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redrobinhoood · 4 years

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The War Is Over | one-shot

A/N: Alternate ending to Age Of Heroes, can stand on its own.

AO3 Link | 2,200 words (approx)

Summary: What if Palpatine wasn’t the Sith Lord? The happy ending where the whole crew goes to 79′s.

Rex laughed at the hologram in his hand. “I’d hate for you to miss out on the celebration. I know you love the dress greys.”

“Mhm. They really bring out the bags under my eyes. Maybe after the formal dinner we could go get absolutely pissed at Seventy-Nine’s. You, me, Wolffe, Echo, Ahsoka, whoever else wants to join us.”

“Commander Tano is seventeen, Cody. That’s underage.” Though she’d soon be eighteen and drinking age in most systems, Rex still thought of her as the same brash fourteen-year-old he had met on Christophsis when it came to anything but combat.

“Four years older than we are. You can’t protect her forever, Rex. If she can fight in a war and die for the Republic, she can have a drink. Though, with the amount you lot drink, she may swear alcohol off entirely.”

“I’ll make sure Jesse is there if that’s our goal.”

Cody grinned and looked around the medical bay before turning back to Rex conspiratorially. “Do you really think we’re going to win?”

“General Skywalker thinks so. Why not?” Rex couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “Count Dooku is dead, General Grievous is dead, you’ve captured Maul. We may have just won the Clone Wars.”

“Isn’t that something.” A new message chirped on Cody’s comm, and he stopped to glance at it. “I’m needed on the bridge, Rex.”

“Well, duty calls.”

“I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”

“See you on the other side of the war. Take care of yourself, Cody.”

---

The war was over.

Ahsoka stood before the mirror in her room, running the strand of beads that had served as her padawan braid between her fingers before setting it off to the side and returning her focus to her reflection. She was a Jedi, vanity had no place in her mind, but she couldn’t help but admire the ornate patterns lining her new white robes. Barriss had chosen the design with her, and Master Ti had helped the young women incorporate it in a traditional togrutan manner. Master Windu had, of all beings, been the one to help them sew the fabric on in straight lines.

The war was over.

Rex tugged on the collar of the new service dress whites. He hated the constrictions the fabric imposed on him.

“You’ll break the clasp if you keep doing that.” Cody, always the older brother figure, leaned over and straightened Rex’s collar before moving to straighten the colored shoulder pads they had been given. Rex let Cody have his moment. He had bounced back from his injuries, cleaned himself up, then spent the past week overseeing Darth Maul’s interrogation. He deserved to do what he wanted for a bit. Or at least, that was how Rex justified it. Cody still did outrank him, as evidenced by the extra ribbons and decor his uniform bore.

“Maybe I wanted to break the clasp.” Rex whispered as Cody straightened back up in his seat. “Get out of this awful dinner.”

“Now, now, Rex. Play along for the senators. This is their moment after all.” Wolffe chided from Cody’s other side.

The war was over.

---

Ahsoka met the group of clones outside of the Senate, bounding over as soon as they were in sight. “Notice anything different?” She asked, twirling around.

“You have a back to your shirt?” Fives offered.

“No, no. She fixed the holes in her leggings.” Tup corrected.

“You changed your hair.” Echo said.

Ahsoka laughed and turned to Rex. “Any other observations?”

“No, I believe they covered it.” Rex smirked and lay an arm around Ahsoka’s shoulders. “Congratulations, Jedi Knight Tano.”

“Will all due respect, Commander Cody, does this mean that she officially outrank you?” Jesse asked.

“No. No I’m still taller.” Cody glanced over at Kix. “That’s how it works right?”

“Absolutely.” Kix confirmed. “Until the tips of her montrals pass your height next week, you’re in charge.”

Rex made a sound of indignation. “You’re saying that like she’s going to grow up.”

“Rex, I went with you to the Citadel, I’ve faced off against Sith lords and you’re worried about me growing up?” Ahsoka hoped that the men wouldn’t notice how her eyes were getting misty.

“Of course I am, kid. You’re only, what, fourteen?” He teased.

“Absolutely, Rex. I’m the youngest Jedi Knight in the history of the Order.” She squinted up her eyes and nose and shook her head at him.

“That’s cause for celebration then!” Cody threw an arm around Wolffe and Echo and leaned slightly forward towards her. “As your commanding officer until this time next week when your montrals surpass me, would you like to join us at Seventy-Nine’s?”

“Cody!” Wolffe protested.

“General Plo doesn’t need to know.” Cody assured him. “Are you in, Ahsoka?”

Ahsoka glanced around at the men surrounding her. Rex and Wolffe were wearing looks of indignation. Jesse looked surprised. The Domino Twins and their adopted triplet were biting back laughter. Kix seemed unphased. Cody looked steady in his proposition.

“I’m in.”

Obi-Wan was going to be so mad when he found out about this.

---

The eight clones and one togruta crammed onto the two benches around the corner table. Ahsoka found herself squished between Wolffe and Echo. The situation would have been uncomfortable in armor, but without it was not unlike crowding into a gunship during an evacuation. Not the most convenient spot to find yourself in, but still very enjoyable at the heart of it.

“Fives and Kix are taking orders, what do you want, General Tano?” Echo asked, tossing his head towards the men, who were sitting at the ends of each bench.

Ahsoka bit her lip. “I don’t know, I don’t know what they have.”

Fives pointed a finger in her direction. “I got you.”

Ahsoka tried to commit everyone’s orders to memory as she looked around at the interior of the club. She wanted to connect the drink’s appearances to their names when Fives returned. She listened to the conversations around her as she continued to sweep the room. Wolffe on her left was talking to Cody, who was sitting directly across from him and was just as squished into the wall as he was. Beside Cody was Rex, who was politely listening to Echo’s recount of the Citadel to Jesse and Tup, who had brought it up in the first place.

“I did not trip when we unfroze, your liar.” Fives insisted as he and Kix returned with two trays of drinks.

“Oh yes, you did.” Ahsoka grinned. “I saw you when Master Kenobi and Master Skywalker were arguing.”

“I should have gotten you a soda.” Fives scoffed, passing her a drink.

She took it and looked suspiciously at the brown liquid. “What is this?”

Fives shrugged and sat back down next to Tup. “A drink.”

Ahsoka took a small sip, then a larger one. “Just whiskey?

Rex nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“What, you think I’ve never had a drink before?”

“Actually, yes. Where have you had whiskey before? Not from General Skywalker.”

“No, not from Anakin.” She agreed and glanced over towards Cody.

“Cody.” Rex turned as much as he could on the crammed bench to berate his brother while Ahsoka turned her gaze over to the men on her right. Echo raised his glass and nodded at her. She caught a glimpse of Tup’s wide eyes behind him, though her attention was quickly drawn back across the table to Kix biting his hand to muffle his laughter from Rex. Ahsoka could feel Wolffe’s arm shaking from similarly repressed laughter as Cody tried to defend himself from Rex’s accusations.

Eventually, Cody was vindicated and Jesse and Tup brought another round. Ahsoka accepted the fruity drink Tup had chosen for her as her last one and stuck with it for subsequent rounds. Kix’s mid-drink lecture on clone and togruta metabolism solidified her stance, along with Wolffe’s attempt to parent her in the generals’ absence.

In the end, she found herself stumbling out of Seventy-Nine’s with Jesse draped half over her shoulders and half over Kix’s. Once they were in a less populated stretch of road Rex came up to her side and wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her up, taking some of Jesse’s weight off her.

“Ahsoka. I don’t know what comes next, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you, kid.” Rex smiled down at her.

She beamed back up at him. “That means a lot to me, Rex. It’s been an honor to serve with you.”

“It’s a pity you only served in the third best legion in the GAR.” Cody shouted from behind them. “Your battalion is the reason General Kenobi is going grey.”

“At least I’ve never threatened to tie General Skywalker’s lightsaber to his wrist.” Rex shot back.

“Only because you have the astromech to retrieve it.”

“Look.” Echo cut in. “You can diss the general all you want, but leave Artoo out of it.”

