all this effort to keep you alive just to turn you loose for the ghouls and shadow wraiths to tear you to pieces when the sun sets tomorrow night.”

“Shadow… wraiths?” you croaked, eyes flitting to the cave entrance where the dark night pressed in against the tiny light of the fire. You shuddered and Feluän smiled to reveal his double set of canines, the larger, outer pair of which were actually hollow fangs that could inject his paralytic venom into his prey.

“Don’t worry, little one,” he said with a rumbling, seductive purr in his tenor that went right through you to your core. “I’ll protect you. You’re safe here anyway. It’s warded.”

“Right.”

“Your people?” he prompted, and you started with Gwyn the dappled centaur. By the time you’d listed almost everyone in the village, your mind was slow and your eyes gritty with sleep.

Some time earlier, Feluän had moved behind you so that you were resting your weight between his lethally-taloned pedipalps, buttressed up on either side by something that could skewer through you in the blink of an eye, and his hand had recently moved to card idly through your hair.

The world tilted slightly as you dozed off halfway through a sentence about Thom the orc who ran the bakery and made the most incredible fruit pies in autumn, and you realised that Feluän had picked you up again and was carrying you towards his wide, soft bed of silk webbing.

As he drew a feather-filled silk duvet up around your ears and you hummed with deep satisfaction, you heard him murmur, “I wish I could live somewhere like the place you described for me tonight. I wish I could know ‘home’ as you do, but I fear I would never be welcome somewhere like that.”

“They’d love you,” you mumbled. After all, you were half in love with him already and it had only been a few days.

The journey south took about a week. On the first day, you were forced to ride on his back after only a few miles due to the lingering ache in your side. “If you don’t get aboard, I will refuse to take you anywhere at all,” he said sternly, and a thrill of heat shot down your spine at the steel in his tone. “Do as you’re told, human.”

“Fine,” you croaked, ignoring just how much you liked the way he seemed to mingle concern, respect, and command in a single sentence. “Bossy.”

You did enjoy having your arms around his middle as you rode behind him though. And he was quick when he got scuttling along.

Your pride did have you walking the next day, and before too long, you got to see the ‘Death-Spinner’ in action. In the rocky lower slopes of the pine forest, before it melted into a dewy, autumn meadow, a roar shattered the silence and a bear reared up from the thick grass, as surprised by your exit from the trees as you were by her.

Feluän hissed like a snake and immediately drew himself up, lashing out with his long front legs. Like twin swords, the lowest section of his legs flashed in the misty air and the bear threw herself up onto her hind legs with another bellowing roar.

The drider jabbed at her faster than your eyes could follow, nicking her ear and her shoulder in turn with left and right forelegs, his huge body filling the space between you and the threat like a bulwark. The bear turned on the spot and thundered away, and he dropped silently back to all eight legs and looked down at you. In the starker light of the meadow, he was squinting and his red eyes didn’t quite land on your face.

“Are you alright?” he asked, bare marble chest heaving. His clawed hands were curled at his sides and his arms looked incredible, and suddenly it was very hard to focus on anything but how gods-damned beautiful this creature was. He barked your name and lowered himself down, still squinting. “I can’t see very well in full daylight like this. I need you to tell me if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” you croaked at last, trying to swallow your inconveniently-timed arousal. “Are you? I’ve lived in the woods a long time, but I’ve never been that close to a bear before.”

“She really didn’t want to tangle with me,” he laughed, and you caught the way his articulated joints sagged in relief as his white hands found your shoulders and he squeezed you tightly for a second.

“You can’t see very well? What do you mean?”

He smiled sadly and let go of you. “As I understand it, people born like me, without pigmentation, often struggle with their vision, and bright sunlight in particular. I do anyway. Why do you think I chose the darkest place I knew of for my home?”

“I… I hadn’t really thought about it. You sure you want to be out here then? You didn’t have to walk me all the way home you know?”

“I want to,” he said, gesturing for you to continue on your way across the open meadow.

The overnight frost had melted a little, but it still lingered at the foot of the thicker tufts of grass and it crunched softly as you walked through it. Not Feluän though — he moved as silently as his spectral nickname suggested, but you did catch him tilting his head a little and inhaling, as though scenting the wind. His lips parted softly and you caught your best glimpse yet of his double set of canines. His tongue shifted a little behind his teeth, as though he was tasting something on the air, and you looked away. Everything about him was sensuous and it made you want to touch.

You were perhaps a day’s walk from the village now, but he still hadn’t turned back even though you’d told him you could manage alone from there.

That night at camp, you sat together as you had back in his cave, with you resting between the two smaller limbs that jutted out from his spider’s shoulder area. They twitched from time to time as he ate the now-roasted rabbit he’d skewered earlier for dinner with the talon at the end of one of them, and when you’d finished your meal, you reached out without thinking and ran your fingers down the chitin that covered them.

He jumped slightly and then went very still, but as you brought your hand closer to where the limb met his chest, he drew in a shuddering breath that made his whole body rock.

“Does that tickle?” you asked, wondering how much sensation he had with all that natural armour.

“Not exactly,” Feluän rasped. “It’s… It’s been a while since I’ve… since anyone’s — ah…” he gasped and his chest heaved. The little bone he’d been idly cleaning with his tongue dropped from his fingers to land in the carpet of beech and oak leaves around your feet.

“You want me to stop?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “Gods, don’t you dare stop.”

“Alright.”

You stood and faced him, and ran both hands up his ‘hips’ at the base of his humanoid torso. He shuddered again and sucked in another sharp breath. Gradually, you moved your touch up over the marble contours of his abs and ribs until you could reach no higher. “Come down here then,” you said quietly.

His scarred upper lip twitched and he surged down towards you, snatching you up in his hands and lifting you away from the fire. He pinned you against the smooth bark of a nearby beech trunk, and held you there four or five feet off the ground. His hands were secure around your waist as the spears of the two pedipalps lanced into the tree on either side of your face and you gasped, feeling heat rushing to your groin.

“The things you make me want to do to you, human,” he purred around a snarl, red eyes glowing in the night. His huge body was pale, standing out starkly against the darkness, and you felt a familiar, tingling weakness washing through you as he held you pinned there and growled those lustful words into your ears. You wanted him to take control. You wanted to submit to whatever pleasures he had in mind. It made your head go vague.

“What’s that then?” you slurred softly, dangling blissfully in his hold. “What do you want to do to me?”

“I want to tie you up with my silk,” he said, leaning in so he could kiss up your neck. He nipped at you, but not enough to break the skin or inject you with his numbing, paralytic venom. The trail his kisses left was cold though, and your flesh tingled. “I want you trussed and immobile for me while I give you every pleasure I can think of. Your body is so soft compared to mine. So vulnerable. I want it all. I want all of you.”

“You can,” you smiled. “Please.”

His lips twitched into another little snarl and he kissed you again. Your tongue tingled and you swallowed, realising a drop of his venom had landed there. “I can’t,” he said, stepping back and lowering you slowly to the ground. Your knees were too weak to take your weight at first and he steadied you.

“Why not?” Disappointment stung through the creeping haze in your head and helped to clear it a bit.

You glanced along his curved, spider’s abdomen and saw that a clear fluid was dripping slowly from a point on his underbelly. His obvious arousal looked obscene, and your core tightened at the sight of it. When he saw where you were looking, he shivered. “That’s what you do to me,” he croaked. “But I’ve lost too much control of myself tonight. I might hurt you.”

“Kiss me again?”

“No. My mouth is full of venom.”

Your breath caught and you bit your lip. “Please?”

“No.” He sounded angry now, and you looked away, ashamed of still wanting something he didn't want to give. When he saw the expression on your face though, his whole demeanour changed and he softened. “What is it?” he asked.

You shook your head, stepping back. “Forget it. You’re going home again tomorrow anyway. You’ll forget about me in no time.” But you wouldn’t forget about him.

Feluän’s lighting-fast reflexes left you breathless all over again as he snatched for your wrist when you turned away from him. “I will never forget you,” he hissed fiercely. “I can’t. You think I give every lost wanderer I find in my forest a personal escort home? If I had my way, I’d never leave your side again.”

The grip he had on your wrist was tight enough that it was just shy of painful, and you gasped, eyelids fluttering. You glanced down at where his claws were pricking into your skin and then slowly raised your gaze to his face. “Not helping…” you smirked softly.

He closed his eyes slowly and eased his grip just a fraction, and then he opened his eyes again, moved both hands to your face, cupped your jaw, and kissed your forehead. “Best I can do for the moment,” he said apologetically.

“You don’t have to go back, you know?” you said, giving voice to the idea that had been floating around your mind for a few days. “I mean, I know all your stuff is back there, but there’s a really cosy place that’s only a hundred yards or so from my cottage on the edge of the village. I think it would be perfect for you. You could… You could live there? If you wanted…”

Feluän raked his claws gently across your scalp and you shuddered. “And what of the rest of the village? What would they say about a monster taking up residence in their midst?”

“You’re not a monster,” you hissed, grabbing for his wrists and clinging to him while you glared up into his face. Gods, he was so beautiful, with his sharp features and red, gemstone eyes and his silver-white hair. “You’re not. How could they not love you once they got to know you?”

His throat worked and he lowered his spider body down, drawing his legs in so that he was as close to your eye level as he could get. “Do you really want me to stay?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please. I — The thought of you going back to that horrible place with all those bones scattered everywhere, and no life — there’s no life in those woods, Feluän. It’s —” He silenced you with a kiss.

Your lips turned numb almost immediately but you felt his tongue brush yours as he growled and reared over you, overpowering you with just his presence. “The way you said my name,” he said. “No one’s ever spoken my name before. Say it again. I want to hear you say it again.”

“Feluän.”

“When we’re not camping in a forest, I’m going to take you apart, my beautiful human. I’m going to tie you up and take you to pieces when my mouth isn’t dripping with venom.”

“Could be fun for you to have your way with me while I can’t move…” you said.

“You wouldn’t be able to feel it either,” he said, deliberately moving away from you and breathing hard. “Gods, I’m a mess,” he chuckled. You glanced down and saw that he was leaking a little webbing too from the gland at the tip of his abdomen.

“So am I,” you said wryly, because you absolutely were.

“I know. I can smell it,” he said. “Taste it too.”

“Fuck,” you groaned. He’d smelled it earlier as well then, back in the meadow after he’d protected you. “You’d better live up to your promise, Feluän. I’m not letting you go home without feeling some of that silk around my wrists first.”

“Say my name again and I’ll give you anything you want.”

Getting to sleep that night proved difficult to say the least, but it helped that you both talked quietly, with you lying in his arms again, and when you woke to the gentle caress of his knuckles against your cheek, you blinked your eyes open and smiled up at him.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, awestruck by the creature looming over you. Honest delight lit up his whole face and he laughed quietly, helping you to your feet and brushing the dry leaves from your clothes and the borrowed cloak he’d lent you.

“How do you want to do this?” he asked as you kicked the cold ashes of the fire apart and made sure you left the forest as you’d found it. “You said we’re within a day’s walk of your home now?”

You nodded. “We’ll probably meet a few of the woodcutters on our way in — they’re working about three or four miles from the village at the moment, cutting hazel for fences and ash for firewood. If we meet anyone, let me do the talking?”

Feluän agreed, and you set off along the main road together.

“I’ll introduce you in the village if you like, and explain where I’ve been, and then I’ll say I’d like you to stay. If… If you want to.”

“I do,” he said. “I don’t have anything in that cave that I would particularly miss, but I could still go back and fetch it if I wanted to.”

The first people you met were indeed Garrick and Mercy, and when the satyr and the half-orc-half-elf saw the drider, they hefted their axes in their hands and stepped warily into the clearing they’d made beside the road. Mercy spotted you and called out your name, and you and Feluän held up your hands.

It took some persuading to let the two of you approach, but when you were close enough, Mercy dropped her axe and hugged you. “We’ve been so worried,” she said, squeezing you tight. With her muscles, it was enough to make you wheeze. “Gwyn and Thom and Gale searched for you for days but even Gale’s werewolf nose lost your scent when it rained. Gods, they’ve been beside themselves.”

“I’m only alive because of Feluän,” you said, gesturing to the pale drider who was waiting on the road. All his eight legs were drawn up tight and he looked tense and wary. At that distance, and in the clear, wintry light, you suspected he also couldn’t see very far, and for someone so powerful, he was probably feeling quite vulnerable. “I’d like him to live here with us. He was living alone in that dark forest, and I don’t think anyone should have to live alone like that. Not if they don’t want to.”

Garrick jutted his small tusks and said, “Driders aren’t exactly sociable creatures. What’s he gonna do around here?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” you said a little defensively. “While I was recovering in his care, he was processing and spinning flax and weaving bolts of cloth, so he could help Rowan, but I don’t think his place here should be determined by what he can do for us, do you?”

Garrick’s eyes darkened with shame, and he shook his head.

“I’ll catch up with you later. Right now, all I want is a bath and a change of clothes.” Your own shirt had been washed while you’d been recovering, and Feluän had stitched it up, but it was still stained with your blood and more than a bit travel-worn now.

The approach to the village was deserted, but when you stepped out from the shady road and into the brilliant, afternoon sun that bathed the thatched houses in stark light, Feluän grunted and closed his eyes, shielding them with one hand and wincing.

“You alright?” you asked.

“It’s so bright,” he rasped. “I… I can’t even see you and you’re right next to me.”

You paused and said, “This way. We’ll take the side road and go along one of the deer paths through the trees to the cave home I’ve got in mind for you. You can meet everyone tonight when the sun’s gone down.”

“I’m sorry.”

Shaking your head, you frowned. “No, Feluän. You have nothing to be sorry for. Let’s go.” You laid your hand on his foremost left leg, and changed direction, heading for the tall oak and beech trees that bordered the village.

You passed by your cottage, though you did point it out to him, and continued up the slope to the small, rocky outcrop where the old cave had sat empty since its previous occupant had moved to be nearer to her relatives. “This used to belong to Dinara,” you said. “She’s a dwarf, but the cave isn’t at her scale, don’t worry.”

He laughed, and now that you were in the shade, you noticed that his eyes were meeting yours again, and he wasn’t squinting so much. “Come here,” he said, and he lowered himself down to kiss you. “Thank you. I’m sure it’ll be perfect.”

“If it’s not, I know people will help you alter it. They helped me build my house when I moved here, so you could always just build something new if it doesn’t suit.”

“You make them sound like good people,” he smiled.

Squeezing his hand, you said, “They are. They’re going to love you, I promise.”

“So long as they don’t try to hack me to bits with their axes… The one you called ‘Garrick’ sounded ready to cut my legs off earlier.”

“He’s protective, not unlike you,” you said wryly. “Come on. Let me show you the cave and see if you want to live there or not.”

“If you’re nearby, it’ll be perfect,” he said smoothly, and you immediately tripped, making him laugh.

In the end, the empty cave house suited him perfectly, and, as you’d predicted, people were wary to start with, but when they heard how he’d saved you and taken care of you, and brought you home, they welcomed him like a long-lost relative — something that clearly moved him deeply. He did bristle when Thom swept you up into his bone-crushing, baker’s arms outside the village inn that night and nuzzled his tusks against your neck and expressed just how worried he’d been about you though.

When you returned to Feluän after Thom had set you down and promised you a week’s worth of free pies and cakes, Feluän was prickly and distant, until you grabbed a hold of his pedipalp and refused to let go as he turned. The moonlight flashed along the polished chitin and the limb straightened as he turned away while you held it, but he twitched back to look at you with his red eyes blazing quietly.

“Feluän…?” you purred. Oh, you liked the way he clearly wanted to be possessive of you but was forcing himself to behave. It made you flush hot all over.

“What?” he hissed, still scowling.

You caressed your hand up the limb to his shoulder and splayed your fingers wide. He gasped.

“You promised me something…”

“What was that?” he said, spreading his legs a little wider, as though he needed the extra stability to brace himself upright all of a sudden. You enjoyed seeing that the effect you had on each other was mutual.

You drew back your hand from him and he rocked forwards as if seeking the contact again. You brought your wrists together and held them out as though waiting to be tied up before looking up into his face.

His white eyelashes fluttered and his red eyes rolled closed for a moment. “Where?” he asked in a whisper. “Where do you want to go?”

“I’m not sure you’ll fit easily in my cottage…”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, “But I’ll take your word for it. I don’t have any furnishings in my new home yet.”

“You can sling me a silk hammock,” you said boldly and he groaned audibly. “You like that? You like the idea of me lying on your silk?”

He choked softly and nodded, jaw working.

“What?”

“I’m trying to keep my venom to myself this time,” he said carefully. “If I don’t let it out, I can put my mouth wherever I want to this time.”

“And where’s that?”

“Let me tie you up and you’ll find out,” he snarled, baring his double canines, patience fraying.

