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chernabogs · 7 months

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Stasis

Inc: Lilia, Malleus (egg), Maleficia WC: 2k Warnings: C7 spoilers (heavy), discussions of death/rot Summary: To wrap that child in his magic, to lull him into a gentle rest until the time is right and he can come into a world where he knows no death—is that not the greatest act of kindness? The greatest act of love? (i wrote this then went a lil goofy)

There is a glorification of dying in battle that is so deeply ingrained in their culture, that one would think it was woven in with the clay and the magic that was used to create them. It’s as though the gods, when their hands were forming mouths to scream and eyes to weep, asked those very first Fae;

so, how shall you decay? how shall you crumble to these foundations, of which I build you on so gently?

And when the Fae did not speak—for voices had not yet been given—those very same creators deemed that only through sword and through arrow could a noble death be found. Perhaps that is why they failed to grant immunity to those who were expunged from the Otherworld—discarded to the realms of man like naked, starving wraiths, scrambling in the shadows to build up the foundations of life in a mockery of their own creation.

The descendants of that first generation feast off the bounty of those struggles with a never satiated hunger. Lilia knows; he bore witness to it first-hand in youth. Tattered memories remain in the scarce edges of his mind of who the two that raised him were before the collapse. There are moments by the ocean, where baby-blue waves kiss pale feet and sand dots raven hair, and there are moments in the night, where a large hand holds his own as he looks up to the stars that represent the Fae long passed.

These are marred by the aftermath of greed. Rather than sand dotting raven hair, it becomes bone fragments, with red waves now kissing pale feet instead. A large hand is stiff and cold in his own as he looks at a slack-jawed face with half-hooded eyes that are as blue now and as bright as the stars he once admired. He cannot recall how long he sat there—perhaps until the pungent smell of rot finally drove him to leave.

They did not have a noble death. They went like a cacophony, screaming and begging until those sounds were silenced by a singular fracture to a fragile bone.

There is a glorification of dying in battle.

Perhaps this is why she decides it will be the way she goes. She has always burned so brilliantly, her light engulfing every space she enters and drawing the masses to her. But those who burn so bright are blind to the way that brilliance consumes their flesh as well, and he knows it’s this mindset that drives her to the end—although he will never admit it aloud.

But it’s the silence after the end that’s the worst. The family is granted the right to see the body first—now that the body has been retrieved, of course—and he’s blessed that Maleficia considers him family enough. The grand chamber of Black Scale Palace is uncannily silent and therefore makes the steps he takes sound like thunder rumbling across the stone. He spies the egg in her arms, cradled close to her chest as her hand runs a slow, soothing motion over its mottled shell. It shouldn’t be mottled—but he wagers that the trauma of the past few days has done a degree of damage, even if small.

“They did their best.” Maleficia’s voice is quiet as he stops a few feet back. It isn’t out of courtesy—he’s invaded her space many times before—but more out of fear. He does not want to see the body he knows is lying in the stone tomb just ahead. “There was not much to salvage, though.”

“They left her there for days.” Lilia’s voice sounds foreign to himself as he clasps his hands tightly behind his back. It had been a hard-fought battle (were they not all hard fought?) to retrieve those remains. They had been rotting on the bridge in the meantime—Heinrich’s additional snub to the royal family. He pauses for a moment before tentatively asking, “To what extent was the damage?”

Maleficia is silent for a moment longer as her hand slowly strokes the eggshell. Lilia considers that she’s doing it more to comfort herself than the child within. “They took her horns, in addition to a few other parts.”

The statement turns over in Lilia’s mind as he finally takes those last few steps closer. He draws to a stop next to Maleficia, glancing up at her towering form for only a scarce moment, before forcing his gaze down to the body before them.

They had wrapped her in a shroud. The white fabric sits oddly on her, and he can see truth in the Queen’s words—there are no horns to be covered. Instead, the crown she would have worn upon ascending is resting upon her brow, and the torc around her neck holds the shroud fast in position. He cannot smell rot due to the excess of roses put in the tomb as well, and yet the sickly sweet scent still makes his stomach turn, still makes him draw back.

The last time he had seen her she had been lively, throwing her egg to him and laughing as she prepared to dispatch those who dared defy her. Now there is an eerie stillness about her that is unbecoming of who Meleanor Draconia is. His gaze draws down the length of her body, at the plain white robe they dressed her in, and the hands that are folded over her abdomen. Her skin is gray, and he can see where the funerary workers attempted to conceal the spots of decay already taking place.

People often believe that, when a Fae dies, they return to the clay and the magic that had crafted them. Lilia remembers the two who raised him telling him tall tales such as that, until their bodies had begun to turn to sludge and he realized that there was no clay, or magic, or grand departure at all. The Fae are no better than humans when it comes to death—all rot and gas and empty spaces in the hearts of the living.

“We cannot permit this to continue. We cannot lose anyone else.” Maleficia’s voice draws his attention once more as he looks up to her. Despite the stoic expression on her face, he can see exhaustion in her bloodshot gaze. She looks to be both a queen and a woman who has gone through hell in the past few weeks. To have lost a daughter, a son, and to be holding your entire world in your arms with no reassurance of its survival…

He feels his throat tighten. No.He has shed his tears already in the darkness of the barracks, the burning sting of alcohol and a frigid metal mug as his only companions. He cannot fall before her because he cannot allow her to see all that she has left crumble. He digs his nails into his palms and ignores the way this may draw blood as he looks back to the body.

Quiet. So quiet.

And then… an idea. Perhaps outrageous, perhaps suicidal, but perhaps also the most efficient idea they have. The mottled egg in the queen's arms retains its faint, magical glow—the dimming powers of its parent’s love—and Lilia feels a pull to preserve that for as long as he can. He did not care for children, but he did care—does care—for Meleanor and Levan.

So, he speaks.

“We cannot let it hatch.” His voice is blunt and dry as he looks at the egg. It quivers, as though hearing the weight behind his words, as Maleficia’s hold on it tightens. She doesn’t immediately object. Instead, she frowns.

“Speak.” She commands, and he does.

“Raising an heir in these conditions would be nothing short of damnation. We know not of how long this will drag on for, nor what the end will be. If we can keep the heir—keep Malleus—in his egg, preserve him until it is safe enough for him to be raised...” Lilia’s voice trails off as Maleficia continues to observe him dispassionately. Her hand does still in consideration, however.

“Like a sleep.” She hums softly, the motion then resuming. “A peaceful sleep, full of lullabies and warmth, until it is safe enough for him to greet the world. Much akin to what the Thorn Witch did, no?”

Lilia nods at her words. “Precisely. A stasis position until we are sure nothing will befall him... nor will he be dragged into conflict. I speak for us both when I say we are tired of witnessing our loved ones in conflict.”

Maleficia does not reply immediately as she continues to stare at her daughter’s body. The empty tomb next to her full one, meant to resemble the husband who is presumed to have been lost as well, speaks loud in the absence of sound.

“It will require a tremendous amount of power.” She finally adds. “Power I cannot give just yet. There is too much happening right now for me to split myself in such a manner.”

Lilia knew she would say as much before the words even left her lips. She is now the sole royal remaining in Briar Valley; even with the support of other Fae, all is on her shoulders at this moment. The well-being of the nocturnal Fae, the preservation of their lands, the concerns of the colonizing happening on the shores. She is drawn so thin that she is fraying at the very seams.

“Is it not fortunate,” he muses quietly, hands still clasped behind his back, nails still digging in his palms. He can feel warm liquid smearing his skin. “That you have me?”

Green eyes snap towards him with an expression of both outrage and shock, the most emotive he has seen her for a while. It then smooths over to composed indifference once more as she takes a levelled breath. “You do not owe that.”

“It was by my absence she fell.” He replies tersely, knowing this is a lie. He had fought tooth and nail to try and stay with Meleanor, but she had driven him back with lightning and taunts, forcing him to swear to protect her son. He is protecting her son by doing this. To wrap that child in his magic, to lull him into a gentle rest until the time is right and he can come into a world where he knows no death—is that not the greatest act of kindness? The greatest act of love?

So, he fibs, if not just a little. “Permit me to do this. For her, and for him.”

