#Warriors finds out in another week and Sky does NOT let him forget it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

teddy06writes · 3 years

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nonono I need more ANGST part 3 for out of his grasp/out of their grasp were reader comes back as a ghost like Ghostbur but remembers bad memories so she doesn’t remember Dream or George

Out of Their Grasp

{THIS IS THE NEW UPDATED VERSION BECAUSE APARENTLY THE FIRST VERSION WASN”T ANGSTY ENOUGH}

{real talk though I thought maybe I could change this to be more angsty cause I didn’t think the ghost thing would work}

requested by this anon: “hey hey I was wondering if you could do dream x George x reader fantasy/royal au (bc I just read "for his hand" and I love it so much!!) where reader and dream go to battle but only dream returns from it. and he has to tell George that reader died. the more angst the better😝💅”

and also this one: “will there be a part 2 of For His Hand? It’s so good, i loved it!”

{Technically you don’t have to read part one but I would recommend it because this one takes place in the same universe}

Dream x George x reader

trigger warnings: swearing, yelling, major character death, aGnSt

premise: war breaks out near the borders of the SMP, you and Dream are sent ahead of the royal party to the front lines in an attempt to stop any further battles until a peace can be reached when disaster strikes, leaving your partners to deal with the repercussions.

{dude I’m like manically laughing right now}

(y/n/n)- your nickname

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“It was just skirmishes, here and there for the last few weeks,” Sam gestured to a few spots near the northern boarder on the map spread out across the table, before pointing to another in the center of the rest, “But then, yesterday there was a huge attack on the villages, and our military bases in this valley.”

You glanced around the room, from person to person, gauging there reactions.

George had visibly stiffened in his seat, and behind him Dream seemed equal tense.

“Have we taken any measures to fight back?” Sapnap asked impatiently.

“How bad are the damages?” George asked, ignoring him.

Eret looked down at the report they’d been given, “There seems to have been more pillaging than raiding, they were breaking into peoples house, causing general destruction and looting, when our forces attempted to stop them they began to fight. All in all 30 of ours were killed and there was an estimated 10,000 in damages.”

George frowned, as Niki spoke up, “We should pay the people reparation's and help them with any reconstruction that needs to be done.”

Many people nodded, but next to you Sapnap was still unhappy, “Are we doing anything about the invaders? We cannot just sit here and allow them to attack the people!”

“Pushing, pushing.” You muttered.

The king looked at him for a long moment, before turning to Callahan, the scribe, “Attempt to negotiate a peace. I don’t want anymore bloodshed to curse this land.”

The man beside you groaned, and you were quick to elbow him in the side and Sam ended the meeting and everyone began to file out of the room, hissing, “I don’t know how they do things where you’re from but that is no way to behave in an advisory meeting. Next time you pull that shit you won’t be allowed back to one.”

-You had taken the new coming warrior on as a sort of apprentice after he’d first arrived at the palace, and it was clear the change of pace wasn’t something he was ready for-

“They can’t just stand by! The King is a fool if he thinks a peace can be reached like this!”

You glared at him. “The King is no fool.”

“You only say that out of obligation.” Sapnap fired back.

You recoiled, burned, before crossing your arms and starting out of the room, “You may be a trained mercenary but you haven’t the faintest idea as to how to hold yourself among this crowd. It will be the death of you.”

He followed you back toward your office, listening as you continued, “King George is a good and just man, to say that he is a fool is to say the sun is square. He has wiped this kingdom clean of many years of bloodshed.

“The Kings advisors, and cabinet are kind, respectable people, you must remember to hold your tongue unless spoken too, and never say anything brash as you have done now, lest you make a greater fool of yourself.”

He huffed, “If I must stay silent in those meetings than how can I get my point across? Sending a messege to the enemy through force may be the only way!”

“Now you sound like Tommy, just as foolhardy and headstrong as the child,” You pushed the door to your office open, “I’m sure that Technoblade agrees with you, though he knows better than to speak freely.”

“If he agrees with me than perhaps it’s the right move.”

You turned to look at him quizzically, finally saying, “A wise king does not seek out war, no matter what his knights advise.”

Sapnap turned, “Then the lot of them are fools.”

“I have told you once to never disrespect the king, I suggest you don’t do it again. This land has seen it’s share of unjust rulers, be thankful you have not come here under worse authority.”

~~ That night, when the palace grew quiet, and the sky dark, you found yourself back in Dream’s quarters, an overtired, overstressed George having wedged himself between you two and refusing to move.

You sighed as Dream ran a hand through your sleeping partners hair, “He’s anxious.”

“I mean, can you blame him? War may be on the horizon.” Dream murmured.

“I meant even now- in the time of sleep. I think Sapnap is just adding fuel to the fire.”

Dream sighed, “If he has another outburst like that-”

“He’ll be cast out,” You nodded, “I know. He just needs to be willing to learn the way things go around here. In time he will learn.”

Your boyfriend chuckled to himself, “Fucking hotshot.”

“I think you’d like him, if you were able to spend more time with him.” You smiled.

“Well someone had to go snatch him up as an apprentice!”

“Well it was him or Ranboo, and Ranboo is far too- forgetful, for this sort of thing. I’d’ve had Tubbo but he and Tommy are a package set an you took ‘em.”

“What about Purpled?”

You rolled your eyes, “He started an apprenticeship with Punz ages ago.”

“SHHhhhhhhh, ‘m tryin’ to sleep.” George muttered, burying his face in your shoulder.

In the darkness of the chamber you could barley make out Dream’s eyes sparkling as he took your hand, “Course love, course.”

As the weeks continued the damages on the northern boarder only seemed to grow, the new invaders claiming three of the villages there own.

There was yet another large attack on the town that had been damaged the first time, this time a direct threat left etched on the walls, ‘You have made my people suffer, and now yours shall feel the same’

“Militia, both local and our own soldiers have taken it upon themselves to fight back, almost a hundred lived lost to each side.” The silence in the room grew deafening as Sam finished reading his report, not even Sapnap daring to speak.

“Your Majesty?” Bad hazarded, “What is our next course of action?”

George frowned, glancing around the room, “Peace is still the priority. Maybe- maybe we call a ceasefire, I could meet with there ruler-”

“No,” Dream interrupted, drawing all eyes to him, “It would be too dangerous. How do we know they can be trusted to lay down there arms?”

George shot him a look, “How do we know that we haven’t done anything to provoke them? Whatever we have done wrong we need to fix it. If we can work something out then people will be spared on both sides.”

“Shall we arrange for a ceasefire?” Eret asked.

The King nodded as Wilbur spoke up, “We could set up a meeting place, on neutral ground, possibly similar to the holy lands, so there would be no worry of a security breech.”

Dream seemed to relax at this, and then eyes were turned to you and Sapnap, representing the royal guard, “We can, but even so we should stay vigilant, perhaps send a group ahead with the runners to see too it.” You said, noting the gratitude on Dream’s face, as well as the slight annoyance on George’s.

“Well I see no one better to attend to the King’s safety than you,” Bad said, “You shall go with the party, and Technoblade with you, Sapnap can remain here to take over your day to day duties.”

The man in question quietly shot you a pleading look, at which you sighed, “With all do respect I think Sapnap could be better severing to the crown if he joined the running party.”

Bad glanced around to the others, looking for any objections before shrugging, “We can find someone else to do the work. So that’ll be you, Technoblade, Sapnap, and we can send the usual scouting party, and Sam shall go with again.”

You sighed, tracing an absent pattern on George’s side, listening to Dream’s ramble about how dangerous the idea that had been decided on at the meeting was.

“Finding peace is the priority, you can’t can’t change that.” George mumbled.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous!” Dream protested.

“It’ll be fine, We’ll have a perimeter set up with guards and everything. I’ll make sure none of them can even get near him with such intent.” You yawned.

The blonde huffed, “That just makes me more worried.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Your hand blindly sought his, “I’m going to do everything in my power to keep the ceasefire from being broken.”

“I know.” Was the only quiet response you received.

The next morning found you suiting up and heading out to the stables to tack up your horse. Techno was already down there, idly chatting with Phil as he readied Carl for the journey, and out in the courtyard you could see Sapnap talking to two men.

“Good morning, (y/n)!” Phil chirped, waving your direction.

“Morning Phil.” You moved down the row, reaching out and letting Beckerson nuzzle into your palm.

After getting your horse cared for and saddled, the rest of the party had headed out of the stables as your partners entered.

George took your hand, “Don’t start any more trouble.”

“Sounds like your talking to Dream not me.” You chuckled.

“Hey!” Dream protested.

“I’m not wrong!” You teased.

George rolled his eyes, quickly pulling you in for a kiss, “Make things good for me to be out there.”

“Stay out of trouble.” Dream advised, pulling you away from George to kiss you himself.

“You underestimate me.” You smirked, grabbing Bekerson’s reigns.

Dream rolled his eyes as you started to lead the horse out of the stable, calling, “And stay safe!”

“I’ll see you in five days!” You chuckled, heading out of the stables and quickly mounting your horse, kicking at his sides to catch up with the others.

~~ The last few days had been spent anxiously waiting, and now the journey to the norther board was coming to a close.

Dream rode alongside the carriage, eyes following the strange trail of smoke on the horizon; something was wrong, he could feel it.

The quiet, almost calm of the morning was slowly being cut through by a growing noise, and then finally shattered as one of the runners sent ahead to signal their arrival came crashing through the trees looking panicked.

“What’s going on?” Punz asked.

“They attacked! They broke the ceasefire!”

Dream’s brain surged with panic as he turned to where George and his advisors were starting to climb out of the carriage asking why they had stopped, “Turn around! It isn’t safe here! Go! Punz! Tommy! Ponk! Get them out of here!”

Before he could even stop to see if they were following his orders he was rushing forward down the road, urging Spirit to go faster as the road widened into the village.

Dream was met with nothing but chaos, the royal insignia’s on the tents set up in the field were aflame, and the clashing of swords filled his ears as the royal army and the few commoners who could fought back against the pillaging people.

“About time you showed up!” Sapnap yelled from halfway across the field, “We could use some fucking help!”

“No shit!” Dream yelled back, dismounting and unsheathing his sword.

Almost immediately another person came barley towards him, throwing him into combat.

He cut his way across the field, taking down people here and there, still searching the carnage for you.

Eventually he made it to where Sapnap had just disarmed and knocked out another opponent, “Where are they?”

His eyes danced around the wreckage, “Could be anywhere, saw ‘em trying to get the townspeople out of the way.”

Dream cursed, running off the direction of the village, calling you name.

The fighting continued, the addition of the extra royal guardsmen helping turn the tide of the battle, though Dream still couldn’t locate you on the battle field.

The invaders, or what was left of there battalion began to retreat, but still Dream could find no sign of you, the now all too quiet valley erupted into noise as another skirmish broke out.

Taking off at a sprint he made it up the hill to find you locked in combat with another warrior.

You panted, throwing up you shield to block another strike from his axe before shoving forward and swing your sword at his spear wielding hand.

He wasn’t excepting this, and the spear clatter out of his hand, the shock on his face giving you enough momentum to keep pushing forward, throwing attack after attack at the man as he edged backward.

You had just managed to shove him to the ground when a cry broke your attention.

“(Y/N)!!”

You turned to see Dream, smiling, words starting to form on your lips as a spear suddenly drove through your chest.

“NO!!!!!” Dream shrieked, charging forward and quickly slashing at the mans throat before turning to where you had fallen in the grass.

“T-that one was your fault.” You mumbled as he did his best to pull your shaking body into his arms, “You-ou had t-to go distract-ing me.”

“I know,” tears flooded his eyes, “It��s gonna be okay, I’m gonna get help.”

You did your best to smile through your fear, “What would G-George say if he saw you here cuddling m- m- me without him? Huh?”

“(Y/n)....”

“Bad time for a joke I guess,” you shaky voice was disrupted by a painful cough wracking your body, “Never real-really planned on being r-r-ran through with a spear this morning.”

“It’s gonna be okay! It’s- it’s gonna be okay!” Dream desperately pushed your hair out of your face, head whipping around to where the royal soldiers were beginning to regroup, “WE- I need a medic! Please! We need a medic!”

It was the first time you’d ever heard him sound so distraught, gently you reached up to his face, “Dream- Clay, leave it alone, they won’t be able to- to do anythi-ng.”

You coughed again as he turned back to you, “Don’t say that! Don’t say that!”

“It’s just my time d-d-darling,” You gasped at the pain brought by him trying to pull you closer, “You- you gotta let go.”

“NO! You’re not gonna die! You’re not gonna leave! I won’t let you!”

“I d- don’t have your permission to d-die?” The spots floating in your vision began to grow larger, blocking out spot of his face, and the sky.

“No! You don’t! You’re not leaving! I’m not letting you!” He said desperately.

“You’ve- g-got too...”

He glared down through the valley, barking out, “I said I need a medic! Someone! Please! They need help!”

There were people hurrying up the hill now, not that you could see, as Dream continued to yell.

The spots began to grow even bigger, merging together until darkness fully overtook you and you slipped from there grasp, “I’m sorry...”

Dream tore his gaze from the approaching medical team, looking down at your now limp body, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no-”

“You can’t leave! You- your not allowed to leave us! You- you can’t- I- I didn’t give you permission to die!”

He blubbered, still trying to pull you closer to him, as if he held you tighter you wouldn’t have slipped away.

“You can’t go! I didn’t say you could go! You can’t leave! You can’t.....”

Then people were pulling you away from him, and Sapnap was pulling him up, and leading him away.

“Your highness, news of the attack on the boarder has returned.”

George stopped his anxious pacing a Wilbur led in a scarily calm Technoblade and a visibly shaking Dream into the room, Sapnap still with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“What happened? Where’s (y/n)?”

Dream started to shake more at the mention of your name, and Techno stepped forward, “(y/n)- died in combat two days ago.”

George stayed silent, so he continued, “They died a hero’s death defending our kingdom.”

The king waved them away, “Out, please.”

Wilbur nodded, and quickly Sapnap and Technoblade followed him out of the room, leaving Dream to slowly move toward George, pulling him into his arms, tears coming from both men.

“It was my fault. They were fighting- an- and I distracted them.”

“You- you what?” George croaked.

“I wasn’t thinking,” He said quietly, ducking his head as George pulled away, “Th- they died in my arms George!”

“Wh- what have you done?”

Dream looked at him in shock, “What do you mean?”

“Tell me what happened.” It was a command, said in a way Dream had never heard directed at him.

“I got there- there was fighting, when the fighting died down I still couldn’t find them- then I heard another fight- on the ridge, I got up there, and It seemed like they had won, I yelled there name- and-” He broke off, barley muffling a sob.

“You all but killed them yourself.” George muttered.

“I didn’t- th- I- George.” Dream grappled for words.

“You killed them.”

“I didn’t! George I know it’s my fault, but-”

The King just shook his head, turning and silently stalking out of the room.

The castle seemed to stay in mourning for weeks, the kings council having to take over as the king stayed shut up in his chambers, refusing to talk to anyone.

The King’s Knight became more and more vocal during meetings, providing insight on how to get back at the enemy, amplifying Sapnap’s voice.

Then, as plans were being finalized, Dream was met by another figure as he sat in front of your grave.

“You think this will make up for what you’ve done?” Georges voice was horse, rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in days, though still laced with the same venom as when he’d found out.

Dream nodded, remaining quiet as he traced the hilt of his blade.

“Tomorrow then?”

Again Dream nodded, looking down at the copy of the note that had been sent to the enemy:

‘Holy water cannot stop me now, a thousand armies couldn’t keep me out. I don’t want your money, I don’t want your crown, see I’ve come to burn your kingdom down’

#mcyt x reader #mcyt imagines #dreamwastaken x reader #georgenotfound x reader #dream x george x reader #teddy06 writes

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highladyofprythian · 3 years

Text

Rhys picking Feyre up from univesity drabble

Thus Prythian was split into the seven courts…

When my eyes flutter open, the words in front of me are distorted, on the verge of blurry with my face pressed against the pages. There’s a sharp pain in the back of my neck and my thighs ache from sitting for so long.

Sitting up, I groan as I stretch out my legs, pulling my head to one side to relieve the pain there. Even still, the left side of my face is numb from being pressed against the table’s surface for so long. I scan the library quickly, my Fae ears not picking up the sounds of other students. Odd, considering I only started reading just as the sun went down, the library full of other students. But now, only the soft creek of settling floorboards and my breathing can be heard.

The room is dark, my faelight burnt down to embers, barely enough light to see three feet in front of me, let alone navigate the expansive library. Sighing, I stand up, willing my exhausted magic to fill the faelight again, just enough to guide me and pack my things away.

I pack my book away into the leather rucksack Rhys gifted me last Solstice, along with the charcoal pencils and paper scattered around. Studying, I’ve found, has left me prone to doodling while I concentrate. Little images of flowers, Nyx’s eyes, utterly random shapes. It’s difficult to sit idle, while some ancient wizened Fae drones on in the front of a grand lecture hall about the trade routes between Courts.

The clock chimes in the silence, frightening me so much I jump, pencils clattering to the floor. Grumbling, I bend to retrieve them, but snap back up when I only hear three chimes. Three? But-

Wildly, I whip my head around, determined that other students only left to eat dinner… I couldn’t have been asleep that long. But again, I hear nothing.

I’ve been asleep for hours… oh gods, Nyx.

I tug hard on the bond between Rhys and I, not caring if I wake him from sleep. I need to know if my son is ok.

Good morning, Feyre darling, his voice thick with sleep drawls in my head.

Before I can ask him, he calms my racing thoughts, my shield falling from my panic and lack of proper sleep. The baby is fine, he fell asleep hours ago. As did you, clearly. His dark laughter fills my head, only irritating me further.

You didn’t think to wake me up? I snap at him.