“Take me home then,” you whispered.

He picked you up, letting you loop your legs around his humanoid hips and holding you there with his arms and his two pedipalps while he scuttled away from the village and up the hill to the cave where an oil lamp was already burning softly on a shelf.

The cave wasn’t so much a cave as a rock-hewn home, with an additional masonry front covering the opening from the elements, and stone shelves cut into the rock inside for storage, and a shelf at the back for a bed and a huge stone bath as well. Spring water was plumbed directly into a copper cylinder for hot water beside a fireplace with a chimney built into the mountainside. It was a vast improvement on his former, tunnel-like home in the forest, and someone had brought up a load of firewood for him.

Before he’d left his new home to greet the rest of the village earlier that evening, Feluän had lit a fire in the grate and it had since filled the space with warmth, driving away the lingering damp of disuse, and as he made his way on his long, skittering legs to the back of the cave, you kissed the chitin of his shoulders and watched the firelight lick along the sculpted shape of his natural armour. He shivered and then rose right up, tucking his abdomen under him and slinging a web across the shelf where the mattress would be when you eventually found him one. For now, a low, secure hammock of web would more than suffice.

He pitched you back onto it and you bounced softly while the drider’s huge body filled the air above you. The power and ‘otherness’ of his body made you hot beneath the skin and set your core burning, and you squirmed softly while he lowered himself down around you, all four right limbs braced on the wall to your left to give him the best angle. It was unnatural and eerie and creepy and wonderful and strange and everything you wanted in that moment, so you raised your hands above your head and crossed your wrists invitingly.

“You’re so good for me,” he purred and you arched upwards. The web hammock was substantial enough that you didn't feel in the least like your bodyweight was going to tear through it, but it left you feeling exposed and at his mercy. He undressed you carefully, his claws peeling the fabric back until you were as naked as he was. His spider’s body twitched and that clear fluid dripped down onto your shin, betraying his own arousal even as your own was made all the more evident to him.

He parted your legs with one clawed hand and carefully pressed the heel of his palm against where you were soaking wet. “Look at you,” he smiled, eyes glinting. “I can smell you. I can’t wait to taste you properly.” Then he licked his hand clean and your brain went blank for a moment as you watched and heard him groan.

His silk was cool as he wrapped your wrists tightly enough to immobilise your arms and then he secured the line to one of the others, pinning you in place as securely as any rope tied to a headboard ever could be.

“Fuck…” you cursed, arching your spine and spreading your legs. Your clit was swollen and sensitive already, but when he slid his arms underneath your thighs and brought his face close enough that his breath shivered across your wet skin, you gasped and bucked.

Feluän’s tongue teased you to start with as he simply savoured the taste of you, but when he got to work in earnest, his claws pricked your skin and he held you down while you tried to writhe and squirm. You weren’t shy about the sounds you made, and when you saw the way his abdomen was moving in time with his tongue on your body, you realised he was every bit as turned on as you are. You knew that driders didn’t mate the way humans did, and that when he came, he was most likely going to make a mess all over you. The thought of it made your eyes roll.

His nose nudged against your clit as he delved deeper into you with his tongue, moaning and kissing and sucking and devouring.

“I’m getting close, love,” he whispered in the tiny silence that blossomed around you when he drew back to adjust his grip on your legs. You’d never been rendered immobile like this by a partner before, with your hands tied and your legs clamped in his grip, and you felt your body clench in the absence of his tongue. He laughed, low and seductive. “So are you, aren’t you?”

Mind a blur with pleasure, you just nodded and keened.

“When I come, can I come over you?” he asked, and he sounded utterly wrecked.

“Gods, please,” you gasped, bucking weakly. “Please, anything, Feluän. Please… I need… I need you to… please…”

“Need me to do what, love?” he asked, licking teasingly over you with the tip of his tongue, savouring you without returning to his earlier endeavours to make you come. It was too much and nowhere near enough and you let out a broken sob. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t do it,” he said provocatively.

With a growl of frustration and effort, you wrangled the words into the right order in your hazy mind. “I need you to make me come, Feluän.”

“That’s good,” he praised and you arched upwards, legs parting a little wider for him. “Gods, you’re everything,” he whispered as he leaned back down and closed his mouth around your clit.

You gave another wild yell at the barrage of stimulation, and under a minute later you came with a heaving shout against his mouth. Waves of pleasure swept through you, and only a second after you stuttered out his name again, you heard him give a tiny ‘oh’ of surprise before he reared up, his whole body tensing and starting to shake, before his own release gushed over the spot where his mouth had just been. The heat of his come against you there sent you over the edge again and you thrashed beneath him. He was still coming when he lowered his humanoid torso down atop yours again and pulled you close, one clawed hand around the back of your head.

“Oh gods,” he said, his whole body twitching and coming while he cradled you beneath him. “Oh gods, you’re everything. You’re perfect… gods… oh…”

Eventually, his orgasm faded and he staggered, all his legs moving out of sync as he tried not to crush you while the strength fled his limbs and he collapsed onto the webbing.

You’d never been such a mess after sex, and you’d also never come quite so hard.

He reached dazedly out with one of his taloned pedipalps and carefully slashed through the silk holding your wrists together, then he raised his head a little more to regard you. “Are you alright?” he asked. “That wasn’t too much?”

“Perfect,” you mumbled. “You made a big mess though,” you said when you felt his release sliding over your thighs and hips.

“I’ve never made that much mess,” he said and he looked genuinely embarrassed when he pushed himself upright.

“Good job there’s a bath over there,” you said, eyeing the basin that was practically a small swimming pool. It was certainly big enough for a drider to soak himself in relative comfort too.

Feluän staggered over to it and turned the bronze tap that started a flow of hot water from the gigantic cistern beside the fire and then returned to you. “Can I carry you?” he asked, looking shy for the first time in your relatively short acquaintance.

“You’re going to have to. I can’t feel my legs,” you said.

“I didn’t — My venom —” he sputtered in horror. “I —”

“Oh, it’s not you,” you chuckled as you floundered to sit upright. “I mean, it was you, but not your venom.”

He deflated comically in relief and laughed as he scooped you up and bore you towards the tub. Glancing back, you saw that his come was all over the webbing and had dripped through onto the floor.

Feluän set you down on the shelf that ran around the edge of the bath washed you off while it filled. The gentle action of his caring, attentive hands on your body soothed you and worked you up again, and when you moaned and bucked weakly into his hand, he raised an eyebrow. “Again?” he breathed, as though hardly daring to believe it.

“Please?” you whispered, eyes half-closed where you floated in the warm water.

He was careful with his claws, using only the pad of his finger against you, and when you came with a little sigh and heaved into his arms a few minutes later, he smiled at you and leaned down to kiss you.

“I want to do that to you every day,” he said over the rush of water into the bath. “I don’t want a day to go past where I haven’t seen you make that face for me.”

How could you refuse an offer like that when it was so generously made?

I really hope you enjoyed this. If you did, and you made it all the way to the end, please consider showing your support by reblogging. It really is the best (and totally free!) way to help the artists and writers whose work you enjoy.

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skeletondeerart · 1 year

Text

You’re One of Us Now.

Sully Family x GN!Reader (platonic) | Word Count: 1816 Words

Tw: Minor mention of Self Harm.

Written before the release of Avatar: The Way of Water, some facts may be inaccurate.

Synopsis: Having grown up in the confines of the RDA, you plan to fake your death on a data collection expedition to become one with the Pandoran jungle, yet you stumble across an unlikely family of Na’vi who take you in as one of their own.

The reader is seventeen.

Pandora was all I had ever known, having grown up in the RDA’s base I understood the dangers of the world outside. Yet despite this I yearned for the embrace of the forest, yearned to live as one of the people, to leave humanity behind and forge a new life among the Omaticaya.

But I was a soldier, a weapon of war against my will… and I wanted out.

Yet for now I have to pose as a perfect cog in the machine. I conform to Quaritch’s rules to earn the privilege to be selected for intel expedition. Whist being a soldier, I was exceptional in navigation and botany. I hoped that my skills would put me as a candidate for the upcoming expedition in three days.

Standing at attention on the training grounds Quaritch marched back and forth eyeing us all off. He was more imposing than ever, the towering Navi body he embodied was enough to strike fear into even the toughest of men.

“All right ladies and gentlemen, in light of last expeditions failure in attempting to gather subsequent data of neurotoxins used by the Omaticaya, it has resulted in the loss of five of your fellow soldiers.”

My breath was caught in my throat as Quaritch listed off the names of the next team, that was until the final candidate was called, it was my own. I held in my smile as I knew it was my only chance of getting out of the program.

After being sent back to my room, I lay down on my cot and watch the raindrops dribble down the windowpane, I watch the wind sway the trees and animals call out into the night as the as I finalise my plan to escape under the noses of my squad.

Before I knew it, I was wearing the oxygen mask and prepped with my botany data collection devices. Stepping out of the pressure lock we march single file out of the gates and into the wilderness. My squad and I marched for what felt like hours before we reached a zone reading high levels of toxicity, as the five of us spread around the location collecting data on the flora I call out.

“I’m heading North-west as I see a specimen not yet recorded on the data bank.” My squad not even rearing their heads from their specimens made noises of understanding, one even calling out to “Watch out for the locals”.

Treading carefully, I come to a stop once I was sure I was out of sight before preparing my diversion. Taking my pocket knife out I slashed at the tress nearby mimicking the claw marks of a Thanator and spraying Thanator scents around the area. I then nicked my hands and smeared my blood around the scene, kicking the dirt around to mimic a struggle and my data devices leaving them strewn across the ground.

With a last bitter smile, I took the blade to my uniform and sawing off the crest of the RDA and leaving it as the scene. I then ran off into the unknown leaving my old life behind, blissful tears accumulating in my mask as I free myself from the shackles of humanity and let my mind and soul become one with the forests of Pandora.

I ran until my legs gave in as I collapse into a field of plush grass and I gaze up at my surrounds, trees loom over me shielding me from the light rains that wash over the lands. That’s when I heard a gasp and scampering nearby. My head darts to my left as I watch carefully for movement. That’s when I see her, a young Omaticayian girl crouched and almost invisible against the bioluminescence of the forest she dwells in.

“Hi, I won’t hurt you, I’m not with them.” I call as I see her eyes dilate and ears twitch with recognition of my words.

“Your human.” The Na’vi states yet remains hidden.

“Indeed I am.” I smile gently but I make no indication of moving as not to frighten the girl away.

After a moment of reflection, the Na’vi stands and walks towards me apprehensively, she towers over my sitting form as I gaze upwards. She points to herself.

“I’m Kiri, and you?”

“I’m (Y/n)”

“-(Y/n), what a strange name” Kiri mutters to herself but I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at her words. Her eyes dart back to mine from my sudden noise. Kiri’s wide eyes trail down my figure, as if she was analysing me for any threat.

“KIRI, WHERE DID YOU GO?!” A man’s voice calls in Na’vi tongue from deeper in the forest.

“COMING FATHER!” Kiri calls back as she races towards the forest line, that was until her Father beat her there alongside two young boys trailing close behind, his eyes scan her form for injury as his eyes observe his surroundings… until his gaze lands on me. I sit there petrified of the look in his eyes.

Weariness and protective.

My breath catches in my throat, even if I wanted to run I couldn’t, it was like I was paralysed. He pulled Kiri behind him as the younger boys peeked out from behind their Father.

“Who are you and what are you doing this far in the Omaticaya’s lands” He spoke in fluent English.

“My name is (Y/n) (L/n), I was a soldier and botanist, I’ve abandoned the RDA to dedicate my heart to the forest and everything living within it.” I spoke with complete resolution despite my heart thumping in fear of what he would do to me.

He approached me as I remained sitting in fear that he would strike me down if I moved an inch. I gazed upon his imposing figure as his dreadlocks framed his stern eyes that flickered over my body.

His face contorted in a scowl once he spotted my pocket knife nestled in my boot. My gaze follows it, my gaze widened as I came to this realisation.

“Here.” I spoke curtly as I pulled the knife out and handing it to him keeping it closed. He took it and caught sight my wound on the palm of my hand.

“Your injured.” He spoke his tone softening as he gathered that I wasn’t a threat to his kin.

“Self-inflicted.”

His eyebrows furrowed in what appeared to be a hint of concern. I elaborated.

“I had to fake my death to escape… I used my blood to mimic a Thanator attack.”

“I see.” He said. He mulled over his thoughts for a moment before continuing.

“I’m Jake Sully. These are my some of kids, Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak.” He introduced gesturing behind him.

Kiri smiled back at me as she stuck up a little thumbs up in approval.

“So why did you leave the RDA (Y/n).”

I let out a sigh as my mind flashed back to my childhood within the RDA as I spoke carefully.

“I- I was born in the base, confined to its walls for years before being forged into a soldier. Yet despite this I always had a passion for botany – plants – I had yearned to be able to freely explore the forest and grew an appreciation for the Na’vi through the data files… I never thought I fit in… I felt like an outcast.” I took another breath to calm myself, “I understand if you want to kill me due to my affiliation, and I won’t hold any resentment to you or your people if you so decide.”

“Come.” Jake stated and offered me a hand. I accepted it without a second thought, my hand only wrapping around two of his fingers. Jake pulled me to my feet and proceeded to lead me deeper into to forest. Neteyam – I came to learn who was the oldest of the boys – spoke to me in curt English.

“Hello, I am Neteyam. You are short.” He stated, he seemed quite proud of himself for speaking to me. I smiled gently at his attempt of communicating with me.

“Hello Neteyam, I’m (Y/n). Nice to meet you. You are correct I am short.” I replied.

“I’m Lo’ak!” The shorter boy piped up. “I’m great at speaking Sky People language.”

“English Lo’ak. These Human’s speak English.” Jake corrected from his position from the front. Neteyam laughed and gave his younger brother a punch to the arm, which resulted in a yelp from Lo’ak. Jake spun around at the noise and glared at Neteyam as he deducted what happened.

“Apologise Neteyam.” Jake spoke in Na’vi.

“What!” Neteyam exclaimed.

“Now –” Jake growled baring his teeth. With a stutter Neteyam apologised picking at his fingers.

“S-sorryyy Lo’akkkk –” Neteyam apologised as he continued walking.

We soon reached a point where Jake motioned Kiri, Neteyam and Lo’ak to begin their accent up into the trees, they fly up the trunk with ease. Jake looked at me as I gape as how far the climb is. He then bent down and motioned me to climb onto his back. I gently pull myself onto his back careful not to bump his queue. We quickly reach the top and I see an intricately woven home nestled into the trees canopy. Standing on the edge of the home is Kiri, Neteyam, Lo’ak, an older Omaticayian woman I figured was their Mother with a small child in her arms… and a human boy.

“Neytiri, Spider, Tuktiery, I’m home” Jake called as he carefully slid me off his back. I nervously hide behind Jake at the look Neytiri was giving us.

“Jake why is there a human on your back.” She hissed in Na’vi.

“I can explain ‘Tiri.”

“Explain what? that you brought another human into our home.” My eyes widened as I try and quell the tremors of her wrath. The toddler – I assumed was Tuktiery – began to whine in her Mother’s arms as the commotion.

“They are not one of them, I can sense they are good, please trust me!” Jake begged his lover.

Neytiri glared down at me and let out a sigh.

“One chance Jake, one.” Neytiri caved.

“Thank you, my love.” Jake turned to me with a smile.

“You’re one of us now” He smiled his gaze falling down to my wound again. “Let’s get you cleaned up now.” Jake offered as he grabbed some medicinal berries, I had never seen in the data files before. My eyes shone and he crushed them into a paste and applied it before wrapping it in cloth. As he finished tying the knot Jake looked down to me and smiled softly.

“Your safe here, I understand what’s it’s like to not fit in.” He whispered for only me to hear.

“You were from the Avatar program weren’t you.” I stated in a whisper.

Jake could only smile knowingly at my statement.

“Welcome to the family.”

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rosewaterandivy · 3 months

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don't fall away from me

summary: “If I should fall, on that day / I only pray, don't fall away from me" from I, Carrion (Icarian) - Hozier

w.c.: 1.9k

previously

Years pass by, and time moves differently here. Hawkins, but not quite, stuck in the perpetual year of 1983. Life, or whatever you call his existence, in the Upside Down is one long, drawn-out night. Turbulent clouds of red and blue rolled through a bruise-colored sky.

And somewhere beyond, just out of his reach, lies the scent of summer. It wafts through as it pleases— fragrant blooms, sunlight, and waxy blades of green. He can almost taste the slupees and melting popsicles, watermelon sugar tingling on his tongue.

He can hear your laughter in the dead air, the sound echoing through the caverns of his mind. That is, at least, when he isn’t there.