There’s a vagueness in who he means by him. Maleficia looks upon him for a long moment as he lowers his gaze to the onyx floors beneath their feet. For a moment he fears that she will strike him down as her daughter had done so often, until he hears shifting, and she extends the egg she’s been cradling so possessively towards him.

“Take the... take Malleus, to the lower chambers. Do as you must, as I will not burden you with the consequences—for I presume you have thought on this quite extensively already.”

He looks up to her. The face he had seen many times now since she pulled him off the streets and into her home is fracturing, with traces of sorrow beginning to show. She has always been vulnerable to him, to her daughter, and he knows it to be a rare privilege. He extends his hands and takes the egg, his bloody palms soaking its black surface.

“I swear to you—” he begins, but she cuts him off as she turns away.

“You have given enough to me. More than I have the right to take.” Her voice is cold and formal again as he nods, giving her a low bow before beginning to leave. As he does, she speaks up once more, her tone quieter now than before. “She went a noble death. They both did.”

Lilia pauses as the words play in his mind and his grip tightens around the egg. He can feel its warmth, as though he can feel her love through it, before he leaves that sickly-sweet smelling chamber without a backwards glance.

#lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #twst #twst spoilers #twst fanfiction #im just super ill abt all of this #malleus draconia #maleficia draconia #anyway stan maleficia we love a grandma

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bullet-clubs-bitch · 2 months

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Eat The Acid III

Cm Punk X Fem reader (Punk is refered to as Phill)

Requested by anon

Summary: No matter how hard Y/n tries she can't seem to get Phill out of her head. Everything reminds her of him. It doesn't help that wresltmania is around the corner and her ex husnand can't seem to keep her name out of his mouth. What happens when it gets so far that the All In fottage gets releaced and Y/n is forced to relive that horible day.

Warnings: Mentions of toxic relationships, implied misscarage, depression, SH

Part 1 Part 2 Main Masterlist CM PUNK Masterlist

Inspired by: Eat The Acid by Kesha

Wrestlemania 40

No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, I always found myself stuck in the same position. Punk and I would ‘make up’ just for him to say something stupid to make me go back to hating him. When Phill got injured I hated myself for how it made me feel. I felt like he deserved it. I found it hilarious but at the same time depressing. This was karma biting him in the ass. Karma’s a bitch, he should have known better. He should have known that he coudn’t just show up in WWE 10 years after getting fired and expect to win the world title in the main event of Wrestlemania! I told myself I wound’t fall into his traps. I had to be strong, I had to learn to fight the devil. The thing about the devil is that he isn’t a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. He’s a fallen angel who used to be God’s favourite.

After the Royal Rumble, I didn’t watch any of the WWE products. I had my own things to worry about. Instead of crying myself to sleep, mourning the man I once loved I would write. Instead of bottling up my emotions, I would release them in the form of poetry. No matter how hard I tried it seemed like a part of Punk would forever be a part of me. I tried to forget, I tried to forgive but I just coudn’t. I wanted to run away, I wanted to disappear, I wanted to die. I felt sorry for myself.

I would go on walks in the park to clear my mind but all it ever did was create a dark cloud above my head. I would watch the mothers playing with their children, I saw how happy they looked. I wanted to be like them. I accepted long ago I would never get to have that. Maybe that’s the part of Phill that lived inside me. The scar on my abdomen reminded me of what we could have had.

It was no secret that Phill and I had an age gap. I was only 23 when I began going out with him. My parents didn’t approve of our relationship. Not because he was 34 and I was 23, not because he had tattoos, Phill was even straight edge. My parents just simply didn’t like him. Why? I’m not sure. He took care of me. He loved me. He taught me how to love again, something I never thought I would be able to do.

He would hold me close as he kissed my scars, telling me that he would never hurt me but when in reality he would cause me the greatest pain. He left me no choice, I hated who he had become. I handed Phill divorce papers and wondered if I was doing the right thing. Was I really willing to throw 10 years of marriage down the drain? Despite us being divorced for some time now I can't seem to get him out of my head. He won't leave me alone, claiming I need you and I do need you. I miss you, I miss your touch, I miss the way you would make me feel but you can never know that. Now I sit here admiring the fresh wound on my wrist, a wound you promised you would never cause yet you did.

I wondered what Phill would say about the person I’ve become. I know he would be disappointed in me. I had fallen back into my old habits. I had become that mentally unstable little girl he met years ago. Maybe that’s why my parents didn’t like him. Maybe they thought he was taking advantage of me. Maybe they thought he only wanted me because of my issues, how could play the hero in this story. I felt safe with him. I felt protected. But that was then, this is now. I need to be my own hero in this story. The thing about this story is that it’s not one about puppies and rainbows, this story is cold and dark, filled with horror.

It was weird seeing Phil at wrestlemania. 10 years ago at wrestlemania 30 I sat in the front row cheering on my soon to be husband. Looking back on it I was happy, I was free. There was something about being 24 with the love of your live that made you feel like you could take on the world. Now at 34 I sit watching at home, a bitter sweet taste on my tongue. This was wrong but it was also right. I was happy for him, but of course those feelings would never last. He just had to go and shit on me and my family once again. This time for absolutely no reason. Everyone had moved on, everyone was over it, or so I thought.

By now I knew whenever Phil and I were trending at the same time it was not for good reasons. I didn’t want to know why we were trending but it would help to explain why all of a sudden AEW was going to air the backstage footage from All In. I wasn’t surprised that Phill continued to shit on the company and myself. I was just tired of his games, moments like this reminded me why I coudn’t forgive him. Why I wound’t get back together with him. Wrestlemania weekend was his weekend, his time. Why did he spend it all talking about the past. It’s not like he can go back and change everything. He was just making everything worse.

When I found out the All In footage was being aired I thought it was a joke. Knowing my brothers they would say they would air the footage and the ‘aired footage’ would be the two of them backstage eating donuts with fake fighting sounds in the background. Matthew and Nicholas assured me that it was indeed the real footage that was being aired. They didn’t want to air the footage, it was Tony Khan that insisted on showing the world what really happened. I felt sick, I knew what happened that night. I yelled in the man’s face. If they wanted to paint Phil as the bad guy the should be showing the footage from the brawl out. Everyone knew that all of this would add fuel to the fire but when TK want’s something to happen it happens. Surprisingly he was the most mad about this whole situation. So here I sat in the EVP’s office, being forced to relive a day I wanted to forget forever.

This should end everything right? Now that everything is out there for the whole world to see they should know Phil was always the bad guy in this situation right? There is nothing else he can say or do to make things even worse than they already are right????

An: This wasn't originally going to have a pt 3, however I got multiple requests for a third part. Even though I left pt 3 on a Clift hanger there will be no part 4

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bridgeportbritt · 1 month

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The war waged on for many days and many nights. Much longer than either side thought it would. The Royal Army made attempt after attempt to stop the rebellion with brute force. But they continued to be met with heavy defense. Out of desperation for progress, a neutral village was attacked by the Royal Army killing hundreds of innocent men, women and children who weren't even apart of the resistance.

With the added help of foreign aid for the rebel army, the Goths knew retaliation was imminent...

Bella: Mortimer? I've been looking all over for you.

Mortimer: ...

Bella: I am quite certain you heard me address you, Mortimer.

Mortimer: Hmm? Oh, hello, Dear. I didn't hear you join me.

Bella: Yes, well, it seems as though you have a lot on your mind. Care to share with me?

Mortimer: I'm certain that you know exactly what's on my mind.

Bella: To the contrary! Normally, I could say so, but you seem to not be as open as of late. Not a particularly good sign, I'd presume.

Mortimer: ...

Bella: Mortimer!

Mortimer annoyed: What is it that you want from me, woman?

Bella: Don't you take that tone with me! You may be King, but I am your Queen! You know exactly what it is that I want. I want to be informed on the war!

Mortimer: What happened to leaving this business to the men, hmm?

Bella: I would gladly love to! But not when I hear rumblings about the rebels receiving foreign aid and looking for revenge!

Mortimer: Where did you hear this?

Bella: Does it matter?

Mortimer: It absolutely matters! That kind of information should not be shared!

Bella: Well, I am not the sharer, but the receiver, so don't take it out on me! I take it that means it's true then?

Mortimer sighs

Bella: Watcher! You clearly have no control over this situation. This needs to end before you get us all killed!