Couldn’t disturb you being so studious, now could I? His tone is amused as he goes on, And besides, I am capable of parenting our child without you.

I soften, melting at the image Rhys sends me of Nyx cradled in his arms, his head resting against Rhys’ bare chest as he bottle feeds him.

I hope you ate too, High Lord. I gripe back, still irritated with him. The stress of the baby’s birth and potential fallout with Autumn has put Rhys on edge, falling back into bad habits of forgetting to eat his meals.

Of course, High Lady. Couldn’t risk falling asleep in my study with the baby home. Infinitely amused, he continues to make fun of me.

If I remember correctly, you were the one to encourage me to attend university. Such is the life of a poor student… I lament, matching his dramatics.

If only because the thought of you sitting in a lecture halls and writing essays does wicked things to me.

What doesn’t? I retort, sending him a rude gesture down the bond. He just laughs, thinking of more creative uses for my hand.

Pig, I say as I finally find my pencil and tie my rucksack together. The faelight follows me as I walk out the grand double doors to the library, illuminating the path ahead.

You love it, his voice and my feet padding along the marble flooring the only sounds to be heard. Truly I somehow managed to sleep through students leaving for dinner, chatting amongst themselves. Even the Fae who do nightly patrolling of the library.

I doubt even the toughest of security guards would want to wake the High Lady, says Rhys. This late at night, I don’t bother putting up my shields, enjoying the simply intimacy of Rhys hearing my thoughts, sharing each moment with me. Even I don’t dare to do that, he continues.

I snort aloud, startling myself. Only when you wake me up creatively… I send him an image of us, him beneath the sheets, my hands gripping the pillow beneath my head.

I don’t think the guards would wake you up quite like that, his mental voice is a little strained. I can see through his eyes that he’s sat up in bed, the sheets pooled around his hips, revealing only a tantalizing shadow but no more.

I follow the path down the winding stairs, the sconces along the stone walls are blown out for the night, the gentle gold of the faelight flickering. The history in these walls is deep, thousand of years of Fae scholars shared this space, writing laws that still preside of Prythian today. Rhysand’s own family, High Lord’s of Night Court past sheltered together, the wards of Velaris being set up as they studied through the night.

And a painting comes to mind, of ancient Fae, gathered in a library of old, heads bent together, scroll after scroll of lore and history being recorded. One day, Rhys himself will stand beside them.

I like to think I’m not stuffy and old yet, darling. His voices brings me back, and I’m greeted by the sight of the university’s large, ornate double doors shut to the elements, no light peeking through the wood.

Yet? Says the five-hundred-year-old with bad knees, I tease as I pull on the large, iron door handle. Amongst the alumni it’s said that the iron handles and sconces were built into the building to ward away evil Fae spirits. However I, and other students have far fonder memories attached. And I’m reminded of my first week here, students rushing past me, completely bare as they ran through the ancient hallways, attempting to touch each piece of iron before their competitors, to then be greeted by a slew of cheers and applause when they completed the course. Even I partook in the spirit of unvieristy, and I’m blushing just thinking about it again.

Shame I wasn’t there, Rhys says, showing me a picture of his own days in the university. A buck-naked Illyiran warrior flouncing down the hallways, outrunning everyone, of course.

I could say the same. Though I don’t think we would’ve studied well together. The heavy doors open to an inky black night, the snow on the ground stark white in contrast.

“Considering your success at reading, I think we would have made exceptionally good study partners.” Rhys’ midnight voice floats through the air, making me jump again.

I huff at him, “You scared me! What are you doing up?” And another more pressing thought, “Who’s minding the baby?” I begin to run towards the river house, though the jog across from the university to the house would take thirty-minutes by foot.

Rhys behind me laughs, and I hear his wings flare wide before he takes me in his arms, pushing off the ground and up, up into the night sky. The air rushes past my face and I revel in the sensation, loving the icy cold against my faelight warmed skin.

Once we find a cruising altitude, Rhys answers me. “Mor is at the house, he’s fast asleep.” His voice caresses my neck and I shiver, though not from the cold. “And I’m here to pick up my star-pupil, lest she fall asleep on herself mid-flight. Again.”

“I had just had a baby! Your baby! And I didn’t fall asleep I simply closed my eyes.”

“And careened straight into a tree.”

I whack my palms against his chest in retaliation, but he’s not wrong. I was only two months post birth and pelvic-reconstruction. I needed to simply pick up something from the market and Rhys was out on business. So, I shifted into my wings and took flight; but that evening Nyx had been up crying and I only managed to sleep for an hour before he was up, happily chatting his baby nonsense about the sun being in the sky once again. I had closed my eyes briefly… and both Rhysand and Azriel still make fun of me. Azriel more so, between fits of chuckling telling me ‘I thought I trained you better than that,’.

I nestle into his arms, sleep clouding my eyes once again, but even after two years, the sight of candle-lit Velaris twinkling against the night sky, cradled betwixt the mountain rages, makes me sigh in wonder, never wanting to close my eyes.

“Sleep, Feyre. You have an early lecture in the morning, wouldn’t want the Professor to catch you drooling on the table.”

I snort weakly, partially asleep once again. “Reminiscing about your own days at university, old man?” His laugh rumbles in his chest, lulling me fully into sleep.

When we land, I wake just enough to kiss Nyx’s little forehead while he sleeps soundly before Rhys picks me up again, places me on our bed and I dream of Rhys after his first war, young by Fae standards, studying the night away in the very same library I slept.

#Feysand #feyre archeron #Rhysand #Nyx #Feysand baby #feysand drabble #acowar #acofas #post acofs au #sjm #sjm books #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #feysand fluff

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youngster-monster · 3 years

Text

I’ll take it all

After Anasterian Sunstrider is dealt a mortal wound in battle, he calls for his son from his deathbed.

“You must rule,” he says, voice rasping with pain, “With kindness, with honor, and with fairness. Only then will you be worthy of this crown.”

But Prince Kael’thas is young, with a heart set on magic and learning. He does not wish to rule. His sense duty bars him from giving up the crown; so he chooses another way out.

The healers said the king could not be healed by any mortal means. He goes to seek elsewhere.

Deep within the darkest forest of the land, where the moon never sets, there lives a demon. One must be brave, to make the trip, or very foolish, for the forest holds many dangers besides. But with courage and strength, one may find their way to the heart of this forest, and ask the demon for a service; and if one is very lucky, the demon may agree to it.

Kael’thas is young enough to believe himself invincible. But he is also one of the most brilliant mages in the kingdom, and a powerful warrior, enough that his bravery is set in more than youthful naivety.

He sets off at midnight with nothing more than the fastest horse of the royal stables and a sword. He rides without pause for a full day and night, through hills and forests, and knows himself to have reached his goal when hours pass and the moon never lowers in the sky. The darkness has a weight, here; a deep magic that stretches like spiderwebs between the trees and glints silver under the everlasting stars.

Following the trail of this magic, the prince comes to find a clearing, at the center of which stands a house of black stones and dark wood. A single lit lantern announces that it is inhabited; but the stillness inside tells that the occupant must be very lonely indeed.

Kael’thas composes himself, breathing in deep. Don’t forget to be polite, the voice of his best friend warns in his mind. You cannot be rude to a wish-granting demon.

As if he would ever do such a thing.

Walking directly to the unguarded house, Kael’thas slams the heavy knocker upon the door thrice, and waits.

And waits.

Just as he is about to knock again — perhaps call out loud, since this demon must be hard of hearing — the door creaks open, with a sound like a wail.

“Who comes to disturb my rest?”

The sickly green light of the lantern does not reach inside the house, so that the disembodied voice seems to come from the darkness itself.

“My name is Kael’thas Sunstrider,” he says, “And I come seeking help from one we call a demon.”

Slowly, footsteps echo across the stillness — oddly sharp, like cloven hooves upon a stone floor. A faint glow the same hue as the magical light comes to breach the darkness, in odd twisted shapes like thorn vines and, higher still, like two eyes.

“Have you not been warned, Kael’thas Sunstrider, to never give your name to creatures you so readily insult by calling them demons?”

“It’s a risk I am willing to take for the sake of a proper introduction, and as long as I stand here alive I will consider it a risk worth taking.”

The darkness rumbles with something akin to a laugh, getting nearer, until Kael’thas can start to make out a shape. First he sees the horns, tall and curved and glinting like metal; then teeth, bared by speech; a chest carved with glowing markings; and wings, shifting like living shadows behind the creature; until finally all of him is visible.

He looks the part for a demon, Kael’thas muses; but he looks rather like a man, too.

“What is it that you seek, to come so far from the light?”

“A miracle cure for my father, who was wounded in the war.”

The demon tilts his head, considering. Then he says, “Come, then.”

And he walks right past Kael’thas, past the cover of trees and deep within the forest. The prince hurries to follow after him.

They walk, the demons with confidence and Kael’thas with confusion, until they reach a tree. It is old, Kael’thas can tell, large enough that it might take him many minutes to walk around its trunks and nearly humming with the force of its innate magic. The demon strides up to it and gouges into the bark with a swipe of his claws. The tree bleeds red; and it shines like blood under the moonlight.

“Pour this over his wounds,” he says, gesturing to the sap, “And he will heal.”

Kael’thas looks at the dark liquid, then at the demon, and says, “I have no vessel to carry it in.” Only his water skin, which he could empty easily enough; but it seems unwise to take from a demon and offer nothing in return. One never knows when the demon will want to call on this debt.

“Then you will work for me for three night and three days, and I shall give you one,” says the demon, and nothing more.

It’s only after Kael’thas agrees that he realizes there are no days here, and the moon never shifts or changes; and he thinks himself very foolish indeed for agreeing to a contract that has no end, when his father is lying in agony and might pass the veil at any moment.

But there is no going back.

For hours the demon has him do menial tasks. Fetch water; gather firewood; weed the garden into which nothing else grows. He never lets Kael’thas inside of the house, not once in the many hours of labor. And Kael’thas doesn’t complain, not once; not even as he rages against his own stupidity, and schemes his escape. But as much as the demon seems absent more often than not; but whenever Kael’thas comes closer to the house, he appears as if from nowhere, and sends him to another task.

For three days and three nights he neither sleeps nor eats nor has the need to do either. For three days and three nights he hopes, desperately, to find a way out.

But at the hour at which the fourth dawn should have broken, and despite the full moon remaining unchanged above their heads, the demon comes to Kael’thas and offers him a glass vial filled with the blood-dark sap.

“Be on your way,” the demon says, “And never comes back.”

Kael’thas rides hard and fast through the trees until he finds dawn; then through the forests and the hills, all the way back home again. Not once does he look back.

And he would have stayed away, too, if months later sickness had not swept through his kingdom. Their healers work tirelessly; but dead bodies litter the streets, and the sky is choked with smoke from the pyres, and Kael’thas knows if they ever find a cure, it will be too late.

He remembers the path to the forest, through the trees, under the moon and all the way to the clearing with the black stone house. He knocks; he waits.

And waits.

The door creaks open, and the same low voice asks, “Who comes to disturb my rest?”

“It is Kael’thas Sunstrider,” he says, “Who seeks a cure for the plague.”

There is a beat of silence, then, “Follow me.”

They walk through the forest until they reach a pond, by which grows a bush of white flowers that shine like diamonds.

“Crush these,” the demon says, “And give the sick water infused with the powder. They will heal.”

But Kael’thas is no more likely to accept a one-sided deal now than he was last time, and he says, “I have no box in which to store them safely during my travels.”

“Then you will work for me for three night and three days, and I shall give you one,” says the demon, and nothing more.

Once hardly makes a pattern, but Kael’thas still trusts that the demon will release him after the allotted time. So he works, without complaints and without fear, as the demon has him sweep the path leading to the house and pick the rocks from the garden where nothing grows, not even weeds.

Still he doesn’t come too close to the house; still the demon does not speak to him beyond handing him tasks; and still, at the dawn of the fourth day, the demon comes to him with a tin box filled with flowers, and sends him on his way.

The third time is what makes it a habit.

Jaina has refused his proposal; she loves another, she said, and it broke Kael’thas’ heart.

For weeks he is inconsolable. Elves live long lives, and are slow to change; he would have mourned this love for many weeks more if, one night, he had not woken up from a nightmare to find the full moon staring down on him.

Another man would have gone back to sleep, or perhaps waxed poetics about the unfeeling face of the moon. But Kael’thas is a man who rode twice to the heart of the night and came back with a boon each time; he sees the moon, and thinks of a black house among trees.

What is a heartbreak but a wound? What is heartsickness but a plague of the soul?

This time, the door opens before he even reaches it. The demon looks at him in silence; Kael’thas swallows past the pain in his throat, and whispers:

“Once again I come to your front step, asking for a cure for love unrequited.”

Something flashes across the demon’s face, impossible to read in the gloom. He gestures at Kael’thas to follow and leads him around the house, to the small garden where nothing grows. He has him dig in the soft dirt and scatter seeds in the holes; then he makes him carry star-strewn water from the stream, through the tangled roots of the forest.

After three days, the demon empties what little of the water is left after taking care of the garden into a gold-rimmed cup, and offers it to Kael’thas.

“Drink this,” he says. “Your heart will mend, and grow stronger for the breaking.”

Kael’thas drinks. The water tastes cool and sweet.

When he leaves the forest of never ending night, the dawn that breaks seems to him to be the first in years rather than days; and it is all the more beautiful for it.

After this Kael’thas starts to find excuses to travel to the moonlit forest. He comes asking for a book that does not exist, and the demon finds it; he comes asking for a sword of sunlight, and the demon gives it to him; he comes asking for anything that comes to mind, pays the toll of labor and leaves, up until the demon opens the door and says,

“Oh, it’s you again.”

And Kael’thas replies, “Who else could it be? It’s not like you have many visitors.”

“Maybe I like it that way. What is it that you want, now?”

Kael’thas thinks for a long time, staring at the demon, and then says, “I seek a name that belongs to a demon in a black house in the forest of night.”

The demon looks slightly distressed at that.

“Is there nothing else you want?”

“Only this knowledge.”

The demon makes him weed the garden again, urging him to be careful of the new growth there, before he tells him his name.

“I was once known as Illidan,” he says begrudgingly.

“Once?”

“What good is a name when there is no one to know it?”

“There is me, now.” Kael’thas grins then, looking up at him, and says, “I have your name and you have mine. Won’t you invite me in, as the rules of hospitality demand?”

Illidan looks, for a second, like he might kick him out of the clearing for good. But in the end he only heaves a sigh, and waves him inside.

The house is dark inside — what use has a blind demon for light, after all? But after Kael’thas has bumped into one piece of furniture too many, he waves his fingers and flames flares to life in the fireplace.

“What do you want, then?”

“Must I always want something?” Kael’thas asks absently, looking around himself. There are books everywhere: piled on the floor, the seats, the table, overflowing from the shelves. He supposes there’s little else to do with one’s time, when one is a demon living alone in a black house in a forest of eternal night. Though he does wonder how a blind demon reads.

“You generally do.”

“That is fair.” Considering the question for a moment, he finally says, “A conversation.”

“Make yourself useful, then, and boil water for the tea.”

Kael’thas comes to ask for many more conversations after that first one — and though Illidan never offers them freely, the price is always easy to pay.

All Illidan ever asks for is for him to boil water, or clear some space to sit, or grab a book for him. Eventually he brings himself to ask Kael’thas to read for him; some he knows by heart, and will mouth the words as they are said, but most he listens to in silence. It’s Kael’thas who stops, usually, to ask a question or start a debate over what he’s reading.

Illidan is brilliant, he finds — with a mind like a steel trap, and a sharp tongue that he seems reluctant to use.

“Words have power,” he says when Kael’thas mentions this. “And power should not be wielded carelessly.”

Kael’thas, who’s notorious for speaking before he thinks of the full implications of what he’s saying, nods and continues the paragraph he stopped in the middle of.

Illidan is brilliant, a scholar, and old enough to speak of history as if he has lived it personally. Kael’thas learns all of this and then more, and each new information feels like a theft — as if, by not paying the meagre price Illidan insists on making him pay for everything else, he has taken something from him.

So he tries to offer payment instead, though he does not voice it as such. One of the ways he does this is by cooking. Kael’thas is not a good cook by any measure; but one of the things he’s discovered about Illidan during their many conversations is that the man is terrible at it. He eats mostly meat, raw or charred over the fire, that he has hunted himself in the depths of the woods.

“Is that why your garden was barren when I first came?” He asks idly over the root vegetables he’s currently peeling. They have odd shapes and colors, but they taste remarkably the same as the carrots he eats back home, so he decided that’s what they must be.

Illidan stares through the window as he answers.

“No. I tried once, and nothing grew. I did not believe it worth it to try again.”

“What changed?”

A pause. “I found that I… enjoy repetition, in the right context.”

Kael’thas says nothing for a long time. When he speaks again, it’s to change the subject — it’s easier on the both of them.

“For as long as I’ve stayed here,” he says, “I’ve never needed to eat.”

“But you stay for very little time, when compared to me, and all that lives must eventually eat.”

Was Illidan changed, he wonders, by this strange halfway land he resides in? Or what he already like this when he came, and it is the land that changed around him? Surely there wasn’t always a forest of night in the heart of their kingdom; surely it was not always inhabited by a demon. One or the other must have come first.

The next time Kael’thas comes, he brings something in anticipation of the payment he must make. Pastries from the capital: sweet and buttery, something he’s sure Illidan has not tasted in a long time.

He has an important question to ask — or rather, something that will lead to an important question, later.

“What do you seek here?” Illidan asks, as he always does when he opens the door.

“An answer.” Kael’thas thrusts the box of pastries at Illidan. “And before you ask, I brought payment already. Let’s get inside: your garden will survive not being weeded for a day.”