“Even Wolffe likes Artoo-detoo.” Fives nodded his head in agreement.

“I said I can tolerate it.” Wolffe responded.

“Him, Commander. Artoo has masculine programming.” Tup spoke up.

“Yeah, it’s what really brings us all together.” Kix agreed.

Ahsoka couldn’t help the laughter that spilled from her lips. Maybe being a little tipsy, she wouldn’t dare say she was drunk, had something to do with it. Maybe it was just the stress of the past three years being lifted off her shoulders. They’d all made it. The Separatists had surrendered and with their surrender Chancellor Palpatine had stepped down and opened the floor in search for his successor. Supposedly, he was going to retire by the lakes of Naboo. She wondered if he and Padme were to one day be neighbors.

They managed to get back to the barracks in one piece and Ahsoka soon found herself in Rex’s room along with Cody and Wolffe and a large pitcher of water.

“No hangovers.” Wolffe emphasized as he poured Ahsoka a generous cup of water.

“And that’s the reason why the five-oh-first is only the third best legion.” Cody said as he tapped his glass against Ahsoka’s. “You’d have a shot at perhaps being number two if you weren’t so dehydrated.”

“With you as the number one?” Rex scoffed.

“Oh no, the three hundred twenty-seventh corps.” Cody shook his head at Rex. “Gotta support my batchmates.”

“And who is the second?” Ahsoka asked. She had never seen these men this calm before. Some of it was the alcohol, but most of it was the weight of the war lifting from their shoulders.

“Forty-first corps, of course.” Wolffe answered.

“I’ll make sure to pass that on to Barriss.” She laughed.

“So, where do you two lie on this scale?” Rex asked, sitting down and propping his feet up on his bed.

“We’re too good to be measured by a single-factor scale such as this one.” Wolffe waved his hand dismissively. “It’s like if you were trying to pick your favorite ARC trooper.”

“It’s Echo.” Ahsoka cut in. “Fives and Jesse have their moments, but it’s usually Echo. Deny it.”

Rex shook his head. “I am to be an impartial captain over all of my men.”

“That means yes.” Cody smirked.

A comm chirped, and the four beings scrambled for their comms. It was Cody who had the pleasure of the summons.

“Obi-Wan.” Cody casually answered.

“Cody.” Obi-Wan’s crisp voice came through the comm. “I don’t suppose you’ve kidnapped Ahsoka, have you?”

"Rex and I took her down to Dex’s this evening. Is there a problem with that?”

“That depends on what state she’s in when Anakin arrives at the barracks in five minutes.”

“Ah, thank you, sir.” Cody turned the comm off and topped up Ahsoka’s water glass. “With all due respect, Ahsoka, do you own any makeup? Your tails are flushed.”

Ahsoka sighed. “No, I don’t.”

Wolffe gulped down the rest of his water and set the glass on Rex’s desk. “It’s been a wonderful evening, but I’d rather not dirty my reputation with the likes of you when General Skywalker arrives.”

“Oh, get out.” Rex laughed as Cody gave his batchmate a shove out the door.

“So, who’s taking the fall for this one?” Ahsoka asked.

“I believe that the great Marshall Commander Cody should, considering that it was his plan.” Rex said.

“I agree, especially since he’s still in charge, right, Rex?”

“That’s right.”

“You two are horrible.” Cody laughed.

When Anakin Skywalker arrived in the barracks, it was to find his and Obi-Wan’s right hand men and his former padawan asleep on the common room couches. And if he saw the flush of their cheeks, or lekku, if he saw the way their eyelids twitched when he walked closer, and if he saw the slight shaking of Ahsoka’s chest as he walked away, he never told them. He thought it better to let them get away with a few things here and there rather than train three good liars. With a smirk, Anakin lowered himself onto the fourth couch and let himself fall into sleep amongst his friends.

#ahsoka tano #captain rex #commander cody #commander wolffe #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #clone trooper tup #arc trooper jesse #clone trooper kix #my fics #age of heroes fic #oneshot

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banalbones · 4 years

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The Petite Prince: Chapter 5

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8

Chapter 5: The Treasure Hunt, Part 2

Summary: Roman is a child. Virgil and Logan lost him, and have been questing to find him for way too long. Remus loves his bro, but is feeling a bit more chaotic.

Words: 2485

Ships: Familial prinxiety, logince and Creativitwins. Eventual familial royality, roceit and DRLAMP

Genre: Fluff with a side dose of angst

Warnings: A few swears, tiny blood mention, arguing, a mention of being unconscious, a dragon, falling, tell me if there’s any more!

Taglist: @pricklyfish777 @sunflowerblondeuwu @itriedandimtired @draw-your-perfect-world @cemmy @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @nonbinary-lizard-2

_________________________

The ‘twins’ were doing karaoke with the birds.

“Love is an open doo-oo-oor!”

The song was perfect for the pair, an adorable ‘love’ song for Roman, and a Disney villain tune for Remus.

Roman was grinning madly, his gap tooth showing, as his sweet little child voice perfectly nailed all of the notes.

“You’re really good at this,” Remus commented, taking a break from the song. “But Elphaba’s better.”

Cue the *o f f e n d e d p r i n c e y n o i s e s*.

“She’s a bi- she’s a bird! How can she be b- be better?”

Remus cackled. Annoying his brother was fun, even when he was a child.

He probably shouldn’t be thinking that, but still.

Quoting Virgil, sometimes I just gotta be me-an.

The smol one wacked his leg with the stick.

(Remus truly didn’t know how he kept getting it.)

“You know,” he said, “We could decorate the stick.”

That was a thing kids did right? Decorating sticks?

Apparently it was, as Roman squealed in delight and jumped around, whilst simultaneously summoning paint and glitter and smaller sticks and a whole lot of other stuff Remus didn’t bother to acknowledge.

I would have just gotten blood.

_________________________

“Are we supposed to climb this thing?” Virgil asked incredulously.

Logan wasn’t looking at the tower, so much as the dragon. It had shimmering scales, the color of the sea, covering the entirety of its lithe body, with accents of a bright gold littered throughout. The sunset colored wings however, were the things that stuck out most.

The dragon was quite beautiful and had cool wings, in an abbreviated sentence.

It also appeared to be asleep, which was definitely a pro in this situation of cons.

“If we wish to retrieve Roman, I believe so.”

“Well, fuck.”

_________________________

Virgil for all his faults, was loyal. Or so he told himself. Janus (?!?!), when the emo was still a part of the Others, had told him that dark sides were extremely protective of what they deem to be theirs.

So he supposed it made sense that he, the literal embodiment of anxiety, was about to climb a fifty foot tower with no safety precautions, just to save the little prince.

He turned to Logan and grinned sheepishly.

“So, uh, do you want to start?”

Just because Virgil was going to do it, didn’t mean he had to go first.

_________________________

The Dragon Witch smirked slightly as she rested her scaled head atop the tower’s black roof, gazing down at the two sides.

Looked like it was time to drop the ladder.

_________________________

Logan rolled his eyes at Virgil and began to reach for the tower, not sure what he was actually going to do when he touched it, when suddenly a pile of pili fell on his head.

“What the heck?”

The sub-astute teacher looked up to see… a rope of hair?

What?

“It’s like in Tangled!” Virgil said, somewhat excitedly.

“The Disney movie?”

“The Disney movie.” Virgil nodded.

“So what do we do, climb it?”

“I mean I guess,” The Supreme Dark Overlord of Negative Commerce (That’s a throwback) paused, “Because I don’t see any stairs.”

Logan, once again, rolled his eyes.

Might as well start climbing.

And so he did.

_________________________

Roman watched LoLo begin to climb through the fly-eyes. It seemed so fun!

Maybe he could do that one day…

If Remus would let him.

Roman giggled.

He probably would.

_________________________

Remus had wanted to add a thorn bush at the bottom of the tower, to be true to the original, ya know? But the smol one hadn’t wanted them to get hurt.

Again.