Mortimer angry: Absolutely not! This is the war you wanted, and we will press on no matter the cost!

Bella: Really, Mortimer? Even if it costs us our lives?

Mortimer: Cease with your extremes, Bella. If we were in any danger, I'd see to it that we be relocated.

Bella scoffs: You mean banished! Looking like total fools for all of eternity.

Mortimer: I've got more important concerns than your silly little daydreams, Bella. Leave me to them!

Bella: Gladly! You take care of whatever affairs you have and I'll take care of mine!

Mortimer: What is that supposed to mean?

Bella: Good day, Mortimer!

Alexander: Mother, what's going on? Why are we out here in the rain at night?

Bella: Because Alex, there's something I need you to do.

Alexander: What is it mother?

Bella: I need you to go with this nice woman and guard.

Alexander: B-but why?

Bella: Because things are getting dangerous around here and I don't want anything to happen to you.

Alexander: Where am I going?

Bella: To Viridis. You'll get to ride on a big ship and see a whole new country. It will like an adventure!

Alexander tearful: But why can't you come? I don't want to leave you!

Bella: I wish I could son, but I must stay here with your father. I promise you that we will see each other again soon enough.

Alex is on the brink of tears

Bella: Son, listen to me. You must be strong. You are a Goth! You are a leader. You're our greatest legacy. That's why we can't let anything happen to you. When it's all said and done, you will represent the power that is the Goth Legacy. Do you understand?

Alex: Yes, mother.

Bella: Excellent. Now, you get on your way. Be safe and strong, my son. I love you.

Alex: I love you too.

Thanks for allowing Alex to take refuge in your country! @royalmedani

#from the beginning #sims of color #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 story #ts4 #royal sims #royal simblr #trouble in paradise?#are we forgetting someone bella?#now we see why alex jr turned out crazy lol

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ijanae1-blog · 12 days

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LET ME TELL YOU WHY I RESPECT MERCEDES MONÉ SO MUCH.

Too often we see people (myself included) who go along just to get along. People who let "little" things slide because there's a "bigger picture" to be mindful of.

But what I can admire about Mercedes is that in spite of reaching what most in professional wrestling (women's professional wrestling in particular) consider to be the pinnacle, she was willing to walk away from that and truly bet on herself and stand on BIG BUSINESS!

We don't really know what led to Mercedes and Trinity (Naomi) walking out of WWE in 2022. We probably won't know until one of them writes their autobiography. But whatever it was, it certainly was deep enough to be the straw to break their backs for them to walk away from the biggest promotion in their field.

Sidenote: I think it was the Smackdown before the walkout; Naomi and (then) Sasha Banks had came out to their entrance as Tag Team Champions & I remember thinking to myself that something was wrong. It was something about the look on Naomi's face that didn't seem right. But I didn't post or tweet about it for a fear that I was reaching. Turned out my suspicions had some validity.

BACK TO THE SCHEDULED PROGRAM!

Initially most people's first thought was that either she was going to re-sign with WWE or do a stint in Japan and then sign with AEW. I thought the latter but didn't want to get my hopes up. After the way she and Naomi were treated after leaving, WWE left a seriously sour taste with me and I haven't watched a full episode for their programming since.

But when Mercedes first left, I remember her saying that she wanted to go on a World Domination tour. I thought to myself "There's no way to go on a World Domination tour that doesn't include at least a match in AEW if not signing on full-time."

And when she debuted in New Japan and beat Kairi Sane for the IWGP Women's Title she was off to the races and I couldn't be happier for her. She put on bangers in Japan, including that triple threat that was incredible. Then when she finally got to face Willow for the NJPW Strong title everything continued to look on the up & up for the World Domination tour and then... a career threatening injury.

She showed up in the audience for AEW All In and I got excited. Like is she really going to sign? Then there were rumor mills that she's resigning with WWE and I can't lie... I was disappointed. I didn't trust that they would treat her right (case and point Royal Rumble 2022). For as decorated as she was in WWE, the treatment she and Bayley got was veerrryyy different than that of Becky and Charlotte. I won't say why I and most feel that way but if you know, you know.

Then comes the top of 2024 and the tides change. Rumors are now saying that Mercedes had signed with AEW but there's no date in when she'd debut. Internally I was jumping for joy. STAND ON BUSINESS, MERCEDES! The "World Domination Tour" is real! Decorated champion in WWE. NJPW creates a whole championship and division around YOU. Debut in the 2nd largest professional wrestling promotion AEW & win gold in your very first match.

CEO INDEED!

I remember reading somewhere that those in WWE thought that Mercedes was just going to get her "Japan dreams" out of her system and that when that was done she'd be back in Stamford. Just completely dismissing and diminishing the magnitude of disrespect in which one of your greatest if not THEE women's greatest champions experienced.

So yeah, the respect I have for Mercedes is at an all-time high. Many in her profession wouldn't have had the guts to truly bet on themselves and make a way for themselves on THEIR OWN terms. Not because they were cut and had no choice to, but of their own power and volition; AND SUCCEED!

Boss Moves Only.

#mercedes mone #naomi #wwe #aew #all elite wrestling #aew dynamite #aew collision #aew rampage #sasha banks

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sakustars · 10 months

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HEIR

yuuji itadori x gn!reader

sfw; fuff; royal au

a/n: while yuuji and choso’s kingdom is obviously based on japan, the reader’s kingdom and culture is stuff i made up — the names, location, clothing etc. hold no significance to real life. any similarities to irl cultures is purely coincidental :)

the sleigh rumbled through the woods, covered by furs held up by a wooden frame, two kings laughing loudly at the exposed bow, their greatest treasures sheltered in the bed.

just behind them, trying (and failing) to play dice, cubes of painted bone bouncing against the tremors of the sleigh, were their respective first borns. choso, with cheeks pink from the cold, peering out into the frosty wilds, and len, clutching the dice in one hand, and his in her other.

hunkered down in the very back, sat two queens dressed in elegant furs and gloves, with their two toddlers bundled up in their laps.

you were just shy of four years old, this first time you met yuuji. you barely remembered it.

a tiny pink-haired boy, with a red nose and flecks of ice in his left eyebrow. he was pouting, unused to the cold, and the heavy furs he was bundled in. you had reached out with mittened hands, and squished his cheeks between them, and your mother laughed, looking upon the two of you fondly.

by the time the reindeer had turned the sleigh around, directed back towards the large stone castle you called home, the kings had come to an agreement. len would marry into choso’s family, and yuuji into yours. at that time, you had had no idea the face you were messing with was that of your betrothed.

the second time, you were seven.

his family had come to your kingdom once again, to be draped in furs and inundated with hot mulled wine and bask in front of large carved fireplaces at the heart of the stone fortress.

the first night of their stay, len and yourself had been sent to choso and yuuji with the purpose of helping them with their unfamiliar clothing. such a task could have easily been completed by a maid, but your parents grasped at the opportunity for the two couples to interact.

when choso called through the door that you could enter, you set about organising the many layers in order of which should go on first. yuuji stood awkwardly before you, dressed only in a base layer of thin cotton trousers and shirt, shivering from the draught blowing through the room.

you glanced at him as you approached with the first garment, a pair of thick woollen trousers. “make conversation,” your mother had told you.

you helped the pink-haired boy into the trousers, belted his waist, then plucked at the shirt he was wearing. “cotton doesn’t grow up here. we import it from your kingdom,” you muttered shyly, grasping at straws for a conversation topic.

yuuji shifted on his feet, blinking owlishly and turning his warm amber eyes to choso for assistance. “we get meat from your kingdom; weaponry too,” his brother supplied as he helped len pull a rich purple tunic over his head.

this seemed to spark something in yuuji as he turned to you excitedly, padding after you as you returned to the bench where his clothes were laid out. “yes! ven-i-son,” he sounded the word out carefully. “and hare. my father says you hunt it all yourselves.”

you nodded proudly. “yep. we’re good at hunting here, and my father’s the best, because he’s the king. i’m going to be the best when i’m queen, though. lift your arms.”

he did as instructed and you tugged on his tunic, choso and len giggling with each other at your bold declaration. as you set about pulling on shawls and furs, buckling and toggling, the conversation turned to other hobbies, then food, then animals, and by the time he was fully clothed, you felt like you could build a factfile on him.