They sit, and after allowing the demon a few moments to taste the pastries and looking away so as to not witness the emotions warring across his face, Kael’thas asks:

“Why must I pay, every time I come?”

He keeps his tone neutral, because in truth he is more curious than insulted by the practice. Demons must have their quirks, and he cannot entirely shake off his initial fear of a bargain struck but left open-ended.

Illidan tilts his head so that his long hair covers his face slightly, and his voice sounds rough when he replies.

“It can never be a gift. Only a trade or a theft.”

“Why?”

“Gifts are like curses — easy to give, hard to get rid of, impossible to change. Powerful. They’re dangerous.”

“And me bringing you food in exchange for conversation makes them… less so?”

Illidan looks away then, fully hiding his expression behind the curtain of his hair. “I do not like to owe people — or to have others owe me. It is easier, that way, to have every payment upfront.”

“What a terribly mercenary way to look at things.”

“Perhaps, but it has served me well.” When he faces Kael’thas again, he is smirking. “But this offering of yours has paid for more than a single question, I would say. What would you like to talk about?”

There are many things Kael’thas would like to ask about. Who took too much from you? What more can I offer you? Where do you come from, what are you doing here?

But he will not ask; this, he thinks, must be offered freely.

“That first time — would you have let me leave with the sap, just like that?”

Illidan shrugs, still smiling. “You feared me then. You would have thought keeping your life a sufficient payment in exchange for it, and it certainly would have made you leave quicker.”

How glad he is to have been too stupid to be truly afraid, now.

Kael’thas makes the trip to the moonlit forest one last time. He glances at the flourishing garden; he knocks on the black wood door.

When Illidan opens it, his usual greeting on his lips already, Kael’thas takes a step back and digs his hand under his cloak.

He doesn’t know what is on his face; only that Illidan’s face falls at the sight of it. But this must be done. Kael’thas will not be trapped into a life of bargaining, but he cannot keep on taking without ever giving something back.

“What do you bear?” Illidan asks blandly, in the way one would ask about a particularly cumbersome burden.

Kael’thas offers his hands, and bows over it. Between his fingers he holds a single flower, the petals pale pink with veins of gold. Beloved’s blossom; a flower often exchanged between lovers, as a proposal. He held a similar one out for Jaina, an eternity ago.

“A heart,” he says softly, though he does not allow himself to be quiet. This is not a vow to be whispered and lost in the wind. “Freely given, for you to keep or to let go as you please.”

“What do you ask in return?”

“Nothing.”

Glancing up through his lashes, he sees a small, bitter smile on Illidan’s face. “You bring me a gift,” he says, like it’s poison on his tongue.

“I am a selfish man, Illidan. I wished my father saved, my people cured, my heart mended, my days filled with your company; all this you have given me. Now I want to tell you I love you; I will have this too.” His uncomfortable bow makes talking awkward, but he refuses to straighten up until Illidan has either accepted his gift or closed his door to him forever.

Slowly, so slow it’s torture, a hand comes to cover his. Clawtips prickle the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. “Have you not been warned, Kael’thas Sunstrider, to never give your heart to creatures who could so easily break it?”

“It will only be stronger for the breaking.”

“Do you seek to see it broken again, then?”

“No. But it’s a risk worth taking, for the chance to see what you would do with it if given the chance.” He hopes for care; but it is only a hope, and he would not dare to make a request of it.

Illidan’s hand closes over his, and he can feel it shake slightly as the demon sighs deeply.

“Come inside, Kael,” he says softly. “The night is cold, and your heart is dear to me. I would not like to see it freeze.”

Smiling triumphantly, Kael’thas follows him in.

#writing #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #world of warcraft #fairy tale logic #don't look at me idk what all of this means either

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duhragonball · 3 years

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I was thinking about Goku and Krillin's friendship and it occured to me that they spent months training with Roshi together but then only saw each other for maybe a day every few years. Have you ever had a realization that tripped you out like this?

This is a really good ask, anon, and I just wanted to take a moment to say so.

I have had a few ‘a-ha’ moments like these, but I’m kind of blanking on specific examples. I’ll see what I can come up with.

1) For openers, there’s the whole thing where the Red Ribbon Army has a Dragon Radar, but it’s nowhere near as sophisticated as the handheld one Bulma invented. I think the same holds true for Emperor Pilaf, but his gang is only three people. You’d expect the RRA to have the best equipment possible, because that’s their whole deal, and by normal standards they probably do have the best possible Dragon Radar... but Bulma’s is simply that much better, because she’s on another level. And it’s easy to overlook that, because Bulma’s supposed to be a genius teenager, like Donatello in TMNT, but the RRA’s Dragon Radar is the first hint that she’s even more special than we could have guessed.

2) Rewatching Dragon Ball in 2019, I gained a new appreciation for the filler episodes where Mr. Popo trained Goku. The first time I saw them, I was hoping we’d see Goku grow up and make progress over the three year gap, but instead they just focused on his early days on the Lookout, with Popo just saying things and Goku failing to understand. It was very frustrating to watch.

But in 2019, I noticed that all those episodes get paid off in the Piccolo Junior fight. Popo kept telling Goku to be “quicker than lightning” and “quiet as the sky”, and Goku just couldn’t figure out how to do that, let alone fight at the same time. He had to unlearn all the stuff that had helped him defeat King Piccolo, and he couldn’t do it... at first. But by the time he fought Piccolo Junior, he put it all together, as demonstrated with his big finishing move. Piccolo thought he had vaporized Goku, only for Goku to fly up into the air and crash into him. Why didn’t Piccolo sense Goku’s presence? Because Goku had learned to become as “quiet as the sky”. Why couldn’t Piccolo dodge it? Because Goku had learned to become “quicker than lightning.” So it vindicates those filler episodes pretty nicely. They weren’t just marking time, but they were setting up what the manga was going to do later.

3) I think last year, it hit me that Vegeta had probably never lost a fight before he went to Earth. That alone isn’t probably any big deduction. The only people stronger than him were all working for Frieza, and he knew to steer clear of them until he was ready. But it explains why he was so giddy about the zenkai effect. He had always known about it, but he never mentioned or cared about it until he experienced it for himself after losing to Goku, and then Zarbon.

Yeah, I think this occurred to me during a conversation about Vegeta killing Nappa instead of helping him. In theory, Nappa could have recovered and gotten a lot stronger, just like Vegeta did. But Saiyans Saga Vegeta didn’t care about that. He only gave his henchmen one chancemand discarded them as soon as they lost. This attitude would also explain why he never dared to challenge anyone at a higher level. He knew no one would show him any mercy, so the zenkai boost would have been meaningless to him.

So he might have regretted killing Nappa after he experienced the zenkai firsthand, although he was so drunk on his own increased power that he probably never stopped to consider it. But before Earth, Vegeta probably dismissed the zenkai as a crutch for lesser Saiyans. In his mind, a truly great Saiyan never loses battles in the first place. Or so he believed, until he lost a few times, and became stronger for it, and had to reconsider.

And that also explains how he warmed up to the Super Saiyan Legend over the course of one afternoon. He and Goku made such sick gains that week that he started to wonder if you could zenkai your way to Super Saiyan, and then he was begging Krillin to shoot him just so he could get a step closer.

4) In the same vein, it occurred to me at some point that Bardock was probably stronger than King Vegeta, and neither of them realized it. Maybe it was just a dub-ism, but I’m pretty sure “Father of Goku” has a line about Bardock’s power level being 10000. At the time it was released, 10k wasn’t that big a deal, but in the Saiyans Saga, Vegeta was somewhere around 18-24k. Later, he would claim to have surpassed his father as a child, so I think it’s fair to assume that King Vegeta must have been in that 10,000 neighborhood.

Which makes a nice subtle commentary on why the Saiyan Kingdom failed. They tried to breed better warriors, putting all their stock in the royal family, when the true secret lay in warriors like Bardock, who were constantly getting clobbered and healed. Prince Vegeta only started to make real progress once he began fighting on that same regimen.

5) Also about “Father of Goku,” Frieza only wanted Planet Kanassa subjugated because of the psychic powers of its inhabitants. I think the dub insinuated that the planet itself gave people those powers, but whatever the case, Frieza heard about these people with unusual powers and wanted them stamped out immediately. Just like he wiped out the Saiyans over the Super Saiyan Legend, and just like he planned to destroy Namek to prevent anyone else from using the Dragon Balls.

In short, Frieza fears and despises legends. Why? Because he’s so powerful that real people can’t hurt him, so his fears naturally turn to half-truths and folklore. He chases down ghost stories and rumors, because let’s face it, what else does he have to occupy his time. That’s why King Cold was happy to have the Saiyans working for him, while Frieza wanted them all dead. Cold didn’t share Frieza’s hangups. Cold barely knew what a Super Saiyan was, while Frieza thought about it all the time.

6) One day I thought about that timeline where Cell killed Trunks and took the time machine to find the androids. That specific timeline is pretty much empty. The Z-fighters are all dead, and so are all of the androids and Trunks. They don’t even have a Cell anymore because he went back in time and never returned. There’s still a population, I guess, because the Trunks of that world wouldn’t have just stood by while Cell absorbed everyone on Earth, but that’s about it. Bulma might have survived Cell’s attack on Trunks, but she’d be the only “name” character on the board. It just sounds like a pretty depressing world. Maybe this was the timeline Whis picked out to relocate Blunks and Future Mai in Dragon Ball Super.

7) It sort of blows my mind that the entire Majin Buu arc takes place over a couple of days. Like, episode 207 through 250 all takes place over one day. We know this because Goku only had 24 hours to be back in the living world, and that time was cut short by his use of SSJ3. Then the Elder Kai started doing his ritual to make Gohan stronger, and that took like 25 hours, I’m pretty sure. That wrapped up in #262, and there was no break in the action from that point onward, all the way up to the defeat of Kid Buu in #287. So yeah, eighty episodes over two days. It’s practically real-time footage, save for skipping over the Elder Kai’s ritual and Goten and Trunks practicing and sleeping.

It’s hard to catch on to this, though, because so much stuff happens in the anime version that leads you to think that it’s a much longer span of time. After Vegeta wrecks the stadium, the anime can’t decide whether or not Mr. Satan would stay there or return to his dojo. In the Fusion Saga, Mr. Satan wanders from Buu’s house to the nearest town, then he wanders to the next town over, doing his “Last Man on Earth” bit, except this all happens during the Gotenks/Super Buu fight, which barely lasts half an hour. In the afterlife, Chi-Chi is worried that she can’t find Gohan, but she wouldn’t have even been there that long, and wouldn’t she still be in line to meet King Yemma? She was one of the last Earthlings to die, so how did she end up in heaven so quickly?

8) I used to think Movie 13 (the Hirudegarn one) was canon, but the last time I watched it, I noticed all these glaring problems. They use the Dragon Balls in this one, which means it has to be set six months after the wish to make everyone forget about Majin Buum which means it’s been a year since Kid Buu was defeated. Okay, fine, except Gohan and Videl are still in high school. Shouldn’t they have graduated by then?

More importantly, their high school and Bulma’s house seem to be in the same city. I guess that’s an easy mistake to make. It took me a long time to even notice, but Orange Star High is in Satan City, which is a totally different place from West City. I mean, right? They’re not terribly far apart, but they’re not the same place either.

Then again, they seemed to make the same error in Episode 287, where Bulma’s out shopping and Great Saiyaman 1 and 2 foil a robbery. Are they in West City or Satan City? Maybe there’s more to this...

#ask duhragonball #dragon ball #Anonymous

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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

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The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 11 | Of Delusions and Grandeur

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 8,500

*Warning* Our angry bean having some serious PTSD flashbacks, also death, quite a bit of death.

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Oh boy did this one take a reallllllyyyy long time for me to write. I hope it’s worth it! Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I probably didn’t proofread as many times as I should’ve 🤍

When she was a little girl, Visenya was called into Lord Stark's study nearly every day. She'd shuffle into the room, hiding a coy smirk and mischievous giggles behind a straight face, unable to look him in the eyes as she fumbled through unconvincing lies. At the time she thought herself the finest liar in the Seven Kingdoms, ego growing larger with each doe-eyed look, and words of denial laced with feigned innocence. And each time she stepped out of the room, she'd miss the small smile pulling on Lord Stark's mouth, eyes glittering with amusement as melancholy consumed him, reminding him of times when he was much smaller and the world much bigger.

With age, each step into that study grew less intimidating, the walls growing shorter as she grew longer. At some point between six and ten it changed, instead of swiping pastries from the kitchens, she was hiding away with Jon, waving around a training sword that's too large and too sharp; and inevitably, one morning a large cut blossomed on her face. She went into the study sobbing like an infant while holding a medical cloth to her wound, fears of getting in trouble making her anxiety soar high into the cloudy sky. But instead of sour eyes and trembling lips, she left with a beaming smile on her face and orders to begin training with Ser Rodrik. Immediately she was ushered to Maester Luwin and put on bed rest for the day - Theon called her a stupid girl trying to act like a man, whilst Jon brought her wildflowers from a field. She made sure to hit Theon extra hard during their sparring sessions.

Then there was the time she tackled Theon and beat him bloody when she was a girl of ten and two after he insulted her father; wailing like a banshee, screaming into the universe that Theon and his family were cowards. Her small fists beat into him with as much tact and technique as a wild animal. Everything he ate for a week straight had a metallic aftertaste, while Visenya wore her smugness like a crown. Lord Stark gave her a stern lecture about not hitting people just because they make you angry, yet she couldn't help but preen like a bird when noticing the glint of amusement in his icy eyes. Robb would laugh every time he saw Theon for a full month, meanwhile, Theon's glares didn't disappear until his final scar did. Only then did he begin to acknowledge Visenya's presence again. He never brought up her family again, and she returned the favor.

Of course, she could never forget the time she was brought in - shivering like a leaf, looking as if she'd slept in the deepest ocean - two guards at her side as they escorted her. Lord Stark dismissed them immediately, waiting with patient eyes and a kind smile for Visenya to explain where she'd run off to. The dam broke and she began sobbing, blubbering nonsense that not even she understood. But Lord Stark didn't yell at her, demanding she speak clearly. Instead, he stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and carefully approached Visenya. Kneeling to be eye level with her smaller form, he just hugged her, encompassing her with the fatherly warmth she couldn't remember ever getting from Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe he did hug her when she was a child and the world wasn't crumbling around them, but if he did, she couldn't remember. So she just hugged Lord Stark so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if he had red marks where her arms were.

Then only four years later, she was called in again, only this time Lady Stark stood beside him, strained smiles and stony eyes greeting her, and held tightly in Lord Stark's hand was a letter, the parchment nearly ripping in half from his grip. It was nearly identical to the one she sent off three days prior, with Essos it's destination and Targaryen the receiver, signed with a desperation to connect with blood. Lord Stark gently explained to her that the King may see it as treason if she was found to be contacting the only other remaining Targaryen's, finding the reason to do what he's been itching to do since the rebellion. And Visenya couldn't bring herself to tear apart her family by selfish actions, not after everything they've done for her. That day she didn't walk out triumphant or ecstatic, instead, she burned with rage and shame; rage at the world and shame at herself for caring so much. She never tried to contact Daenerys again.

The final time she ever walked into that study was a week before Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Lady Stark wasn't there, in fact, no one else was anywhere near the vicinity. He told her to sit down, not willing to delve into the reason that she was there until she complied. Ned Stark was never one to beat around the bush, finding it more practical to just say what needs to be said and move on. That was the first time Visenya ever saw him fumble over his words. Finally, he managed to tell her what exactly the King had demanded when he was in Winterfell. He wanted Visenya married off and out of Winterfell. She was a statue at that moment, having a million things she wanted to say, but simply nodded, turned, and left the room without another word. A day after the King arrived, so did her potential suitors. The King insisted he should be the one to choose her husband, completely crushing the dwindling hope that her future husband wouldn't be so terrible. The decision ended up being between a child of ten and two and a boy only a year older than that, both from two minor houses in the South; until Robb interrupted - respectfully of course - and declared that he would marry Visenya. She couldn't decide what was worse, the prospect of marrying someone she sees as a brother or watching Jon's crestfallen face. Jon wouldn't look at her until the night before he left for the Night's Watch, and she couldn't look Robb in the eyes until he did.

This time, standing in front of the door that leads into the room Jaskier and Geralt reside in, with damp hair and clothes sticking to wet skin, she is a storm. A flurry of emotions raging in her mind; anger, sadness, melancholy, and fear melting together until she can't feel anything, the sensory overload leaving her numb. She eyes the empty hall like an animal stuck in a cage, her heart pounding, seconds away from bolting out of the inn and never returning, living in the forest as far from people as possible. But then the sound of Jaskier talking and Geralt's angry mumbling filters into Visenya's ears. Her anxiety increases, but the storm softens as she straightens her back, all thoughts of running suddenly gone.

'The blood of the dragon must not be afraid.'

Visenya sends a prayer to the Warrior for courage and the Crone to give her the wisdom to not let her anger control her, not wanting to lash out again. She reaches a hand up, pausing it midair for a second. With one last silent prayer, she grasps the handle in hand and pushes open the door.

"--quit your complaining, you look great! Scary and dashing, what more could a Witcher want?" Jaskier says to Geralt, waving his hands wildly. Geralt stands in the room, wearing clothes suited for minor nobility, a stark difference from his usual armor, a scowl chiseled into his beautiful face.

He's in shades of blue: a Stark blue cotton jacket hugging his biceps, a stone grey shirt tucked into his leather pants that hug his toned legs in the most flattering way, wolf pendant hanging from his neck. His white hair is tied back in its usual fashion but appears to have been brushed, clearly the doing of Jaskier. Despite his obvious discomfort, he's like a piece of art, looking like the subject of a painting that hangs in a noble lady's room.