Vecna, Henry Creel, his majesty the scrotum— whatever.

Speaking of which—

“It’s time.”

The steel-trap of his memory slams shut, though it’s useless to try and keep anything for himself. Learned that the hard way. Many times, in fact.

Like clockwork, the lone walkie crackles to life with a burst of static.

“Eddie, it’s Dustin. Over.”

His longs to wrap his fingers around the chunk of plastic and press down to reply. He always will, he can’t rightly help it.

But this time, Dustin says something else. It’s not the usual: “Eddie, can you read me? Over.”

Instead, it's: “Eddie, if you’re there just—” followed by a deep breath. “If you come back, things are different now. She’s different. She’s got another life and…”

In spite of himself, he creeps closer to the walkie.

Dustin heaves a sigh down the line. “Please don’t come for her. If you are what I think you are, you’ll stay away.”

But, of course, he doesn’t listen to Henderson’s pleas. Turns out, a prolonged stay in the Upside Down as Vecna’s Frankenstein abomination of a lieutenant will do that to a person. Or whatever he was now. He can’t listen to good sense because his has fled. He has to hope that some things are the same, that your love remains the same.

And with that, he unfurls his wings and takes off toward the surviving gate.

Ever since he’d woken up, or rather, been revived by Vecna, something has been pulling at him from Hawkins. Well, several somethings really, but two in particular burn the brightest. He follows them like the north star guiding him home.

Except home for him doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in any way that matters.

A cabin tucked away in the woods kept secret and safe, sunken back against the trees. On a thick branch of a nearby tree hangs a tire swing, pastoral and endearing. Next to it sits a worn picnic table, burgundy paint peeling at the edges. There’s a clatter from behind the door before it creaks open.

You linger there, back turned to him, a cream-colored dress falls to graze just beneath your knees. Your hair is longer now, a smile coming to his lips as he continues to observe, a few locks falling loose from the braid you’ve tied.

The braid and dress are new. But the ease with which you lean into the house, carefree and relaxed, that is familiar.

And maybe that’s enough.

He watches as you eventually settle back against a well-loved rocking chair, a soft crooning voice floating through the air as you tilt your head back and sigh.

Christ. You smell good. He always thought you had, even now the faintest aroma of sandalwood only serves to conjure vestiges of you. But he can’t detect the fine traces of them now. In its stead is a bright note of salt, musk, and heat beckoning him like a siren’s call.

Only once the sun has set beneath the horizon does he answer that call, stepping out from underneath the shade of the trees. A twig snaps underfoot at his approach, and your head whips toward him, your mouth pulled in a flat line. With the grace and quickness only Nancy Wheeler would envy, you grasp the barrel of a soldered off shotgun.

“I would suggest you turn back now,” You warn lowly, cocking the hammer and wrapping your finger around the trigger.

Stepping from the trees, he raises his arms slowly and sheepishly ducks his head.

“Unless you’ve got some silver bullets in there, sugar,” He jests, lips jerking into a careful smile, “I doubt it’ll do much good.”

Rising from the chair, you narrow your eyes to stare into the taller broader figure of a man you have known too well.

“Eddie?”

He responds with a nod, not that it does much to lessen the blow. You blink, eyes darting side to side as if questioning your reality.

Hearing his name slip from your tongue so softly nearly steals his breath. He can’t help but close his eyes to memorize it. That voice, his name, the years have passed, and he hasn’t forgotten. Not a single thing.

From the first time you called it, to the first time you whispered it, to the last time you sobbed it, following him into the unknown darkness. No matter how black his heart, he always had you.

“Hi sweetheart,” He greets, stepping forward and dropping his arms, extending a shaky outstretched hand.

Or, what could once be considered a hand.

And the devastation that falls on your face is worse than any of the terrors he’s suffered combined. You stand frozen like a statue, stiff and still save for the fluttering of your skirt in the breeze.

Beautiful as ever.

Your mouth begins moving before any words fall forth, expression ranging from shock to elation before settling at outright terror. There’s a slight tremor to your hands as they grip the weapon aimed directly at him.

He can hear the quickening of your heart, the whoosh of air that slips from your lungs with each breath, the inherent thrum of life all around you.

He makes to call your name, but the words fall silent in his throat at the sight unfolding before his eyes. The door creaks loudly as you dash in front of it, shielding something from view.

And then he sees it. The change Dustin alluded to; the life.

If he had a heart, it would have dropped, trembled even. Even the cool absence of it feels like it could burst right through his chest.

“Mama?” The boy whispers from behind the mesh of the screen door. He clumsily totters from one foot to the other, landing with a plop on the floor.

A child.

“Stay there baby,” You say, eyes trained on Eddie and flashing in warning. “I’ll be in soon.”

Mama.

Fuck. The boy is beautiful. Footsie pajamas and face shadowed, shielding him from Eddie’s prying eyes. Even if he can’t make out the boy’s face just yet, he knows, because of you, any child would be perfect. Like those cherubs from Renaissance paintings. A little cherub that could have been his.

“Cute kid,” Eddie smiles, voice soft and low, “What’s his name?”

“He’s named after his father,” You say taking one step toward him. “And you should be leaving.”

“Jams!” The boy helpfully offers, “My name's Jams!”

“J-Jamie.” You breathe, “His name is Jamie.” Clearing a tickle in your throat, you clarify, “Steven James, technically.”

The boy— Steven. Eddie feels himself roil at the new knowledge. His name is Steven.

“Steven? Steve?” Betrayal trips along his tongue, a lingering tang of wet pennies in the way he questions it. As much as he tries to brace for it, a tiny blooming wound breaks through the syllable.

Between your overcast eyes and Eddie’s inspecting onces, the boy is lodged like a twig in a dam, holding back the torrent from both sides. You continue to grip the rifle and shush him now for the time being.

“Is he— Steve? He’s Steve’s?”

Eddie observes the front yard, the blinding, hopeful curtain lifting from his eyes— there are three chairs on the porch, three black-eyed Susans painted on the mailbox, three stumps further afield surrounding a fire pit.

A home.

You face swims with heartbreak, mouth twisting into a scowl he’s seen rarely but still— he knows it.

“Yes, Eddie.” You sigh, nostrils flaring and face coloring with indignation.

Eddie frowns, broken-hearted, apologetic, jealousy roiling in his gut. Unshed tears gather at your lashes, lips pinched tightly, as if holding back your words will keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t know what you mean as he stares vacantly at your protective stance.

But then he sees it.

He sees it when the boy grunts, tired of a conversation that is years beyond his interest and understanding. He rests a tiny hand against the screen door and gently pushes at it.

Jamie is quick and before you can haul him back behind you, he scampers into the light as if the pair of you are playing a game, and when Eddie looks back to where his perfect little head is— drawn firmly to your side, plopped on your jutting hip, he sees dazzling cascades of mahogany curls glinting in the dim porch light.

The boy twists his little body around and stares of Eddie with some curiosity now that they are both wholly revealed to the other.

“He was there for me,” A faint whisper escapes your mouth, heavy tears falling down your chin, pooling until they barely hang on. “He was there the entire time. All nine harrowing months, knowing that I was growing something that was yours. If it weren’t for Steve, I—” You shake the thought loose before it can take hold.

You press your lips to Jamie’s head, inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, “I was completely out of it with grief. Th-thought, I coul— I couldn’t do it. Have a baby that was yours when you were gone. When you died, what we had was barely even a dream, Eddie.”

He knows, he remembers it all too well.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry— I didn’t—"

“I know,” You nod, acknowledging his confession. “You had no reason to.” He bites his tongue, hopes it draws some blood, hopes in secret that something will take his very existence from him now, and knows the chances are slim. He can’t stand the thought of being among the living any longer, facing the consequences of his actions, his so-called heroics— the two people he left behind.

“Steve was there, and he loved me through it. And when this little… when this sweet guy—” You press your face to his and take a steadying breath. “When this boy came, we held each other and wept.”

A small laugh escapes from you muffled by Jamie’s hair.

“So, he’s named after his father, just not necessarily his biological one.”

Jamie leans toward you, places his palms to your cheeks and pats the wetness away. “No cry, mama. Happy face.”

You crumble apart, bursting into tears against his little palm, pressing kisses to his fingertips, and part of Eddie crumbles to ruin too. The boy, this precious boy, who is both his and not his, turns and looks at him earnestly.

“Mama’s okay, baby,” You whisper to him, “I’ve got you now, my sunshine boy.”

“You should leave,” You turn to Eddie, reluctance rounding the words as they tumble from your mouth. “Before he gets home.”

Because your home is with Steve now. Not Eddie, at least not anymore.

“He’ll want to see you, they all will, but not like this.”

He wouldn’t even know what to say to Steve. He wouldn’t know what to say to anyone. The stories he’d told himself of abandonment and sacrifice all pale in comparison to the reality of it all— trying to mete out a meager phantom life, half-existing, while the world continued to turn above.

You and Steve, and his son— your son, Eddie’s son, Steve’s son.

All strung together like tragic marionettes, and he can’t protect you from the puppet master.

With a few beats of his wings, Eddie's gone, soaring above the tree line and catching the last few rays from the setting sun. Relishes the scant warmth and thinks that maybe Icarus had the right of it; the greatest tragedy, after all, is never to feel the burning of the light.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst

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hometoursandotherstuff · 9 months

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Today's WTF house doesn't really involve the 2000 home in Midway Park, North Carolina. This 3bd, 2ba home asks $220K, but it's the owner's commentary that puts the C in crazy. Check it out. (Oh, and he also took the pictures, himself.)

$220,000 NOT negotiable AS IS FSBO SALE !!! It AMAZES ME that people are buying 1/4 acre UGLY lots with one car garaged houses in my neighborhood for more than I'm selling my house for.

Don't let your agents talk you into staying away from my house because it is a little more work for them or because THEY THINK I'm unreasonable!!!!

The house will need interior paint, carpet or flooring (carpet now mostly) and the roof is original, patched up and 23 years old but ALL are also still useable as is.

IMO, This house is worth 250k PLUS. I WILL ALSO NEED UP TO 30 DAYS AFTER CLOSING AND PAYMENT TO MOVE OUT but that IS negotiable.

This is a FOR SALE BY OWNER HOME BUT YOU WILL NEED AN AGENT TO VIEW THIS PROPERTY. Sorry but I'm NOT INTERESTED IN LETTING UNQUALIFIED STRANGERS IN MY HOUSE OR ON MY PROPERTY ESPECIALY WITHOUT AN AGENT.

NO OWNER FINANCING!!!NO LEASING!!! NO CONTINGENCIES!! IMO, this is the most desirable home and lot in my neighborhood AND WAAAY under zestImated.

One bedroom has NEVER been slept in EVER..LOCATION< LOCATION< LOCATION!!!! APPOINTMENT ONLY!!!!!!! DO NOT KNOCK ON THIS DOOR WITHOUT ONE !!!!!!

SORRY, Im playing the long game MAYBE and not interested in strangers roaming through my world unannounced.

Contact ME with proof of qualification to buy and then tell me your agents name and # and that they will contact me or I them. I am still living here and don't want a lock box, strangers or starving and fishing for a listing agents in my house whenever it's convenient for them or an agent to tell me what to do (staging/cleaning, etc.) and after telling me what low price I need to list it at, so they can do even less work... I need it to be convenient for me.

I WILL ONLY BE SHOWING THIS HOUSE IN THE AFTERNOONS between 2 and 4 . (Maybe later also?) Shopping, Food Lion and a healthy strip mall is about a mile away.

I have not seen a homes lot I like anywhere near as much as I like this one ANYWHERE in this neighborhood and it's less than 2 miles from the main gate of Camp Lejeune!

Sorry, i have a lot of spam and sneaky agents lurking around daily trying to get this listing and so far only a few people since I have had this house listed on Zillow have been smart enough to figure this out but still didn't follow my other REQUIREMENTS so no response. :(

You better hurry and buy SOMETHING before the interest rates get higher. If interested you will need to say you have read both descriptions to get a response from me. If you REALLY want my house and can afford it, you'll get it and should be very happy you did. :)

#WTF house #crazy listing #houses #house tours #home tour

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scotianostra · 21 days

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youtube

I love days when I get an excuse to post music hre, and I hope you enjoy the third helping, the tale bhind the song is a cracker too......

Johnny Ramensky, the Scottish safe cracker was born on April 6th 1905 in Glenboig, Lanarkshire.

His father was a Lithuanian immigrant miner who died when Johnny was young and the young Ramensky also became a miner. It was while he was down the pit that he learned his skills with dynamite which were to prove so useful to him in later years.

Johnny drifted in and out of trouble from the age of eleven and moved to the Gorbals area of Glasgow during the Depression with his mother and two sisters. He developed an amazing physical strength and acrobatic ability but in order to obtain some money, he became a burglar, specializing in robberies involving climbing up external rone-pipes to gain entry to premises. He also developed skills in picking locks and safe-cracking with explosives.

He won the nickname Gentle Johnny because he never used violence. And he escaped from prison several times, even staging a rooftop protest at Barlinnie in 1931. Johnny was what you would call now a career criminal, his life of crime saw him spend an estimated 40 years in prison, which was only punctuated by his extraordinary service during the Second World War.

When the war started he wanted to contribute something. He went to the governor of Peterhead Prison, where he was being held at the time, and asked for help to join the forces after he got out. The governor recognised he was something special and that he could be extremely helpful to our secret services. He served his full sentence and was collected by MI5 agents at the gate.

Ramensky was known for his athleticism and aced basic military training before he was parachuted behind enemy lines in Nazi-occupied Europe. One early success was at the Italian port city La Spezia.

Johnny was able to hide himself in the mountains and used a compass to direct RAF bombers to the harbour. He was also a smashing saboteur and blew up a lot of railway lines. And after the Germans fled Rome, Johnny was able to recover a huge volume of secret documents from locked safes, which were very helpful in the conclusion of the war.

Ramensky also spent time in North Africa and almost had the opportunity to kill Nazi military commander Erwin Rommel. He broke into Rommel’s headquarters and unfortunately Rommel was on the front line. Had Rommel been there the course of the war would have changed because he would have been prepared to kill him. Of course, he did also break into Rommel’s safe and got plans that were helpful.

Mr.Ramensky’s wartime exploits formed the basis of the 1958 film ‘The Safecracker’, starring Mr.Ray Milland.

After the war Johnny went back to his old ways, even jumping off the train to blow open a safe on the way back to Glasgow hours after he was demobbed. . He went to blow a safe at a bank in York because his criminal contacts tipped him off. He has been described as an adrenaline addict. He seemed to like danger.

When he got back to Glasgow he became a folk hero because people had heard about his exploits in the army. Various people offered him employment, including one of the big demolition companies. But that wasn’t exciting enough for him.

Even in his declining years when his physicality began to leave him he still couldn’t settle down. He tried to be a bookie but lost all of his own money, because he was a gambler. He never really went straight.

Ramensky died aged 67 in 1972 while a prisoner in Perth. He kept diaries which were burned by prison authorities, but one early extract survived.

It read: “Each man has an ambition and I have fulfilled mine long ago. I cherish my career as a safe blower. In childhood days my feet were planted in the crooked path and took firm root. To each one of us is allotted a niche and I have found mine. Strangely enough, I am happy. For me the die is cast and there is no turning back.”

There has been talk a fmovie about Johnny being made, but it is still to happen.

There’s a 7 minute film bout Johnny with the author of his biography, Robert Jeffrey, who I sourced most of the info for this post, and retired Glesga polisman, Les Brown, who tells of his dealings with Gentle Johnny. The Roddy McMillan song is playing throughout the clip.

That’s not the end of Johnny Gently though, he lives on at Peterhead Prison, now a museum where Ramensky served so many years behind bars, has created a exhibition space which highlights different aspects of his career.

You can get his biography by Robert Jeffrey for only £3.39, kindle version and £5.56 hardback at Amazon, I have also seen it on Ebay uk delivered for as low as £2.11

Let Ramensky Go.