So instead, he had come up with an ingenious compromise that Logan would have been proud of.

Put vines at the bottom, but make them look like thorns!

It would be so funny to see Virgil panic and try even harder not to fall, especially with the armor-

Oh yeah!

“RoRo, do you want to give them the armor now?”

The little prince nodded enthusiastically, his face scrunching up in concentration.

And then…

“I did it!”

Little did the prince know that Remus had done a slight flick of the wrist, ensuring that the metal protection would… weigh them down.

He may be my brother, and I still love and will protect him at all costs, but I am always a chaotic rat man.

_________________________

I can’t believe you acknowledged that you were a chaotic rat man.

I can.

_________________________

Patton hummed softly, twirling around as he made the brownies.

He had tried checking on Roman in his room, but the princely side hadn’t answered.

So, he decided to make brownies to give to Roman when he felt like he could talk to him again!

If he ever felt like he could…

Patton shook his head quickly, dismissing the thought.

He would! It was Roman, after all!

Patton swallowed.

It was Roman, after all…

_________________________

Logan was halfway up the tower (and the hair) when he felt a weight be placed on his body. A very heavy weight.

The logical side was now extremely glad he had made Virgil stay on the ground.

Gravity tugged a little too hard on Logan for his own liking, and then he was falling.

And falling.

And f

Into a pile of thornbushes?

Logan inwardly groaned. It was like in the Grimm Brother’s version of the fairytale.

The prince fell into a bunch of thorns and got blinded.

I’m already blind enough, come on!

He barely registered Virgil screaming out his name through the rush of air and thoughts.

And then he landed.

________________________

Virgil screamed as Logan fell.

He was gonna die!

Could sides even die?

He didn’t think so, but what if they could?

The emo’s mind was so filled with what ifs, that he barely registered the dumping of heavy metal on his shoulders.

It was like a weighted blanket but five times heavier.

“Oof.” He was pulled to the floor, just as Logan landed… in a pile of thorns?!

How had he not noticed that?

“Holy shit! Logan!”

He heard a groan.

“Ow.”

Virgil breathed a sigh of relief.

At least he was alive.

_________________________

You fell off a tower?!

Yes. I just said that.

How did you survive?

We’re getting to that.

_________________________

The teacher figure groaned as he opened his eyes. He wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t bleeding.

That was a good sign.

It seems I have not, in fact landed in a pile of thorns.

“Holy shit! Logan!”

Logan attempted to move his head. A fall like that could not be good for his neck.

He managed it, if only slightly, to see a raccoon-like side running, well trying to run, towards him.

“Hello, Virgil. Before you ask, no, I do not know how I am alive.”

“Are you-”

“Yes, I am indeed hurt,” Logan interrupted, “I fell twenty five feet, what did you expect?”

“I don’t… whatever. How come you’re wearing armor?”

Logan responded with a dry “You are too,” before craning his neck (ow) to see that he was, in fact, wearing a bunch of bulky metal.

It was very blue. Or indigo, depending on how specific you wanted to be.

“Why is it so heavy?”

“That’s because of Remus,” a very familiar, lilting voice answered, as weapons materialized in the boys hands.

“Oh shit,” he heard Virgil mutter.

Logan looked up (once again, ow) to see the dragon that had been sitting atop the tower flying towards them.

It let out a roar.

To mirror Virgil’s earlier words, oh shit.

_________________________

Roman stood proudly, brandishing his stick for all to see.

By all, he meant Remus and the birds, as they were the only ones left to see it.

(The other forest creatures had to go, they had told Roman, it was almost dinner time for them.)

Apparently, birds had really weird eating schedules.

Big me had a really weird eating schedule too. He only ate during the night.

That, along with the fact big him never slept at night either led to the little prince forming a rather intelligent conclusion.

Big him was nocturnal!

Like an owl!

Wait…

If Big him was nocturnal (or an owl)…

Did that mean ReeRee was too?

…

“ReeRee… are you a- you an owl? Or noc- or noc-tur-nal?”

The Duke turned.

“Also, do yo- do you li-li-li’ my stick? Its glitty-ery!”

The tiny royal’s big brother looked confused.

“No? Why? Your stick is splendiferous, by the way.”

Now it was Roman’s turn to be confused.

(He was happy with the reaction to the stick.)

“Big me is. How co-how come you aren’t?”

Maybe the lack of sleep at night isn’t something that owl’s do.

Oh! Elphaba’s leaving! Byeee!

The petite prince was so caught up in his train of thought that he didn’t see Remus’s concerned gaze.

Bye bye birdies!

_________________________

Virgil stared at the bedazzled dirk in his hand, the onyx gems glinting in the light of the fire.

Wait, fire?

The emo turned to see a large green dragon (?!?!) diving towards him, flames spewing out of its mouth.

A dragon?

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

“Virgil! Move!” he heard a voice shouting.

But for a moment he was paralyzed.

Then, in a way that was opposite his regular behavior, he let out a battle cry and leapt towards the reptilian rapscallion (Roman would be proud), brandishing his weapon.

The dragon roared as Virgil threw one of his dirks, the sharp metal burying itself in a shimmering teal scale.

No blood emerged.

One weapon wasted.

“What the fuck are you doing, you inbecile? Run!”

For some reason, Virgil decided to ignore the admittedly good advice.

The dragon swiped at the anxious side, knocking him into the hard brick of the tower.

The scaled beast crept forward.

It poked Virgil’s head, slamming it back into the stone.

And then the world was fading to black.

Well, he knew that wasn’t good.

_________________________

Logan shut his eyes, restraining a groan of frustration.

WHY did people (metaphysical people) never listen to him?

Virgil was the smallest of the sides (apart from Roman, at the moment) and though he was fight or flight, the anxious side really didn’t know how to defend himself, especially against dragons. It also didn’t help that he only had a tiny daggers and a leaden suit of armor to protect himself.

Logan took a deep breath.

…

When the logical side’s eyes reopened, he was subjected to the view of Virgil being yeeted (slang words) into the tower.

Virgil was quickly climbing up the idiot list.

Very quickly indeed.

_________________________

Where am I on the list right now?

The same place as you were when this happened.

Where was I?

That is not important.

What? Yes it i-

_________________________

Remus was concerned. Which was weird for him.

What did the smol one mean?

An owl?

Nocturnal?

Was Roman secretly an owl? Or did his twin have a really unhealthy sleep schedule that led to negatively affecting his mood, energy levels and attention span, making him lash out in even the slightest of stressful situations whilst simultaneously causing his metaphysical human being-like health and mental health to deteriorate?

Nah, he was probably an owl.

And with that (most of) Remus’s concern washed away.

His brother was an owl.

_________________________

Roman was watching the battle through the fly-eyes. Well, battle was an over exaggeration. It was really just VeeVee getting smacked into a wall by a dragon (who looked suspiciously like the Dragon Witch Big him had killed a while ago).

The prince looked to where Logan was.

The nerd looked reeeeeally annoyed.

Probably because now he had to defeat the dragon all by himself.

What’s he gonna do?

Roman watched as the logical side got up, a broadsword appearing in his grasp.

The prince summoned a bowl of popcorn.

He should throw it. Mama should definitely throw it.

Logan threw it.

And missed.

The sword didn’t even get near it!

Come ooooon, Mama.

The dragon roared and pounced on Logan, baring its teeth.

Roman leaned forward, a handful of popcorn nearing his mouth.

This was getting good.

A drop of saliva dripped onto Logan’s face…

Aaaaaannd…

He was whisked away from the fly-eyes view by a pair of grimy hands.

“ReeRee! No fair!”

“Sorry RoRo.”

The little prince pouted, and Remus held something out to hi.

“Look I made a stick!”

_________________________

Did it work?

Did what work?

The stick. As a distraction.

It wasn’t a distraction, I just really wanted to show him my stick!

Liesssss.

It was also a distraction.

_________________________

Patton was becoming concerned.

Roman usually would have come out by now.

Maybe he decided to talk to someone else.

But who?

Definitely not Janus, for obvious reasons. Maybe Virgil?