As the door clicks behind her, Geralt and Jaskier look at her. Jaskier's eyes immediately flicker away, face draining of all color as he takes a small step backward. It's small, the change in his demeanor, but it's enough to break Visenya's heart that she thought had been encapsulated by stone and ice. A million words nearly fall from her mouth, at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds herself losing the ability to speak. So instead she turns her attention to Geralt, feigning the smirk that usually naturally falls on her face.

"You clean up nicely. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think you were just covered from head to toe in monster guts," she teases, willing her voice to sound as light as air, not at all weighed down by the anxiety in her heart. Geralt narrows his eyes, seeing through her façade the second she places it on, but he says nothing. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and grunts, turning back to Jaskier.

"See, I told you it's fine. Now Jane, be a dear and put on that dress in the corner." Jaskier moves through the room like water, stepping behind Geralt and pushing him towards the exit, making Visenya step further into the room, flattening against the wall to allow them to slip past her. Geralt's shoulder brushes against her, and it feels like electricity. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Meanwhile, Jaskier is looking anywhere and everywhere, as long as he doesn't have to look at her.

The door clicks behind them, the shuffling of feet gone, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts, again. She shuffles over to the other side of the room, seeing a bundle of dark fabric that must be her dress. She closes the distance, holding the fabric between her fingers. It's a deep purple and almost softer than anything she's ever touched. Sighing, she begins to pull her clothes off of her body, haphazardly throwing them onto the ground. She holds up the dress, the ends touching the floor; it's beautiful, with a silver belt cinching in the waist and a slit up the leg, allowing free range of movement. And for a moment she thinks Jaskier chose these colors on purpose, purple for the eyes she used to recognize, and silver for the hair that used to flow freely, but that's impossible. How could he know the importance of those colors when he doesn't even know her real name?

So she pushes those thoughts away and begins the process of stepping into the dress and pulling it on. The fabric drapes loosely off the shoulder, the back flowing into a sort of cloak style. It's light as air, moving in perfect sync with her, ideal for looking pretty but also loose enough to allow her to fight if necessary; nothing like the heavy and restricting dresses of the North. She clasps the belt, adding some shape to her body so it no longer looks like she's drowning in excess fabric. She holds Renfri's broach, the emeralds, and rubies shining and bright compared to her dress. She pins it in the place it always is, over her left breast.

She puts both hands under her hair, starting to pull it out from under the dress when there's a knock at the door. She starts to turn, the dress moving around her feet like a soft breeze, when the door clicks, creaking as it opens.

"Jaskier wanted me to bring you--" Geralt says, trailing off as Visenya turns to face him, the dress fully on display. A smile pulls on her previously dour face, as the last of her damp hair falls over her shoulders. In his hands are a pair of velvet black boots, the heels higher than her usual travel shoes, with a silver buckle adorning them, not as fine as what high royalty would wear, but certainly nicer than her everyday ones. His gold eyes rake up and down her body, mouth slightly agape.

"My shoes? Thank you, I was hoping I wouldn't have to go to this feast barefoot." She saunters over to him, making sure to take her time with every step. She stops right in front of him, tilting her head up to look at his face, Geralt's large form looming over her. His eyes follow her, tilting his head down as well.

She grabs onto the shoes, pulling until Geralt grip on them slacks. Without moving her eyes from his, she slips each shoe on, the inside lined with a soft fabric, making them hug her feet comfortably. Geralt breaths out a laugh, but says nothing else.

"You look nice." he finally says, his voice rougher and lower than usual, causing Visenya's eyes to light up as he struggles to swallow for a moment.

"You don't look too bad either." She raises a single brow, slowly raising herself to stand on the tips of her toes, inching closer to Geralt's face.

"Hmm." He just grunts, leaning down to close the distance between them. And when their lips are seconds away from touching she veers to the left, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"See you out there." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

o0o0o0o

"--keep your head down and pretend to be a mute, can't have anyone figuring out who you are," Jaskier mutters to Geralt as soon as they step into the Great Hall. Most of tonight's guests have already arrived, standing in small clusters that are interspersed throughout the large room. They're rowdy, much more like the Northerners that Visenya's accustomed to, tankards of Cintran Ale in the hands of every person. They're dressed in a wide variety of colors, most of the women wearing dresses made from velvet and much warmer fabrics than the chiffon that languidly hangs off Visenya. A season of jewel tones surround them: reds, greens, and purples as far as the eye can see.

"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice exclaims, a slew of loud drunken shouts from the nearby crowds following the proclamation. A man in forest green finery that looks slippery to the touch begins to approach them. Well dressed, but certainly not the most expensive-looking man in the room. His shoulder-length thick black hair is pushed away from his face, a matching thick beard covering his chin. Light reflects off of the greying hairs that pepper it, betraying how old he is. His eyes, that are as green as his tunic, scan the three of them, lingering on Visenya but ultimately he focuses on Geralt.

"Oh shit," Jaskier mutters, glancing around the room, smiling and waving awkwardly at everyone looking at them.

"I haven't seen you since the plague," he says, silver tankard in hand as he draws closer, an easy smile on his face.

"Good times, Mousesack," Geralt says, his tone and posture rigid and uncomfortable; never one for crowds it would seem. The man doesn't seem put off by Geralt's dour demeanor, instead, he breathes out a laugh, pointing at Geralt with his tankard.

"I have missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost." he closes the distance, grabbing ahold of both of his shoulders, the smile on his face falling just an inch. "Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?"

Geralt turns to Jaskier, his signature scowl on his face. Jaskier just turns to look at them, playing with his fingers, eyes wide and nervous, but ultimately silent.

"And who might this be," the man says, moving his attention from Geralt to Visenya. She grants him a smile, much closer to Geralt's stiff one than his easy-going smile. He holds out a hand and she shakes it, trying to match his firm grip.

"Jane."

"Mousesack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's charming, with a wide grin on his face and bright eyes. There's also a spark when he makes contact with her. Not the kind that plagues sappy romance novels, but a literal spark of...something that leaves the hair on her arms standing and her spine-tingling.

"Mousesack is a druid." Geralt answers her unspoken question, looking between the two of them with a blank expression.

"I see, and you and Geralt are friends I presume?" Visenya asks, slipping her hand from his tight grasp.

"Old friends, it's been what...50 years?" Mousesack says, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.

"Something like that." Geralt says, scanning the crowd. Visenya turns to him, eyes widening a fraction.

"How old are you exactly?" She asks, eyes narrowing. It never occurred to her that a Witcher would age differently. The passage of time here never occurs to her much. She goes to sleep at night and wakes up at dawn, spending the day traveling, sitting in inns, or looking threatening and mean to potential aggressors, only to start the cycle over again. How much time has passed since she first arrived? Everything seems to pass in a blur, she never bothers to think about it.

"Over 100," he gruffly responds, glancing over at her before returning his eyes elsewhere.

"You don't keep track?" Visenya asks mind short-circuiting momentarily. How is that even possible, to be over 100 years old, yet not look a day over 30? It has to be a side effect of being a Witcher, it's the only logical explanation.

"Why would I?"

"I guess when you're that old it doesn't matter," she says, brows furrowing as her eyes narrow.

"I never thought I'd see the day that someone matched your dour attitude. Come, walk with me," Mousesack merrily exclaims, words slurring together. He flashes Visenya another smile as he begins to effortlessly move through the crowd of people. Geralt follows beside him, Visenya keeping pace with him.

"I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," Mousesack says, people, cheering and holding up drinks towards him as he passes.

"Old and crusty," Geralt says. "How long before this horse-trading is done? I find royalty best taken in... small doses."

Visenya snorts as she observes the room around her, trying to memorize every tiny detail. There's a high table at the very end of the hall, with a large throne in the center, like a shining prized jewel. It's nothing near as magnificent as how she imagines the Iron Throne to be, but it's large none-the-less. Sitting by the empty throne is a girl, closer to Visenya's age than not if her appearance is anything to go by. With pale skin that glows in the dim candlelight, her golden-silvery hair compliments her beautifully. It's in an ornate braid on the back of her head, falling over her shoulder, a gold ribbon weaving in and out of it. Her emerald green dress is adorned with a large gold necklace, the small emerald jewels in it dancing in the candlelight, a delicate gold circlet resting on her head. Their eyes lock, and Visenya finds herself entranced by her bright blue eyes, unable to force herself to be aware of her current surroundings.

"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack says, his only acknowledgment of Geralt's first comment is the small smirk on his lips.

"Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?"

"Come with me, there's much for you to see. It's not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle, Eist Tuirseach." Mousesack says, pointing towards a large man with fiery hair and a matching beard that stands with a large crowd of people, easily one of the loudest people in the room.

Princess Pavetta's fair face wears a frown, similar to her own, but not at all with the fire Visenya holds. Instead, she looks more like a scared girl than a defiant dragon. Not at all unlike herself all those years ago, when she sat at the High Table beside Lord Stark in Winterfell, with weaves of traditional Northern braids in her hair as Robert Baratheon auctioned her off to the highest bidder, like a prized broodmare. But that's the life of a princess, exiled or not, your love is sold off for political and monetary gain. Marriage is never about love for royalty. Yet Visenya's heart aches for the girl who looks like a scared doe, rather than the daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, who fought and won her first battle at only fourteen years of age.

"She doesn't seem too happy about it," Visenya mutters, glancing back at Mousesack. He meets her stern gaze, bright expression dimming just a hair.

"No, I'm afraid not. Princess Pavetta is much softer than her mother."

"They almost always are," Visenya says, eyes moving back to Pavetta, feeling as if she's entranced. Something weeps inside her, shaking so fervently her body almost vibrates. If things were different, that would've been, no, should've been Visenya. But could've, would've, and should've been is nothing when destiny dictates that your world be nothing but ash and ruin. So she snaps her gaze away, unwilling to look at the image of what is always just out of reach.

Mousesack and Geralt continue speaking in low voices, Visenya following them like a ghost, lost in her head. A few minutes in, Geralt moves away, leaving her alone with Mousesack.

"You seem quite focused on the Princess tonight," he muses, pulling Visenya from her chaos.

"She's the most exciting thing in the room right now," Visenya says, raising a single brow at Mousesack, shoving away the sinking feeling that something horrible is going to happen.

"Moving past that insult to my character--" Visenya snorts. "I feel as though it is something more. I can see it in your eyes, you feel for the girl."

"It's hard not to. A man no matter how well-traveled and wise he is will never understand what it feels like to have your whole life laid out for you by someone else. Being sold into a marriage with someone not a good match for you only hurts worse when it's your own mother."

"Personal experience?" Mousesack raises a brow, mouth in a straight line.

"Nonsense, my mother died when I was a child," Visenya says, moving her attention away from him and towards the crowd.

His eyebrows raise causing small lines to form on his forehead, slight shock painting his features. He purses his lips, opening his mouth, only to close it again.

"The life of nobility." he finally says, letting out a sigh as he shakes his head.

"The life of a woman, no matter their status," Visenya corrects him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"All rise for Her Majesty, The Lioness: Queen Calanthe, of Cintra!" a man near the Main Hall entrance cries out, silencing any of the noise in the room.

"Luckily for the girl, horrible husbands tend to disappear rather quickly when you're royalty." With that last comment, Visenya disappears into the crowd, gliding past noble ladies and lords as she maneuvers towards the secluded corner Geralt claimed as his own.

Chairs scrape as everyone scrambles to stand and Jaskier quickly runs over to where the other minstrels are, lute in hand. Nearly in perfect synch, the entire room turns towards the entrance. Shortly after, a middle-aged woman strides through the parted crowd, a smirk on her blood-stained lips. She wears gold armor that's dull from the dark red blood that's splattered over it, fresh from a recent battle. Her dark brown hair is braided away from her face, but not as neatly as expected for an occasion like this, instead, it's wild and pulled apart, in knots and gnarls with dry blood. She holds a helmet in hand that she quickly tosses to one of the many people in the procession following behind her.

"Beer!" she exclaims, grabbing a tankard from the hands of a pompous noble as she passes him, taking a swig from it immediately. "Apologies, noble sers. A few upstart townships in the South had to be reminded of who was Queen," she says, voice oozing with confidence and a tinge of arrogance. This causes an uproar of cheering from the nobles around Visenya, waving their tankards in her direction as golden ale spills onto the floor.

"Fighting is good for one's blood and humor. Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over--" she says, taking another drink from her mug and turning towards the high table. "--as am I." She mutters. "Bard, music!" she yells, waving a finger in the air, towards Jaskier's general direction, stomping up the marble stairs. Jaskier starts the first note of a song, his sweet and delicate singing voice ringing through the room before the Queen swiftly cuts him off.

"No, no, no; a jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes and continuing up the steps. Jaskier sighs, before counting down from three, beginning a much more upbeat song that swiftly blends into the background as the room's noise levels grow. People begin to fill the gap they'd created for the Queen, forming small rowdy groups.

Finally, she closes the distance between her and Geralt, grabbing a tankard of ale from a table as she does. She stands beside him, posture as stiff and straight as his, taking a drink from the cup, eyeing the party. She watches the Queen as she leans down to speak with her daughter, hands resting on the table, her words too quiet for Visenya to discern. Suddenly a man slams his tankard of ale on the table

"You lying little shite!" the man that Mousesack labeled as Crach An Craite yells. He stands to his full height, towering over a scrawnier man he's arguing with. "You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, nevermind a manticore!"

"I've had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as the likes of you perish under my steel," the second man spits back, unfettered by Crach's intimidating aura.

"Under your bullshit, more like. How many stingers has it got?"

"Two."

"Ha. Go away and shite, it's got five. I know, I've actually killed one." Crach An Craite spits at him. He scoffs and turns away from the other noble, as the crowd around them grows more excited as the argument begins to escalate.

The smaller man rushes forward, grabbing onto Crach An Craite's tunic, the small crowd around them rushes in as well, eager for an excuse to fight.

"Enough!" the Queen exclaims, stopping everyone in their tracks. "We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth" she says, walking down the steps. In unison, nearly every turns to look at Geralt, and in turn, Visenya as well.

"Neither." Geralt says, not bothering to meet anyone's gaze.

"Are you calling me a liar, old man?" Crach An Craite mutters, face nearly identical in color to his hair.

"The Butcher of Blaviken bleeds utter nonsense," the smaller one says, dismissively waving his hand in Geralt's direction as he leans against a nearby chair. Geralt glances towards Jaskier, who is frantically shaking his head, with puppy dog eyes and a slight pout his only weapon. Geralt sighs, moving his attention back to the impatient nobles.

"Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of manticore."

The room is completely silent after that, the tension in the room quickly dropping. Visenya breathes out, clenched fist relaxing at her side. The Queen breaks the silence, loud laughter leaving her mouth, gaze solely on Geralt.

"Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?" The room immediately breaks out into cheers. Fists pound on tables, tankards waving in the air, and nobles yelling so loudly their lungs might collapse. Visenya raises her brow, glancing at Jaskier with a disapproving gaze. That stupid song is nothing but embellished falsehoods, so wrong it's nearly infuriating every time Visenya hears it.

"There was no slaying. I had my ass kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut, when Filavandrel let me go." Geralt speaks up, silencing the room instantly.

Instead, their cheers are replaced with boos and loud groans, nobles shaking their heads at Geralt.

"But what about the song?" the shorter man exclaims.

"At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you good Lords, at your final breath, a shitless death." Geralt exclaims, bringing his tankard to his mouth, "--but I doubt it," he mutters, his words once again riling up the crowd. And if she didn't know any better, Visenya thinks Geralt just might like the fanfare, even if he won't admit it.

"It would've been your blade at Filavandrel's throat if you'd been there your majesty. Not that any elven bastard would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field." Lord Eist speaks up, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the Queen. She looks at him, preening under all the attention with a smug look on her face. The movements cause the dried blood to crack and crumble onto the floor.

"Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher, take a seat by my side while I change."

Geralt simply grunts, rolling his eyes as the Queen turns away, moving up the stairs and disappearing through a side door, a handmaiden following dutifully behind her.

"Come on," Geralt grabs onto Visenya's hand, dragging her behind him.

"She didn't invite me."

"Well she invited me, and I'm not going through anymore suffering alone." Geralt says in between clenched teeth.

"How polite, throwing me straight into the lion's den just so you won't have to face it alone. I never knew you to be so thoughtful Geralt."

He simply grunts in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moves up the set of stairs, boots pounding under the stone ground. One of the men that came in with the Queen directs Geralt to a chair beside the throne. Silently, he pulls out his chair, glaring at the finely dressed nobleman that is sitting in the chair by him. The man meets his gaze, and to his credit, manages to remain expressionless. However, he still stands, his legs wobbling just the slightest, and moves to the other side of the throne, sitting by the Princess. Geralt nods his head towards the now vacant chair. A smirk forms on Visenya's lips as she moves behind him and into her new seat.

"You get to deal with the Queen if she's unhappy with my presence."

o0o0o0o

The feast is even duller from the High Table. It hasn't even been a full hour, and yet all that's happened is a few arguments, suitors vying for the hand of the princess, and the Queen speaking with Geralt. Visenya sits in silence, scanning the crowd and listening in on the conversations around her. There's still that sinking feeling in her stomach, a dreadful fear she's unable to escape telling her this is all going to end horribly. Crach An Craite stands up from his seat, when suddenly the door is slammed open, a man in full plate armor barreling through, swiftly taking out the two guards by him. Like an unruly bull, he stomps to the center of the room, lowering himself into a kneel. The room is completely still, as Visenya leans forward, grip tightening on the knife in her left hand.

"Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter's hand in marriage," he says, bowing his helmet-covered head.

The room is filled with gasps of shock, women all around covering their mouths in horror. The Queen becomes as stiff as a rock, veins faintly protruding from her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya sees Pavetta go completely still, yet her face doesn't convey the same horror it has with every suitor before.