There was a lad in Glesga town, Ramensky was his name

Johnny didnae know it then but he was set for fame

Now Johnny was a gentle lad, there was only one thing wrong

He had an itch to strike it rich and trouble came along

He did a wee bit job or two, he blew them open wide

But they caught him and they tried him and they bunged him right inside

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

And when they let him out he said he’d do his best but then

He yielded tae temptation and they bunged him in again

Now Johnny made the headlines, entertained the boys below

When he climbed up tae the prison roof and gave a one-man show

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

But when the war was raging the brass-hats had a plan

Tae purloin some information, but they couldnae find a man

So they nobbled John in prison, asked if he would take a chance

Then they dropped him in a parachute beyond the coast of France

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

Then Johnny was a hero, they shook him by the hand

For stealing secret documents frae the German High Command

So Johnny was rewarded for the job he did sae well

They granted him a pardon frae the prison and the cell

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

But Johnny was in error when he tried his hand once more

For they caught him at a blastin’, and it wasnae worth the score

The jury pled for mercy, but the judge’s voice was heard

Ten years without remission, and that’s my final word

Ten years, my lord, that’s far too long, wee Johnny cried in vain

For if you send me up for ten I’ll never come out again

Oh give me another chance, my lord, I’m tellin’ you no lie

But if you send me up for ten I’ll sicken and I’ll die

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

Now Peterhead’s a fortress, its walls are thick and stout

But it couldnae hold wee Johnny when he felt like walking out

Five times he took a powder, he left them in a fix

And every day they sweat and pray in case he makes it six

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go

Alley-ee alley-ay alley-oo alley-oh

Open up your prison gates

And let Ramensky go………

#scotland #scottish #history #safe cracker #lovable rogue #Youtube

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ihni · 2 years

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Sleeping Beauty Retold

For Harringrove Harvest, day 2 prompt: Sleeping Beauty

(Read on AO3)

~~~

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a powerful king. He ruled his land with an iron fist and struck down any who opposed him. He was a cruel and power-hungry monarch, and the people suffered under his reign.

The king had a queen – a bride from the North – whose beauty was unparalleled in all the land. That was not the only reason why the king had married her, though – no, the reason why he took her from her people and made her his wife was because of the magic that ran through her blood.

You see, despite the king’s ruthlessness, and despite his power, he was only a man. He was well aware of time passing, and feared that one day, death would come for him, as it comes for all men. He found that his wife’s magic could keep him young and strong, so he kept her close at all times, and allowed no one else to approach her.

But in using her for her magic, he was draining her. His advisors, knowledgeable in all magical things, warned him that there simply wasn’t enough magic in her blood to sustain both her own life and the king’s.

There was a solution, though, they said.

Which is why, a year later, the queen gave birth to a child. A golden boy, with pale blue eyes; the spitting image of his mother.

The king was pleased. His advisors told him that since the boy had his both mother’s magic and his father’s blood, spilling the boy’s blood on his eighteenth birthday would be enough to grant the king eternal life. His son’s life, for his own immortality.

The first couple of years of the boy’s life, he was allowed to stay with his mother. The king – who still needed his wife’s blood to keep himself strong – would sometimes come into the queen’s rooms and just look at the two of them together. Sometimes, he smiled. It was a cruel smile, as if he was counting down the time to his son’s eighteenth year, and the queen despaired.

As soon as the boy started to walk and talk unhindered, the king locked him in his own room, at the top of the castle’s tallest tower. The child was fed three times a day, but the door stayed locked in order to protect the king’s property. The queen was allowed to see her son a measly one hour per day, but it wasn’t enough, and the boy didn’t understand why she had to leave, and why no one came for him when he cried.

Unbeknownst to the boy, and the king himself, the queen had devised a plan. One night, she used her magic to put the guards outside her rooms to sleep, and she hurried up the stairs to the tower. The guard outside the boy’s room was similarly made to slumber, and the queen snuck inside and stole her own son right out of his bed.

The boy didn’t wake as she held him close to her chest, and he didn’t wake as she fled down the stairs and through the castle. He didn’t wake until she was at the gate, and held him out through the iron bars to the awaiting hands of her handmaiden. He awoke, then.

“Mom …?” the boy said, and rubbed at his eye. “You … you came for me.”

“Yes my darling Billy,” the queen said, holding back tears and ruffling his hair through the bars. “My baby boy, I love you so much. Remember, mommy loves you more than anything else in the entire world.”

With that, she gently touched his forehead with the tip of her fingers, and put him to sleep. A sleep full of wonderful, colorful dreams, from which he would awaken rested … and safe.

“Go,” she told her handmaiden, and turned her back on them so she wouldn’t have to see them leave. She sunk to the ground, but didn’t let her tears fall until she could no longer hear the retreating steps.

~~~

The queen knew that if she had taken her boy and left, the king would have burned the country down to find them. There would have been no rest for either one of them, ever. So she dried her tears, returned to her rooms, and waited until morning.

~~~

The king was furious, when it was discovered that his son was missing. The guard outside his room, who was found sleeping on his post, was interrogated and – when he couldn’t provide answers to what had happened – executed. Everyone in the castle was questioned, and a few didn’t survive the questioning. But no one had seen anything or, if they had, they weren’t talking. The only thing that kept the king from going out to look for his son himself, was his sudden fear that he would die out there.

He had counted on his son’s blood to make him immortal. With his son gone, he only had his wife to keep him young. So he doubled down on his wife’s security. Didn’t let her out of her rooms, even in his company. And he tried and tried again for a new child, who would have his blood and his wife’s magic, but the queen used up her last dregs of magic to make sure she never got pregnant again.

The years passed, and eventually the advisors were proven right; the queen got weaker and weaker. Spent all her days in bed, with no energy to get up. And still, the king kept using her blood for himself, to keep himself strong, and powerful.

~~~

The boy, Billy, woke up the morning after his rescue, and didn’t quite remember who he was. He found himself in a cabin in the woods, with three nice ladies named Joyce, Claudia and Florence (“Call me Flo”). He didn’t remember how he got there, but it felt like home and he thought he must have known them always, because they smiled at him fondly and hugged him and ruffled his hair with gentle hands.

A couple of days passed, and turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months, that turned into years. Billy grew into a handsome young man under the watchful eyes of his godmothers. He learned to work hard and laugh a lot, and helped out with whatever he could, whenever he could. He was liked by all who passed by the little cabin – not that many people did, with it being so out of the way.

The cabin was surrounded by forest in all directions, and Billy liked walking amongst the trees during the day. Sometimes, a deer or a bird or a squirrel would approach him, and maybe let him pet it. He considered each such occasion a gift, and made sure to tell his godmothers about it during the evening meal.

He grew up happy, and safe, and completely unaware of who his real mother was and what she had sacrificed to save him.

~~~

As the queen weakened – there were some days when she didn’t wake at all – the king grew more and more anxious. He knew that soon, his wife and her magic would be gone. He would no longer be stuck in time. Instead, he would start to age again, just like everyone else. Grow older. Weaker. Eventually, perhaps, even die. His advisors said that if he wanted eternal life, he would have find his son and take his life, as close to the boy’s eighteenth birthday as possible. Spill the blood that was half the king’s, and make use of the power stored in it.

So while the queen withered away in her rooms, the king spread his men out all across the kingdom in a mission to find his son, or any sign of him.

It took some time. The months passed, and every lead seemed to be a false one. But then, only a month before the boy would to come into majority, a wandering storyteller was dragged in front of the king, between two guards, who roughly threw him to the floor in front of the throne.

“Speak, peasant,” the king ordered, and the old storyteller – terrified, and bruised – did.

He spoke of his travels across the land; how most people were only happy to trade him a meal and a place to sleep in exchange for an evening of storytelling. When the king huffed and told him to get to the point, and had a guard point a spear at the man at his feet, the old man stumbled over his words in his haste to give the king what he wanted.

In a cabin in the woods, he said, he’d met a young man a few months ago – the young man was approximately seventeen years old, with striking blue eyes and golden locks that reached his shoulders. A splitting image of the queen, or at least the depictions of her that the man had seen. The young man had lived there with three women – none of which resembled him in the slightest – and they had all been happy to house the storyteller for the night.

He remembered them, because he had told them the story of the queen (and he didn’t mention to the king that he had told them the true story; how the queen had been taken from her homeland and been married to a cruel king against her will, and been forced to carry his child, and then – when the child mysteriously disappeared a couple of years later – locked in the palace and used for her magic alone) and they all had reacted so strangely. The three women had cried – had sat there with tears running down their solemn faces – and the boy …

The boy had a wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if he was trying to remember something. Trying to work something out.

And the storyteller hadn’t thought more about it, honestly, he hadn’t known, not until he heard that the king was looking for information about his lost son, and then he hurried to the nearest guard post to tell them what he knew – and no, he wasn’t running away from the guards or trying to hide when he found them, he was trying to find them, promise, he just wanted to do his duty as a citizen and please his king –

“Silence,” the king said, and stood. “You will tell me where this cabin is, and then you will be jailed. If the boy is the one I’m looking for, you will be rewarded with gold and your freedom. If he is not, you will die. So tell me. How do I find these people?”

~~~

The answer was as simple as it was infuriating; after all the years of searching, the cabin the old man described was only two days’ fast ride away. The king gathered his personal guard – twenty of his best men – and gave them their orders. Capture the boy, but don’t kill him. The king had to be the one to take his life for the magic to work.

They set out for the cabin at dawn the next day.

~~~

The storyteller’s rendition of the queen’s plight had been the first time Billy had heard about it. He knew they lived in a kingdom, of course, and he knew the king was cruel – none of his godmothers held back their contempt for the man – but he also knew that speaking of such things out loud could be dangerous.

No one had spoken of a queen before, though. Billy hadn’t really considered it – the life of the royals were so far removed from his own, after all – but when he heard the story of the queen, something long-forgotten unfurled in his head, and an ache formed in his chest.

That night, he dreamt of a woman. A tall and beautiful woman with pale skin and long, blonde hair just like his own. When she turned towards him, he was struck by the color of her eyes – they were blue, the exact shade of his own. “My son,” she said. “You are in danger. Your father wants you dead. If he comes for you, you have to run. I have tried to protect you, but I am weak. Soon I’ll be gone.”

In his dream, Billy couldn’t speak. Couldn’t ask the questions that were on the tip of his tongue; couldn’t even move. But it seemed that the woman – his mother – knew what he was thinking. “I am sorry for everything. I did what I had to do to keep you safe. I sent you away to save you. But I have loved you since the first time I saw you, and I will love you even after I’m gone. I only ever wanted for you to be safe, and happy.” Billy found himself crying, even though he couldn’t speak. His mother reached out with a frail hand and brushed the tears from his face with her thumb. “Remember two things, Billy; I love you and will always love you. And if your father comes for you – run.”

Billy woke up from his sleep before the sun was up, with tears running down his face. Claudia, always the first one to wake, found him sobbing into his pillow, and asked what was wrong. When he told her about his dream, she nodded with a grim look on her face. Then she went to wake Joyce and Flo.

“It’s time we told you about your heritage,” she said.

And then they did.

~~~

Knowing that your father was the evil king you had been warned of your whole life, and that he wanted to kill you to make himself immortal, was not exactly easy to digest. It took Billy a couple of days to come to terms with it. In contrast, it took him no time at all to realize that it really had been his mother in his dream, and that she was still trying to protect him. He was filled with something warm whenever he remembered her face.

Joyce had had a sister, his godmothers told him, who had been working as the queen’s handmaiden. On the night of Billy’s rescue, she had brought the child to Joyce in secret, and then returned to the castle to avoid suspicion. She had never returned, and Joyce had later found out that she had died. Joyce had never been given an official reason how or why, but she could guess.

But the facts were that Billy was technically a prince, and his mother had magic and his father was seeking to end his life.

Strangely – or maybe not strangely at all – nothing much changed, after that. Billy’s blood may have been royal, but he was still the same boy he had grown up to be, and he didn’t get out of his chores just because he was the son of a queen. He didn’t even try. And while the threat of the king was real, that didn’t change their lives. His godmothers – who had known about this since Billy was a child – had wards on the house, which would alert them if more than four people approached at the same time, or if anyone approached that shared Billy’s blood.

He was as safe as they could make him. As safe as he’d always been.

~~~

Only, the king was curious. He wanted to see if his son would recognize him, after all these years. So when he and his men got closer to where they knew the cabin to be, he ordered them to wait. To spread out around it, and stop anyone from leaving.

He changed into a peasant’s clothes, and left his horse and armor behind. When he set out through the trees, his sword was hidden behind his back and his face was concealed in the shadow of a hood.

Billy, as it happened, was out in the woods to collect firewood. He had his axe, and his pack, but didn’t feel the need to hurry. He had seen a fawn from a distance, and was trying to sneak up on it. Not to kill it, he just wanted to see if it would let him get closer.

A branch snapped. The fawn ran, and Billy stood up to face the direction where the sound came from. There was a man standing there, dressed in rags. He made no move to come closer, and he didn’t speak, so Billy spoke first.

“Hello,” he said. “Are you lost?”

It took the man some time to reply, but when he did, it was in a low voice. “No.” One word, and Billy frowned. For some reason, a chill went down his spine, and he felt uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Momentarily, his mind flashed to the threat of the king – this man didn’t look royal, but perhaps he had been sent by the king?

Billy took a step back. “Who do you seek?”

The man took a step forward, but didn’t speak. Instead he reached up to push down his hood, revealing his face. Billy didn’t recognize him, but still the man’s face made a stab of fear go through his chest. He licked his lips and asked again, “Who do you seek, stranger?”

The man laughed. “’Stranger’,” he said. “I am no stranger to you.”

Looking back over his shoulder and judging the distance to the cabin, Billy dropped his pack on the ground. He kept the axe in a tight grip in his hand. “You are mistaken. I have never seen you before.”

“Sure you have,” the man said. “But you were only a child, then.”

At that moment, Billy heard shouts behind him in the woods. Joyce, calling his name, sounding frantic. A second later, more shouting and the sounds of metal on metal – swords being drawn, armored men moving in. Joyce’s voice was shrill, but Billy heard her words clearly:

“Billy, run!”

Heart in his throat, Billy turned his attention back to the man in front of him and found that he had moved even closer while Billy was distracted. He held a sword in his hand and had a cruel smile on his face.

“You look just like your mother.”

Abruptly, that brought up the memory of the woman from his dream. How she had smiled at him, and dried his tears. But most of all, what she had said.

‘If your father comes for you – run.’

Billy turned and ran.

~~~

In the castle, the queen whimpered in her bed. She was alone in her rooms, had been alone for so long now. She had held out until now, done what she could to stop her husband from going after her child. She had hoped that he would last past his eighteenth birthday, that the king would never find him, that without the magic of her son’s blood the king would age and die once she was gone, thus making her son safe.

But the castle was abuzz with the news; the king had finally found his son, and had left yesterday at dawn. When he came back, he would have eternal life – and the blood of his son on his hands.

Not if the queen could help it.

She had not left her bed for days. Hadn’t had the strength to. Now, she pushed herself past her limits to get to her feet, and stumbled to the window facing north. She threw it open and from there, she saw the city. Beyond it, the seemingly unending woods – her son hidden somewhere within. And beyond the woods, far far away – only a hint of purple in the distance – the mountains she once called home.

She called upon what was left of her powers, and she called upon the mercy of her ancestors. She called upon the old gods known to her people and offered herself up in exchange for their help and protection.

“Help my boy,” she whispered through clenched teeth as her legs wobbled. “Save my son.”

~~~

Billy ran blindly through the trees – chased by his father the king, and the king’s men. He ran deeper and deeper into the woods, until the trees were so dense they blocked out the sun. There were no animals, no birds, no other sounds than Billy fleeing from his pursuers. Until suddenly, he heard a whisper;

“Billy, come to me.”

He stopped and listened, to determine where the voice had come from, but the woods were silent around him.

“Hello?” he called, voice wavering with fatigue.

“Come to me,” came the voice, somehow seeming to come from inside his own head, and now he recognized it as belonging to the woman from his dream; his mother. “Hurry.”

“But where?” he asked, because he didn’t know in what direction he needed to go.

In the next second, an arrow whizzed past him and found home in a nearby tree with a thunk. Billy hissed and grabbed his forearm, where the arrow had drew a thin red line that was welling up with blood.

“Hurry!” his mother’s voice repeated, and Billy stumbled off – suddenly knowing where he needed to go even if he didn’t know what awaited him there.

Soon, he stumbled out into what had once been a big clearing but which was now overgrown. In the middle of it stood the remains of the Brimborn Fort – now the Brimborn ruins, since it had been abandoned some fifty years ago – and he could hear his pursuers get closer.

“Come to me, Billy,” his mother’s voice said, and this time it sounded as if it came from within the ruins.

Billy blinked – his vision was swimming and he could barely focus – as he pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against. His arm was pounding, and black veins had begun to spread from the wound across his skin. Poison, he knew.

When he got inside, there was a strange kind of light coming from a staircase leading down into the earth. He followed it, down and down, but never seemed to reach the source – as if the light was moving, too.

Finally, he emerged in a big room, empty except for a stone altar in the very center. Standing behind it was a beautiful woman, glowing from within.

“Mother?”

“My darling boy,” the woman said, and her voice echoed in Billy’s head. “Come, and lie down. I will protect you.”

Billy went to her, but stumbled on the way and crashed to his knees. His arm was throbbing, the black veins reaching his shoulder, now. “I’m dying.”

“No, my son,” the woman said, and suddenly she was beside him. “I will not let you die.”

Thin vines sprung from the cracks in the stone floor, but they soon thickened, overturning the marble plates. They wound around Billy’s arms and torso, and helped him stand. Before he knew it, he was lying on the altar, blinking up at the dark ceiling above. The vines were wrapping around his body, keeping him immobile. It should have been terrifying, but he could not muster up even an ounce of fear.

“Sleep now,” he heard his mother’s voice say as he drifted off. “I will heal you while you sleep, and keep you safe.”