when you were nine, you travelled to his kindom for the first time. boldly embroidered animal hide and stiff boots were traded for softly patterned yukatas and large, pleated trousers; simple sandals on your feet.

the days were spent lazing with yuuji on the engawa of the large estate, gorging yourself on meats that weren’t plain and salty, but instead served with tangy sauces and fresh garnishes.

yuuji had introduced you to to his friends megumi and nobara. they served at the estate, but personal to yuuji, so the three had grown close. megumi had grumpily allowed you to pet his two guard dogs, and blushed as yuuji garbled on about how he was going to be his personal guard when he was older.

when the evenings encroached, your parents would find you all sprawled out on the floor, deep in sleep, tired out from golden days of playing dice and chasing the koi fish in the grounds’ lake.

after this visit, the event would become annual, alternating which kingdom would host, and each visit would be spent in childlike bliss, growing closer with and exploring the other.

however this easy contentment could not last forever. as you grew older and wiser, taking the turn from child to teen, you had the bitter realisation of your lack of choice in life.

on your fourteenth year, you had spent most of yuuji’s visit locked away in your room, ignoring him and yet frustrating yourself over not seeing him. you were well aware that your anger was misdirected, but the only solution your teenage brain could come up with was to let your feeling run their course, and make reparations afterwards.

the night after yuuji and choso departed, len found you curled up in the mound of furs and wool blankets on your overly large bed. she called your name and you grunted under the blanket hiding your face. “if mother sent you, tell her i’m sorry or something to placate her.”

she must be furious, pacing the grand dining hall lamenting to your father about your stand-offish behaviour. you would apologise later, but right now you needed a moment to wallow in your own guilt. you could barely think of your mother’s stress when the fear of yuuji hating you encompassed all corners of your mind.

the bed dipped as len sat next to you. a soft hand reached and squeezing what shoulder she could reach through your coverings. “she did not send me. i wanted to talk to you myself.”

a beat of silence.

then you lifted the corner of your blanket, a silent invitation. she crawled under, laying forehead to forehead next to you. she wiped away the shining tears pooled at the corner of your eye, then pulled you into a tight hug.

“i’m going to apologise to him next year,” you whispered into her shoulder. “do… do you think he’s angry?” you choked out the question, so terrified of her answer.

“of course not,” she murmured, rubbing your back “i think he might be hurt, though. but he’s a kind boy. if you explain, he will understand. i went through the same thing myself, but choso understood. it will be okay.”

you sniffled crackly the pulled back to rest your forehead against hers once more. “you’re getting married next summer. you won’t be here anymore.” the thought broke your heart. you would start hunting soon, and she wouldn’t be there to see you. she wouldn’t sing you to sleep by the fire, or tease you at the dinner table.

“it will be okay,” she said again.

and, “it will be okay,” you repeated back to her.

the next year you did apologise. and it was okay. yuuji had forgiven you instantly, tugging you close to him and engulfing you in a huge hug, pressing a soft kiss to your temple that had your heart running out your chest, before excitedly pulling you down the emerald lawn to see the new flora that had bloomed in your absence.

he had always been slightly awkward, but so kind and so soft, carrying an undeniable charm that affected you much too greatly and that he was probably unaware of even possessing.

so when you came back to your room after hunting, greeted by a taller, stronger, more confident yuuji, you were unprepared.

unprepared for his rush forward, for his strong arms wrapping around your waist, laughing brightly as a crystal-clear brook as he picked you up and swung you around. unprepared for his undeniably gorgeous face so close to yours as he set you down, his cheeks dusted pink and honey eyes lit up with joy.

you breathed heavily against his chest, gripping his biceps and letting out a choked laugh of your own.

he looked at you with stars in his eyes and you looked at him as though he had hung the moon. shared adoration for one another was choked up in shy teenage throats, building and swelling, to inevitably burst out at any moment.

this moment was not to happen yet. not the next day, when you instructed him in archery, your bodies pressed tight together, your breath rolling against his neck as you positioned his arms. not even the next, as you sat together secretly in front of a kitchen stove, bundled in animal hide, sharing doughy bread loaves, and mead from the same cup.

this moment came an entire year later. the summer you visited yuuji, at seventeen years old, just one year shy of coming of age, and your betrothed’s kingdom was throwing a celebration to commemorate his youth.

you had been dressed by nobara, and an older lady named nitta. the yukata was patterned intricately, a mix of different blues making waves, interspersed with white clouds and pink flowers.

when you stepped into the main hall of the estate, your eyes widened. flower petals, streamers, other people in colourful yukatas moved around the room in some sort of organised hurricane, but throughout the chaos, your gaze was fixed to one person. he hadn’t noticed you yet, looking anxious as he spoke hurriedly to megumi, who was dressed in cranes on a dark blue background.

he stood to the side, leaving enough room for people to pass by him, and he looked a vision. instead of his usual red and yellow coloured clothing, his yukata was light blue, beautifully contrasting the carefully embroidered tigers on his sleeves and back. his hair was the same endearing mess as usual, and his cheeks and the tips of his ears were tinged adorably pink in the hot summer evening.

you gave one last thanks to nobara and nitta, before making a beeline straight towards him. he noticed you as you were ten paces away, his face relaxing as he dashed forwards to meet you.

he gathered you in his arms, pressing a kiss to your cheek before burying his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your freshly-washed hair. you turned pinker than yuuji was as he kissed your cheek again and gently yet excitedly tugged you towards the dance floor.

you shared many dances with him, taking breaks occasionally where he insisted you sat down, fanned you if he thought you looked too warm, and made megumi bring you water, not wanting to leave your side for even a second.

you danced for some time with nobara, managed to pull megumi in for one dance before he got away, and had a few circle dances with len and choso. he really seemed like a wonderful man, and you were delighted when she told you about how happy she was with him when you sat down together to talk.

but after twenty or so minutes, yuuji started to become antsy, so you bid farewell with promises to continue writing, before taking his hand in yours and leading him along the engawa then down into the gardens. it seemed you came at the perfect time, because as you settled on the bench at the edge of the koi pond, the fireworks started.

other partygoers were dotted around the gardens, but your attention was fixed to the sky, and yuuji’s on you.

your focus was broken as you heard him call your name gently. you turned your head towards him, eyes widening as soft lips landed on your own. it took you a few seconds to gather yourself, by which time he had pulled away confused, a wrinkle in between his brows. you hastily took his face in your hands, kissed it away, then rejoined your lips.

he made a muffled sound of surprise, before returning the kiss with enthusiasm to spare, curling his hands around your waist and nipping at your bottom lip as you one of your hands through his hair.

you pulled away with your chest heaving, though finally you felt like you could breathe. your love for him was no longer festering in your throat, now moved to warm the hearth of his heart, and his love warmed yours.

🪐 a/n: reblogs, likes and comments r very appreciated <3

#starfics🪐#this took way too long oml #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yuujiitadori #jjk yuuji #yuuji itadori #yuji itadori #itadori x reader #itadori x you #itadori yuji x reader #itadori yuji x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk royal au #royal au #itadori royal au #itadori fluff #jjk fluff

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chirp-a-chirp · 8 months

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Enough

Fandom/Consort: Court of Darkness, Roy Invidia

Description: What is the driving force behind Roy’s need for princely perfection? All is not as it seems in this fairytale kingdom of roses.

Story takes place shortly before the S:Rank princes arrive at the Academy of Concordia (ie, a decade before the game’s prologue).

Tags: Angst, Feels, Family Drama, Insecurities

Word count: ~550

…

Good boy; good brother; good prince. I have heard these accolades countless times.

Today, I discovered they are worthless.

While walking in the palace, I heard raised voices coming from the throne room. Father is rarely cross, especially in any royal capacity. Curiosity got the better of me as I listened behind a crack in a nearby door.

“Do you have a plan?”

“My children are not pawns, Lord Tywin.” Father sat on the throne, his voice shaking with barely repressed rage. He took a breath before speaking in more composed tones. “They know their duty and do it well. Sherry is the people’s princess. Roy’s ancient magic is the greatest in Invidia’s history. He will lead our people to a prosperous future.”