I should check. Just to see if he’s okay.

I’ll bring the brownies.

Just in case…

And so the walk to Virgil’s room began.

_________________________

Do it for the child.

That was the mantra that Logan was repeating in his head.

He truly did not appreciate being carried through the sky in a dragon’s claws, especially since it had caused his glasses to fall off of his face.

For the last time, I’m already blind! Why is it always me?

It also didn’t help that every single part of his body was aching.

_________________________

Do it for the bean.

That was the mantra that would probably have been repeated in Virgil’s head at this moment, if he wasn’t unconscious.

_________________________

Patton frowned.

Virgil wasn’t there.

Maybe Roman and his dark strange son were with Logan!

And so the walk to Logan’s room began.

_________________________

Remus giggled.

RoRo had forgotten about the fly-eyes almost immediately, being too distracted by the glowing stick.

He waved his hand.

A visitor (or two) was about to drop in.

_________________________

Patton furrowed his brows.

Logan wasn’t in his room either.

Were they all together?

Who else could they be with?

Remus?

It was worth a shot.

And so the walk to Remus’s room began.

_________________________

Back in the dragon witch’s claws, a fully healed, very confused Virgil awoke, and Logan felt all of his physical pain disappear, along with the stupid heavy armor.

And then they were thrown through the window of the brick monstrosity,

----------------

As Patton twisted the door handle,

-----------------

As Virgil and Logan crashed through the floor of the tower,

-----------------

As Remus looked up to see the ceiling falling in,

-----------------

As Patton pushed open the door,

-----------------

As the left brain boys fell into the Duke’s room.

Oh boy.

_________________________

Roman looked up from the stick to see ReeRee grinning like a madman (That’s pretty normal), VeeVee and Mama sprawled on the floor (Yay! Why’s the ceiling broken?), and Da- Patton glancing around the room with a plate of brownies in his hands (ohnohonohonohonohonoh).

The petite prince was feeling slightly overwhelmed.

“Wha?”

_________________________

Thanks for reading this chapter of the Petite Prince!

(And by the way, at the time of the stick distraction, Roman is around five. If you’re confused, don’t be scared to ask.)

Any and all feedback is appreciated!

#sanders sides #thomas sanders sides #tss #the petite prince #baby roman #roman sanders #ts roman #remus sanders #ts remus #virgil sanders #ts virgil #logan sanders #ts logan #patton sanders #ts patton

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thegalanerd · 4 years

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the edge of the world

a witcher!kerosene hearts and matchbox bodies au in which derek is geralt, ares is jaskier, and they get their asses kicked by some elves and a mountain goat.

fd: teen wolf | the witcher fusion oc: ares delgado wc: 2853 warnings: language

taglist: @randomfandoming1, @whindsor, @pearlselegancies, @shes-beauty-and-shes-ace

When she first met the Witcher, she’d just turned nineteen, just run from an arranged marriage, and just decided that the life of a bard sounded better than that of a healer.

Ares would have been the first to admit that, no, no she did not know what she was doing with her life.

The tavern owner in Posada almost didn’t let her play in his establishment. No one gives much of a crap about women bards, he reminded her.

“Ah, no one gives a shit about women bards yet,” she had countered, holding up a finger. “Besides. You see anyone else offering to entertain your patrons ‘round here?”

That was always her argument when people didn’t want to let her play. She was usually shit outta luck when there actually was another bard hanging around.

The man relented, ultimately. The crowd was… lukewarm, she found, though they did snicker at the scathing little ditty she had prepared about the local alderman, whom no one was particularly fond of. It was in the middle of that song that she noticed the brooding body in the back corner of the tavern, the only one that didn’t seem to be paying her any mind.

Which. She was not a fan of that at all.

She gave an exaggerated bow at the end of her set to a smattering of applause and a handful of ducats. There was money to be made in being an asshole and calling out others’ flaws through song, she had realized. She just had to cultivate it. And that meant getting notes.

Specifically, getting notes from the one person in the whole damn tavern that hadn’t even in the least looked up at her as she played.

Ares approached him, slinging her lute over her shoulder haphazardly by the strap, and took in his appearance.

Dark hair, just past shoulder length, with half of it tied back. He was dressed in all black as well, and Ares wondered if maybe he was in mourning, if not for the fact that it was more like armor than anything else. He seemed not much older than her, though she knew looks could be deceiving.

His face was… pleasant, she’d admit. She never took much notice in men - not that she took any notice in women either - but she could appreciate a nice face when she saw one. This one, she decided, had a very nice jawline covered in dark stubble, and very broody eyebrows.

“Ducat for your thoughts, good sir,” she said in lieu of greeting, and was very proud of herself for not stumbling over her last couple steps to stop in front of him and his table when he looked up at her. Bored annoyance, as though she was a nuisance, coated his face, and that she could handle. His eyes however, gave her pause. They were a striking color, and she’d say they were hazel, but it felt like a lie. Hazel was just the closest she could think of.

His pupils, slit like the stray cat everyone fed back home, widened ever so slightly as he took in her appearance, and he arched a single brow.

Ah. Okay, something was, uh, definitely wack about this man then. Still, Ares cleared her throat, and barrelled on.

“Everyone else thought my song was lovely,” she said, and noticed, for the first time, the pair of swords he had resting against the wall behind him. She filed it away. He hummed in acknowledgement. At least he was listening. “Or at the very least, they didn’t pelt me with rotten vegetables, and I, for one, consider that a win,” she added.

“Are your standards so low, Bard?” the man asked, and his voice wasn’t as low as she thought it would be. It was a nice voice, a hint of a Rivian accent no one seemed to appreciate.

Ares grinned, and pulled out the chair opposite of the man. She twirled it on its leg, and rested it with the back to the table. She sat in it that way, straddling it, and crossed her arms across the back.

“A girl takes what she can get,” she said. The man leaned back, and Ares swore she saw a flicker of amusement in his cat eyes.

“A girl can ask someone else.” Ares let out an offended gasp. “I’m busy.”

“Hardly!” The man’s brows shot up at her outburst. “Come on, now, I bet you’ve heard all sortsa great songs,” she said, throwing out her arm.

He furrowed his brows at her. “What makes you say that?”

She gave him a flat look before nodding pointedly at the swords behind him. “Dressed in all black armour, pair of swords just laying about, the most curious feline eyes - you’re the Witcher, aren’t you? Derek of Rivia.”

She had enough tact to not mention the whole “Butcher of Blavakin” bullshit, but still, his expression closed off, darkened just so, and she realized she might have just made a mistake.

“I realize you’re at a bit of a disadvantage, me knowing who you are and you not knowing me and all,” she said in a rush, trying to backpedal into a safe subject. He scowled, and pushed up from his seat. He loomed over her, and she leaned back, because gods, he was tall.

“You’re a nosy bard, and that’s all I need to know.”

“A nosy bard with feelings!” she huffed, and nearly stumbled as she scrambled up to follow him, because here was a Witcher, and a perfect muse to follow, if she could only keep up. “Wait, wait, Witcher-!”

He whirled on her, and she nearly crashed into him. He stood very close, glaring down at her, pupils thin, angry slits, and she swallowed hard. He was a full head taller than her, and broad to boot. Around them, the tavern went silent. She dared not step back, though, and instead squared her own shoulders and raised her head to meet his gaze.

She was scared of a number of things: spiders, the man she was meant to marry, people finding out she was a quarter elf, pigs, but not this Witcher. And he seemed to have sensed that, as he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned on his heels.

“Piss off, Bard.”

She stood, gaping at his retreating back, because how rude. And here she was, not even calling him Butcher or anything. She had half a mind to do so now, and only just bit her tongue when she saw a young man dart forward, running after the Witcher.

“I’ve a job for you, Butcher!” he called, and it was the telltale jingle of coins that had her dancing forward to eavesdrop. “A devil’s been stealing our grain. Terrorizin’ us in our fields. I can pay.”