~~~

The young man slept, and the woman’s glow intensified until it filled the whole room. Then with a flash, she was gone.

Instantly, more vines burst out of the ground and started growing. They slithered over the walls and up the stairs. They broke up through the floor of the rest of the ruins, and came out of the ground all around the former fort. They grew big and tall, with thorns and spikes all around them. The clearing became an impenetrable wall of vines – but that was just the beginning.

The king’s men, who had reached the edge of the clearing, yelped in fright as they were grabbed by slithering vines that spread out among the trees. Some were pulled up – high over the treetops, and then dropped to their deaths – and others were pulled down into the earth, their clawing fingers the last that was seen of them. Some were enveloped entirely in vines, their terrified screams eventually silenced as they were crushed under the pressure.

The vines wound around each other, wove into themselves and still they kept growing. Eventually, they started moving slower. They hardened until they were stronger than stone, and turned black as night.

When everything finally stilled, the forest around the ruins was no longer a forest, but a mountain of blackened vines.

The king had sent his men before him, and was the only one who escaped alive. He managed to find his way back to his horse, but despite riding it to the brink of death, he didn’t make it back to his castle until the evening on the next day.

There, he found that his wife had died. They later found her body at the window, with hundreds of black vines having sprung up around her and making a cocoon out of her room. It took them three days to get inside.

The king’s advisors spent those three days going through old texts, and emerged on the fourth day with an explanation; the queen had used her last power to protect her child. The king was still a mortal, so the boy obviously still lived.

But when the boy’s eighteenth birthday came and went without the king showing any sign of aging, they amended their assessment – the boy lived, but he was also dead. Somehow he must have been frozen in time – and so was the king.

The king would not age, nor gain immortality, as long as his son remained between life and death.

~~~

Years passed, decades. The king’s advisors grew old and were replaced as they died, and the king’s subjects did the same. Eventually, everyone who had known a world where the king was not their king, had died. It was generally accepted that the king was already immortal, since he was so powerful, and never seemed to age.

The king knew the truth – that his supposed immortality would only come into being if he managed to get through the forest of vines and spill his son’s blood. He tried, and tried again – sent his best men on quests and threatened them with death if they did not succeed. He tried with fire, with magic and brute force, but the vines would not yield to him or anyone he sent.

The king would be alive for as long as his son slept; he was suspended in time, just like his child; but unlike Billy – who slept, without dreaming – the king spent his years raging, obsessing.

And his people kept suffering for it.

~~~

Enough time passed that it became common knowledge that the king was immortal. He had always been there, and would continue to be there, forever.

Another thing that had always been there, was the forest of vines. The king, who had accepted that there was no way for him to reach his son in there, had become increasingly afraid that someone else would manage to get through, and wake his son up. It would be the end of the king, he knew, so he stationed his men on the outskirts of the vine forest, and ordered them to let no one through. Officially, he said it was to protect the people – more than one of his men had died trying to break through it, after all – but in reality he knew that keeping his son in the state he was, was the only way for him to avoid aging, and dying.

There were stories, though. Passed through from person to person, whispered in the back of taverns and on lofts when everyone else had gone to sleep. The stories told of an evil king who married a woman from the north. The woman was magic, and gave birth to a child. The king was prepared to sacrifice the child for his own gain – for eternal life – but his wife, giving up her own life in the process, sent the roots and the vines of the forest to protect her child. If the stories were to be believed, the child was still there, in an enchanted sleep, waiting for someone to wake them up.

Only that child, it was said, could defeat the evil king. Only that child had royal blood and a claim to the throne.

~~~

One person who had believed the stories since he was a child himself, was Steve. Steve was the only son of a wealthy baron, and had grown up the only child in a big estate. His parents were often at the court, but didn’t want to bring little Steve along, so he spent his childhood in a big house, surrounded by his teachers and the staff.

The only one he liked, was the gardener. The gardener was a small woman with dark eyes, and her name was Joyce. She was nice to him when no one else would give him the time of day, and he often found himself out in the garden, where she would let him play and even dirty his clothes occasionally.

She told him about the sleeping child and the evil king, and it made so much sense to little Steve. Of course the king was evil – he was the reason why his parents were gone so much, after all. Steve used to dream of getting through the vines and waking the child up – together, they would defeat the evil king and then Steve would have a friend to play with; a companion that even his parents couldn’t deny him, since his friend would be a prince.

He made the mistake, one day when his mother was home, to tell her of his plans. It was the first and only time his mother slapped him.

“Shut your mouth, child,” she chided, looking over her shoulder as if afraid. “The king has been nothing but good to us, and you will do well not to speak of such tales again.”

Soon thereafter, Joyce was gone. In her stead was a grouchy old man who always shooed Steve away when he came down into the garden to play.

Years passed, and Steve grew up to be a strapping young man. Despite his parents’ efforts to keep him from fraternizing with the people who they considered to be below them, Steve would sneak out and spend time with other children in town. The group he found himself with were all younger than him, since people his own age were usually working, but he enjoyed their company nonetheless and did what he could to make their lives easier.

They became his friends, and his protégés, and Steve learned that he enjoyed helping people. So instead of fraternizing at court like his parents, Steve went to the streets. Talked to people in town, listened to their opinions, did what he could to help and make things better. But the things he could do were limited – as long as the king reigned, the people would never flourish.

It was one of his friends, a younger boy named Dustin, who put the idea in his head.

“I wish the king’s kid would come back and just ... vanquish him or something.” It was said off-handedly, with not a grain of hope behind it – because so much time had passed, and everyone knew that the vine forest was impenetrable, even if you got past the guards.

But it made Steve think. The stories that Joyce had told him, the stories that everyone seemed to know even though hardly anyone dared to speak of them … if there was some truth in them, then getting to that rumored child in the middle of the vine forest might be the only chance to free them all. The child, the people – everyone.

Besides, it wasn’t fair that a kid would be trapped in an enchanted sleep like that, all alone. Trapped, unable to get out. Steve liked kids, and the thought of one being left on their own like that didn’t sit right with him. When he was younger, he’d dreamt of rescuing the king’s child so that he’d have someone to play with. Now, he wanted to do it because it was the right thing to do.

No child should be left alone for that long. Someone should get them out. And if that child turned out to be the one who could defeat the king, well. Then that was a bonus.

~~~

So one night, he took his cape and his sword and some supplies, and got on his horse, and rode out of the town under the protection of the dark. Anyone would have told him that what he was planning to do was insane – but no one stopped him, because he hadn’t told anyone what he was planning.

He rode all night, and most of the day, and only stopped when his horse needed to rest. He slept for a couple of hours, and then he continued.

He reached the edge of the vine forest just before dawn the next day, but he could see it much earlier – the dark mass of slithering vines more resembled a mountain than a forest, and it was a terrifying sight. It looked just as imposing as the tales said, and Steve felt doubt that he would succeed in his mission.

Still, he felt he had to try.

He crept through the trees, keeping an eye out for the king’s guards, but under the cover of darkness he managed to get all the way to the edge. Hesitantly, he put one hand on the nearest vine. The surface was thick and leathery, and there were spikes the size of his hand growing out of it. He had seen the size of the forest. It seemed impossible for one man to get through it, when an army had failed.

Patting the surface of the vine, he imagined the child who was rumored to be trapped on the other side, and grabbed his sword. He couldn’t come all this way without at least trying.

The stories all said that the vines were hard as rock, but Steve found this to be untrue. With the first strike of his sword, he made a deep cut in the vine in front of him, and with two more strikes he had severed it. Something oily and black seeped out of the cuts and coated his sword, like blood, but he kept going. A couple of strikes more, and the thick vine fell to the ground; revealing more of them behind it.

Steve, encouraged by this apparent success, continued.

Unfortunately, dawn was approaching. The sky got lighter, and it wasn’t long until one of the king’s guards spotted Steve where he was hacking away.

“You there!” they shouted. “Stop, in the name of the king!”

Steve froze and looked up. The guard was still a fair distance away, and Steve could probably escape if he turned and ran now … But he was making progress. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted, no, needed to get through the vines, to get to the center of them.

The guard started running towards him, and Steve hesitated. Then suddenly, there was a strange light shining through the cracks of the dense vines, as if it was coming from behind them.

“Come,” a voice seemed to whisper, and Steve could not understand it but he renewed his efforts with his sword. He knew he was seconds away from being caught, and knew that not even his parents’ influence would be able to protect him this time, but he had to continue. Could not give up now.

At the next strike with his sword, the vine seemed to fall away before him, making him stumble. When he righted himself, he saw that they were … moving. For the first time in perhaps a hundred years, the vines were shifting. In front of him, they opened up a path which was lit up by the strange glow – and behind him, they were slowly closing up.

He looked over his shoulder. He could still make it out of there, if he wanted to. Perhaps make a run for the woods, and hope that the guards wouldn’t catch him. It might be better than being trapped in the vine forest, without a way out.

But despite knowing this, he did not move. Instead, he watched as the outside world was replaced by vines once again. He heard the guard reach the place where he had entered, and heard him yell and pound on the vines with his sword. This time, though, they did not yield. This time, the sound was that of metal on rock.

The vines kept growing behind Steve, and getting closer, so he had no choice now but to move forward. The vines had moved enough that he could squeeze through at most places – or maybe they just didn’t grow as dense, in here – but sometimes he had to use his sword to get past. He didn’t know in what direction he was going and he got tired and thirsty, but still he didn’t stop. He followed the source of the strange light that kept just out of sight; behind the next vine, then further away and seemingly waiting for him to catch up whenever he struggled against a particularly tenacious vine.

Behind him, the forest grew dense and dark again. There was no way for him to go but forward.

He wasn’t aware of how much time passed. The sun must have been high in the sky by now, but he could see no sign of it. All he could see was the next vine he had to sever with his sword, the next crack he had to squeeze through.

He was swaying on his feet with exhaustion when the final vine gave way, and made him stumble out in something resembling a clearing; a huge dome of dark vines enclosing it, like a bubble. Vine-covered ruins towered in front of him, ominous-looking and silent. But then, a flicker of the strange light in what must have once been the entrance.

Steve looked behind him. The vines had closed up once more. He couldn’t go back, even if he had wanted to.

Part of him thought that maybe this is what happened to the others who had tried to beat the vine forest, as well; perhaps they, too, had been lured inside, only to be swallowed up like Steve had been. Perhaps Steve was about to face a gruesome death and die here, forgotten, in the center of a intimidating enchanted forest.

But then he thought of an innocent child, having to spend eternity in this dark and hostile place. And despite his fatigue, he drew himself up and stumbled towards the ruins.

The inside was much like the outside, in that every surface seemed to be covered with slithering vines – these were smaller, though, and had no spikes. The light he had seen was gone, but as he got inside something flickered in a small doorway to the left. Lacking better options, he followed it.

It led to a winding staircase, leading down. The steps, the wall, the ceiling – all of it was covered in vines, and Steve sometimes had to use his sword to be able to get past. The ever elusive light, keeping just out of sight, provided just enough light for him to see where he put his feet.

He went further and further down, and as he descended, the air started to crackle with some kind of force. Steve had never had any experiences with real magic, but as the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up, he imagined that this could be nothing else.

Eventually, he reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into a large stone room. It should have been pitch black, but somehow the same light he had been following made the air itself glow, enough that he could see the room clearly.

There were vines here, too; all along the walls and bursting through the floor and ceiling. But Steve barely noticed them. Because there, in the middle of the room on a stone altar, lay a person, wrapped in vines.

As Steve approached, his eyes grew wide. Because this was no child. It was a young man, about his own age. His eyes were closed, his mouth partly open. His skin was somehow still sunkissed, even after being underground for so long, and golden locks spread out like a halo on the stone around his head.

Whatever exhaustion Steve had experienced disappeared at the sight of him. The air was brimming with magic, and little flecks of sparkling dust floated all around them, casting the sleeping young man in an ethereal glow.

He was beautiful.

Without thinking, Steve reached out with a shaking hand to touch his cheek. When he did, he couldn’t help the gasp that left him – the sleeping man’s skin was warm. And more than that – the brief touch felt like a shock, like lightning travelling up Steve’s arm and down his body. The young man let out a breath, and the room grew brighter. Warmer. There was something like a voice coming from all corners of the room, but also from inside Steve’s head. A woman’s voice.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For coming for my son.” And then, “You are brave, and pure of heart. Capable of love. I put my boy to sleep out of love, a long time ago … he deserves to be woken up to love, too.”

The voice disappeared, but the light in the room only intensified as the vines that was covering the altar withered away. The young man made a sound, and frowned in his sleep. Steve couldn’t help himself, overwhelmed with the desire to help – he reached out again. Touched the prince’s cheek gently with the back of his fingers. But the young man still didn’t wake.

The magic in the air crackled as he bent down and pressed his lips onto the sleeping man’s forehead in the softest of kisses.

When he straightened up, he saw the prince’s eyes blink open. His eyes were blue like the sky on a summer’s day, or the deepest ice of winter, and framed by long dark lashes. They focused on Steve, and the prince drew a breath to speak.

“You are not my mother.”

That drew a laugh out of Steve. “Indeed I am not. My name is Steve. What’s yours?”

“I’m …” The young man sat up on the altar, and scrambled to look at his arm, where there was a thin scar. “I’m alive.” Then he seemed to collect himself, and turned to Steve once again. “My name is Billy.”

Steve smiled, and watched as a small smile appeared on Billy’s lips in return. “I am honored to meet you, Billy.”

~~~

Far away, in the castle, the king was sitting on his throne in the throne room, when a rumbling could be heard, like distant thunder. He stood, as did everyone else who was in attendance. The people looked at each other in puzzlement. The sky outside the windows was clear, and it hadn’t rained for days.

Then suddenly, the castle started to shake. The people – Steve’s parents, incidentally, among them – screamed and some tried to run, but the king himself was frozen where he stood.

Later, the people present would tell others how it happened:

The castle shook. The rumbling got louder. A loud crack could be heard, and suddenly black vines burst out of the floor, and wound around the king’s legs and arms and continued around his shoulders and torso. The regent opened his mouth to scream, but no sounds came out. As the congregation watched, he paled. His hair turned white, his skin turned wrinkly and frail. He seemed to wilt in front of their very eyes, aging a hundred years in the manner of seconds. The vines tightened their hold on him until he burst in a cloud of dust, as if he was made by dry, unburned clay.

The vines kept coming and spread out all throughout the throne room, but like they had a hundred years ago, they eventually slowed and hardened – becoming one with the stone of the castle. The room filled with an unearthly glow, and the collected people all heard a woman’s voice, saying:

“My son has awoken. The king’s reign is over.”

And with that, the glow disappeared and the terrified people were left in the wrecked throne room as the dust settled.

Where the king had stood, was now only a pillar of entwined stone vines.

~~~

When Billy and Steve walked out of the Brimborn ruins, they saw the sky above them. The vines were gone, and in their stead was a large expanse of empty space where the earth was upturned and the skeletons of dead trees were strewn about as if a giant had dropped a box of matches. In the distance, they could see the tree line of the forest, where the vines hadn’t reached. Tiny figures were moving around, but they were too far for Steve to make out.

The place looked like a battlefield.

Billy looked out over the surroundings, confused. “How long was I asleep for?”

Steve, who was still reeling over the fact that the child he’d wanted to protect wasn’t a child, and that he had actually succeeded where no one else had, shook his head. “I don’t know. A long time. I grew up hearing stories about you.”

Billy turned to Steve, then. “About me?” He cocked his head to the side. “But I’m just … Billy.”

Steve laughed. “You’re the son of the king and the queen, the only one left with royal blood, and you’re the one who is destined to end the king’s reign.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Billy said, voice low.

Steve looked out over the bare expanse in front of them, where the vine forest had once been. The sun was setting, bathing everything in a golden glow. Beside him, Billy seemed to glow, too. When Steve looked down, he saw something move in the upturned earth. Something small, and green. As he watched, a small seedling unfurled, and a small white flower shaped like a star bloomed on its end.

Steve leaned down and gently picked it up, even as more of the flowers started to spring up from the earth all around them.

When he straightened up, he found Billy watching him curiously, and couldn’t help but smile.

“I think,” Steve started as he leaned in, and placed the flower behind Billy’s ear, “that you already have.”

#billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove #harringroveweek #harringrove harvest #sleeping beauty retold #ihni writes #this is a long one guys it's better to read it on ao3

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pure-vanilla-lilies · 1 month

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The Priestess Of The Coffee Snake Clan

Story Description: “Hurry Hide, she’s coming!”

Characters: Citrus Rose Cookie (OC), Affogato Cookie & Bittersweet Mocha Cookie (OC)

Story Warnings: Dark Themes, Betrayal, Very Strong Language, Character Death

Note: This is Citrus Rose Cookie’s story, this story will have darker themes. If you’re not comfy with it, please don’t read :)

A blizzard hit the dark cacao kingdom, the gashin sighed as he looked out the window. He always wondered why he and his sister were excel from the clan, it’s been so many years since the excel but it was for his and sister safety, they didn’t want to end up like his mom and his stepdad. The memories haunted him, seeing them getting murdered right in front of the two really messed the two up especially his sister. Looking at insignia necklace, that his sister gave him before she took her own life, it’s the only thing that he can remember her by. A sigh escaped from Affogato Cookie as he kept looking out the window, his daughter was a snake coffee cookie but she wasn’t like any other snake coffee cookie, her powers were like the priestress, but he never understood how and why, he had to figure out.

With the gashin looking at the letter from the day she arrived at the kingdom, it surprised him with the writing and the jam ink that was used.. It was the priestress handwriting, his heart was racing as he was nervous and fear for the kingdom and for his daughter.. The door opened as Affogato Cookie saw his daughter putting new incense in, the floral scent of lavender and rose never fails. Before his daughter could leave he wanted to have a talk with her. The two sat down on the bed which made Affogato Cookie sighed as he started to explain of who was her mother….

[Many Years Ago]

Outside of the north mountain there was a clan that was isolated from other villages. The clan was called the Coffee Snake Clan, many innocent cookie lost their lives to a priestress, many people feared her, even her clan members… Ringing of bells could be heard, everyone quickly got into their homes and locked the door except for cookie, an mother with a basket of sweets. The priestress stopped her fellow members as she looked at the mother.

“The innocence of this mother shows, bring her she has something we can take.” Citrus Rose Cookie said as she walked away.

The fellow members grabbed the mother which made her scream, she was scared of dying. The screams quieted quickly, which made the clan members be in more fear. With the cookies walking out of their homes and headed towards the middle of the square and saw the priestress, it was a surprise to see her holding something in her arms, it was wrapped in a fluffy blanket. The daughter of the darkest moon was born.

“Where’s my wife you goddamn bastard! What did you do to her! MURDERER! YOU MURDERER!” A cookie yelled from the crowd

The fellow members silenced the husband as it made people scream in fear. Citrus Rose Cookie looked at the new born, she knew she wanted her daughter safe. The priestress silenced them as she started to talk.

“The mother of deceit, the husband of lies. The traitors aren’t allowed here. Be that your warning, get out of my face now!”

The cookies left do their duties, the priestress looked at the new born and sighed, her daughter wasn’t safe she had to get safe.. Night fall rose, the priestress quickly took her daughter as they went to the kingdom near the licorice sea, with the note written down she knocked on the gates and quickly left… That’s until a certain gashin took the new born in…

[Present Day]

“WHY DIDNT TELL ME THIS! YOU TRAITOR! I NEVER FORGIVE YOU!” Bittersweet Mocha Cookie yelled as she cried.

Bittersweet Mocha knew she didn’t mean it but she was too upset to care. Feeling her father hug her as she cried on his shoulder. Affogato Cookie sadly rubbed her back as she kept crying.

“It was for your safety…” Affogato Cookie softly said..

#lillies writing #cookie run kingdom #cookie run #affogato cookie #bittersweet mocha cookie #citrus rose cookie #cw character death #Cw blood and gore #oc story #darker themes

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borglocksblog · 2 years

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bsideminibang · 9 months

Text

Title: I Had Some Time (With You)

Author: @songliili

Artist: @keikakudom

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Warnings: Major Character Death

Tags: Inspired by The Last of Us, Episode: s01e03 Long Long Time (The Last of Us), The Last of Us Spoilers, (in a way), Croatoan Virus, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Survivalist Dean, Recluse Dean Winchester, (ex), Teacher Castiel, Dean is Bill, Cas is Frank, they both die, but they're, Old Dean Winchester, Old Castiel, it's basically, Euthanasia, for cas, Terminally Ill Castiel, Assisted Suicide, and dean follows him, Dean Winchester Dies By Suicide, Suicide by Overdose, briefly mentioned, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Smart Dean Winchester, Closeted Bisexual Dean Winchester, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Internalized Homophobia, Assisted Suicide, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Castiel and Dean Winchester First Meet, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time Having Sex, Blowjob, Married Castiel/Dean Winchester

Posting Date: September 6

Summary: It's 2005 when things go to hell. Well. They go to hell for everyone except Dean, ‘cause he was ready for it. Well. He was ready for the apocalypse, not for the gorgeous man who fell into his life, quite literally. OR a Destiel rewrite of Bill and Frank's love story as shown on HBO's 'The Las of Us episode 3: Long Long Time' that uses elements of both universes.

Keep reading for an short excerpt:

It’s late morning and Dean is working on one of the fire-throwing traps that lately has been malfunctioning, when the alarm blares in the bunker because one of the hole traps triggered it. Annoyed, because that means that he has to haul up an infected corpse and he’s really not in the mood, Dean picks his favorite rifle, and walks out of the bunker to kill the son of a bitch.

The incriminated trap is only a five minute walk on the North-East side of camp, and close to that gate as well. At least the asshole had the decency to not make Dean walk for too long out of his safe haven. He shuts off the electricity running through the fence and unlocks the gate to go outside, then locks it behind him.

Dean cocks the rifle and raises it to aim before getting to the hole’s edge, when he hears a desperate voice yelling “Wait! I’m not infected!”

Confused, Dean walks the remaining three steps to see who the intruder is.

To be fair, he doesn’t look infected, no. He just looks like the most beautiful man Dean has ever seen. Dark unruly hair with a little bit of gray at his temples and in his long beard, so he’s probably in his 40s or early 50s. Despite the shadow at the bottom of the hole, the man's blue eyes are shining, adorned by crow’s feet, and the laugh lines in his face are still visible under the beard. There’s also a small wrinkle on his forehead just between his eyes. The past three years surely have given the man multiple reasons to furrow.

After two seconds of stunned silence, Dean wears his angry mask, scowling at the stranger from behind the rifle’s viewfinder. It’s not because he wants to see the man’s eyes better, shut up.

#supernatural #fanfic #fanart #castiel/dean winchester #promo post #b side minibang

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genocidalfetus · 5 months

Text

A Date With Rogue And Meeting A Rockerboi

Vilem cleaned himself up and picked up Rogue in Johnny's Porsche. She seemed amused by it. She also told Vilem that she always wanted Johnny to take her to a movie, but his idea of romantic outings usually involved fucking with corpos.

Johnny loved how she looked and seemed legitimately excited for the date, but first they would have to break in and see if they could get the projector working again.

Vilem managed to fenagle the projector to work again. Some action flick from a bygone era was still in it. Johnny's favorite kind of flick. Vilem took the pill and let Johnny have some privacy.

The date seemed to be going well...

Vilem woke up to Johnny looking bummed out. He told him that Rogue got mad and stormed off and that he may have an idea as to why, but insisted they go to North Oak.

When questioned, Johnny told Vilem that his old bandmate, Kerry lived in some mansion up in North Oak. He had read rumors that Kerry was depressed, suicidal even, and wanted to talk to him and see how he was doing. Vilem agreed to it, curious himself.

The gaudy gate leading up to Kerry's villa was closed and locked. Vilem suggested they ring the bell, but Johnny insisted he jump the fence, put his leg cyberware to good use. So Vilem obliged.

Vilem took out the patrol bots on the premises and slipped through the front door. Johnny criticized Kerry's decor and had some tidbits of info about each album cover.

His guitar collection was impressive. One of the guitars looked like the one he klepped from that psycho-fan's apartment. Vilem was glad it got back to its rightful owner. The shower was running, so one could assume Kerry was in there. Johnny requested that he be given the keys so he can bring Kerry out of the shower.

Johnny takes over and picks one of the guitars off the wall. He starts playing "Chippin In". A few seconds later, Kerry comes out of the bathroom with a gun in hand, looking pissed. Then anger turns to confusion. He knows that particular style of guitar-plucking....

Kerry asks about the last thing Johnny said to him before he died. Johnny repeats the word verbatim. Any doubt of who it is dissipates. Kerry knows it's Johnny.

A well-deserved pistol-whip as Kerry sits down, overwhelmed by the situation. Johnny back from the dead...

Kerry pours some drinks and demands an explanation as to where Johnny's been and why he looks like some kleptopunk now.

So Johnny told him about things from his perspective, and then he and Kerry reminisced about the old days.

Things get a little tense when Johnny asks about Kerry's ex-wife, then about his suicide attempt. Kerry insists it was a publicity stunt, but Johnny knows bullshit when he hears it.

After asking about the other former members of Samurai, Johnny asks if Kerry wants to play again...as Samurai. At first Kerry doesn't seem too thrilled, but as he lets the idea sink in, he starts to get excited about it. One last gig. He agrees to it.

Johnny gives control back to Vilem and this pretty face is the first thing he sees when he comes to.

Kerry tells Vilem to sit and rest, so Vilem asks Johnny about the concert. He agrees to it, hearing the sincerity in Johnny's voice. He gives Nance or Bess a call, only to get her assistant. Seems Bess may need some rescuing.

Vilem goes upstairs to check on Kerry. He asks him if he's feeling shitty too. Kerry says he's just gonna take a little nap...then asks if Vilem wants to join him...Is this rockstar flirting with him? Johnny insists he's kidding, but Vilem doesn't see any jest in those eyes...

#cyberpunk 2077 #kerry eurodyne #johnny silverhand #vilem davydkin #virtual photography #narrative photomode #the chapter I'll be posting has far more flirting for this scene because I think Kerry would have been more flirtier once Vilem had control #and damnit I wanted V to flirt too!

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istumpysk · 1 year

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Turncloak (Theon V) [Chapter 41]

Ack, I'm sorry. I'm guessing all the Theon posts will require a read-more link moving forward. Too many plots, lies, and mysteries.

It's okay, I'm making a promise to myself to never deactivate.

"The gods of the north have unleashed their wroth on Lord Stannis," Roose Bolton announced come morning as men gathered in Winterfell's Great Hall to break their fast. "He is a stranger here, and the old gods will not suffer him to live."

Is the Breaker of Trees having difficulty with the snow? The gods unleashing their wroth on Stannis is silly, but I kind of want to believe it.

Don't worry, they haven't forgotten about Roose.

"The gods have turned against us," old Lord Locke was heard to say in the Great Hall. "This is their wroth. A wind as cold as hell itself and snows that never end. We are cursed." - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

It's fun when you hate both sides.

+.+.+

Theon Greyjoy did not join the uproar. Neither did the men of House Frey, he did not fail to note. They are strangers here as well, he thought, watching Ser Aenys Frey and his half-brother Ser Hosteen. Born and bred in the riverlands, the Freys had never seen a snow like this.

The author would like you to know these Freys are out of their element.

+.+.+

The north has already claimed three of their blood [↓↓↓], Theon thought, recalling the men that Ramsay had searched for fruitlessly, lost between White Harbor and Barrowton.

On the dais, Lord Wyman Manderly sat between a pair of his White Harbor knights, spooning porridge into his fat face. He did not seem to be enjoying it near as much as he had the pork pies at the wedding.

Lol.

+.+.+

Elsewhere one-armed Harwood Stout talked quietly with the cadaverous Whoresbane Umber.

House Stout is a vassal of Lady Dustin's. We'll make note of this but hold off on declaring them Team Stark.

+.+.+

Last night, unable to sleep, Theon had found himself brooding on escape, of slipping away unseen whilst Ramsay and his lord father had their attention elsewhere. Every gate was closed and barred and heavily guarded, though; no one was allowed to enter or depart the castle without Lord Bolton's leave.

Already calling himself Theon, and daydreaming of an escape. Reek is mostly behind us.

+.+.+

The nearest thing to a home that remained to him was here, amongst the bones of Winterfell.

A ruined man, a ruined castle. This is my place.

She was looking at him the way she used to look at him at Winterfell, whenever he had bested Robb at swords or sums or most anything. Who are you? that look had always seemed to say. This is not your place. Why are you here? - Jon XII, ASOS

You can't be the Lord of Winterfell, you're bastard-born, he heard Robb say again. And the stone kings were growling at him with granite tongues. You do not belong here. This is not your place. - Jon XII, ASOS

+.+.+

He was still waiting for his porridge when Ramsay swept into the hall with his Bastard's Boys, shouting for music. Abel rubbed the sleep from his eyes, took up his lute, and launched into "The Dornishman's Wife," whilst one of his washerwomen beat time on her drum. The singer changed the words, though. Instead of tasting a Dornishman's wife, he sang of tasting a northman's daughter.

He could lose his tongue for that, Theon thought, as his bowl was being filled. He is only a singer. Lord Ramsay could flay the skin off both his hands, and no one would say a word. But Lord Bolton smiled at the lyric and Ramsay laughed aloud.

I'm not thrilled he's singing these songs, nor am I thrilled he's fashioning himself as a present-day Bael the Bard, but I'm going to trust it's nothing more than clues that it's Mance.

+.+.+

Lord Ramsay wanted his wife clean. "She has no handmaids, poor thing," he had said to Theon. "That leaves you, Reek. Should I put you in a dress?" He laughed. "Perhaps if you beg it of me. Just now, it will suffice for you to be her bath maid. I won't have her smelling like you." So whenever Ramsay had an itch to bed his wife, it fell to Theon to borrow some servingwomen from Lady Walda or Lady Dustin and fetch hot water from the kitchens.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

A few of the older men spoke of other snowstorms and insisted this was no more than a light dusting compared to what they'd seen in the winters of their youth. The riverlanders were aghast. They have no love of snow and cold, these southron swords.

Once again the author would like you to know these Freys are out of their element.

Remember when the show had the Dothraki fighting on horseback in the north during winter? They took away all of the snow and it was still the dumbest thing I've ever seen.

+.+.+

The air was thick and smoky and a crust had formed atop his porridge when a woman's voice behind him said, "Theon Greyjoy."

[...]

The woman smiled crookedly. "Do you take me for a whore?" She was one of the singer's washerwomen, the tall skinny one, too lean and leathery to be called pretty … though there was a time when Theon would have tumbled her all the same, to see how it felt to have those long legs wrapped around him. "What good would coin do me here? What would I buy with it, some snow?" She laughed. "You could pay me with a smile. I've never seen you smile, not even during your sister's wedding feast."

"Lady Arya is not my sister." I do not smile either, he might have told her. Ramsay hated my smiles, so he took a hammer to my teeth. I can hardly eat. "She never was my sister."

That's not what I was told!

Washerwomen. That was the polite way of saying camp follower, which was the polite way of saying whore. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

If you're not a whore, what are you?

Anyway, Rowan calling Arya his sister wasn't a mistake. Rowan sees the Starklings as his kin.

Rowan grabbed him by the throat and shoved him back against the barracks wall, her face an inch from his. "Say it again and I will rip your lying tongue out, kinslayer." - Theon I, ADWD

She also has great respect for Eddard Stark, which is a little puzzling.

"Winter is coming …"

Rowan gave him a hard look. "You have no right to mouth Lord Eddard's words. Not you. Not ever. After what you did—" - Theon I, ADWD

Other than the Hooded Man, Rowan and Mors Umber are the only people to ever accuse Theon of being a kinslayer.

"—a turncloak and a kinslayer," Crowfood had finished. "You will hold that lying tongue, or lose it." - Theon I, TWOW

Because of that, plus her bizarre fondness for House Stark, many have speculated that Rowan is the daughter Mors Umber lost to the wildlings.

When Mors was young he was a fearsome fighter. His sons died on the Trident, his wife in childbed. His only daughter was carried off by wildlings thirty years ago. - Jon IV, ADWD

She dies, nothing will come of it. Could be a fun little easter egg though.

+.+.+

I was never beautiful like Sansa, but they all said I was pretty. Jeyne's words seemed to echo in his head, to the beat of the drums two of Abel's other girls were pounding. Another one had pulled Little Walder Frey up onto the table to teach him how to dance. All the men were laughing. "Leave me be," said Theon.

Seems like these women are creating a distraction.

+.+.+

The woman leaned close. Her breath smelled of wine. "If you have no smile for me, tell me how you captured Winterfell. Abel will put it in a song, and you will live forever."

"As a betrayer. As Theon Turncloak."