“It is not enough!” Lord Tywin’s voice rose in pitch. “Prince Guy has magical prowess not seen since Vane. Prince Toa is close behind. Avari or Qelsum will crush our kingdom if given the chance.”

“Roy is to attend the Academy of Concordia soon. He’ll make allies with them. It’s a gift of his.”

“Avari and Qelsum value strength, not pretty words,” Lord Tywin sneered. “Prince Guy and Toa are hardened with wills of steel. Prince Roy must stand toe to toe with them, be like them, if we are to survive.”

“That is not the Invidian way. Nor Roy’s.” Father’s voice was low, rumbling with anger. His inflection then shifted, to one that was nearly pleading. “He is as tenacious as the other princes. Just in a different manner. I…will not ask him to be something he is not.” Father starred at Lord Tywin, hoping his words could make him see reason. “My son is a good man. That is enough.”

“Enough?” A bark of laughter echoed in the room. “You condemn Invidia to a future of submission and slaughter then,” spat Lord Tywin. “Unless—“

“I will hear your toxic words no more.” Father got up from the throne and began leaving. But Lord Tywin went on.

“Unless Princess Sherry were to marry.” Father stopped, his eyes flashing. “Many of the other lords agree with me. After all, there are multiple Avari princes to secure an alliance.”

“Sherry is not fully grown. Far too young for this conversation.” Father’s eyes narrowed. “I would have her follow her heart.”

“Why else have a daughter?” Lord Tywin scoffed. “Besides, you merely need to arrange a betrothal. They can consummate at a later date.”

“Enough!” Father strode quickly to the other man so that his face was inches from Lord Tywin’s. “I will not—“

“Your son or your daughter. One must make a sacrifice.”

I left my hiding spot, not wanting or needing to hear more.

Lord Tywin was right about some things. Father would not ask me to change. He is too kind to do so. That kindness is why Invidia and our people have prospered thus far.

But sacrifices must be made to ensure that prosperity continues.

I love Sherry’s smile. She is a blossom in full bloom. I will not be the cause of it wilting. If anyone should sacrifice or change, it should be me.

Good is not enough. That much is clear. Nothing less than perfection will suffice. I must be strong—To protect Sherry, father, Invidia.

To protect them all.

#court of darkness #voltage games #roy invidia #sherry invidia #guy avari #toa qelsum #otome fanfic #fanfic angst #angst #angst and feels

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oplishin · 8 months

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really enjoy what's happening with rolleigns right now where roman represents all of seth's greatest failures and insecurities, years of playing second fiddle to a former friend and now bitter rival. seth keeps mentioning him in interviews and backstage segments; it's the easiest way to get under his skin. meanwhile, roman basically just never even acknowledges that seth exists. he's the top guy, this storyline is beneath him. royal rumble 2022 showed that he's still just as fucked up about him, but no one has to know about that

#rolleigns #that segment with rhea and seth #bro is not over SHIT #i really enjoy the metafiction that's happening with their dynamic #where seth is only the top guy when roman isn't there; he's the one to pick up the slack #and i like that the. feelings of that are being acknowledged in storyline #seth rollins #roman reigns #jeta posting

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laurelsofhighever · 1 year

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 6/? Chapter Rating: M Chapter Warnings: Canon-typical violence, gore Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

They stood by the bonfire, only the three now. The Warden ranks had long departed camp for the front lines, their faces drawn but resolute, their hands on their weapons or clasped around tokens of faith; few had passed glances to the recruits, but those that did had held pity in their eyes, and now, with the other two both dead at her feet, Rosslyn understood why.

“There is no turning back,” Duncan said to her again, solemn, proffering the silver cup to her as if the stain of Jory’s blood on his hands were merely paint. Daveth had gone first, joking about the taste of darkspawn blood before he lifted it to his lips, and then, choking, eyes rolled to whites, he had fallen in a fit and then gone still. She wondered if anyone would take the body away, or leave it crumpled like a dropped scarf, and turned away before bile could rise in her throat.

“Ser Jory was a good man,” she growled, with only the barest hint of deference to sweeten it. “You could have talked him down or let him run instead of murdering him in cold blood.”

“The Wardens make sacrifices,” Duncan replied. Rhodri stood behind him, fixed gaze to the floor, biting on his tongue. “It is the price to defend against the darkspawn.”

“It’s how you keep your secrets,” she spat. “You leveraged my father’s dying breaths to lead me to the slaughter.” She could see him behind her eyelids, the blood pooling on the floor and at the corner of his mouth. I won’t survive the standing, I think.

The warden-commander’s eyes tightened, his nostrils flared, a fractional sign of remorse and one that would have been easy to miss. “Will you drink?” he asked.

She took the cup. Revulsion coiled in her stomach like a living thing at the harsh, metal scent of the blood, made noxious by whatever potions had been added to it to turn it into an elixir as well as a poison, but her fingers tightened on the rim, quelling the urge to throw the concoction in his face. It was her mother’s spine in her, the back that had stood straight against the Orlesian Navy and sent their ships burning to the bottom of the Waking Sea.

“I know my duty,” she ground out, and her grey eyes pierced Duncan’s as she raised the cup.

“What troubles you, brother?”

Alistair looked up from the maps as the king placed a hand on his shoulder, his mouth dry. What could he say? Despite the tasks he had to oversee, the flurry of last-moment preparations in the wake of reports that the darkspawn were massing faster than anticipated, he had found excuses to linger near the gates and watch for Rosslyn’s return, and when she had finally limped in with thick winter night chasing on her heels, only the greatest self-restraint had kept him from damning propriety to go to her. Splattered with black ichor and grime, jaw tight and shoulders hunched, she had slipped away from her fellow Warden recruits towards the kennels, and he had lost sight of her. He had wanted to chase after her, to command her release from the Rite of Conscription, because what other use could he have for his title if not the rescue of a noble maiden from an unworthy end?

But it was too late. By now she would likely have already been sent to the lines down below, right on the lip of the funnel they had created in the valley floor to channel the darkspawn into a killing field. The Grey Wardens would act as the bulwark to cut off the beasts’ escape, allowing the royal forces to close in a pincer and wear them down from all sides.

A rumble of thunder punctuated his thoughts, distant but deep enough to be felt in the bones. The leather straps of his armour creaked as he straightened, the metal plate a leach for what little warmth was afforded by the braziers dotted through the hall. Winter night descended like a candle snuffer so far south, intractable and absolute even without the moons clouded by a gathering storm, perfect cover for a horde of darkspawn that shrank from the glare of the sun. Rain would slow them, but still they would come.

He cleared his throat. “My part in the plan…”

“Don’t underestimate your importance,” Cailan chuckled, misreading the source of his worry. “The Tower of Ishal has the best view over the entire valley, and I will need someone up there I can trust to know when to light the signal beacon.” The usual bright smile was clouded by a frown, the sky-blue eyes as serious as Alistair had ever seen them. “It’ll be up to you.”

He swallowed. “What do you –”

“Cailan! The field awaits.”

Loghain, unmistakeable in the clanking, outdated armour he had taken as a trophy from the Orlesian commander at River Dane, made an impressive silhouette outlined in the doorway. His elven squire scurried after him with his sword and helmet held ready, ignored as a familiar piece of furniture. The vaulted ceiling of the old Tevinter hall made his voice echo strangely, and the braziers threw deep, ageing shadows across his face. Like Cailan, he had braided his dark hair back from his temples to stop it getting in his eyes, but his dour expression held none of the younger man’s hopeful energy.

“Ho – Your Lordship!” the king called back, ignoring the lack of formality. “We’re just adding the final flourishes to the plan.”

Loghain scowled. “What flourishes? I have already outlined the attack, and the lookouts have spotted movement in the trees – there is no time to make changes that will weaken our forces’ resolve.”

“Alistair will be taking charge of the contingent in the Tower of Ishal,” Cailan said, as if Loghain had not spoken. “Along with – ah! Here comes Duncan now.”

Alistair turned in the direction his brother was pointing, his heart bucking like an unbroken colt when he spotted Rosslyn following silently in the warden-commander’s footsteps with a dog at her heels. If anything, she looked worse than when he had seen her returning from the Wilds, the clench of her jaw and the faint line between her brows telling of pain she was trying to hide.