The Witcher stopped, and turned to look at the man that spoke. Ares stepped up, peaking over the man’s shoulder and arching a brow at the small pouch of coins he held. The Witcher scowled at her, but she did not move.

“I take payment up front,” he said, and the young man dropped the pouch in the Witcher’s hands.

Ares shuffled past the man, and ran after the Witcher as he made his exit. This, she decided, was to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Ares hummed absentmindedly as she followed the Witcher. He sat atop his horse, a beautiful black mare, and guided her to where the man in the tavern had pointed out the supposed devil to be. He could have set the horse at a gallop at any time, leaving Ares behind, but he didn’t. Still, he was going a bit faster than she would have liked, and her feet already grew sore.

“So, what’s the protocol for these things?” she asked, breaking her silence. “Swoop in, cut off a devil head, get paid?” She cocked her head to the side. “Though, you’ve been paid already,” she mused.

“Why are you still here?” he demanded instead of answering. “Haven’t you anywhere better to be?”

“As it stands, no.” The horse huffed, and Ares felt judged. “In any case, I think this will be a great opportunity for you, Witcher.” He grunted, and Ares took that as an invitation to continue. “I don’t know if you noticed, but people don’t particularly like you, ya know.”

“I’ve noticed,” he bit out.

“What with Blaviken and all that,” she went on. He shot her a look. Touchy then. “But, you leave that to me. I’ll have a lovely song about how you slayed this devil and everyone will love you. I’ve a way with words, you know.”

“I’m sure the alderman would agree.”

“So you were listening!” She laughed in delight. “I can be your, your barker, or whatever. Derek of Rivia, say goodbye to the Butcher of Blaviken, and hello to, to…” She looked at him hard. “Black Wolf?”

“Needs work.”

“Boo,” she called. “What’s this devil anyway? How’ll you kill it?”

“No such thing as devils.”

She blinked up at him, and rushed forward so she wouldn’t tail behind so much. “I’m sorry, what?”

“There are no devils, Bard.”

“Ares.” He glanced down at her. “I call myself Ares.”

“And what does your mother call you?”

Ares let out a snort. “Nothing, hopefully, dead as she is.” He hummed, looking away. “If there’s no devils, what in the world are we doing?”

“We’re doing nothing. You’re an unwanted tagalong.”

Ares hissed. “An unwanted tagalong with feelings.”

Derek sighed. “Call me curious.”

“Oh, I’ll call you something, alright,” she muttered under her breath, before changing the subject. He went on in silence, hardly bothering to acknowledge her anymore as they walked. Or rather, she and the mare walked. Soon enough, though, they came to a trail too rocky and steep for the horse. Ares rocked back on her heels, waiting a moment for Derek to climb off and secure the horse before her boredom got the better of her.

“If there’s no such thing as devils,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way up the trail, “then I’ll go scout ahead.”

“Bard.”

Ares ignored him, scampering up the trail. Long grass sprouted on either side of the trail, and up ahead, she saw a rock formation. “Maybe you’re right,” she called back. “Don’t look like there’s any dev-whoa!”

She let out a yelp of surprise as she was yanked back by her lute strap, and she blinked up at the very annoyed visage of the Witcher.

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Run ahead.” He dropped her, and pushed past her up the trail. She balled up her hands into fists, and made an offensive face at his back before rushing off to follow him.

“If there are no devils,” she said, “what’re we looking for?”

“Blessed silence.”

“Booo,” she said. “You’re absolutely no fun, you know that-”

“Shut up,” he growled, looking into the tall grass, and she drew back in offense. She opened her mouth to boo him again, only for a thin swhip to fly by her ear, and she ducked in reflex, hands flying up to protect her head.

“What the hel-” She looked into the grass, and narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the shape in there. “Derek! Derek, it’s a-a goat?”

She didn’t get to hear his reply, because there was another swhip, and an acute pain in the center of her forehead, and then nothing at all.

Ares had been in plenty of sticky situations before, but waking in a cave tied to an unconscious Witcher kinda takes the cake.

“Shhit,” she hissed, tugging at the ropes that tied her hands behind her back and to Derek, who, unfortunately, was heavy as hell. “Derek, Derek, wake up,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice as she bumped back into him, trying to jolt him back to consciousness. She felt him stir against her back, his bound hands twitching against her own. “Derek!”

She felt his head snap up, and he strained against the ropes that bound him. It pulled painfully against her own ropes, and she yelped in pain.

“Fuck,” he growled, and Ares felt any hope she had whither away.

“What do you mean, fuck, this is where you get us out of here!”

“No, this is where they kill us!” As he spoke, Ares heard a commotion of sounds just outside the cave opening, sounds drawing nearer.

“Wait, who-”

A shadow fell over them, and Ares was jarred to the side with Derek as a figure kicked him in the shoulder.

“Elves,” he bit out, and Ares saw that it was a woman who had hit him. The woman elf, and it was an elf, her pointed ears making that clear, barked out something in Elder Speech, and kicked Derek again.

“What the hell, leave him alon-Hey, fuck off the lute!” she shouted, noticing a male elf walk in after the woman and pick up her lute, strumming it harshly. “Derek!”

“Shut up!” he snarled back at her, and she snapped her mouth shut as the elf woman kicked at Derek again, speaking again.

Ares, who did not grow up around anyone to teach her that tongue, leaned back against Derek. “What’s she saying?”

“Human, shut up!” she snarled, straightening up and pacing toward Ares.

“Sound advice, good to know,” Ares muttered, and drew back against Derek when the Elf stopped in front of her.

“Do you want to die right now?” she demanded.

“Firm pass-” Ares gasped, doubling over in pain and biting her tongue as the Elf kicked her in the stomach.

“Leave her alone!” Derek snarled. “She's just a bard!”

Ares blinked back tears, and listened as the elf turned her fury on Derek, listing the things humans have ruined, while the male elf utterly destroyed her poor lute.

“Stop!” she cried as Derek slumped forward heavily. “Stop already! Here you are, hiding away and attacking him when he can’t even defend himself, you, you frigid bi-”

Pain exploded at the side of Ares’ head, and she slumped to the side, stunned from the blow. She heard, fuzzy and incomprehensible, Derek snarling something behind her. Maybe, she thought fleetingly before passing out one more time, following the Witcher wasn’t the best idea.

“Following you out here was by for the greatest idea I have ever had,” Ares sang, strumming the lute she had been gifted by Filivandral lovingly. Her head throbbed, and if she walked too fast her stomach would turn, but if getting the shit kicked out of her was all it cost for such a magnificent instrument, well, the elves could kick her ass any day. She said as much aloud.

Derek, who sat upon his horse and looked only a little worse than how Ares felt, looked down at her incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“It’s like I said, Derek, a girl will take what she can get.” She looked up at him, her beaming smile dimming a bit. “They really were in a bad way, though, weren’t they. The elves?”

He didn’t look down at her. When she had stirred back into the land of the living, Derek had thrust the elven lute into her hands, claiming it a gift from the king of what remained of the elves. Recompensation for the attack, or something. Prying what had happened from him was like prying teeth from a kikimora, but she did get a few details. The goat she had seen was actually a silvan, working for the elves hidden away in the mountain. The creature argued for their lives, apparently, because Derek had meant to spare it earlier. Ares didn’t actually know why they were left alive. Maybe the Witcher was more of a diplomat than people realized.

The elves were dying, Ares learned, and something in her ached. The fourth of her that was one of them, she supposed.

She hummed, plucking an improvised melody on the lute. “And you just. Gave them your money from the contract huh?” Ares squinted off to the horizon. “That was nice, I guess, but now you’re right back where you started. Ah, well,” she said. “No worries, we’ll find you an actual monster to fight soon enough.”

“I think not. This is where we part ways, Bard. Find trouble on your own time,” Derek said, and Ares let out an annoyed whine.

“Ah, come on! I still have to make people love you! And anyway, this doesn’t count as a first adventure together.”

“Only adventure,” he corrected.

“Then that! I was unconscious for half of it!” Ares whirled to walk backwards so she could look at him as she walked. “No, Witcher, I need to see you in action! And until then, you’re stuck with me.”