"Why not Theon the Clever? It was a daring feat, the way we heard it. How many men did you have? A hundred? Fifty?"

Fewer. "It was madness."

"Glorious madness. Stannis has five thousand, they say, but Abel claims ten times as many still could not breach these walls. So how did you get in, m'lord? Did you have some secret way?"

I had ropes, Theon thought. I had grapnels. I had darkness on my side, and surprise. The castle was but lightly held, and I took them unawares. But he said none of that. If Abel made a song about him, like as not Ramsay would prick his eardrums to make certain that he never heard it.

Theon figures this out relatively quickly.

Every gate was closed and barred and heavily guarded, though; no one was allowed to enter or depart the castle without Lord Bolton's leave.

↓

The man was just a singer, a pander with a lute and a false smile. He wants to know how I took the castle, but not to make a song of it. The answer came to him. He wants to know how we got in so he can get out. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

That's great, but I'm still troubled by Mance.

Does she never sleep? What game are you playing, priestess? Did you have some other task for Mance? - Jon IX, ADWD

+.+.+

He wanted to hit her, to smash that mocking smile off her face. He wanted to kiss her, to fuck her right there on the table and make her cry his name.

I think you need some quiet time in your kennel.

+.+.+

A battle was being fought in the yard; Ryswells pelting Barrowton boys with snowballs. Above, he could see some squires building snowmen along the battlements. They were arming them with spears and shields, putting iron halfhelms on their heads, and arraying them along the inner wall, a rank of snowy sentinels. "Lord Winter has joined us with his levies," one of the sentries outside the Great Hall japed … until he saw Theon's face and realized who he was talking to. Then he turned his head and spat.

Ryswells and Dustins are playfighting. Could be nothing.

Later:

More snowmen had risen in the yard by the time Theon Greyjoy made his way back. To command the snowy sentinels on the walls, the squires had erected a dozen snowy lords. One was plainly meant to be Lord Manderly; it was the fattest snowman that Theon had ever seen. The one-armed lord could only be Harwood Stout, the snow lady Barbrey Dustin. And the one closest to the door with the beard made of icicles had to be old Whoresbane Umber.

I'm not sure what is going on with these snowmen, but something here is important.

Lots of people believe it's a secret signal to Bolton enemies outside the walls. I have a few problems with that theory,

Walder Frey was one of the squires who built the snowmen.

He might have taken the guards for a pair of Little Walder's snowmen if he had not seen the white plumes of their breath. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

There's no visibility in these snow storms.

Outside the snow was coming down so heavily that Theon could not see more than three feet ahead of him. - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

The snowmen become impossible to distinguish.

Huddled in their hooded cloaks, the guards outside were almost indistinguishable from the snowmen. Only their breath fogging the air gave proof that they still lived.

Outside the snow still fell. The snowmen the squires had built had grown into monstrous giants, ten feet tall and hideously misshapen. - Theon I, ADWD

Perhaps it's symbolism?

+.+.+

Beyond the tents the big destriers of the knights from White Harbor and the Twins were shivering in their horse lines. Ramsay had burned the stables when he sacked Winterfell, so his father had thrown up new ones twice as large as the old, to accommodate the warhorses and palfreys of his lords' bannermen and knights. The rest of the horses were tethered in the wards. Hooded grooms moved amongst them, covering them with blankets to keep them warm.

Sorry, this reminded me that I forgot to point something out in the previous Theon chapter.

We have to pay attention to hooded men with daggers for an upcoming Theon chapter.

Farther on, he came upon a man striding in the opposite direction, a hooded cloak flapping behind him. When they found themselves face-to-face their eyes met briefly. The man put a hand on his dagger. "Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer."

"I'm not. I never … I was ironborn."

"False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?"

"The gods are not done with me," Theon answered, wondering if this could be the killer, the night walker who had stuffed Yellow Dick's cock into his mouth and pushed Roger Ryswell's groom off the battlements. Oddly, he was not afraid. He pulled the glove from his left hand. "Lord Ramsay is not done with me."

The man looked, and laughed. "I leave you to him, then." - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

So many mysteries to solve, isn't this fun?

↓↓↓

But under the hood, his hair was white and thin, and his flesh had an old man's greyish undertone. A Stark at last, he thought. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

He could feel his missing fingers cramping: two on his left hand, one on his right. And on his hip his dagger rested, sleeping in its leather sheath, but heavy, oh so heavy. It is only my pinky gone on my right hand, Theon reminded himself. I can still grip a knife. - The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

+.+.+

Theon made his way deeper into the ruined parts of the castle. As he picked through the shattered stone that had once been Maester Luwin's turret, ravens looked down from the gash in the wall above, muttering to one another. From time to time one would let out a raucous scream.

Bran's still visiting.

+.+.+

He stood in the doorway of a bedchamber that had once been his own (ankle deep in snow that had blown in through a shattered window), visited the ruins of Mikken's forge and Lady Catelyn's sept. Beneath the Burned Tower, he passed Rickard Ryswell nuzzling at the neck of another one of Abel's washerwomen, the plump one with the apple cheeks and pug nose.

Is it known as Lady Catelyn's sept? How cute.

These wildling women will kill some of the men they're seducing.

"You killed a boy as well."

"That was not us. I told you."

"Words are wind." They are no better than me. We're just the same. "You killed the others, why not him? Yellow Dick—"

"—stank as bad as you. A pig of a man." - Theon I, ADWD

I hate everything about this, because it reminds me of Osha's show storyline with Ramsay.

Drennan lay half-naked in the gatehouse, in the snug room where the drawbridge was worked. His throat had been opened ear to ear. A ragged tunic concealed the half-healed scars on his back, but his boots were scattered amidst the rushes, and his breeches tangled about his feet. There was cheese on a small table near the door, beside an empty flagon. And two cups.

[...]

Osha. He had suspected her from the moment he saw that second cup. I should have known better than to trust that one. She's as unnatural as Asha. Even their names sound alike. - Theon IV, ACOK

+.+.+

Winterfell's inner wall was the older and taller of the two, its ancient grey crenellations rising one hundred feet high, with square towers at every corner. The outer wall, raised many centuries later, was twenty feet lower, but thicker and in better repair, boasting octagonal towers in place of square ones. Between the two walls was the moat, deep and wide … and frozen.

Are we learning this for a reason?

+.+.+

The woods, the fields, the kingsroad—the snows were covering all of them beneath a pale soft mantle, burying the remnants of the winter town, hiding the blackened walls Ramsay's men had left behind when they put the houses to the torch. The wounds Snow made, snow conceals, but that was wrong. Ramsay was a Bolton now, not a Snow, never a Snow.

No, he's a Snow. Bizarro Snow.

+.+.+

Stannis Baratheon is out there somewhere, freezing. Would Lord Stannis try to take Winterfell by storm? If he does, his cause is doomed. The castle was too strong. Even with the moat frozen over, Winterfell's defenses remained formidable.

Three characters have hinted at the same thing.

Would his brother be as bold?

Not likely. Stannis was a deliberate commander, and his host was a half-digested stew of clansmen, southron knights, king's men and queen's men, salted with a few northern lords. He should move on Winterfell swiftly, or not at all, Jon thought. - Jon VII, ADWD

We would be fools to march on Stannis. Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton … but he must come to Winterfell. - Reek III, ADWD

The Freys and Manderlys are taking the fight to Stannis at the beginning of TWOW, but I think I know what happens afterwards.

+.+.+

He might prefer to cut the castle off from the outside world and starve out its defenders. Winterfell's storerooms and cellar vaults were empty. A long supply train had come with Bolton and his friends of Frey up through the Neck, Lady Dustin had brought food and fodder from Barrowton, and Lord Manderly had arrived well provisioned from White Harbor … but the host was large. With so many mouths to feed, their stores could not last for long. Lord Stannis and his men will be just as hungry, though. And cold and footsore as well, in no condition for a fight … but the storm will make them desperate to get inside the castle.

That feels somewhat important. Team Bolton has more food than Team Stannis, but they don't have a lot of it.

The Vale has lots of food.

+.+.+

Snow was falling on the godswood too, melting when it touched the ground. Beneath the white-cloaked trees the earth had turned to mud. Tendrils of mist hung in the air like ghostly ribbons. Why did I come here? These are not my gods. This is not my place. The heart tree stood before him, a pale giant with a carved face and leaves like bloody hands.

Make up your mind.

+.+.+

A thin film of ice covered the surface of the pool beneath the weirwood. Theon sank to his knees beside it. "Please," he murmured through his broken teeth, "I never meant …" The words caught in his throat. "Save me," he finally managed. "Give me …" What? Strength? Courage? Mercy? Snow fell around him, pale and silent, keeping its own counsel. The only sound was a faint soft sobbing. Jeyne, he thought. It is her, sobbing in her bridal bed. Who else could it be? Gods do not weep. Or do they?

Earlier we learned Jeyne never leaves her bedchambers.

Sour Alyn had been saying that Ramsay kept his bride naked and chained to a bedpost, but Theon knew that was only talk. There were no chains, at least none that men could see. Just a pair of guards outside the bedchamber, to keep the girl from wandering.

He's not hearing Jeyne. That's absurd.

Bran is the only one who can be heard through trees, so I have to believe he's hearing Bran crying.

+.+.+

There are ghosts in Winterfell, he thought, and I am one of them.

You're a ghost, but are you a hooded man?

+.+.+

Scraps were thrown onto the floor to be gobbled up by Ramsay's girls and the other dogs.

The girls were glad to see him. They knew him by his smell. Red Jeyne loped over to lick at his hand, and Helicent slipped under the table and curled up by his feet, gnawing at a bone. They were good dogs. It was easy to forget that every one was named for a girl that Ramsay had hunted and killed.

The author never forgets, Ramsay.

+.+.+

Two of Roose Bolton's scouts had come straggling back through the Hunter's Gate to report that Lord Stannis's advance had slowed to a crawl. His knights rode destriers, and the big warhorses were foundering in the snow. The small, sure-footed garrons of the hill clans were faring better, the scouts said, but the clansmen dared not press too far ahead or the whole host would come apart. Lord Ramsay commanded Abel to give them a marching song in honor of Stannis trudging through the snows, so the bard took up his lute again, whilst one of his washerwomen coaxed a sword from Sour Alyn and mimed Stannis slashing at the snowflakes.

There's another southron lordling in over his head.

Let's pray those hill clans and their sure-footed garrons press on all the way to the Wall, where they can wait for Sansa to arrive.

And please, for the love of god, pray for the Dothraki horselords. They're going to need it.

+.+.+

"Somewhere beneath us are the crypts where the old Stark kings sit in darkness. My men have not been able to find the way down into them. They have been through all the undercrofts and cellars, even the dungeons, but …"

"The crypts cannot be accessed from the dungeons, my lady."

"Can you show me the way down?"

"There's nothing down there but—"

"—dead Starks? Aye. And all my favorite Starks are dead, as it happens. Do you know the way or not?"

This is a reminder that Lady Dustin knows Theon is House Bolton's plaything, and might not be truthful with her words or intentions.

I personally don't buy this is a show, but you do you.

+.+.+

Only a shell remained, one side open to the elements and filling up with snow. Rubble was strewn all about it: great chunks of shattered masonry, burned beams, broken gargoyles. The falling snow had covered almost all of it, but part of one gargoyle still poked above the drift, its grotesque face snarling sightless at the sky.

This is where they found Bran when he fell.

That partly broken gargoyle poking through the snow is Bran.

Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know. - Bran II, AGOT

I would feel a lot better if two gargoyles were poking through the snow.

+.+.+

No one had expected the broken boy to live. The gods could not kill Bran, no more than I could. It was a strange thought, and stranger still to remember that Bran might still be alive.

Bad news, Brynden.

+.+.+

He had always thought of the crypts as cold, and so they seemed in summer, but now as they descended the air grew warmer. Not warm, never warm, but warmer than above. Down there below the earth, it would seem, the chill was constant, unchanging.

The crypts are suddenly feeling a bit more inviting.

+.+.+

"The bride weeps," Lady Dustin said, as they made their way down, step by careful step. "Our little Lady Arya."

[...]

"Roose is not pleased. Tell your bastard that."

[...]

"Dressing her in grey and white serves no good if the girl is left to sob. The Freys may not care, but the northmen … they fear the Dreadfort, but they love the Starks."

Block out all the noise and tinfoil, and read it again.

She knows it's not Arya, and she's concerned Ramsay's going to blow it for Roose.

If she was secretly conspiring against House Bolton, would she talk like this? Would she want Jeyne silenced? Would she actively participate in this ruse?

+.+.+

The Freys may not care, but the northmen … they fear the Dreadfort, but they love the Starks."

"Not you," said Theon.

"Not me," the Lady of Barrowton confessed, "but the rest, yes.

Theon might be half-mad, but he's astute.

+.+.+

Old Whoresbane is only here because the Freys hold the Greatjon captive. And do you imagine the Hornwood men have forgotten the Bastard's last marriage, and how his lady wife was left to starve, chewing her own fingers? What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl.

Looks like I have to move House Hornwood to Team Stark.

+.+.+

No, he thought. She is not of Lord Eddard's blood, her name is Jeyne, she is only a steward's daughter. He did not doubt that Lady Dustin suspected, but even so …

"Lady Arya's sobs do us more harm than all of Lord Stannis's swords and spears. If the Bastard means to remain Lord of Winterfell, he had best teach his wife to laugh."

Do us. Do US more harm.

Totally unconcerned with the girl's well-being, it's only about the danger it poses to Roose.

+.+.+

"My lady," Theon broke in. "Here we are."

"The steps go farther down," observed Lady Dustin.

"There are lower levels. Older. The lowest level is partly collapsed, I hear. I have never been down there." He pushed the door open and led them out into a long vaulted tunnel, where mighty granite pillars marched two by two into blackness.

There's no way that was thrown in there for no reason.

Something is down there.

+.+.+

Shadows slid and shifted. A small light in a great darkness. Theon had never felt comfortable in the crypts. He could feel the stone kings staring down at him with their stone eyes, stone fingers curled around the hilts of rusted longswords. None had any love for ironborn. A familiar sense of dread filled him.

Not so inviting anymore.

+.+.+

"The ones on this side were Kings in the North. Torrhen was the last."

"The King Who Knelt."

"Aye, my lady. After him they were only lords."

How many times are we going to bring up the King Who Knelt? I'm starting to wonder if it will happen again ...

...

+.+.+

The stone eyes of the dead men seemed to follow them, and the eyes of their stone direwolves as well. The faces stirred faint memories. A few names came back to him, unbidden, whispered in the ghostly voice of Maester Luwin. King Edrick Snowbeard, who had ruled the north for a hundred years. Brandon the Shipwright, who had sailed beyond the sunset. Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. My namesake. Lord Beron Stark, who made common cause with Casterly Rock to war against Dagon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke, in the days when the Seven Kingdoms were ruled in all but name by the bastard sorcerer men called Bloodraven.

Speaking of things that might happen again, I'm thinking Bran might sail across the Sunset Sea ...

...

I will never understand why Theon was named after a Stark. Did George forget Ned didn't name this one?

+.+.+

"That king is missing his sword," Lady Dustin observed.

It was true. Theon did not recall which king it was, but the longsword he should have held was gone. Streaks of rust remained to show where it had been. The sight disquieted him. He had always heard that the iron in the sword kept the spirits of the dead locked within their tombs. If a sword was missing …

There are ghosts in Winterfell. And I am one of them.

Sometimes the ghost is Theon, other times the ghost is Bran.

+.+.+

They walked on. Barbrey Dustin's face seemed to harden with every step. She likes this place no more than I do. Theon heard himself say, "My lady, why do you hate the Starks?"

If you were a Stark loyalist and confirmed Bran and Rickon might still be alive, would you be visibly uncomfortable? Would your face be hardening?

+.+.+

She studied him. "For the same reason you love them."

Theon stumbled. "Love them? I never … I took this castle from them, my lady. I had … had Bran and Rickon put to death, mounted their heads on spikes, I …"

"… rode south with Robb Stark, fought beside him at the Whispering Wood and Riverrun, returned to the Iron Islands as his envoy to treat with your own father. Barrowton sent men with the Young Wolf as well. I gave him as few men as I dared, but I knew that I must needs give him some or risk the wroth of Winterfell. So I had my own eyes and ears in that host. They kept me well informed. I know who you are. I know what you are. Now answer my question. Why do you love the Starks?"

"I …" Theon put a gloved hand against a pillar. "… I wanted to be one of them …"

"And never could. We have more in common than you know, my lord. But come."

That's not a lie. Theon was part of the war efforts, he'll know how many men from Barrowton assisted Robb.

I understand she hates Ramsay, but there's nothing about this woman that indicates she secretly supports the Starks.