“Your Majesty,” Duncan said, bowing low. “Your Highness, Your Lordship.”

Loghain didn’t even spare him a glance. “If Prince Alistair is going to be in the tower of Ishal, where will you be?” he demanded of the king.

“I will be leading the assault from our lines.”

“You risk too much,” he scoffed. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to play hero like you’re in a bedtime story!”

“My decision is final.” This time there was a bite to Cailan’s words. “If you think it too dangerous, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us after all.”

Wary of the old, familiar argument, Alistair left off trying to catch Rosslyn’s eye to glance between the pair, unsure if his intervention would be welcome. Though he disagreed with Loghain’s level of paranoia regarding the old enemy, Cailan’s blithe dismissal of everything the Orlesians had done during the Occupation of Ferelden – an age of suffering not even a generation removed from memory – rankled just as much. There was bad blood still on both sides, from old soldiers and young hotheads both, eager to reclaim a former glory.

Loghain waved a dismissive hand. “Again you parrot this fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves. Your father –”

“Is no longer king,” Cailan reminded him coldly. “Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past – and you will remember your place.”

For a moment, the cavernous hall rang with no sound but the distant hum of the gathering storm, the wind worrying the sigil banners in the camp outside. Loghain’s mouth thinned into a sullen line, his eyes shadowed by knotted brows as the censure struck true.

“So be it,” he snapped. “How fortunate King Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century.”

“Since that’s settled, let us hope our current forces are enough.” Cailan turned, dismissing his advisor. “Duncan, are your Wardens ready?”

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“And you’ve brought Lady Cousland with you – or Warden Cousland it is now, I suppose.” Gallant as ever, he stepped forwards and caught her fingers, his gaze tinged with strange regret as he placed a courtly kiss above her knuckles. “My lady, your bravery does credit to us all.”

“I only do my duty, Your Majesty,” she murmured, demure as a court rose. “Please, tell me… did my brother return to the camp?”

Cailan offered her a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid the only Cousland we may look to now is you. And we are grateful. Every Grey Warden is needed, now more than ever.”

“If indeed this is a true Blight,” Loghain groused from the other side of the war table, as if he had not heard the exchange. “You rely on these Grey Wardens too much.”

It was Duncan who interrupted, in a voice carefully blank of emotion. “Your Lordship, this is a true Blight, barely begun. It may be that the archdemon will appear tonight.”

“I will not start this argument again,” Cailan declared, before retort could be made. “Regardless of the archdemon’s presence, we cannot let the horde spill uncontested into Fereldan lands. My lady, I asked that you be brought here for a special purpose. Your father speaks – forgive me, spoke – highly of your skills as a warrior.”

He gestured to the maps, inviting a cover for the flash of anguish in her expression.

“The beacon at the top of the Tower of Ishal will be the signal for Gwaren’s forces to attack from cover and close the trap on the darkspawn, and you and Alistair must be ready for the moment to light it. He knows the plan – I am charging you with his protection, should it be needed.”

Wide with alarm, her gaze shot to Alistair, but before he could say anything she buried the look under the noble’s mask she had been taught to wear since childhood, and turned back to the king. “If that is your command, I’ll make sure it’s done.”

Again, Loghain interrupted. “I have a cohort stationed in the tower already who can manage lighting the beacon.”

“And I’m sure another two pairs of hands will do no harm.”

The two glared at each other, like stags counting the points on each other’s crowns, but in the end Loghain was still only a teyrn, bound by oath to follow his liege lord, and he heaved a long sigh as he swiped his helmet from his squire’s fingers and jammed it onto his head.

“Very well.” He offered a curt bow. “The field awaits us, then.”

The silence left in his wake as he stalked out hung heavy with foreboding, the stones above their heads rattled by another, closer boom of thunder.

“You should get going,” Cailan said after a moment, as he donned his own helmet. “Or all the glory and accolades will be won already.”

Alistair managed to roll his eyes. “Fine, fine. But just so you know, if you ever ask me to put on a dress and dance the remigold, I’m drawing the line.” He looked to Rosslyn, but saw no reaction, none of the fond exasperation lifted in a familiar, lopsided smirk. “I’ll, uh, see you on the other side, brother.”

“Of course.” Cailan smiled, eager. “Think of it, the sons of Maric battling side by side with the Grey Wardens to stem the tide of evil. Are you ready, Duncan?”

“The Grey Wardens wait for your order, Your Majesty.”

“Then let us put an end to these darkspawn, here and now!”

The warden-commander nodded, and turned to Rosslyn. “We will talk later – there is much for you to learn. For now, remember that you are a true Grey Warden.”

“I know exactly what I am,” she replied, in the same icy tone Alistair had seen her wield earlier against Daveth, her hand curling into the dog’s ruff. Defiance lived in the line of her jaw, the draw of her brows, and after an instant of contemplation, Duncan blinked first and looked away.

“One day you will understand the necessity of what was done.” He straightened. “Make sure the beacon is lit, and may the Maker watch over you.”

He retreated after the king, and the bubble of royal guard that had fallen into step behind him, and then only Alistair and Rosslyn were left in the crumbling hall. When he stepped up to her, the layers of their armour kept him from feeling her warmth.

“What was that about?” he asked.

She did not look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m –” She gasped and staggered, one hand rising to cover her mouth as if to fend off the urge to vomit. “Don’t worry about me. I can fight.”

“What have they done to you?” It was more than fear or fatigue; her arm trembled beneath his where he had lunged to stop her from falling, and now he stood close enough to catch the feverish light in her eyes. He saw horror there, too, but no trace of its source.

“The darkspawn are coming.”

A shout from the direction of the southern lookouts cut across all the questions crowding on his tongue, followed by another and then another as the alarm was passed along the lines. Horns blew. Booted footsteps clattered over stone followed by the clink of metal gears as the ballistae were drawn taut and loaded. Already they had lingered too long; the Tower of Ishal lay across the old Tevinter bridge on the other side of the valley, the beacon five floors above its entrance. There would be time later to cross the gulf that lay between him and Rosslyn and demand answers of the Wardens, or so he hoped, and in the meantime an entire army waited on him to guide them. Bryce Cousland had always insisted on duty.

He unsheathed his sword, hefted his shield on his left arm. “Let’s go.”

Without the hum of waiting soldiers, the rows of empty tents seemed to hunch in on themselves, the canvas slouched against the support poles like drunkards by an emptied cask, reflecting the clank of armour as he jogged southward towards the bridge with Rosslyn at his heels. The air above them, stinging cold, pressed down with the threat of the storm.

“The mages aren’t on the lines?” she panted, as a flare of magic shot through the darkness of the infirmary ahead of them.

“Mother Berit wouldn’t allow it,” Alistair answered. “She’s more scared of the mages than she is of the darkspawn.”

“We all may end tonight regretting that.”

When they reached the bridge, they were saluted by the commander the ballista crews, who held herself steady despite the tightness of her jaw.

“How is everything up here, captain?” Alistair asked.

“All set, Your Highness. We’ve –”

“Look – there! In the trees!”

With a worried glance the captain followed them to the parapet. The king’s army stood arrayed below, impossibly far down in the gloom, the plan of attack revealed as clearly as if the soldiers had been little wooden blocks set upon a map, with Cailan just visible on a slight rise, his golden armour sparking in the torchlight. Beyond the ranks the wide, flat bottom of the valley had been bottlenecked using constructs of sharpened logs and stakes driven into the ground, well clear of the line of trees. Fog was gathering under the eaves. As Alistair peered closer, the shadows within it moved, forming shapes like men that resolved into the first, horrific lines of the darkspawn horde that snarled and slashed at the air before them with crude but vicious-looking blades.

“Why don’t they attack?”

Alistair glanced along the line to the young soldier – still older than him, perhaps – who had broken the silence.

“They’re waiting for something,” Rosslyn murmured. The intensity of her expression betrayed more disgust than fear, her head cocked at an angle as if she were straining to hear a conversation from another room.

“Waiting for what?” the captain scoffed. “They’re beasts.”

Rosslyn turned. “There’s a second force – they’re going to cut us off.” Her head snapped back like a sleeper jolted awake, teeth bared in a snarl as the sound of shouting grew at the far end of the bridge.