"A knight... of no renown... from a backwater hamlet... who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?" Queen Calanthe spits out, shaking in rage as her words burn like acid.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight's oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell." Urcheon says, not sounding shaken by the threatening aura swimming around Queen Calanthe.

"Bollocks to that," Lord Eist exclaims, moving forward and knocking the helmet off Urcheon's head. The metal clatters against the ground, echoing in the room, as the knight is revealed to be a...hedgehog man. Visenya leans further out of her seat, nearly laying on the table. Gold eyes wide in shock as she examines each and every needle that protrudes from his face, tracing his animal-like nose and beady black eyes. He looks around the room, very much looking like a cornered animal.

"Witcher--" the Queen hisses, "kill it."

"No," Geralt says, intently watching Urcheon.

"Whatever the price," she continues.

"This is no monster."

"I order you," she continues, the same patience she previously possessed slipping away.

"This knight has been cursed." Geralt says, unable to be swayed by her words that hide serious threats.

"You're as useless as the rest of them," she seethes. "Slay this beast!" she exclaims to the rest of the room.

Two guards immediately move towards Urcheon, weapons in hand. With swift and highly skilled movements, he disarms the guards, knocking them to the ground.

"Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise." he yells, pointing towards the Princess. More guards approach, and to his credit, he attempts to fight back but is quickly outnumbered. He's thrown to the ground, blood pouring out of his...snout. One of the guards lifts their halberd, seconds away from slicing into them. Geralt quickly jumps from his chair, moving past Visenya and down the steps at the speed of light.

"No!" Princess Pavetta exclaims.

At that moment time slowed down. Geralt reaches the scene when the halberd is mid-swing, pulling out his sword and cutting the weapon in half. The top piece slams on the ground and Urcheon catches the bladed part.

It's silent until the Queen breaks it.

"Kill them both!" she yells, pointing at Geralt and Urcheon.

o0o0o0o

Swords ringing, bodies crashing to the ground, and screams ricocheting off the walls into Visenya's ears. It's all familiar. A horror so intrusive and fresh in her mind that feels like only hours ago her whole world crumbled, leaving her vulnerable in a new reality. So different with its magic and dragons, but the same in the way its tragedy claws at her throat, phantom tears following her like the deaths of everyone she ever loved. Like an inescapable curse that continues to stalk her no matter how far or fast she runs. And maybe that's because none of this is real, a delusion she's created in the darkest recesses of her mind, happy enough to grant hope of a better life, yet enough devastation cloaking it to be believable.

She watches in a daze as Geralt moves through the room, dancing with his blade like a master. The porcupine man roars as he charges the oncoming guards, cutting into their flesh with less fluidity than Geralt, yet deadly all the same. Invigoration surging through his body from the White Wolf joining his side, more than happy to slice through anyone who confronts him, whether his foes wield sword or fist. The lords in their fine garb beat, stab, and strangle each other; using the chaos as an opportunity to take down their adversaries. A small group of nobles huddle in the far recesses of the room, cowering and whimpering in fear as the slaughter escalates. Women cry and the minstrels quiver, yet the queen and princess remain at their high table, unmoving. Princess Pavetta watches with glistening blues eyes while the Queen is clenching her jaw so tightly, her face is painted white.

Visenya's hand ghosts over where her blade should be, the empty spot where its sheathe would rest feeling uncomfortably light. A lord drunk on the adrenaline in his veins rushes Visenya, wild like an animal. She knows all too well how this will go if he gets his way: with her bloody and praying for the release of death. But she's not that little girl of five hiding in a crawl space as she listens to her mother's screams of agony. Now she breathes flames each time she talks, eyes like a city turned to ash.

She holds her arm up towards him with an open palm, the movements rigid and not her own, as if an otherworldly creature possesses her. Moments later he slams into her, the width of his neck perfectly fitting in her palm. Automatically her finger closes around him, tightening with each second as she locks him in place. She's emboldened with strength she shouldn't possess, as she raises her arm upwards, his legs dangling in the air, helpless. Gold eyes illuminate, embers of fire she's smothered igniting in that instant, festering pain bursting to the surface. Heat builds, the smell of burning flesh rising in the air, the crackle of skin against fire. He screams, a blood-curdling one that makes Visenya's insides turn. Yet she doesn't release him but holds tighter and tighter until his screams turn to choking, and then silence. With a dull thud, his body drops to the floor, unmoving.

A sharp pain pierces her left side, leaving her staggering forward with an unsteady footing. Howling like a wounded animal, Visenya turns to face her adversary, a heavily armored guard. He jabs towards her, but she manages to move out of the way just in time. She sneers, blood dripping from her mouth. He goes to stab again, but in full plate, he's too slow for her nimble movements. She ducks behind him, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground as she does. And before he can comprehend where she is, she stabs the glass into the side of his neck, watching the thick red liquid coat it. He coughs, choking on the blood pouring out of his neck. The guard wobbles, slowly losing his balance as he claws at the air for something to hold onto, then scratching his throat, attempting to save himself. Visenya watches, eyes cold and unfeeling. She lifts her leg and kicks him onto the ground before stepping over his body.

Each footstep thunders in her mind as she presses forward, every face nothing but a blur, and instead of tabards with three proud lions, she sees two blue towers united by a bridge. Every guard and noble that falls is a Northern soldier, with surprise and agony painting their face, while every attacker is a Frey. Sneers carved into their features; screams turning into shouts of glee as they cut through anyone in their way. In a flurry of blood lust, eager to drown her sorrows in the pain of others, she throws punches at everyone within reach, kicking bodies on the floor as they writhe in pain. It's intoxicating, living out her darkest fantasies without a care in the world.

It'll fade, the comedown far worse than the high, but at the moment, it's worth every second of loathing it'll inevitably create. A grunt follows a swift punch to the gut before Visenya grabs a hold of a chair, smashing the wood against the charging noble. His face morphs, no longer a nameless lord, instead, he's one of Walder Frey's sons who sunk his blade in her flesh as his friends shot her down from a distance. The chair breaks into a million pieces as he falls to the ground, unconscious. She roars as the adrenaline pumps higher and higher, the blood running in her veins faster and faster. Geralt appears in the corner of her vision, at some point they move towards each other like magnets, twirling around each other as if they've practiced it a million times. And just as soon as he's there, he disappears into the chaos as Visenya loses herself to the beast inside her.

Another soldier approaches her, a flurry of sword swings and spittle his greeting to her. She dodges out of the way of each of them, moving as if she's the water, her dress fluidly flowing with her. She steps to the side, taking advantage of his blind spot, due to his helmet that obscures part of his vision. She grabs a hold of his sword arm, managing to pull it back far enough to hear a gnarly crack, a loud clang following it, as his sword falls to the marble floor. He sneers at her, but she returns the favor. Yet before she can do anything, another burst of pain shoots through her, and her eyes flit down to the source, a dagger sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up at him as he twists it, before letting go and pushing her away, but instead of falling to the floor to bleed out, she pulls out the blade. Using his surprise to her advantage, she smoothly grabs his sword from the ground, using a maneuver she learned all those years ago in Winterfell to knock his helmet off his head from the back. And as it clangs to the ground, she drives the dagger into his throat.

She stumbles forward, hand clenching her new wound as blood pours out of it. She whirls around, determined to find safety, but a glimpse of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes with a direwolf coat of arms fighting a noble in rich blues captures her attention.

Robb.

Numb to the pain pulsing in her body and the wounds that are dripping with blood, she runs. But it's like walking through thick molasses, feet not moving as fast as they should, no matter how hard she tries to push forward. Desperation rips her apart from the inside out as she tries to stop what's inevitably going to happen, the very same thing she sees in every one of her nightmares. And when she's only a step away, the noble slashes low, throwing Robb off balance, and with one swift plunge of a dagger, he falls limp.

She's too late, again.

Her legs are never quite fast enough, reaction time a second too slow, and no matter how hard she tries to do it, she never manages to save Robb.

An ear-piercing screams tears through her throat, or maybe it doesn't, it's hard to hear anything above the ringing in her ears.

The noise is a culmination of a lifetime of sadness, but it's also a battle cry, promising nothing but fire and fury. And as Robb collapses, armor clanging against the ground, she reaches out and grabs the hair of the noble, pulling until there's a distinct crack and a shout of pain, a large chunk of brunette locks her prize. With the snarl of a wolf and tight tension on his head, she wraps her other arm around his neck, and a simple flick of her wrist is all it takes as his neck snaps, body crashing onto the ground.

And Visenya falls too, crumbling into nothing but a shaking form, sobbing so hard she nearly throws up all the contents in her stomach, trapped between the dead bodies of Robb and his killer. Tears mix with blood, staining the floor with her misery.

"Robb!" she cries out, but her voice is nothing more than a croak, getting swept away into the chaos of the fight. "Robb!"

A shaky hand reaches out, moving to brush his hair out of his face, but there's nothing there. And as her tears pour down her cheeks, Robb distorts, wild curls becoming a bald head and Tully blue replaced with bleak brown. She removes her hand as if it burnt her, and scrambles to getaway.

Bodies rush past, moving around her as if she's nothing more than a figment of their imagination. Everything slows down in the room, as salty tears slip into her mouth, dark spots covering her vision.

She blinks; once and then twice. Everything is blurry until it's not.

A sea of dead bodies, suffocating her. She throws a hand up, desperately clawing to escape, But each movement only traps her further under them. She screams, the sound muffled yet clear as day in her mind.

"Jane. Jane!" Someone's holding onto her, pressing onto her cheeks, the warmth of soft hands cupping her cheek. "Jane, are you alright?" The voice is distant, yet familiar all the same.

She blinks again, and once more.

Another scream rips through her throat, tearing apart her vocal cords. She continues to claw, fighting harder against the dead weight that presses heavily against her. Gold meets gold as the light shines in her eyes. The first rays of day hit the side of her face, illuminating the cast of dry blood caked with mud on her face. Eyes flicker from the left to the right, seeing, yet not, at the same time. It doesn't register in her mind, the ocean of death she finds herself swimming in, all she sees is daylight, while everything else is blurry.

"Please bring me water or wine, just bring me something!" The familiar voice echoes in Visenya's head, footsteps rapidly tapping against a marble floor following.

A glint in the light captures her attention, something piercing through her hazy vision. It blends into its environment at first, but with a keener glance, she sees it. With new vigor, she wiggles out of the pit, crawling on all fours, eyes on the prize. Six beats, that's all it takes until she closes in on her fixation. A person, a dead person.

The body doesn't have a head, but she already knows its face, the same one she sees every night in her worst night terrors. Unsteady hands reach out, tracing the cloak clasp, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat inside her. Hot fingertips trace over two direwolves meeting in the center. Then she forms a fist around it, holding so tightly small cuts form on the palm of her hand. No tears pour down her face, spilling onto the fine garb Robb donned for his own funeral, there's nothing left to cry. Her eyes are dry like a Dornish desert, she's cried too much to have any left. A second scream tears out of her mouth, sending any scavenger birds flying away with haste, slicing through the silence of the field that is drenched in dawn. It's harsh and coarse, leaving the ground beneath her quaking in its wake.

"What's wrong with her?" A timid woman's voice asks.

"I don't know. Let me see that." There's rustling, ice-cold water hitting her face moments later. "Gods Jane, you're bleeding!"

She blinks one more time.

The field disappears, a ballroom wrought with chaos replacing it. She's flat on the ground with Jaskier kneeling beside her, face hovering over hers. His eyes are wide with distress, gaze solely focusing on her. She attempts to stand, but the weight of her head is too much, so instead, it just bangs against the hard floor. Swords clanging and people shouting filters into her ears again, replacing the devastating silence that once resided in her mind.

"Jaskier."

"I'm here, I just need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?" he asks, holding her hand so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"A sheep can't command the dragon," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open when something cold and wet splashes over her face, again.

"Well the next time we meet a dragon, I'll let them know." She glances over, seeing the weak smile pulling at his lips. His pale face is stark white, the flush of red usually in his face completely gone, with dark and deep bags under his tired and dull eyes.

"You already have, I am the daughter of dragons," she mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

She opens them again, blinking a few times and finding herself back in the open field and kneeling over Robb's body. She stands with unsteady legs and a weary body. Visenya turns around, staring at Walder Frey's keep, eyes solid ice with a stony expression. One step, two steps, and another, and then another, staggering towards the keep. The anger simmers, burning so hot it's cold now. Fire dances on the tips of the fingers, the flames licking up her arms with each step she takes.

"Can you do something? She's been injured?" Jaskier's voice echoes in Visenya's mind.

"Possibly, step aside and I will do my best to heal her," another familiar male voice rings in her ears.

A comforting feeling fills her body, smothering her pain in all things that are warm and homely.

She blinks, opening her eyes and finding herself back in Cintra with Jaskier and Mousesack hovering over her. She's delusional, she has to be. The only problem is, she can't decipher which reality is true and which one is a hallucination.

"Are you alright?" Mousesack asks, grabbing Visenya's hand in his own. Between Jaskier and him, they manage to help Visenya sit up just in time to see Queen Calanthe meet Geralt in battle. She holds her sword up to his neck and Geralt meets her blade with his own.

"Stop!" the Queen yells.

o0o0o0o

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you. Also I’m not 100% sure if most of y’all still want to be tagged, since it’s been so long since I posted a new chapter, so feel free to message me if you no longer want to be!

#geralt imagine #geralt x reader #the witcher imagine #the witcher fanfiction #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia #the last dragon #the witcher #the witcher crossover #game of thrones #game of thrones crossover #geralt of rivia x reader #Geralt #Jaskier #calanthe of cintra #targaryen!reader #targaryen!oc

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author-morgan · 4 years

Note

Helloo! Could i ask for an engage day with Eivor where the whole village knew that he would do it anyway, but act they are not predict anything? ☺☺

Hi nonny, hope you like it!

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

EIVOR WOLFSMAL WAITS until he is sure you have left for the day before he knocks on the wooden door of your home. This moment has been a long time coming and one he has put off for nigh a year, but with the courage provided by a cup of ale and the insistent croaking of Sýnin at his ear, Eivor decides now is the time to act. Despite his breadth and stature, he feels small under the scrutinizing stare of your father, Vígmaðr —a reputable warrior in his own right.

This is not an unfamiliar situation, though, hardly three springs ago Eivor sat on the same bench at the small wooden table and petitioned for the lifelong friendship between him and you to be able to grow into something more through courtship. Now, Eivor asks for Vígmaðr’s daughter’s hand in marriage, laying his heart bare.

Guðríðr, your mother, smiles and rests a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Eivor is a good man and as parents, they could not ask for a better man to marry you. He explains his intention to surprise you by asking after the harvest feast by the week’s end —when the agreement is made Eivor takes his leave and lets out a long sigh as the wooden door shuts behind him.

Stepping back onto the main road in the village, he looks up at the overcast sky and smiles, laughing softly to himself as he makes his way into the heart of the seaside village. Sýnin’s low croak is the only warning Eivor has before you fall into stride at his side, carrying a basket of root vegetables and grain. The raven jumps onto your shoulder, ruffling his blue-black feathers and nuzzling against your cheek and temple —more affectionate than normal. Reaching up, you scritch the feathers on Sýnin’s belly. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” You ask, the question directed both to Eivor and the raven perched on your shoulder.

“Thinking about the hunt for the celebration,” Eivor replies, hoping his answer will be enough to stave your curiosity for now. It seems to work as you don’t doubt it —it’d been well over a month since he last went on a true hunt. “You’re busy,” he remarks, eyeing the basket in your arms, not wanting to hinder you. The elder healer of the village had tasked you with running errands to some of the sick, a break from your usual routine of making poultices and tonics. Eivor leans down, placing a quick kiss to your check before carrying on his way.

Sýnin lingers on your shoulder, the raven cocks his head to the side, watching Eivor leave. You eye Sýnin, meeting his dark, beady eyes. “He’s up to something, isn’t he?” Sýnin turns his head this way and that, then hops from foot-to-foot. “Mischief,” the raven croaks, “mischief.”

AFTER TWO DAYS since encountering Eivor in the street, you start to notice something odd about the way your parents are acting. Vígmaðr and Guðríðr both assure you it is nothing to worry about, but you know they are hiding something. Taking a small breakfast of smashed cloudberries on brown bread, you try to goad your mother into telling you anything about her and Vígmaðr’s odd behavior. She does not relent, but your suspicions increase tenfold when you venture to the small market. “I heard the good news!” The merchant smiles, accepting the trade of goat tallow for a bundle of mugwort.

“Always knew you and Eivor were a match made by the gods,” someone else says, one of your mother’s close friends and fellow shieldmaidens. You take the few items from the market and what had been foraged from the forest the day prior back to the healer, finding even she is acting strange —giving you the rest of the day for yourself. Drawing up your cloak’s hood, you set out back into the summer rain and towards Eivor’s small house at the edge of the forest.

“Eivor?” You call after knocking, but there is no answer. Pushing open the door, you step inside out of the rain and look around. The hearth is cold, and his bow is gone from its place on the wall. Thrown over the back of his chair is a scarlet tunic with a rip in the sleeve and side —folding it into your basket, you set back toward your home. Eivor’s tunic is not the only thing in need of mending. Your mother wields a sword and shield, but you have always wielded a needle with more efficacy than any sword or axe. Sitting by the fire, you start patching the small pile of clothing at your side, humming the tune to a song Vígmaðr used to sing to you at night.

The next day, Eivor returns with a stag nigh twelve hands high draped over his shoulders. A fine beast for the night’s feast. You accept his soft kiss and return his repaired tunic as he sets off to wash up now that the hunt has ended. Shortly before the festivities begin, Eivor appears at your door —wearing the scarlet tunic beneath a dark leather jerkin— with Sýnin on his shoulder.