He hummed noncommittally, but Ares swore she saw the ghost of a smile on his face. She spun back around, and was quite impressed with herself that she didn’t fall on her face.

“Now, have a listen and be prepared to give notes,” she said, and began to sing.

#ocapp #oc: ares delgado #fic: witcher!kerosene hearts #fd: teen wolf | the witcher #my writing #otp: i appreciate you #witcher!derek #bard!ares #horse!camero #lmaoo #derek: ive only had ares for a day and a half but if anything were to happen to her id kill everyone on the continent and then myself

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jrubalcaba · 6 years

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Can’t Help Falling In Love - Ch. 8

Can’t Help Falling In Love Chapter 8- A Steve x OFC fanfiction

author: jrubalcaba

featuring: OFC Evelyn “Evie” Collins x Steve Rogers

word count: 2316 words

rating: PG 13

warnings: cussing and semi smuttiness

A/N: Thank you again to @celeb-fess ! This chapter will also be from Evie and Steve’s P.O.V

Evie’s P.O.V

I opened my eyes and sighed. Still no Steve. They left two and a half months ago, and have yet to come home. I’ve spoken to Steve maybe four times since they made it to their safe house, but that was five weeks ago.

I rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower. After I was done, I pulled on some jeans, one of Steve’s Under Armor shirts, and his hoodie and went to find breakfast. Nat, Alice, and Wanda were sitting at the bar, makeup and hair products piled up everywhere.

“Geez. Think you have enough stuff to get ready for tonight?” I asked them, walking to the pantry and pulling out some cereal.

“This isn’t just for us. We’re going to help you get ready too,” Wanda clarified. I finished pouring the cereal before putting the box away and grabbing the milk.

“Sounds good. I can’t do my makeup for shit so I’m glad you’re going to help.”

”Yeah I can’t do makeup either, so I’m glad we’re all doing it together,” Alice commented. I dug into my cereal and looked at the different piles. They had everything sorted into eyeshadows, mascaras, eyeliners, blush, and so on. I pulled out an eyeshadow palette and pointed at the shimmery midnight blue color.

“That’s the exact color of my dress.” The three of them looked at each other and grinned conspiratorially. I knew nothing good would come from this.

“That’s interesting. It matches Steve’s…tactical suit,” Alice mused. They shared another look that made me want to slap them all. “We’re just messing with you, Evie. You and Steve are a sweet couple. Well, you will be, once he gets home.” She looked sad, and I squeezed her shoulder.

I know she was missing Bucky something fierce. “They’ll be home soon, Alice. Or we’ll just have to mount a rescue party and go collect them ourselves.” She smiled! Mission accomplished. I put my empty bowl in the sink and walked around the counter. “So what are you thinking for me? My shoes are blue, but you won’t be able to see them when I have the dress on.”

They looked at each other for a minute, before pulling out a chair and ordering me to sit. I did as instructed, pulling my hair out of the messy bun I had it in. They walked around me, studying my face and hair.

“What does the dress look like?” Wanda asked. I pulled up the pictures I had taken on my phone and showed them. They nodded in unison. “That’s actually really gorgeous. Nice job, Evie.” They started looking at everything they had before Nat looked over her shoulder at me.

“What are you wearing underneath?” She smirked and gave herself away.

“Ok, what’s going on? Why does it matter what I’ve got on under my dress?” Nat rounded on me, smiling fondly.

“Because the guys are trying their damnedest to get home in time for the ball.” I felt my jaw drop.

“Really? Steve could come home tonight?” I asked, astonished. The girls exchanged looks before turning back to the table.

“Possibly. Bucky called me last night and told me that there was a possible way home coming up, but they weren’t sure if they were going to make it,” Alice explained. She reached out and grabbed my hand. “He said that if they weren’t home by noon today, then they missed their chance.” We stared at each other for a bit, understanding that our guys could be gone for even longer, and the thought was almost too much to bear.

“Oh,” was all I was able to squeak. Nat squeezed my shoulder sympathetically.

“But, on the off chance that they are able to come home, you need to be ready.” I shot her a quizzical look. “I’m pretty sure that if he does make it home tonight, Steve’s not going to let anything come between you two. So, what would you wear in that event?” I thought about it for a moment before chuckling.

“Well, I’d have to pull out the big guns then.” Wanda snorted before turning to me.

“The big guns? What are those?” I smiled before laughing.

“I’d have to show you. Words don’t do them justice.” I jumped off the chair and ran to my room. I rooted around in my underwear drawer before finding what I was looking for. I trotted back out into the kitchen and show them to the girls.

“Bravo Evie. Steve would love that,” Alice whistled.

“Oh wow. Yeah, He’d be in for a real treat,” Natasha complemented. I smiled smugly to myself before we all began to get to work figuring out how we were going to look for the night.

I was waiting for Wanda, Alice and Nat to meet me in the living room when Tony and Rhodey walked in, looking absolutely dapper in their suits. “Wow, look at you two ladykillers. Pepper’s gonna have her hands full fighting women off of you, Tony.” He smirked before gesturing at me.

“C’mon, let’s see it,” he instructed, making a twirling motion with his hand. I obliged, spinning around slowly so they could see every angle. Rhodey started clapping.

“You wanna talk about killing it? Look at you. You look absolutely stunning,” he complimented before hugging me. Bruce walked up then, enveloping me in a hug as well.

“You look amazing Evie.” I hugged him back before releasing him.

“Thanks, Bruce. You don’t look half bad yourself.” He had shaved (finally) and looked absolutely dashing. Vision, Wanda, Nat, and Thor walked up, and we took turns showing off how we looked. “What the hell is taking Alice so long?” I whined. Tony put his arm around my shoulders and steered me towards the elevator.

“I’m sure she’ll join us up at the party. Come on, let’s take a selfie before we go.” I huffed before we all got around Tony and took a picture. We then climbed into the elevator and heading to the mezzanine for the ball. When the doors opened, we all stepped out and began to mingle.

I grabbed a drink from the bar before spotting Skye and Jemma across the room. I hurried over and we all squealed with excitement as we began to catch up. Maria joined us and we all stood and watched people dance. Suddenly, something cold and metal ran up my spine and I shivered, spinning around to find the culprit.

“James Buchanan Barnes! Why do you constantly have to irritate me?” I scolded, slapping his flesh arm. He laughed before pulling Alice in for a kiss. “Wait, what are you doing here? Alice said if you guys weren’t here by noon, then you weren’t coming home for awhile.” I looked at the both of them, noticing the Grinchy smile that crossed his face.

“That was bullshit, wasn’t it?” I shook my head. “Nice beard by the way. Makes you look way older.” He grinned at Alice before elbowing me.

“It’s my job to irritate you,” he joked. I laughed as Sam, Clint and Scott walked up, along with another man and his date. “And no, it wasn’t bullshit. I surprised Alice too. We were just too busy to tell you.” I flipped the two of them off. “So you like it?” he asked, scratching his chin. “It took awhile to grow it, but it’s there.” Alice ran her fingers through it before he rubbed his face against hers.

“Sod off Buck!” she groaned, trying to pull away. He finally stopped, her face red where he had rubbed against her.

“Ya, his may be there, but mine is better,” the newcomer bragged, his girlfriend pulling him in for a kiss. I went to ask who he was but stopped. He did have quite the beard, fuller than Bucky’s.

I glanced back at the guys and noticed that Sam looked the same as before, but Clint and Scott both had more hair on their faces. Clint’s was more of a goatee, but Scott’s beard was…impressive.

“Jesus Lang. How the hell did you manage to grow that beast?” I exclaimed, stepping forward to run my fingers through it. “Is Hope here? Has she seen it yet?” Oh man. Not only was his beard full and thick, it was oh so soft.

“Nah. Steve bet us all $100 that we couldn’t grow a beard better than he could. I am proud to say that I finally did something better than Captain America, and I am now $500 richer.” I suddenly realized that I was still petting Scott’s beard. I pulled my hands back, sheepishly looking around at everyone as they laughed.