“Your Highness?” The captain, a grizzled woman at least twice his age with a scar running down the left side of her face, watch him uncertainly. Waiting for orders, he realised.

“Uh…” It was one thing to move through a camp checking logistics off a list, another entirely to give unexpected orders in the heat of battle.

“You are to hold the bridge,” Rosslyn answered for him. “Focus on the range of your weapons and thin the horde for the king’s forces to cut them down. If the darkspawn break through here, channel them as best you can so they can’t use their numbers as advantage. We’ll go ahead and do what we can.”

The captain saluted again. “Aye, Warden.”

But Rosslyn was already striding away.

Scrambling to follow her, Alistair nodded to the captain and barely noticed the growing roar from the ranks of darkspawn pressing against the backs of those in front in the valley below. A barked command came from the end of the line and the archers spaced between the ballista crews reached into their quivers. The shouts ahead grew into screams.

The skirmish was almost over by the time he caught up. The soldiers who hadn’t fallen in the surprise attack had bunched together in two lines, infantry in front with archers and bolters behind picking off the last few genlocks swarming from the ruins. Rosslyn stood in the centre with her dog at her flank, her sword a flash in the darkness and her form unmatchable as she cut down every enemy that came within her reach.

One or two managed to slip past through sheer force of numbers, however, and whether it was instinct or design that drove them, they pressed hardest on the right flank until it buckled. Soldiers staggered backwards – the darkspawn howled, raised their cudgels –

Alistair moved without thinking. He slammed bodily into the closest one, taking the impact on his shield as he sent it flying backwards, then used the momentum to sweep his blade up in a biting arc that sliced through the throat of a second. Black blood spattered against his mask, but he paid it no heed. There were more of them – many more – a mass of stinking bodies that shrieked and snapped in the gap his hesitation had made in Rosslyn’s wake, and he snarled as he cut through them to get to her side, finesse dissolved into brutal economy by desperation.

At last the wave receded, leaving the soldiers at the base of the path panting as they counted up the dead. The number of darkspawn corpses greatly outnumbered the human, the last few put to a swift end by the pikes and swords of the survivors. For a moment, Alistair could only stare at his own blade, at the slick of blood from his first kills, unpleasantly giddy, before he mustered the presence of mind to wipe it away on a spare corner of cloth. When he looked up, Rosslyn, barely recognisable under the gore coating her mismatched armour, was already talking to one of the soldiers.

“The tower was overrun before we knew anything, my lady,” the greybeard groaned over a broken arm. “We were set to mind the supplies instead of being down on the field. Guess it wasn’t such a waste of steel after all. Damned ‘spawn.”

“What happened to the soldiers stationed inside the tower?” she asked.

“Couldn’t say, my lady. It’s likely they’re all dead.”

In the pause that followed, Alistair glanced to the tower, its peak dark and its weathered walls too thick for artillery to breach. The dull roar of battle joined carried from the valley below as the first flakes of snow drifted down from the sky, twisting in his gut as it grew louder.

“Take the rest of the wounded with you and fall back to the bridge,” she ordered. “You’ll be of no further use here.”

“But my lady –”

“We’ll handle the rest of the darkspawn,” Alistair interrupted, and glanced to Rosslyn. “If there are any more?”

She blanched. “Yes. There are more.”

“Then we’ll need everyone here who can still fight. And someone will have to barricade the doors behind us once we’re inside. We have to get that beacon lit.”

The soldiers close enough to hear exchanged worried looks.

“Better we get moving,” she agreed. She turned to lead the way, but hissed as her weight fell on her right leg.

“You’re injured,” Alistair realised.

“It’s nothing.”

He waved her dismissal away. “You there – get a bandage! I thought it was all darkspawn blood.”

“Most of it is,” she insisted, but winced again as she tried to dodge around him. “We don’t have time for this – and you’re not carting me back behind the lines.”

He remembered the lift of her chin from the very first time he met her, the defiance in calling Isolde only an arlessa, and gulped back the truth that he wanted so desperately to send her away.

“If there are darkspawn in there, I need a Grey Warden, and you’re the only one I’ve got,” he said instead. “Which means I need to know you’re not going to bleed out in the middle of a fight.”

Her acceptance came in a huff of fogged breath and a muttered curse as she turned aside to take the bandage from the soldier who had been lurking out of the way with an injury kit. Protocol could not let him tend to the wound himself, but he held the torch and steadied her at the elbow while she loosened her cuiss plates and roughly wrapped the linen around her thigh.

“Someone can take a proper look at it in the morning,” she grumbled, low enough for only him to hear. “If any of us are still alive by then.”

The tower, when the company finally made it inside, rang heavy with silence after the rage of the storm and the battle outside, the cautious tramp of their boots muted under the vaulted stone ceiling. Boxes and racks of weapons lay in haphazard piles that hid the statues of the long-dead magisters standing on marble plinths along the walls, the scent of oiled metal thick in the darkness but overlaid with the rank, rotted-fur odour of the horde.

“Where are all the bodies?” Alistair asked in a whisper. “Loghain said he had people stationed in the tower.”

“My da used to tell stories about how darkspawn took people down into the dark,” someone murmured. “Never to be seen again.”

Rosslyn glanced over her shoulder. “Steady. The garrison may be –”

She stopped dead, cut off by a guttural, bubbling snarl from the next room. It was answered by a hiss, and then the clatter of something metal falling to the floor, and then more harsh cries joining a squabble like an unexpected bone tossed to a pack of street dogs. Their company drew back, weapons raised, passing fearful glances to their neighbours. The dog whined. Towards the rear, the three Circle mages who had been assigned as healers to the company drew closer together, hiding behind their staves.

“We can’t let them bottleneck the door,” she hissed after a moment.

He glanced around the edge of the arched doorway and blanched. “I think that’s an ogre in there. Maker’s breath, what are they doing ahead of the horde? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here.”

With a heaved breath, she adjusted her grip on her sword and raised her shield into a guard. “If you like, we could tell them they’re in the wrong place,” she said.

“Right, because clearly this is all a misunderstanding.” He couldn’t help a grin. “We’ll laugh about this later.”

Behind them the soldiers waited, counting on them to lead.

“We’re going to rush them,” Rosslyn instructed. “Archers will hang back against the wall and pick off outliers, infantry will form a shield wall and advance. On my mark – the king is relying on us.” She turned, nodded once to Alistair, rocked onto the balls of her feet.

“For Ferelden!”

The wall of noise as she charged in startled the darkspawn from their spoils. Some went down before they could even reach for their weapons, taken in the eye or throat by Fereldan arrows, but the rest leapt forward with enraged shrieks that battered the disciplined line of soldiers. The shield wall held under the first assault, but above the noise of hurlocks and genlocks the bellow of the ogre reverberated like a war drum. It moved like a landslide, slate grey in the gloom, limbs thick as pillars wrapped in spiked cuffs, its round head a gape of dagger teeth crowned with black horns. Eyes like obsidian glittered as it lowered its head.

“Mages! Bring it down!”

It charged. Alistair only just managed to dive out of the way. Fireballs lit the air overhead. He came up hacking at the limbs of the darkspawn that swarmed into the gap the beast had broken in the line, heard the roar of the ogre as it batted at the flames igniting across its shoulders, the screams of the soldiers left trampled in its wake. He tried to get to it – sliced open the throat of one looming hurlock and bashed another with the boss of his shield – but before he could take more than five steps another howl of pain shook the chamber and it fell to one knee. A giant hand swept out. Two men hit the wall and slumped unmoving, a third cried out as the brawny first closed around his torso and squeezed.

And then Rosslyn was there. Her sword arced through the monster’s wrist, severing tendons, and before it could react she dodged under its reach and came up, feet planted, and with a shout drove her sword to the hilt beneath its ribs.

He lowered his sword as it fell, his boots slipping a little in the blood starting to pool beneath the fallen. Outside, the night had been too dark to see her expression as she fought, but the mages’ fires had ignited the darkspawn’s spoil, and in its flickering light he caught the feral gleam in her eyes, clear even behind her face-guard, a manic energy eager for the next strike of her blade.