For much of the feast, you cannot shake the number of eyes lingering on you and Eivor, as though they are aware of something you are not. Eivor does not leave your side, not even when talk of battle and raids arise among the warriors gathered at one table —their stories drowning out most of the other conversations. He draws you into his side on the bench when barrels of mead and ale are rolled to the center of the hall, his arm tightening around your waist. “I have something to show you,” Eivor breathes, pressing his lips against your temple. You raise your brow in question, and he nods toward the doors, pulling you up to your feet and guiding you by the hand. You hardly notice the mead hall has grown silent with everyone watching as the two of you leave.

He leads you toward the tree line and past a winding trail into the dark depths that you know well from foraging herbs and berries. Sýnin darts through the canopy —you can just make out his dark shadow in the moonlight. Eivor’s foot catches on an upturned root and he stumbles, nearly dragging you to the ground before steadying himself against a tree trunk. He laughs at the folly continues on another path, one that is less traveled. “Where are we going?” You ask, fighting back a laugh. It’s been quite some time since you’ve seen Eivor so giddy about something.

“You’ll see,” he remarks, looking to his side with a bright smile. A little way up on the trail, the forest gives away to a hill overlooking the harbor and village. All the stars in the heavens above are looking down at the two of you standing atop the small bald. The faint beginnings of the autumn and winter lights are visible against the dark backdrop of the sky —dancing ribbons of blue and green.

Between the night sky and the glittering reflection of the moon off the water, you are entranced by the serenity of the night. “Eivor?” You question, softly, noting that he had not taken his gaze off you since coming to a stop. He only smiles in response as Sýnin circles above, letting a two talonfuls of mountain avens rain down.

Eivor stoops down, picking up one of the flowers and tucks it behind your ear —cupping your cheek. His clear blue eyes are sparkling in the moon and starlight. “Ek ann þér,” he breathes, his rough thumb ghosting across your lips. You smile, meaning to return the sentiment, though before you can speak Eivor continues, clearing his throat. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” For as long as Eivor could remember, you were always there —his closest friend and the person he loved most in all nine realms. Your brows furrow, but then your eyes widen in understanding as everyone’s odd behavior for the past comes to make sense. “Marry me?” Eivor asks, smiling with love written in eyes and on his expression.

You break into a wide smile and leap up onto your toes, wrapping your arms around Eivor’s neck and find his lips with yours. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you flush against him, and leans into the kiss —pouring his heart and soul into it. Eivor pulls away, still smiling as you comb your fingers through his golden beard. “I hope that means yes,” he laughs, taking the flower from behind your ear and threading it into a small braid near the crown of your head.

“Of course, it does,” you assure him, lips kinked into a smile, “I love you, Eivor.” He pulls your close again, dipping his head down to seal the space between your lips again as Sýnin flies overhead, happily croaking.

@fjor-ok-skadi @withered-poppies @ananriel @britishhotassassin i feel like i always forget people, so if you want to be tagged in Eivor fics, just send me an ask or drop me a message

#Eivor #Eivor Wolfsmal #Eivor x Reader #m!Eivor #m!Eivor x Reader #male Eivor #male Eivor x Reader #Eivor Imagine #Eivor Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #my writing #requested #Anonymous

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abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years

Text

Linked Universe: Regrets

“Although I accepted life as the hero, I could not convey the lessons of that life to those who came after... At last, I have eased my regrets.”

Twilight had never forgotten those words. He had carried them with pride. Used them when his hands faltered. Remembered the strength that had been taught to him. Swords without courage meant nothing. With the lessons of the Hero's Shade, Twilight struck down Hyrule's greatest enemy for good.

(He thought. But there would be another after him, long after, but one nonetheless, and he would suffer greatly from the shadow of Hyrule's first enemy.)

Nowadays, it's a white lie that haunts his nights.

“Link... I... See you later.”

He's learned when things aren't meant to be. And he loves his fellow heroes. Wouldn't trade them for peaceful days wandering his Hyrule. He loves them. Like brothers. Like another father. But he knows it can't last. Whenever there is a meeting, a parting is sure to follow. And theirs... through time and space... there will be no reunion after they've completed this quest.

He should shield his heart better, but they slip past too easily for that. One day, they'll go their separate way. He can't change that. Still, any time he looks at the old man, his heart squeeze and he just wants to help. To save him. He can't.

Is it like that for anyone else? Does Hyrule hide something like this from Legend behind all his sweet smiles and his eagerness to learn? Does he also think of a nameless grave by a tree? Maybe a grand mausoleum, because it's Legend, and he's earned at least this much, to hear him speak of his many trials?

He smirks to himself at the idea, but it slips soon enough.

Four? No one's quite sure where he fits in the timeline, but the best guess is 'early'. Wind? No, he's said the legends exist, but the hero never showed. Warriors thinks it's the timelines diverging when Time returned to his youth to prevent Ganon's rise. He's another odd one out. Knowing a bit of everything and everyone's legacy. Does Warriors know how it'll end for me?Wild certainly doesn't.

The truth is Twilight knows that Time will never be fully content despite Malon, despite a future as a father, and he hates the fact that he cannot save his mentor. Cannot prevent that regret from taking root in him. He's only ever known that he hated leaving his Hyrule defenseless, with no one to learn from the hardships he was shoved into as a child.

Twilight hates it so much. Sometimes, Zant's pendant pulsed with the dark emotions that want to choke him up. He almost wonders if there isn't something right in the ranting of the old usurpers. The Goddesses were so many things, but kind?

It's hard to remember their blessings when the people you love most see their fate as cursed. When Hyrule is doomed without that pain.

“Green rupee for your thoughts?” Warriors ask, watching the sun set over the horizon.

“I know I'm country folk, but we ain't that cheap, Captain,” Twilight drawls.

Warriors shrugs, then pulls his sword out to run a whetstone over its edge. “Well, I'm broke. My queen and I hadn't thought it'd stretch out over this long.”

The thought sobers Twilight, who is decidedly not looking dusk painting the sky like a bonfire. “Miss her?” he says, quieter than usual.

Warriors' glance is a bit sharper than warranted, but he makes no comment about it. “Certainly,” he replies easily. “She was one of the few... mhmm, wait, did I never tell you about my situation back in my era?”

He sees the non-sequitur and accepts it with a sigh of relief. Sitting down by the same tree, he settles just close enough for them to touch shoulders. “No, but I sense this is a long story.”

“It's the perfect length, thank you,” Warriors haughtily counters. “So, it all begins roughly ten years ago-”

Twilight snorts, and pushes his brother roughly. Warriors is agile enough he slips back into place without dropping the sword or the stone, radiating smug triumph.

In the end, he joins Warriors on first watch just to distract himself from his thoughts.

***

Lon Lon Ranch is one of his favorite place to visit. Stepping inside feels like being served a slice of Ordon on a platter. It's a piece of home, without the awkwardness that comes from the odd looks here and there. Unspoken questions about every little way he's changed.

Twilight shakes his head. What's he doing? Somewhat forcefully, he pulls back the sleeves of his tunic and spits in his hands. He's got some work to do, and it's not Legend (who is egging Warriors more than he's shoveling) or Wind (who is having the time of his life learning how to ride with Time's Epona) that'll finish the chores for him.

“Here, sweetheart.” Malon holds out a waterskin to him and a towel. “Don't forget to rest and drink every once in a while. With this sun, it's not healthy to neglect it.”

He accepts gratefully, swallowing a mouthful of cool water first. “I will, Ma'am.”

“Oh, hush with that. It's Malon for family,” she corrects him easily, and he ducks his head, pleased. “And I'll be watching you, sweetheart. The Goddesses know my Link's not one to recognize his limits.”

Time straightens and leans against the handle of his spade. “Now, now, honey, you know I'm a reasonable man.”

“Did I tell you about the time my clever husband decided to renovate the ba-!”

Malon lets out a fake shriek when Time grabs her with his dirt-covered hands. Pretends to fight back. She's not fooling him or her husband. They've both witnessed her handling the cattle. It's not from Time's side of the family that Twilight inherited the strength.

(They're the type of couple that teases each other constantly. He wonders what it would have been like if Midna...)

There's something a little different about Malon today. Something under her skin. Like she was holding on to a secret with both hands and it's threatening to explode the whole time. He wouldn't call her nervous. Excited, though? Yes.

He finds out at dinner.

They've just finished another two course meal courtesy of Malon and Wild when she pulls her husband aside during dessert. It gets a glance or two, but the conversation keeps going on the topic of stupidest things they've ever done. Since it's Wild's turn though, Twilight can still focus on the married couple by the sink.

(It's a sad day when he can name more for Wild than Wild remembers. They've got diverging definitions of what constitutes a 'stupid' thing. He will forever argue against the monster masks, especially the lynel one.)

“I was waiting for a chance to tell you in person. I saw a wisewoman last week.”

“What for...?” Time asks, and he sounds a little anxious for once, hands hovering closer to his wife.

Coy, Malon bites her lips and glances at Twilight. Time has to turn to see where, exactly, she's looking, and his breath hitches when he realizes. His mouth twitch as he grabs both her hands, focused on her with such intensity she giggles.

“You mean...?”

She breaks into a grin, nods and whispers-yells: “Yes! We're going to be parents, Link.”

The kiss he lands on her lips is indecent enough to attract whistles from some of the others, who seem to be clueing in to the excitement in the room. When those two come apart, a pleasant blush colors their cheeks, and he tells her, over and over that he loves her. When he's had his fill, he whirls around to face them and their cheering.

“Boys!” Time calls out, exuberant, absolutely unguarded. “Boys! I'm going to be a father!”

The roof, improbably, resists the eruption of screams. Time's pure joy is contagious and it's the best news they've got since starting this quest. Congratulations rain on the happy couple.

“Someone's going to have competition, huh?” Legend nudges Twilight's ribs, wagging eyebrows.

Normally, Twilight would be flattered that his bond with Time is that obvious. Normally, he'd grab Legend and give him a noogie for his insolence. Make him cry 'uncle'. The classic big brother behavior he's used to. But he barely hears the words as it is, his mind bogged down by a sudden realization.

He stalls.

He's a second delayed in joining in the congratulations, behind Sky and Hyrule who are a little less physical in their affections. They've formed a circle around their leader and his wife, offering their best wishes, joking, patting Time on the back, kissing Malon's cheeks.

And then it's his turn.

Twilight remembers to breath. Offers his hand first.

“Oh, come here, you!” she swats away his hand and forces him into a hug that's warm, soft.

“You'll make a wonderful mother, Malon.”

Her expression shifts slightly, more of a knowing smirk, and he can see her laughter in her eyes. 'Oh, now you tell me.'

It's impossible for him not to smile back.

And below that elation, the flare of hope in his guts, is a heart stopping dread.

***

The next few battles are some of the worst Twilight had to struggle through. The enemies' number swell. Their ambushes turn elaborate with unheard of combinations of monsters that never coexisted naturally. The puppeteer behind them has tightened the strings, and Twilight has trouble keeping his head above water when every second he looks away, he fears his mentor (father) will die.

It's sheer experience and a heaping dose of help from his companions that ensure he's not dead. And even then...

“There, good as new,” Hyrule proclaims, slapping Twilight's bicep for good measure. “Now how about you don't pull a Wild and drop your weapon next time? We're counting on you to teach him caution, not the opposite.”

“Heard you, 'Rule!” Wild protests from where he's helping Four hobble back to them.

“Great, because we all saw that thing with the peahat.”

“It was the only way!”

And here goes the bickering, Twilight huffs. Wild and Hyrule get along like a house on fire, which means that it's warm and toasty for a while until everything collapse into ashes for a bit. Then they rebuild it better and stronger than before with perfect coordination. It's impressive, honestly, how they both push in the same direction without a second thought.

At least this doesn't look like he'll need to turn into a wolf to fetch them in a forest on the other side of a mountain like last time (he's still bitter about it, a mountain?).

“Pup,” Time's voice jolts him back into awareness. His mentor's standing right behind him. “Come with me for a minute?”

For a second, he hesitates. He likes to imagine a thousand explanations for it, but he already knows the one. Sky shot him the odd look during the fight. Saw him sloppier than usual. And Time keeps an even closer look on all of them.

The clearing is just far enough to be away from prying eyes, though not far enough they can't hear the others if they pay attention. Both sides could hear and rush at the first sign of trouble. It's a good place for a talk.

“Twilight,” Time begins, voice brimming with concern, “what's wrong?”

“It's...”

Silence lingers between them, with all the things Twilight can't say.

“Does it have anything to do about Malon's pregnancy?” Time asks, and Twilight cringes. “Ah. I figured as much. Are you bothered?”

Twilight fights the flashback to one of those evenings Rusl took him aside for a fatherly talk. He feels about as small as he did back then too. “No, of course not! It's... before, when I met Malon and saw you two didn't have kids, I realized you were safe. Every one of us is risking his life on this quest, but I could hold onto the idea that you'd live through, that it was impossible that you didn't because I'm here.”

“Were you not worried for my safety before this, Pup?” Time teases, a full on smirk on his face.

Twilight's face burns. “I, no, that's not it at all! It's just... Goddesses, I'm being silly.”

The hand that rests on his shoulder feels solid. Grounding. Like Time means to give him back some of that certainty through sheer force of will.

Twilight's relieved that it works on him.

“Pup, I promise I have no intention of dying and leaving Malon to raise our little hellion all on her own. I wouldn't do that to her.”

“Oh, right, the poor gal,” Twilight hears himself reply.

Time blinks. Then hooks his arm around Twilight's neck, an unholy glint in his good eye. “A youngster like you's too ignorant to mock your elders like this. But I suppose I should teach you.”

***

Time's few additions to the prank war ongoing inside their camps gives Twilight chills.

But he joins in the laughs with the rest of them.

And he almost forgets.

***

They have a lead on the object of their quest.

A location they must investigate. No guarantee, but reports seem promising.

It's hard not to get swept right in by his brothers' enthusiasms. He's found more family through this quest than he had ever hoped to get, but it's also been a mess of ambushes, lost directions and insufferable assholes (some of which, he loves because they're his pack, his siblings, his dad).

“I'll cut the fucker's balls right off!” Wind cheers, which gets nods from Legend and Wild, and winces from Sky and Warriors.

Twilight is more in the 'rip their throat out' camp, but he's also got a unique perspective on how to get personal with killing off your enemies.

(If their quest is to end, he will stand between any number of enemies so that his family returns home safe.)

***

The Temple of Souls.

A place of power, of memories. Deeds commemorated here. Statues of the various chosen heroes during their adventures. Honored and immortalized in stone.

Twilight hesitates before the one statue of a beast, and the imp riding its back. It's a testament to how much the other heroes helped him heal that he mostly feels nostalgia looking at his past. The pain, muted by Wild's enthusiasm or Four's more solemn amusement.

They search through the history of the Hero's Spirit together, with Warriors leading them. Their captain's light-hearted jester attitude's been replaced by his battlefield look. A strategist and a soldier, at the head of a battalion of legends. And yet, there's a tightness to his expression. Twilight gets why and he makes sure to stay close. The sorceress had been reformed, so this world's Zelda said. But the fear's longer lasting.

Time lingers near the statue of the Hero of Time. So do the others, with Warriors deciding to keep watch, since they clearly couldn't deal with the idea of Time having once been a child.

A little kid. Probably not even as tall as Colin or Talo. Twilight tries to imagine letting these two go on a quest to save Hyrule and his mind buckles in protest at the knowledge of what kind of monstrosities can crawl up from the darkest corners of Hyrule. Imagines them in the Arbiter's Ground, and he feels acute pain in his left hand, where he is gripping his sword's hilt so hard his knuckles turn white.

Hylia stole Time's childhood, but Twilight won't let her take his future.

***

They found the enemy.

It found them in return. Hyrule is the first to realize, and it's their wanderer's words that ring in their heads during the worst battle of their lives.

'Impaled by a shadow in my likeness. Everything I gave, he returned right back.'

Dark Link. The other side of the coin. The shadow of the Hero's Spirit, grown with each incarnation.

It is not an opponent for any one hero to take on anymore. Dark Link is the sum of every dark turns their minds have ever taken, every moment of fear, despair, anger. Every dirty trick. Every method of handling a sword. It reflects all nine of them, in turn and at once.

And it means that each one of them know a piece of Dark Link as intimately as the back of their hands.

The battle does not end quickly.

While most encounters with monsters last minutes at most and encounters with bosses sometimes stretch twice or thrice that, this battle goes on for what feels like lifetimes. There's not a thing Twilight knows that he doesn't see at some point in Dark Link's arsenal. He's forced to see his journey thrown back at him, and he only went on a single one.

(He loses both his shield and his sword midway through. Has to join in the sniping until that's destroyed. Breaks two more of Wild's weapons. Fought with fangs and claws till he desperately needed healing.)

They came prepared. Armed with every weapon they have. Overstocked with potions and blessings and fairies.

They're still all exhausted, wounded and little more than dead on their feet when Wild lands the apparent fatal blow with a shock arrow. Electricity dances on the shade, its face a mask of silent agony, and it stumbles, shape unsteady, and sinks back into nothing.

“Is it... is it over?” Wind asks, his shirt shredded and an ugly burn on his collarbone.

“Steady!” Warriors calls out. “It might be trying to trick us.”

They watch every corner of the room with the hard earned hatred of a difficult opponent. They're all on their last leg and they can't keep going much longer. The air's so thick with tension Twilight tastes it. His instinct's screaming at him. He knows, in his heart, that this is it.

(It might be why he looked.)

(None of the others have spent as much time as him watching shadows, longing for the way they might waver and twist and become a beloved companion.)

Time's shadow shouldn't be this inky black.

Time's grip on his sword is also looser than his shadow's.

Twilight breaks into a sprint.

For a long time, Twilight had no choice. No matter what, his old mentor couldn't die before he had children.