“Yeah, just wait until she gets a load of Steve’s. She’s gonna lose it,” Clint noted. The guys all laughed. I looked at them in disbelief. There’s no way…is there?

“Steve grew one too? Like actually grew a beard?” I asked, my heart racing. Bucky nodded before leaning in and whispering:

“Why listen to us, when you can take a look for yourself?”

********************

Steve’s P.O.V

I was nervous for some reason. I haven’t been to a charity ball before, but knowing that Evie was there, waiting for me, was enough to get me through.

The quinjet had landed on the roof hours ago. Bucky and I had come up with the idea of making Alice and Evie think that we weren’t coming home today, so when we made it in, after all, I went to Sam’s and stayed with him, opting to get ready there in case Evie decided to hang out in my room. Buck couldn’t wait any longer, so he went to reunite with Alice. I made him swear to keep her quiet because I wanted to surprise Evie still. We also told the rest of the team so they could help us keep her distracted.

Once we got a text from Tony saying that they were headed upstairs with Evie, we all finished getting ready before getting in the elevator and heading up. The doors opened and we got out, separating. I slowly made my way to the bar, stopping here and there, talking with guests. I was finally able to get a drink and I stood at the bar, looking around for Evie. Finally, I spotted her on the other side of the room, surrounded by the rest of the guys.

My god was she beautiful. No, there wasn’t enough words to describe how she looked. I honestly couldn’t think straight with how incredible she was. Her hair was pulled up, away from her face, showing off the graceful arch of her neck. Her dress, which was gorgeous on its own, paled in comparison to her beauty.

She reached up and as she began stroking Lang’s beard, a simmering rage burned through me. I knew I had no reason to be jealous of Lang, or of any other man for that matter, but seeing her lovingly caressing another man’s face still had me in a tizzy. She suddenly pulled her hands away and there was laughter. Buck happened to look over and catch my eye before leaning in and whispering in her ear.

******************

Evie’s P.O.V

I turned around and there he was. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. He had grown a beard, and it was fantastic. He was wearing a suit that matched my dress, no doubt thanks to divine intervention.

He walked over, and it’s like time was slowing down. Steve eventually reached us, and everything was right with the world.

******************

Steve’s P.O.V

I reached her, and nothing else mattered anymore. She smiled at me and suddenly, there was no one else in the room. I grabbed her hand and led her outside to the balcony. We stood at the railing, looking over the city lights, my arms bracketing hers. We stayed that way for god knows how long, relishing each other’s presence. ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ was playing over the speakers, and it brought me back to our first date when we danced to it. I smiled at the memory, realizing that I truly could not help falling in love with her.

After a while, she turned in my arms, lacing her hands around my neck. “Hi.” She began to run her fingers through my beard. “This is new. Are you going to keep it?” I chuckled, pleased that she liked it.

“I don’t know. Captain America doesn’t have a beard.” She looked up at me, batting her eyes.

“But Steve Rogers can,” she argued. “It’s really up to you, I guess.” She pouted slightly, her lips catching in a slight smile to show she was teasing me. I slipped a finger under her chin and pulled her face up.

“It’s grown on me, no pun intended.” She giggled at that, and it was one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. “It beats having to shave every day, and if you really like it, I’ll keep it,” I answered her. She smiled again, and I couldn’t stand it any longer before crashing my lips to hers. I pulled her flush against me, my arms snaking around her waist. Her hands wound into my hair, tugging it gently.

Our hands began to wander, exploring each other. One of my legs came to rest between hers, as one of hers came between mine. We slowly began to rut against each other, our kisses becoming more and more frantic until finally, her hands came to rest on the button of my pants.

We broke apart, gasping for breath. Once we settled down, we locked eyes and straightened up, an unspoken agreement that we needed to get behind closed doors before we went any further. I grabbed her by the hand again, leading her through the crowd toward the elevator.

TAG LIST:

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#jrubalcaba #cant help falling in love #steve rogers #evie collins

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lillotte17 · 7 years

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*flings more Crossed Streams drama into the void and scuttles away*

idk @feynites owns like..half of these ppl. >_>

In some ways, being the child of an evanuris is not so different from being First to a Keeper.

Even without being directly in charge of things herself, there are a lot of expectations for Aili to live up to, responsibilities to shoulder, and people who need looking after. She has to maintain a certain degree of composure, to project a demeanor that inspires confidence and loyalty. And affection, if she can manage it. Everyone always has their eyes on her, ready to praise her if she succeeds. Ready condemn her, albeit very quietly, if she fails.

The main difference is the sheer scale of her new influence.

One evening her mother had decided to wear what she had personally thought to be a rather hideous shade of chartreuse that she had insisted was ‘daring’. Aili had not thought much of it at the time, but sure enough, less than a week later, the entire Upper City was awash in the very same shade of snot-colored green. And the trend had held for nearly three months. She had been completely flabbergasted.

She had thought that being an advisor to the Inquisition might have helped her adjust to the scope of the Evanuris’ sway, if only a little. It was not wholly incongruent, after all, what with a large portion of Thedas insisting that her spouse was some sort of divine savior. But this… She does not know if she can wield this much power without inevitably breaking something.

It does not seem to have worked out very well for anyone she knows who has tried.

Luckily, she has some time to ease into things. No one in Elvhenan seems to expect much of anything from young children, outside of cuteness and perhaps some sort of wild phase once they start really getting into their magic and travelling about by themselves. And their idea of what actually constitutes a ‘young child’ is…somewhat different than what she is accustomed to.

When Aili had reached her sixteenth nameday, she was already hip deep in the social mechanizations of clan life. An adult, by most standards. She had collected wild vegetables and herbs, hauled buckets of water, built fires, patched aravels, and helped to look after the children, among other things. All while actively competing against two other clanmates for the honor to be chosen as Deshanna’s First. Learning magic and how to read the old tongue. Preparing for her vallaslin ceremony.

But by the time she reaches the same age among the elves of Arlathan, it seems as though she is…not old enough for much of anything. She still has her lessons and her training, which are extensive, but even those are mostly voluntary. Her parents and extended family all consider her too young to be much involved with affairs of state, though Lavellan keeps her informed, when she can. She cannot compete in tourneys. She cannot hunt unless the creature has been released into some contained area and she is surrounded by attendants and guards to protect her person, which feels a lot like shooting fish in a barrel. She is not even permitted to attend festivals unless she spends the evening glued to her mother’s side.

She feels a bit…aimless.

Aili tries to learn new things to give herself some sense of purpose, some of the crafts and artistry that Elvhenan seems to place such importance on, but she has never been the most proficient at getting her hands to recreate visions from her thoughts. She has the most success with wood carving and clay and other three-dimensional media, anything she can just chip and shave and beat into submission. She suspects there are likely some strange rumors of her vanity, since she seems to spend so much time simply making the same face over and over.

However, as the daughter of an evanuris, as well as a ‘sweet innocent child’, the only comment anyone is willing to make about it to her face is that it does not look quite right. The expression is wrong for her, almost fierce and nearly always smiling. The girl is too young. Her nose and chin are too sharp. The ears and mouth are a little off.

Aili can concede that they do have a point. The face never looks exactly right, no matter what she does, or how many times she makes it. It horrifies her that perhaps she has already begun to forget the features she had spent so many days gazing at lovingly, and the failed attempts at artwork always seem to mock her somehow. But she is even more afraid of stopping, and letting even more details slip through her fingers.

Her one true solace lays between the pages of books. Sylaise and June both have decent libraries, and there is an even larger one in the city intended for public use, though access to certain materials is restricted based on rank, and in Aili’s case, by age. But there is very little she is denied, and after a while, she begins to build up her own collection of worthwhile reading material.

She wants to learn everything.

There is no doubt in her mind that there is a certain amount of bias to the historical texts in particular, but even that can be telling, if you know what to look for.