But most of the smaller darkspawn were dead already, and those that remained gibbered as they were cut down, out of her reach. The Fereldans left standing picked through the bodies, retrieved arrows and checked for survivors, shouting for one of the mages at every groan or twitch of a limb. With nothing else to do, she turned and despite the pain of her wound crouched beside the soldier the ogre had grabbed, but did no more. As Alistair crossed to join her, the man’s gaze pinned him in glassy, silent rebuke.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. “But we should get moving.”

“They know we’re here.”

He frowned. “The darkspawn?”

When she nodded, distant, the cold dread that had settled in his stomach turned over again, but he forced aside his concern. A sergeant broke away from the knot of survivors on the other side of the room and came to a salute, the action brittle beneath the spatters of gore.

“Orders, Your Highness?” she asked.

“We need to secure the tower,” he answered. “Pyres for the dead will have to wait.”

“Aye, ser.”

Necessity hurried their steps as they passed from the entrance chamber. One of the mages volunteered to stay behind with the injured, which left their company barely more than ten in number. It was enough in the narrow corridors to dispatch the small band of darkspawn lurking by the tunnel blasted into a corner of the outer wall, though the hole, littered about with cart-sized blocks of masonry, held the promise of more horrors to come. A damp, putrid odour, like meat left to rot in stale water, welled from the orifice, and it was easy to imagine movement from within the creeping darkness. And still there were no bodies, no signs of violence save the ones they themselves had caused.

“Right.” Alistair hefted his shield and tried to ignore the itch of so many faces looking in his direction. “How long would it take to collapse this tunnel?”

The senior of the two mages leaned on his staff, his eyes fixed on his feet. “It is not a question of time but of making sure the whole tower doesn’t collapse with it,” he warned. “Unless we went into it say… two hundred paces, and used an Earthquake.”

“We don’t know what we’ll find at two hundred paces,” the sergeant pointed out next to him.

“If there are darkspawn in the tunnel they’re not going to stay there,” Rosslyn snapped. “We can’t afford to let them through. Your Highness, I can clear the rest of the tower – it’ll be easier if I’m not having to watch behind me as well as in front.”

An involuntary breath sucked in through his teeth at the determination in her voice, the grim practicality with which she volunteered herself for danger. With the sergeant’s gaze keen on his expression, he lowered his voice, hand tight on the hilt of his sword to keep from reaching for what he could not have.

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’ll take the enchanter,” she answered with a shrug. “And maybe an archer. Cuno will be with me, too.”

At this, the dog whined and butted his head into her palm, a wide, lolling smile showing strong, white teeth.

“And me,” Alistair said.

“Your Highness –”

“The king charged me with ensuring the beacon is lit,” he interrupted. “Without it, the whole battle could be lost.”

For a hard moment she searched his face, as if daring herself to call out the flimsiness of his excuse, to pick an argument in lieu of any more darkspawn to throw herself at. In the end, however, the noble sense of propriety drilled into her over hours of childhood lessons with Aldous won out, and she turned to the sergeant instead.

“Collapse the tunnel, and then hold the line here. Nothing goes up.”

The sergeant passed one last nervous glance towards Alistair before saluting and turning on her heel to relay the order to the rest of the soldiers. After a moment, a bolter broke away from the huddle; he tried not to let the relief run too deep when the man came to attention in front of Rosslyn instead of him.

“His Highness and I will scout ahead,” she instructed. “You are to stay back to be effective at range.”

“Yes, Warden.”

No more words were spoken as they climbed through the tower. Above the grandeur of the main floor, the pillars lost their delicate scrollwork and the ceilings lowered into barrack rooms and storehouses, and yet other chambers that seemed to have no original purpose at all. The vacant gazes of statues watched them pass from beneath an ages-thick layer of dust, indifferent, and after a while the eerie silence lost its teeth, shrinking to the perfectly ordinary sound of four sets of footsteps.

“You should have stayed with the others.” Rosslyn’s gaze stayed focussed on the shadows ahead, her voice pitched too low for the rest of their party but still full of reproach.

“I didn’t want you to go alone,” he admitted, just as quietly, wishing they were anywhere else.

“After two years you can’t think I need you to coddle me,” she scoffed. “Even if…”

“What?”

The glance she shot him skittered away in an instant. “It doesn’t matter.”

Shortly after silence fell again, they came across a chamber full of corpses. Not only darkspawn, but war dogs and men in thick woollen smocks to keep out the cold, and in the very centre of the room another ogre keeled over on its back with a ballista bolt through the chest.

“Check for survivors,” Rosslyn barked. She moved to toe the bulk of the dead ogre’s arm, disgust plain on her face.

“These aren’t Loghain’s men, they’re not wearing the Drake,” the bolter said. “They’re just the handlers. Not trained to fight.”

“They must have heard them coming and retreated here, where they could make a stand.” Rosslyn paused. “I don’t think any ‘spawn got through.”

Alistair turned away from the dog at his feet, one of the injured the kennelmaster had asked to be moved to avoid stress to the others. “We need to keep moving.”

There were too many stairs left to climb, too many grains of sand slipping through the hourglass, every passing moment maybe one too late for Cailan and the Wardens, one more for the darkspawn to throw their overwhelming numbers at the Fereldan lines and crumple it like paper, and even if they were driven back, what then? A true Blight would mean an archdemon, an endless pouring of tainted creatures from the Deep Roads until it was slain, and perhaps another hundred years of disaster that would make the Orlesian Occupation seem trivial by comparison. Perhaps self-interest would inspire those same Orlesians to ally with their former, contested province, but mistrust whispered like a demon on both sides of the border.

The wind howling at the top of the corridor sped Alistair’s footsteps. The tower’s peak stood open to the elements, he knew, an unadorned platform encircled by high arches. When they had first arrived at Ostagar, Cailan had told him eagerly of the enchantments the ancient Tevinter magisters had laid into the stonework to protect it from the elements, how the signal fire that had burned in times of strife had been magical instead of mundane, fuelled by lyrium rather than pitch and timber. Even now, the worst of the storm seemed to part around the walls, the wind barely cooling the sweat from his forehead as he charged up into the chamber proper. Someone had stacked the signal fire ready for lighting, with thick ash trunks at the base to ensure the flames would last, and barrels of oil to make them burn hot.

“Douse it,” he ordered. “Then wait for my signal.”

Below, the battlefield lay obscured under a cloud of smoke, the flying snow catching like sparks in the pinprick lights of the fires Cailan had ordered lit to mark his battle lines. Within the haze, masses clumped and strove against each other, human on darkspawn, but any semblance of order had long since been scattered by the horde’s chaotic onslaught. Alistair heard grunts and curses behind him as he scanned for Cailan’s banner, but did not turn to help. The rise where the king had planned to wait with the Grey Wardens was swamped with orange light. Loghain’s forces, the black banners of Gwaren, were nowhere to be seen.

“Light it – light it now!”

A pause, and then a burst of scorching air as the kindling ignited, and then Rosslyn’s footsteps as she came to join him by the ledge.

“Can you see them?” he asked, desperate. “Loghain should be –”

“There!” She pointed. A faint glimmer of rushlights within the trees.

“What is he doing? Surely he can see the beacon?”

The lights were moving in the wrong direction. As the battle waged on, the screams of the dying faint on the wind, they bobbed northwards in silence like the drift of leaves carried by a current. He stared, disbelief and desperation trying to rationalise the sight into some sort of illusion. Loghain was a master tactician – Cailan’s oldest advisor – whatever his plan, it must –

“We are betrayed.”

There was a dead quality to Rosslyn’s voice that snapped him from his reverie. When he looked up, she was slumped against the pillar next to her as if wounded, with the visor of her helmet lifted to allow her to breathe, the shadows thrown deep across her face twisting into such lines of pain he knew it was the truth. For a moment he could only gaze at the downturn of her mouth, the wisps of dark hair that had escaped and caught on her lips. His breath rasped in his throat.

“There was never a garrison in the tower,” he realised, still transfixed. “What do we do?”

She seemed to have forgotten his presence. Startled, she turned grey eyes on him, trying to form words that refused to come, until a wash of white dread sent her features slack.

The bolt struck her before she could cry out. Alistair lunged, grabbed her arm before she could tumble out onto empty air. He heard the impacts of more crossbows, and the screams of the others fell silent behind him. Darkspawn poured like beetles from the stairwell.

And then the world exploded.

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