Somehow, he'd been naïve enough to find comfort in that. Since then, he's dreamed of Time holding his baby, happier than he had ever dared express before. The memories of years that aged his heart faster than his body no longer a burden in his quiet little corner of the world.

There still isn't a choice. Time must go back to his wife and child. Twilight won't accept any other outcome. He'll turn silly images conjured from his resting mind into rock solid visions of the future.

Time's shadow stands up.

Hyrule shouts a warning.

And the blade swings.

“TWILIGHT!”

The taste of copper washes over his tongue. Drips from the corner of his mouth.

He looks down. A blade's shadow is impaling him straight through the chest. And Dark Link's face splits into a savage grin. Triumphant.

Heat bleeds out of his wound too fast. Somehow, he's certain this isn't poison, or at least, the traditional kind. It's climbing up his limbs, through his torso, and squeezes as if it were the coils of a snake. There's something wild, uncontrolled to it. Malicious. Its embrace tightens. Tries to leave him helpless, paralyzed.

It's fine. More so than any other hero, he's used to darkness. Made it a tool for himself in the ways the others haven't dared. And he's suddenly so thankful for it. That it's him. His country doesn't need him anymore, not like Sky who needs to build it from the ground, not like Legend who can never step outside his doors without getting roped into saving another country, not like Hyrule who guards the secret of his royal family, not like Warriors who is working so damn hard to earn back trust and honor amongst his own, not like Wild who wants to serve his Zelda and pay back his past mistake.

He doesn't even have grand projects for the future, like discovering a new land with pirates, find a lost brother, or simply build a home with his wife.

He's just... a farmer who picked up a sword and had help at the right time. Even if he dies, he knows his friends in the resistance could still protect Hyrule in his stead. The kids can look after themselves and each other now. Queen Zelda has always been stronger than him. And Illia... he'll finally let Epona go back to her. He can only hope that will be enough.

Because here and now, he is needed one last time.

Dark Link snarls and grins and begins to pull back his sword.

Twilight's hand catches his wrist. Grips.

Dark Link flinches. Red eyes flickers between his wrist and Twilight's serene smile. The other hand lashes like a whip, dagger's shade aimed right at his face, but that one instead pierces through Twilight's palm. Closing fingers lock Dark Link's arm into place. Neither can escape the other now. For the first time, hesitation flashes on the doppelganger's face. Tilts into fear as it starts to struggle. Each movement is rough, violent and murder on Twilight's battered body. The thing's strength should scare him.

Except Twilight learned to wrestle gorons for fun. He wins every time.

The others rally. He catches them rushing forward in the corner of his eyes.

It tries to slip inside his shadows, but Twilight remembers that trick too. He pulls back, welcomes the darkness and Dark Link's feet blur, fuse to the ground, to Twilight's own shadow. It's oddly fitting.

With a deadly chime, the biggoron sword sails over his shoulder and catches Dark Link's arm. It rams itself against Twilight, tries to stagger him, but his mentor's at his back now, and the battleworn heroes, his wronged family, repay their suffering with interest.

One skewering echoed eight times over. Every aspect of the Hero's Spirit stabbing at their inner darkness, fighting the demon that claimed their faults. It cannot escape this time. Its face shifts with every blow. From young to old to young again, a twin lost at birth. Bitter. Resentful. It's weak and faltering when at last, it becomes Twilight's.

With one last battle cry, Sky executes a point perfect great spin that slices straight through Dark Link's neck. Its head goes flying and dissolves before it hits the ground. The body remains longer. Some of it clings to Twilight, sinks into him. He might have worried about this eventually, but the black sword fades and his tunic become slick with blood.

Yeah... there's no coming back from that one.

Dark Mirrors had always been his greatest weakness. What set him on his journey, what broke him in the end, twice. He thinks... he thinks he managed to pick up the pieces well enough.

“Sorry, guys...” His attempt at a smile turn into a grimace of pain. “I don't think I can walk this off...”

“Hyrule! Heal him!”

Hyrule's corpse-like pallor is all the answer they need. The fight exhausted the last of his magic. He's still stumbling forward like he will put his own life into the spell if he needs it. Sky's the one to pull him back, looking sick.

Legend's bag is upturned over the floor, and three of them kneel amongst the items. Twilight notes with faint amusement that this time, their prickly veteran does not yell at them to be careful with his stuff. Rare items gathered through harrowing adventures just go flying on the sides, discarded as useless. He hopes none of them break. He'd hate that to be one of the last things Legend remember about him.

“Don't,” Twilight says, but it's too weak to get through his family's panic. “It's okay...”

Four, the one trying to help him stand, snaps at him. “Don't say that!”

“I-” His knees give out from under him. Four goes down with him.

“Twilight!”

The others snap their heads in their direction.

It takes one look at Time's face to realize what a fool he'd been. It's almost enough to make him regret it. But no, given another chance, he'd make the same decision over and over again.

“Please...” he tries to say, but it's lost in a gargle of copper and red.

The screaming worsens.

Will Time go to his grave with this on his mind? He can't. Twilight wants to beg him not to. Wants to explain. Free himself of the fear he's clung to for the months they traveled together. But his lungs refuse to cooperate, filling with blood. Every attempt to speak just pains him more and produces mere wheezes.

Not on my behalf, he thinks, a last jolt of strength going through him from frustration and fear and sorrow. He hates the knowledge he'll put his mentor to rest with false hope. That he'll move on, thinking that his training might save him from this fate.

(From Ganondorf, yes, always. Hyrule saved because of the old man. Always cursed not to be known for his heroism, wasn't he?)

High whistling notes edge the confines of his consciousness. Fast notes, frantic, played with the fervor of a dying man, and he almost chuckles thinking he has a much better understanding of this as darkness creeps on the corner of his eyes and heat leeches out of his wound.

He can't see Time anymore. Just vague outlines of all his brothers, the color of their cloaks and hair the best way he can distinguish them by now. Hands push down on his shoulders, lift him gently. Scarred hands. Strands of blonde hair tickle his face.

Wild.

“'M sorry...” he breathes out. Tears prick at his eyes, knowing how much this'll hurt his cub. His little brother who already bears the weight of so many deaths. “Not... f-f-au-lt. Swear,” he tries to sound stern, he really does.

He can't go to his grave otherwise. He'll stay alive just so Wild and Time and the others don't pick up the guilt.

Eh...

She did always call him an optimist.

He's probably in some dying dream, he sees hands the shades of her skin join Wild's, brush his hair away from his eyes. Liquid flames frame a face like hers. The mocking lilt of her voice is broken by a sob though. He's never heard that before.

He wishes he could stop the pain for all of them, but he's tired.

Maybe... maybe Hylia granted him that one last favor. Maybe it's just him and his stupid heart that won't heal right, that makes him see what's not there...

He doesn't have the strength to do more than believe anyway.

“Midna...”

Tender warmth brush over his lips, one last little balm before he goes. It's gentle. So unlike her, so like her too. Eh. He always imagined they'd be cold.

***

Wild sees Twilight's eyes close, and his world snaps in half.

His brother slips from his arms, but thankfully, the woman's grip on him is steady. Familiar. It makes Twilight look at peace, as if he was sleeping in his lover's lap. It's something he always wished for his big brother, from the moment he heard that joke about a princess and a mirror. To have someone who loved him worth the pain he'd gone through.

And he only gets it in death.

It can't end this way. It can't! Mipha! he grapples with the thought and it wins. “MIPHA! PLEASE!”

She'd healed him from the brink so many times. Twilight's even more of a hero than him, so it would only be fair, right? Just this once. Just this once. He can't lose someone else because of his incompetence!

But Mipha has long gone to rest, and no one disturbs their group of heroes from their loss.

Wild feels himself scrap at his old hood, pushes it down over his head. As if that would stop reality from sinking in. He can't look at Twilight's body. He can't. He just wants to wake up in the shrine, like nothing ever happened. Like he hasn't watched-

“It was you!” Warriors snarls at the woman, his tone as biting as a sword's kiss. “All this time! It was you that broke his heart! He said he lost you, but you just left, didn't you?! You could have gone back to him!”

The strange woman – Midna – finally turns away from Twil- from... she turns to Warriors. Tears trail down her cheeks despite the faintest hint of a smile. “I always hoped he would forget me, the sweet fool.”

It's spoken with the sort of affection in one of Twilight's hair ruffling, but the insult feels searing. Wind's on her the next second.

“Don't you dare call him that!” he howls in her face, the shout less intimidated by the snot and tears he can't hold in. “Don't you- Twilight's not- not...”

Somehow, Sky can move. He lifts Wind away from Midna. It breaks the teen's rage, and he curls into Sky's shoulders as if their chosen isn't crying himself.

“He was,” she says, and it strikes Wild that she is just like Twilight had said. Fierce. Powerful. And a bit cruel. Like a jewel barbed in thorns – even if she'd laugh at the description. “It could have been different, if he hadn't been who he was. But he would always make this choice. You know this.”

Memories come to Wild, unbidden, of days in his Hyrule, where the only one he could count on was himself and a wolf. Hordes chasing a beast whilst he picked them off one by one. Enormous monsters fell side by side with his friend. Cold nights buried in fur. Panicked barks getting closer to him as he struggled to stand in the middle of a battlefield.

Goddesses...

The music – when, who, had started, – breaks into a horrible screech that should never come out of an instrument. It's half scream. Half something shattering.

“Why isn't it working?!” Time croaks, hands trembling around his broken ocarina.

“That power was only ever borrowed,” Midna says as if every syllable costs her. “The price would be too high.”

Legend is the next one to move from sorrow to rage. “No! We'll do it again!” He kneels by his bags and he's tossing aside items by the dozens. “We didn't come all this way for this!”

“You did,” Midna's voice falters. “And so did I. It was always meant to end like this.”

An horrible sinking feeling seizes Wild's heart. “You... knew?”

They freeze.

Midna looks down at Twilight's face and brushes a strand of hair away from his markings. “At the very end of our adventures, I was spared by the Goddess. Salvaged, maybe, from the ruins of forbidden power and the home of my dearest friend. Hylia spoke to me then. Told me.”

Wild sees her chest shudder before her voice breaks.

“Told me that Link and I would only be reunited on the day of his death. That I'd be the one to take his last breath. It was the only way Hyrule could be safe.”

“Fuck Hyrule!” Legend shouts, hoarse. “What is the point-? Every time! F-fuck this kingdom and fuck Hylia! What about us?! Why does she hate us so much?!”

Legend's arms fall to the sides, his grief spent. He stares at his feet and doesn't react when his successor hugs him tight. Warriors gets his other side.

Wild feels numb. He had done his best the first time around, to believe that Hylia wanted the best even when she let his Zelda suffer through her silence. He thought, maybe, her late answer had a purpose. But he can't figure it out. A kingdom she claimed to protect, destroyed before she helped.

His chest hurts. He can't breath right.

Ahead, the air tears with a jarring noise and a burst of black particles. He can't help the flare of hope they bring, the very same magic that Twilight used to become a wolf. But his brother's not moving. Midna's arm is raised toward the black portal.

“No, no!” Time finally breaks out of his paralysis, reaching out for Twilight's body. “You can't take him!”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I don't have much time left. I must bring him back to his village. I owe him that much.”

None of them stop her from walking back into the shadows, their lost brother in her arms.

***

The greatest threat to their world has finally been defeated. Months of hardship, over. The purpose for which Hylia assembled them, fulfilled. It should have been heralded by a feast, a last evening together before the final goodbyes. The weight of their mission should have been lifted, but now it won't leave them.

They try.

They find the seediest tavern, in the darkest corner of town. They are not looking for a celebration. They want to drown the sorrow in something less painful than grief, be it a bar fight, a hangover or a round of the bard's singing.

All eight of them around a table, nine drinks before them. A toast.

Unshed tears.

Stories. All those times Twilight played big brother to them. Tried to be the reasonable one even when he was smirking under his wolf pelt. Those games of cards he won the pants off Warriors, literally. Those times he teased Legend with his incomprehensible slangs (they'd never know what that one about goat horns mean, would they?). Those nights they woke bundled up under a wolf. Those days he would spend at their bedside, caring for injuries he sniffed out better than most.

They call up more drinks, left the ninth alone, and pour their soul into making themselves almost believe he was still alive. That Midna had taken his sleeping body back where he'd finally get to be in love with her.

For the time of a few laughs, it works. Then they look at the empty seat.

“He died.” Time drops his head into his hands, smaller than they'd ever seen him before. “Twilight died, and I wasn't even holding him! I was playing that goddess-curse ocarina! He told me! He told me he would die for me and I didn't listen!”

“He would have died for any of us,” Warriors says, weakly. “Just like we would have died for him.”

At the end of the night, when they stumble out, unsteady, Wild picks up the ninth drink and empties it outside.

***

The arrow's tip strikes one eye and detonates.

Cracks in the stone spread a little further. But the statue is still standing. It waited for him when he came back. Here. The only thing still standing in the ruins of the temple. Where his first journey began.

He can't hear her voice as he did before. He has no crest to offer, no proof of his valor to receive a blessing. Even now, the thought makes him want to hurl. To carve out the gifts he'd received from the monster that parades as a goddess right out of his chest.

“Why?!” Wild screams at the unfeeling block of stone.

The damage reaches the statue's middle, and a chunk tears off. A piece of her cloak. Dust follows. He shoots another bomb arrow. Almost grins to see a piece of her hair fly off.

“Why? Why WHYWHYWHY?!”

Fingers close on air. He's emptied his quiver.

Glowing bomb runes materialize in his hands, and he can barely wait out the cooldown time between each new explosion.

He switches to a club.

“Why him?!” He wails at the stone. “Why was it him?! Why not me?!”

The shout drains the last of his strength. With a sob, he falls to his knees.

“You did this to him! You killed my brother!” he spits every inch of venom that's making his chest heave, that burns his eyes and that opened this gaping hole inside him. “Why did you do that?! You're supposed to be good! Everyone told me you protect Hyrule! But you don't! You just send the same mortal do your job over and over again! And now he's... he's DEAD! What's the point of you?!”

“Link!”

Zelda's voice.

It rubs his skin raw that she sounds so happy. She should be disgusted to see such a worthless hero! She should have left him to die in that field!

She stops by the broken entrance to the Temple of Time, her gaze flickering to the statue, to his sorry state. The ecstatic looks vanishes and a far more fitting sadness replaces it.

“Link...?”

For a frightening moment, he thinks he's going to hate her. Hate Zelda for what she represents. He thinks he won't be able to look at her without knowing what she is. That there'll always be a voice in the back of his mind telling him she shares her soul with the unfeeling thing that lead his brother to his death.

“What happened?” she asks, gentle.

“T-Twilight... he's... ”

The club hits the ground.

Zelda closes her arms around him, and he clings to her like she's going to disappear.

***

“It's a boy!”

The wisewoman presents the small squirming body to Time.

Wisps of strawberry blonde hair crown his son's mostly naked head. Not dark enough to be...

He banishes the thought from his head. It's unfair. It's cruel. He can't compare them. His son. His son, he repeats to himself when the little bundle shifts against the inside of his elbow. Malon was right. That button nose is far cuter than his.

He's perfect.

His heart is threatening to jump right out of his chest. He doesn't think he can express all the love he has for this little hylian boy properly. He doesn't think it's possible to love anyone that much. For years, he'd feared a pauper's grave, a hole on the side of the road. A monster getting lucky at last and no one to mourn him. And now he was holding his firstborn child.

Malon had pushed past that fear and the walls he'd built around his heart. Twilight had shown him without a doubt he could have a family.

Twilight had...

It could have been different. But he would always make this choice.

Always choose to save Time at the last possible moment. For Malon. For their son.

Time dabs the corner of his eyes, and loses himself in the feeling of his son's skin against his own. He's so lucky to be able to hold him. To kiss the top of his head. To look at the beauty of his wife and child together. He doesn't know if he deserves it. Doesn't feel like he does anymore. But he can't throw it away. The price was so high. He wants every moment spent well. A full life to shower his child with love, for all the children he might have on the ranch.

I promised you.

Twilight is his successor, his son. A strong, kind young man that died too soon for Time's mistake. If he'd been stronger, if any of them had been a little stronger, perhaps...

He's never resented the lack of recognition over his deeds so ardently before. Never felt the bitterness take root this deep. Everything he was, everything he did, forgotten, lost. Accounts of his deeds, his prowesses, gone. Sword techniques. Tricks. Items. Twilight had been a farmer before Hylia had pushed his fate onto him. How could his own descendant have nothing of Time's knowledge and treasures passed down to him? If he had...

On the Triforce, he swears. He will pass on everything he knows to his children and his grandchildren after them, make them promise to perpetuate that tradition, so that Twilight might live longer. He couldn't fail him again.

He swears.

He will do anything to help Twilight survive their last quest.

In this world or the next.

#Linked Universe #Linkeduniverse #LU Twilight #LU Time

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korkisobsessions · 3 years

Text

The Oath

XXI. Pagan

Thunderstorm was coming.

Air was warm and heavy, buzzing with something wild. She can feel her hair stood up with tension.

She was sitting on the porch, everything was dark, only light came from horizon. More and more often, lightning illuminated her surroundings with white light.

He wants sacrifice she promised to him. It was two weeks, since she prayed to father of gods, pleading for Yeong shin’s life. When he was laying in front of her, wounded, weak and blind, she prayed and begged father of gods not to take him away from her.

He survived and now was her time to pay her price.

Hard lump was forming in her throat when she realised what she must do.

Nilah saw a lot of rituals, but never made one. But she was sure that He will hear her and accept her sacrifice no matter how she does it. He will hear her heart.

Loud thunder vibrates through the air when she made a fire. She mixed ash and white clay with water and paint her face and hands with runes of her ancient language.

Yeong shin was calmly sleeping inside the house and didn’t knew about it. Maybe he will be scared if he saw her...

... But he cannot.

All he could see was darkness.