+.+.+

"Lord Rickard," Lady Dustin observed, studying the central figure. The statue loomed above them—long-faced, bearded, solemn. He had the same stone eyes as the rest, but his looked sad. "He lacks a sword as well."

It was true. "Someone has been down here stealing swords. Brandon's is gone as well."

"He would hate that." She pulled off her glove and touched his knee, pale flesh against dark stone. "Brandon loved his sword. He loved to hone it. 'I want it sharp enough to shave the hair from a woman's cunt,' he used to say. And how he loved to use it. 'A bloody sword is a beautiful thing,' he told me once."

"You knew him," Theon said.

The lantern light in her eyes made them seem as if they were afire. "Brandon was fostered at Barrowton with old Lord Dustin, the father of the one I'd later wed, but he spent most of his time riding the Rills. He loved to ride. His little sister took after him in that. A pair of centaurs, those two. And my lord father was always pleased to play host to the heir to Winterfell. My father had great ambitions for House Ryswell. He would have served up my maidenhead to any Stark who happened by, but there was no need. Brandon was never shy about taking what he wanted. I am old now, a dried-up thing, too long a widow, but I still remember the look of my maiden's blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain.

We just learned Brandon Stark had no problem dishonoring highborn girls he never planned to marry.

The crannogman saw a maid with laughing purple eyes dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf . . . but only after the wild wolf spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench. - Bran II, ASOS

Dot, dot, dot.

+.+.+

"The day I learned that Brandon was to marry Catelyn Tully, though … there was nothing sweet about that pain. He never wanted her, I promise you that. He told me so, on our last night together … but Rickard Stark had great ambitions too. Southron ambitions that would not be served by having his heir marry the daughter of one of his own vassals. Afterward my father nursed some hope of wedding me to Brandon's brother Eddard, but Catelyn Tully got that one as well. I was left with young Lord Dustin, until Ned Stark took him from me."

Unreliable narrator Queen in the North Barbrey Dustin.

Brandon probably did say that, but men say a lot of things to their side pieces.

+.+.+

"Lord Dustin and I had not been married half a year when Robert rose and Ned Stark called his banners. I begged my husband not to go. He had kin he might have sent in his stead. An uncle famed for his prowess with an axe, a great-uncle who had fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. But he was a man and full of pride, nothing would serve but that he lead the Barrowton levies himself. I gave him a horse the day he set out, a red stallion with a fiery mane, the pride of my lord father's herds. My lord swore that he would ride him home when the war was done.

"Ned Stark returned the horse to me on his way back home to Winterfell. He told me that my lord had died an honorable death, that his body had been laid to rest beneath the red mountains of Dorne. He brought his sister's bones back north, though, and there she rests … but I promise you, Lord Eddard's bones will never rest beside hers. I mean to feed them to my dogs."

Surprised to learn many side with Dustin on this one.

I think it's unfortunate he didn't bring back her husband's remains, but I'm not sure how realistic that was.

Eight men plus Lyanna were dead in the Red Mountains of Dorne, and a newborn baby was massively complicating things. I think we have to give Ned Stark and Howland Reed the benefit of the doubt here.

+.+.+

Theon did not understand. "His … his bones …?"

Her lips twisted. It was an ugly smile, a smile that reminded him of Ramsay's. "Catelyn Tully dispatched Lord Eddard's bones north before the Red Wedding, but your iron uncle seized Moat Cailin and closed the way. I have been watching ever since. Should those bones ever emerge from the swamps, they will get no farther than Barrowton." She threw one last lingering look at the likeness of Eddard Stark. "We are done here."

There is no way this woman is an ally. None.

Barbrey's dogs will not be eating Ned Stark's bones, but Ramsay's dogs might get to eat a Lord of Winterfell.

+.+.+

The snowstorm was still raging when they emerged from the crypts. Lady Dustin was silent during their ascent, but when they stood beneath the ruins of the First Keep again she shivered and said, "You would do well not to repeat anything I might have said down there. Is that understood?"

It was. "Hold my tongue or lose it."

"Roose has trained you well." She left him there.

Shiver me timbers! Roose didn't train him?

I don't know guys, I think what you see is what you get with this woman.

Final thoughts:

Let's ask ourselves the obvious, how did she know to check the crypts for missing swords?

The simplest explanation is Wyman Manderly, but that doesn't automatically mean she's on Wyman Manderly's team.

Putting that aside, what's more strange is one of the spearwives will ask to see the crypts.

"What do you want?"

"To see these crypts. Where are they, m'lord? Would you show me?" Holly toyed with a strand of her hair, coiling it around her little finger. "Deep and dark, they say. A good place for touching. All the dead kings watching."

"Did Abel send you to me?"

"Might be. Might be I sent myself. But if it's Abel you're wanting, I could bring him. He'll sing m'lord a sweet song." - A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

Figure that one out.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #the turncloak #theon v

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rune-writes · 8 months

Text

The Stranger

Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI

Word Count: 2546

Rating: G

Pairing: Clive Rosfield & Jill Warrick

Summary: When Jill first arrived in Rosaria, fear had been the only thing occupying her mind. That is, until a friendly face decided to appear before her.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

I was six when I first saw him. He was leaning over the parapet above the city gates along with several men on guard. He had jet-black hair and wore a simple black and white tunic with a red shirt peeking underneath. They all wore red, as did the flag flapping beside them.

Rosalith, I thought. One week’s ride from the capital. One week since Archduke Elwin took me from my home. It is your duty, Father had said, as it is mine to obey the terms of our agreement. I’d wanted to cry, but all I’d done was nod. There had been nothing to be done. Father had looked so sad—even sadder when we finally had to part. His only gift was a silver pendant that now rested over my chest. Something to keep with me, he’d said, to remind me of home.

The shadow of the gate loomed closer. I could hear the horns now, blaring loud and clear in a rhythm I now knew was the Rosarian anthem. I’d heard it enough times in the North, heard the guards singing phrases to the tune around campfires. A movement drew my eyes upward and I saw the boy staring right at me. He pointed. I didn’t catch what he did afterwards, because I’d shut the curtains close and ducked beneath the window sill.

Before I could process what I just did or whom I just saw, shouts were hollered to open the gates and then shadows slid past. Then light came, and with it were the cheers of a thousand upon thousand voices. People hooted and cried and clapped and sang, their voices rising as one like the high tides against the northwestern cliffs. I suddenly felt trapped.

Father had said that I was to be a ward, that I was no prisoner taken hostage after the fall of my homeland. I’d like to believe it so, what with the rich red velvet cushions in the carriage and the gentle ways the soldiers had treated me during our travel. But the wood now felt pressing; the bolted door was the only thing keeping me safe from the showers of praise and exclamations of triumph—triumph over a war that had lasted for several years before I could even remember.

And then the cheerings stopped, as did the carriage. Horses huffed and neighed and all around, mailed feet dropped onto the hard ground. I pulled away from the door, fighting against fear and trying to remember what Father had told me. “Your Grace,” I heard someone say. “Welcome home.” And then locks clicked. The door swung open. Blinding light entered the doorway and for a split moment, I could not see anything. Then my eyes found a hand, outstretched and not frightening at all, followed by a grizzled face I recognized who’d never strayed far from the Archduke’s side.

“My lady,” he called me, a quiet prompt to take his hand. After another heartbeat, I took it and stepped into the light.

***

The boy stood next to a woman with eyes as cold as the northernmost reaches of home. Blonde hair tied to a perfect bun, back straight, her posture spoke of nothing but regal pride. My heart quivered but I refused to let my shoulders droop. Head tilted just at the right angle. Meek. Just like what Father had told me. When the Archduke called me forward, my feet moved by themselves. I curtsied and murmured, “My lady.” Her disdain was plain in her upturned nose and refusal to acknowledge my greeting. And then I turned to the boy and murmured, “My lord.” I took a quick peek and found his eyes—the richest blue like blazing sapphire—locked into mine. It was impossible to look away, but I did so anyway, though not before I caught his smile blooming like an unfurling lily from ear to ear.

His name was Clive—Clive Rosfield—first born son of the duke, and he was nine. The grin didn’t last; a glare from the duchess cut it short. They then directed my gaze to the other boy on the duchess’ other side. Blonde fluffy hair unlike his brother’s jet-black strands; but his eyes were alike, albeit brighter like the sky.

“And this is Joshua,” the Duke went on.

Joshua’s smile was a shy curl around the edges. I’d barely offered my greeting before the duchess pulled him aside and called for the maidservants to take me to my room. “Dress her in a more…proper attire, if you please,” she said before turning in a swath of layered dress up the leftwing staircase with Joshua in tow. I heard a groan and realized it came from the Duke. The Duchess reappeared soon on the second floor, before disappearing again behind the first door. I caught a glimpse of Joshua’s bright blue eyes looking back at me before the door shut behind them.

“Well,” the Duke broke the silence. He turned toward me; I tried not to cower in front of him. “Welcome to Rosalith, the proud capital of Rosaria. This will be your home from now on.”

I kept my eyes downturned—it was not good to meet the eyes of your liege, as Father said—but I noticed the change in tone.

“Lift your head, girl.”

And I did. And whom I saw was not the sovereign who’d crushed my father's army, but a father.

He gestured for one of the maidservants. One stepped forward.

“Show her to her room and attend to her needs,” he said.

The maidservant bowed her head. “Right away, Your Grace.”

***

Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, I had imagined a lone room at the top of a tower, small and cramped, with furnishments barely enough to suit my needs, and I would need to call on a maidservant every time I would like to go to the washroom. Instead, what I found was a space big enough to possibly hold a host of ladies for an afternoon party. A draped bed to one side, a dressing room on the other, then a fireplace and a set of couches and coffee table along with several shelves of books lined one corner. I even had my own washroom, where hot water had been prepared in time for my arrival. She had me shed my clothes. My skin tingled as I stood naked amidst the unfamiliar stone. The light was bright enough that I noticed how pale I looked compared to my maidservant’s southern skin.

She was gathering my dress from the floor when I remembered what the duchess had said and immediately asked her not to throw my clothes away. She looked surprised, though a gentle crinkle quickly took over her hazel eyes.

“Of course, my lady,” she said. “I’ll just have these washed. For the time being, I’ll lay out a dress for you on the bed.”

She couldn’t have been more than ten years my age, I thought as I gingerly stepped into the water. My skin hissed, but after the coldness of the North and the long trek hither, the warmth was welcome to the touch. I eased into the tub and settled in the corner. My necklace, still attached to my neck, floated in the water.

The Silvermane, they’d called my father, for the unruly silver hair that ran down his shoulders akin to a lion’s mane. The necklace he gifted used to belong to Mother. A light blue crystal hung from its diamond-shaped pendant, upon which was fastened a black-indigo jewel. It looked icy cold yet somehow felt warm on my palm. When Mother was still here, I would look upon the jewel hanging around her neck with awe. I’d heard tales of Shiva the Ice Queen and had once entertained the idea that the pendant carried her essence. Mother had laughed, of course, but she’d told me afterwards that, with the right bearer, the pendant held enough magick to freeze an entire kingdom—or so her family had said, at least. She’d told me that it brought her comfort, that wherever she’d gone, home would always be with her. I felt no such comfort now. No matter how I thought about it, home was thousands of malms away, and the only thing left of it was probably already burning away in the furnace somewhere in the depths of the castle.

A heavy sigh lay over me. I let the pendant go, leaned further against the tub, hugging my knees close and submerging myself until all anyone could see were the bubbles rising up to the surface.

***

I didn’t stay long in the water—only long enough until my skin grew pink and my head hazy from the heat. When the maidservant returned, I’d finished my bath and was reaching for a towel. She fussed over me, said I should’ve stayed in the water longer. It felt odd, yet familiar, to be fussed over, so I let her.

She helped me dry myself and led me back to my chambers. A white dress made of soft silk lay on the bed. It reached my shins, the light fabric hugging my body loosely. It was a bit too big, which the maidservant also noticed, and the high neck felt rather stuffy. She promised she’d get the measurements right for my other dresses and it surprised me that I would have other dresses.

“Shall I bring some food, my lady?” she later asked. “Supper wouldn’t be until another three bells.”

I would’ve said no—I could wait another three bells—but exhaustion seemed to finally take its toll and my stomach grumbled before I could answer. The maidservant let out a chuckle, which she quickly disguised as a cough.

“I’ll see what the Cook has ready in the kitchens.”

She backed away and the door clicked shut behind her. The silence that followed, somehow, felt deafening, much more so than the crowd that had flocked our carriage on our coming. The walls loomed around me, dark and foreboding. A single fire lit the entire room, no doubt powered by the same crystal from the bath chamber. Yet despite it, I shivered. I blamed the light fabric; wished I had my old clothes back. I hoped the maidservant hadn’t really burned them in the furnace somewhere. I longed for the fur-lined cloak, the emblem of my father’s house, the way it snugly ensconced me throughout my long trek.

I longed for my father, and my mother, and the mountain peaks and the snow.

A sob threatened to burst through my tightened throat when a knock suddenly broke the silence.

“Y–Yes?” I managed.

I figured the maidservant would’ve opened the door by herself then, but the knock came again, so I wiped my tears and took deep breaths. It wasn’t the maidservant waiting for me on the other side of the door. It was the boy, first son of the Duke who, for some reason, was not the inheritor of Phoenix’s flame.

Clive Rosfield stood agape with his eyes slightly wide, and for several heartbeats we stood in silence. He spoke first, his voice sounding uncharacteristically high-pitched to me who had been surrounded by gruff old men for a week.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

And that was when I regained myself, realizing where I was and whom I was addressing. I dropped into a curtsy and stammered a “m–my lord.”

He disregarded it, taking a step forward and leaning down to peek through my bangs. I instinctively dipped my head and shuffled back several feet.

“Is there something you need?” I asked, then hastily added, “my lord.”

I felt his scrutiny and wished the walls would swallow me whole. But he didn’t push. Instead, his shadow receded, and I dared myself to look up.

He was looking at the hallway for whatever reason I didn’t know, his finger reaching up to scratch his cheek. I had half a mind to follow his gaze, to see if maybe my maidservant was back, but before I could, he caught my eyes, and I averted my gaze on instinct once again. His following chuckle was not something I’d expected to hear. It was light and breathy and…free somehow, like the way the winds on the mountain peaks felt free. Cool and comforting. It pulled me in. Propriety be damned. I looked at him and found him smiling—not the ear to ear grin he’d shown me before, but a small smile, restrained yet gentle, and it made my own lips waver.

“I’m sorry if I surprised you,” he said. “I saw Lady Ada step out of your room, and I wanted to see how you were holding.”

So that was her name. I hadn’t asked.

I cleared my throat. “Lady Ada said she would fetch me something from the kitchens.”

“Are you hungry? I can bring you to the kitchens if you like.”

“Is…is that all right?”

“The Cook wouldn’t mind,” he said, but he seemed to remember something, because then he added, “My mother probably would, though. Decorum and such.”

“Are princes not allowed in the kitchens?” I asked, because back home, they never minded my presence. I even sometimes helped the kitchen hands.

“It’s more about the proper way of things, I would say,” Clive said.

He sighed, then looked around the hall again. He never crossed the threshold. Another proper way of things, probably. This might have been a guest room before, but it’d be my chambers from now on. This would be the place I called home. My heart lay heavy at the thought. Then Clive spoke again:

“Would you like to see more of the castle? Lady Ada wouldn’t be for a while. I’ll show you the garden or the library or maybe if Joshua manages to escape Mother’s grasp, we can meet him, too. Though, maybe we could make a quick visit to the kitchens so Lady Ada will know where you’ve gone to lest she panics when she finds the room devoid of its resident. As long as Mother doesn’t know, I think it’ll be alright.”

“What if she finds out?”

“Then I’ll say it was all my idea.”

“My lord—” I began in protest, but he shook his head.

“Please, just Clive.”

“Then—Clive—” The name rolled easy on my tongue. Clive’s face brightened at the sound. I resisted the urge to look away. Looking at his face had been making my stomach knot in odd ways. “I will not have you take the blame for something I did.”

“It won’t be something you did but something I prompted you to do.” He then held out a hand, and with a little smirk to his smile, said, “Well, my lady?”

A part of me would rather stay and wait for Lady Ada carrying a steamed bun or whatever it was these Southerners serve for supper. Yet being alone in the room, with the pressing walls and distant shouts and hollers drifting in through the window would only emphasize my solitude. Mother's pendant lay heavy over my chest. Home would always follow me, Mother had said. Rosalith would be my home now.

I dispelled all unwelcome thoughts with a shake of my head and took Clive’s outstretched hand. “Alright, then,” I said, and attempted a smile.

~ END ~

#final fantasy xvi #ffxvi #cliji #jill warrick #clive rosfield #final fantasy 16 #ff16 #fanfiction #ff fanfic #ff16 fanfic

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