“Hail all-father, wise warrior, one eyed wanderer. Come, sit at my fire.” She whispered to blinding lightings.

“Tell me your wisdom stories...the scenes your missing eye sees.” Her blood was loud in her ears, beating of her heart screaming into the night.

“You, who choses the slain, look on my deeds. And when my times comes, to run the sky with you, let my end be worthy of songs.”

She was nervous when she takes out sharp dagger that sparks in the light of flames and lightning. Her prayer was so strong she can feel presence of all-Father. For a second she thought she saw his broad silhouette between the trees. But it was just a shadow.

“in the meantime, let me understand sacrifice, think long, remember well...”

She laid her palm on the ground and her stomach cramps. Cold sweat run down her back.

“Odin witness this...” strong wind took words from her lips. She grips the dagger firmly and with one quick stab she cut of her little finger.

She wanted to be brave and not to cry, but the pain was overwhelming.

Blood spill the ground and sputter when she tosses her flesh to the flames. She watched it burn and felt painful pulsing in her new wound.

“Please, accept this humble sacrifice as a sign of my gratitude.”

With last touch she paints a symbol over her lips with her own blood and finished her prayer.

When she raised sight from the flames, she saw him when the lightning strikes.

Sang-Ho’s face between the trees illuminated by cold light was white as a moon. His eyes watching her like two hungry pits that wants to swallow her soul. His lips pale and bloodless.

It was just a blink of an eye and he was gone.

Nilah screamed and fall backwards on the ground, trying to stood up and run away, but her legs were suddenly like from mud. She held her knife in trembling hand but it was slipping from her fingers because of blood and sweat.

Her heart was beating so fast that her head was spinning and she felt sick.

And she run.

But she wasn’t running for her life. It was vulnerable Yeong shin, alone what scared her more.

First cold raindrops hit her back and run down her exposed arms. She was wet to the bone when she got inside the house breathless. Her lips were cold and hands shaking in fear. All the ritual colours washed from her face by rain.

Yeong shin was probably woken up by loud thunders and was clumsily looking for her. She bites her hand not to whimper loudly. Hot tears run down her cheeks. She was so scared that all she wants to do was laid down to Yeong shins arms and calm down.

But she can’t.

He was blind and it was her time to protect him, no matter how scared she was.

And she didn’t want to upset him.

“Nilah?” he called her name, his arms searching for her.

“I’m here.” She choked. “I was...just...if donkey is all right...in this storm.” she made quick look from the window, but all she saw was silhouettes of trees. And when the lighting hits, there was no Sang-Ho.

“Nilah? What happened?” Yeong shins face was serious and his voice worried. He made few brave steps without support of the wall. It was few steps into nothingness with hope to find something to lean on.

“Nothing. It’s all good.”

He was searching his surroundings when he finally found her hand.

“I’m maybe blind, but I’m not dumb.” Yeong shin laid his palm on her chest, his eyes still covered by silk scarf. “Your voice is trembling and I can feel your heart beat too fast. You are scared Nilah.

Nilah closed her eyes and another tears run down her face. She bites her lips with desperation and whine.

“I saw him again. He was watching me from the forest.”

She felt his hands held her tighter. Even though he was blind, he was ready to protect her.

He was calm and ready. His hand found her trembling palm holding knife. “Good. Keep it.”

“Yeong shin...” she sobbed weakly. Her head was spinning and legs became weaker. She didn’t realise that it was her blood dripping from her fingertips. That she cut of her own finger and is losing blood.

“Give me my shotgun.” He lifted his hand in expectation. “and make a mess here. Put everything you can find in the way. It’s dark?” he raised his face to her like he could saw her again. And she really wished he could. She wanted to see his calm eyes.

“y-yes it is dark.” She stuttered.

“Good. If he come inside, he will make a noise and I will shoot him.”

Few minutes later she finished her work. Everything she could find she put in the way. Every bowl, basket or vase. Everything occupied the space of their main room.

Yeong shin was sitting in the bedroom on the ground with his gun in his lap; coldly calm like a statue.

Nilah joined him and collapsed on the ground next to him. She was almost unconscious trying so hard to stay awake. Scared what could happened if she loses her fight.

“Nilah?” he held her hand and felt warm sticky liquid on his fingers. “This is not rain water. You are bleeding...” and than he felt it. She whines when he touches the wound where her finger used to be. “Nilah!” he quickly ripped off the scarf from his eyes and carefully bandage her palm.

“I’m sorry! I was foolish.” She weakly leans her head on his shoulder. Suddenly she almost forgets that Sang-Ho was probably somewhere out there. She was just tired and weak.

“Don’t sleep. Tell me what happened!” he was holding her close to keep her shaking body warm and still listening to every noise. It was hard because of raging thunderstorm.

“I made sacrifice. Because Gods spare your life. I sacrifice my flesh and blood.”

“Nilah! What have you done!” He was mad. Rage filling his insides with bitter taste.

“It should be good. I was ready to take care of the wound. But then I saw him and panicked. I run and forgot that I��m bleeding.”

“You shouldn’t make that sacrifice at first!” he spoke quietly through clenched teeth. “I don’t want you to spill single drop of your blood because of me!”

“It’s my religion Yeong shin. I prayed for your life and they heard me out. I must pay for it.”

“I didn’t survive because of your gods. I survived because you took care of me and because I love you.”

He was angry at her for such foolishness. Just idea of her precious blood, wasted, was making his blood boil. And that she shed it because of him made him furious.

She just smiled. He heard that in her voice.

“Just because you don’t have fait, it doesn’t mean there is nothing above us.”

“I do have fait. I believe in you and me. In the fact that sun will rise in the morning and fall in the evening. This is my fate that doesn’t need sacrifices.”

She didn’t answer. Her head slowly fall to his lap. He held her closer, feeling her heart beating steadily. He found blanket and cover her and prepared himself for a long night.

~°~

“Nilah...” his voice came to her like from distance. She opened her eyes to beautiful morning. Sun was already high in the sky and air was fresh after storm.

She raised her head from Yeong shin’s lap and look around with confusion. Events of night were cloudy. First thing that woke her properly was pulsing pain in her hand. Her palm bond with silk scarf was dark from dried blood, her shirt was dirty from blood and mud and damp from the rain.

And mess were all around. All their belongings were everywhere around.

And Yeong shin was worst. He was tired with dark circles under his painfully shut eyes. Bright light always hurts his eyes. His hands and back stiff from siting on the floor with his shotgun ready.

“I think someone is coming. I hear footsteps, but...its weird.”

“I will take a look” She took knife to her healthy hand and carefully made her way to front door. When she opened them, she let out breath she didn’t know was holding.

Jae-Bong, Bon Hwa and Miho were coming. Jae Bong had crutches and was slowly limping. That was that weird footsteps Yeong shin heard.

“Is it blood?” Bon Hwa saw her first and her face paled.

“Nilah? Where is Yeong shin?”

Nilah just smiled and wave on them. “It’s nothing, just...accident”

Before they came closer, she made path between cups and bowls on the floor, cover Yeong shin’s eyes with clean scarf and helped him outside.

It was the first time after the fire when Jae-Bong and Yeong shin met. Nilah helped him sit down on bench and brought chair for Jae Bong.

Their neighbour was silent, watching Yeong shins face with glossy eyes. Nilah noticed how hardly he was swallowing and how his hands were trembling.

Miho was siting in the grass away from them, with his head down and playing with stick and knife. He looked like different kid. Sad and lifeless. Angry red burns on his neck and chin shine on his light skin.

“He needs time. He still cannot accept his scars.” Bon Hwa spoke when she noticed Nilah’s look on boy.

“I can talk to him later.”

“That is why we are here, to be honest.” Older woman looked at Jae Bong and then back at Nilah. “What if I take care of your hand? We should let men talk.”

Both women disappear in the house. Nilah remove her makeshift bonding and hissed when her wound starts to bleeding again.

“Oh! That is...What happened? And what happened here?” Bon Hwa looked around their living room.

“it was...just accident.”

“I see...I’m old enough to know when to burry my curiosity.” Her face was suddenly older and eyes wiser.

“What is with Jae Bong?” Nilah asked, when older women start to examine her wound.

She took bottle of soju from the shelf and pour her a cup. Nilah wanted to drink it, but Bon Hwa instead soaked piece of cloth in it and then press it to her wound to clean it.

And Nilah cry loudly. She wasn’t expecting it and burning pain surprised her.

Bon hwa looked calm and starts to wrap Nilah’s palm with clean bandage.

“Jae Bong is mess since the fire. He blames himself that he could not save Miho and Yeong shin must run to the fire and end up blind. He sees it as his fault. He was avoiding Yeong shin because he was ashamed.”

“That is silly. It was all just accident. He can’t blame himself for thinks he cannot change.”

“It’s just wound that needs time to heal.”

Yeong shin and Jae Bong were siting next to each other in silence. Yeong shin wanted to talk, but he doesn’t know how to start. There was just too much between them. And Jae Bong was suddenly nervous when he saw Yeong shin so helpless. He didn’t know him long, but he knew how tough and lethal he could be.

Since he and Miho live under Bon Hwa’s roof and since he could not walk, they spent a lot of time talking with his cousin. And one night she spoke about things she didn’t usually talk. Jae Bong listened about Yeong shin, how he saves Bon Hwa’s son and how he run back to help crown Prince. How he shoots monsters right into forehead. His ability to act and fight.

And now he saw man who couldn’t walk down the stairs without help. And it was breaking his heart.

It was Jae Bong who broke the silence.

“You know...I loved my wife deeply.” He coughs when his voice broke. “She was my everything. After she died, Miho and this village became centre of my life.

I was always leader of little calm village. Someone could say it’s boring here. But I love this place.

Since you two came, we have murder, and fire...”

“You want us to leave.” Yeong shin’s voice was quiet and serious. It wasn’t question.

“I need you to take all of your strength. We must protect our village. You are part of it...” Jae Bong’s voice broke “You saved my Miho. I will never be able to make it up to you.” Tears were running down his face. Yeong shin raised his hand and found Jae Bong’s shoulder.

“You can” Yeong shin smiled “Just be my friend.”

“Deal.” Jae Bong laughed heartily.

Since then, conversation flow like water in the river. Nilah and Bon Hwa joined them after they cleaned up the house. They talk about silly simple things, about gardening, and how Nilah should sing more often.

They leave after lunch and Nilah helped Yeong shin inside. She saw, how tired he was.

She prepared him warm bath. His fingers entwined with hers when she led him towards bathing tun.

“I can undress on my own.” He raised eyebrows when he felt her palms opening his shirt.

“I know, but I like it.” She smiled playfully. He raised his hands and held her face in his palms. His fingertips gently touching curve of her lips.

“I still see you, even though I can’t.” He pulled her closer and kissed her, his lips warm and hungry.

They share bath together, helping each other to wash backs. He loved when she massages his shoulders and muscles on his back. Her fingers tracing patterns of his scars. This was his home. Their shared intimacy in bath. Their tangled legs under water, and comforting touching. It was something he could share only with Nilah. She was his love, he wanted to touch her naked body, and she was his fellow soldier, she knows how comforting could warm water be to sore muscles and heavy mind.

She was only one in whole world.

It wasn’t even dark jet, but they lay down in their bed still naked and hungry for touch. She guid his arms to her waist and her palms cares his face to envelope his lips in hungry kiss.

After endless dark day he was closer to his old self. After long time, she treated him like a man, not like fragile disabled weakling. She bites his lower lip with passion and scratches his back when he maps her body with his fingers and later with lips.

When he couldn’t see her, he must feel her with all his remaining senses.

He was going crazy from her scent that was filling his nose, it was something that makes him wild. Scent of her arousal could made him kill tiger with bare hands.

He was on top of her, kissing, licking and biting his way down to her navel enjoying sounds she made. Her heavy breathing and moaning, and when his teeth bite her skin on her hip, she cries out, but it was not painful. It was pleasurable sound.

His rough hands holding her on her place. And he was glad he could have advantage. Once again, he could be the stronger one. Leader of situation. And her skin was so soft and warm from bath. Even though she had her scars, he loved them. He kissed rough scar close to her hip bone where wooden splinter pierced her side in Hanyang. He remembered how he held her when Seo-Bi was pulling it out of her body. How she locked her eyes with his with innocence and endless trust. She knew him just a few days and still she had a faith in him. If he could travel back in time, he would held that scared but brave little bird in his arms and protect her from everything. Sang-Ho would never lay a finger on her.

He still can’t forget how scared she always was when she thought she saw him. He was probably still in Sangju and maybe he even forgot them. And all that imagines were only in Nilah’s head.

But he didn’t want to risk it. If he must be awake all night then be it. He swore he will protect her no matter what. No matter he is blind now.

“I love you more than anything.” He whispered and burry his face between her tights.

It was her taste, that woke up animal.

#kingdom #kingdom fanfiction #kingdom netflix #kingdom 2019 #kdrama #yeongshin #yeong shin #fanfiction #chakho

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teddy06writes · 3 years

Text

Out of Their Grasp

and also this one: “will there be a part 2 of For His Hand? It’s so good, i loved it!”

{Technically you don’t have to read part one but I would recommend it because this one takes place in the same universe}

Dream x George x reader

trigger warnings: swearing, yelling, major character death, aGnSt

{dude I’m like manically laughing right now}

(y/n/n)- your nickname

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You glanced around the room, from person to person, gauging there reactions.

George had visibly stiffened in his seat, and behind him Dream seemed equal tense.

“Have we taken any measures to fight back?” Sapnap asked impatiently.

“How bad are the damages?” George asked, ignoring him.

George frowned, as Niki spoke up, “We should pay the people reparation's and help them with any reconstruction that needs to be done.”

Many people nodded, but next to you Sapnap was still unhappy, “Are we doing anything about the invaders? We cannot just sit here and allow them to attack the people!”

“Pushing, pushing.” You muttered.

The king looked at him for a long moment, before turning to Callahan, the scribe, “Attempt to negotiate a peace. I don’t want anymore bloodshed to curse this land.”

-You had taken the new coming warrior on as a sort of apprentice after he’d first arrived at the palace, and it was clear the change of pace wasn’t something he was ready for-

“They can’t just stand by! The King is a fool if he thinks a peace can be reached like this!”

You glared at him. “The King is no fool.”

“You only say that out of obligation.” Sapnap fired back.

He huffed, “If I must stay silent in those meetings than how can I get my point across? Sending a messege to the enemy through force may be the only way!”

“If he agrees with me than perhaps it’s the right move.”

You turned to look at him quizzically, finally saying, “A wise king does not seek out war, no matter what his knights advise.”

Sapnap turned, “Then the lot of them are fools.”

“I have told you once to never disrespect the king, I suggest you don’t do it again. This land has seen it’s share of unjust rulers, be thankful you have not come here under worse authority.”

You sighed as Dream ran a hand through your sleeping partners hair, “He’s anxious.”

“I mean, can you blame him? War may be on the horizon.” Dream murmured.

“I meant even now- in the time of sleep. I think Sapnap is just adding fuel to the fire.”

Dream sighed, “If he has another outburst like that-”

“He’ll be cast out,” You nodded, “I know. He just needs to be willing to learn the way things go around here. In time he will learn.”

Your boyfriend chuckled to himself, “Fucking hotshot.”

“I think you’d like him, if you were able to spend more time with him.” You smiled.

“Well someone had to go snatch him up as an apprentice!”

“Well it was him or Ranboo, and Ranboo is far too- forgetful, for this sort of thing. I’d’ve had Tubbo but he and Tommy are a package set an you took ‘em.”

“What about Purpled?”

You rolled your eyes, “He started an apprenticeship with Punz ages ago.”

“SHHhhhhhhh, ‘m tryin’ to sleep.” George muttered, burying his face in your shoulder.

In the darkness of the chamber you could barley make out Dream’s eyes sparkling as he took your hand, “Course love, course.”

As the weeks continued the damages on the northern boarder only seemed to grow, the new invaders claiming three of the villages there own.

“Your Majesty?” Bad hazarded, “What is our next course of action?”

George frowned, glancing around the room, “Peace is still the priority. Maybe- maybe we call a ceasefire, I could meet with there ruler-”

“No,” Dream interrupted, drawing all eyes to him, “It would be too dangerous. How do we know they can be trusted to lay down there arms?”

“Shall we arrange for a ceasefire?” Eret asked.

The King nodded as Wilbur spoke up, “We could set up a meeting place, on neutral ground, possibly similar to the holy lands, so there would be no worry of a security breech.”

The man in question quietly shot you a pleading look, at which you sighed, “With all do respect I think Sapnap could be better severing to the crown if he joined the running party.”

~~ The next morning found you suiting up and heading out to the stables to tack up your horse. Techno was already down there, idly chatting with Phil as he readied Carl for the journey, and out in the courtyard you could see Sapnap talking to two men.

“Good morning, (y/n)!” Phil chirped, waving your direction.

“Morning Phil.” You moved down the row, reaching out and letting Beckerson nuzzle into your palm.

After getting your horse cared for and saddled, the rest of the party had headed out of the stables as your partners entered.

George took your hand, “Don’t start any more trouble.”

“Sounds like your talking to Dream not me.” You chuckled.

“Hey!” Dream protested.

“I’m not wrong!” You teased.

George rolled his eyes, quickly pulling you in for a kiss, “Make things good for me to be out there.”

“Stay out of trouble.” Dream advised, pulling you away from George to kiss you himself.

“You underestimate me.” You smirked, grabbing Bekerson’s reigns.

Dream rolled his eyes as you started to lead the horse out of the stable, calling, “And stay safe!”

“I’ll see you in five days!” You chuckled, heading out of the stables and quickly mounting your horse, kicking at his sides to catch up with the others.

~~ The last three days had been spent anxiously waiting, and now the journey to the norther board was coming to a close.