Aili studies the Dreaming. Converses with almost any spirit who will talk to her, of which there are many. Her memories are unique, and there are many of them who would trade all manner of knowledge for even the slightest glimpse. She presses her advantage, trying her best to make Josephine proud. To be cunning without being ruthless as she seeks out history and truth.

As she seeks out Uthvir.

They had not enjoyed talking overmuch about their origins, and she had never pressed too hard. Certain that they had time. All the time they could ever need, to find enough peace in their life that sharing their burdens would no longer bring all the shame and pain of it back to the surface of their heart.

But Solas had robbed them of their time. Both of them.

All of them.

She has a rough idea of the events that shaped Uthvir’s life, so she at least has something to work from. The real issue is that she has no idea what events in Elvhenan’s history correlate to their own. She has not seen them amongst Andruil’s favored hunters, but she does not know if that means they have not been given to her yet, or if she is simply keeping them to herself. Perhaps they are still suffering at the hands of Falon’Din. Or perhaps they do not even exist yet.

And that poses yet another problem.

“What should you do when you know something terrible is going to happen,” she asks Lavellan one evening over a game of cards not unlike Wicked Grace, “But if you somehow manage to stop this terrible thing, it might mean that someone you care for will never be born?”

“I’ll let you know when I find out,” she replies with a wry twist of her lips. Aili frowns at her, concern permeating the air around them, and Lavellan heaves a weary sigh, “For all we know, simply being here has changed the entire course of history as we know it. And since we clearly came from different worlds, there is no way of knowing if this is even the past of one our own timelines, or another place entirely. Commissioning a suit of armor from a certain vendor could change someone else’s life for the worst. Talking your parents into sparing people from sacrificial death might mean that dozens of other people might be born who never existed in either of our own timelines. There is simply no way of knowing for sure what will happen, and you will make yourself mad if you attempt to reason through every tiny decision. The only option available to either of us is to just…try. To do what we can to make things better. Fix what can be fixed. Save what can be saved. Do…what you feel is right.”

It is not too much longer after that, that she finds herself dreaming of a vast green wood.

Not that dreams about forests are really all that extraordinary, but this place feels different. Older. Protected. The air is filled with millions of tiny floating lights, gold and white and silver, all twirling through the tree branches. Like living motes of sunlight. Catching in her hair and clothing. Dancing away from her fingertips, as if suddenly shy.

She has never seen anything like it.

There is an obvious path, and she can make out the shapes of other spirits flitting through the trees. None of them look strong enough to have built this place, though. She gets the distinct impression that this area of the Dreaming is generally hard to reach. Invitation only, as it were.

The trail seems to end very abruptly as she walks along it, and she thinks perhaps she is being barred from venturing any farther. But then the trees shift themselves into a small clearing, and standing at its center is the largest, brightest spirit she has ever met. Several pairs of enormous wings and arms, and a large smiling face that appears mostly curious, for the time being. She feels her eyes burning just from looking at them, and she is not certain if it is the intense light they are exuding, or the powerful rush of emotions that seem to have jammed themselves into her throat.

“How did you find this place, little dreamer?” the spirit wonders in a soft voice that reminds her of the distant tolling of a great bronze bell. It is not loud, yet somehow it still resonates. Making something in her chest thrum, uplifting and awe-inspiring, and maybe just the tiniest bit frightening too. She suddenly feels impossibly small.

“I…I’m not sure,” she confesses hesitantly, glancing around again, “I was…looking for someone.”

“And you think they might be here?” it asks.

“I don’t know,” Aili admits, “So far, I haven’t been able to find them anywhere. They…they might be dead. Or they might never have existed in the first place. The more I look, the less I feel like I know.”

“What a strange quest to have found yourself on,” the spirit comments, sounding amused, but not mockingly so. As if they find something about her oddities inherently endearing. Like a puppy chasing its tail. “And stranger still that it would lead you so deep into the Dreaming, knocking on the door to my home. You would have done better to seek out Curiosity or Purpose or Wisdom, if you were hoping to find some sort of guidance, little one. Or perhaps even Fortune, if your wish was to improve your chances of success. There is glory to be found in the completion of a journey, even if it does not end the way one might hope, but I confess that I have much more interest in the seekers than the lost things themselves. I am afraid I cannot help you.”

“Then…that means…you…you are-” Aili stammers, her -eyes going wide as saucers.

“I am Glory,” the spirit grins, as if her reaction is to be expected, “I thought you must be seeking me in particular, when I felt you trying to enter this place. There are traces of glory hanging about you, bright golden threads tethering you to something that does not quite exist. It is rare to see in someone so young.”

Aili stares at it until her eyes water, searching for something. Some hint or feature of her lost heart. Glory does not look like Uthvir, of course. And it is difficult to be certain, because the sense of the spirit is so vast and radiant that it nearly seems to swallow everything surrounding them, but…

“I think…I know you,” she breathes out, and it feels like her lungs have been burning to exhale that single sentence for a thousand years.

Glory smiles at her again.

“I can see why you must feel that way,” it tells her gently, “There are so many little sparks of light, threaded through your being, and flooding out into the Dreaming here. The pride you have for your people, the heights you reached for to champion them. The alliance you secured for their sakes, even though it also bought your own happiness. The heady rush of victory in battle, small and large. To save the world. To come home to those waiting arms and lift her up and-”

“Enough!” Aili snaps, suddenly brittle and aching. Glory blinks at her.

“I am…sorry, if I have upset you in some way,” it says slowly, bending down until it is nearly level with her face. It does not sound as though it quite understands what could be troubling her.

“I…have a warning for you,” Aili answers, and the words are ash in her mouth. It smacks of treachery, to sacrifice the possibility of Uthvir’s existence in exchange for Glory’s freedom, but she knows… it is what they would choose. She does not know if that makes it right or not, but perhaps that is as close to knowing as she is going to get. “I cannot be sure when it will happen, perhaps the wheels are in motion as we speak, but… The Evanuris will come for you. They will hunt you down and seal you away for the rest of your days. And… Please. Please, go deep into the Dreaming. Go now, and hide yourself where you can never be reached.”

Very carefully, Glory reaches out one of many hands, extends a single long finger, and traces a path down her cheek. Aili feels as though she is being warmed from the inside out. As though she could move mountains and leap over oceans and stop a wildfire with a wave of her hand all in a single afternoon. She thinks she might be close to tears.

“Do not be distressed, little heart,” the spirit coos at her, “You entered this place because I allowed it. It is safe here. The Glory of the People will linger long after your Evanuris have gone into the deep sleep.”

“But-” she tries, floundering.

“So much sadness, for one so small,” Glory continues, hushing her, “But have courage, there will come a time when you can look back at your achievements and feel joy again. Your heart is righteous and true, and it guides you faithfully. I think perhaps, we shall meet again, little dreamer. …But not here.”

“Wait!” Aili cries out, but it is too late. The spirit pushes her back, away from their haven, and even out of the Dreaming itself. And the next thing she knows, she is jolting awake in her bed.

She pitches a decorative vase across the room in frustration, shattering it against the far wall. ~

A few months later, she is expected to join her mother at the spring festival. The other evanuris journey to the city, ostensibly to enjoy the festivities, but truthfully because there have been more rumors of the Nameless encroaching on their territories, and there has been talk about needing to send an actual force out to crush them. Aili is not permitted to attend the actual political meetings, but there had been a request made by both of her grandparents that she at least be present in the meeting hall to greet them.

Aili still largely lets Sylaise dress her however she pleases; she can understand the importance of needed to make the right impression, and she certainly does not have a knack for following the frivolous trends of the Arlathan upper class. She thinks that her mother almost finds it strangely satisfying, though, no matter how she tuts and sighs and straightens her collar or moves a lock of hair back to where it should be. Her daughter is quite lovely, according to the Arlathan rumor mill, but lovely is not beautiful.

Not like Sylaise.

For her own part, Aili can say that she does not care about her appearance one way or another. And if her lack of perfection is somehow making her mother feel a bit more secure… Well. She can have it.

But her deficiencies do not seem to stop her uncle from staring at her all through the official proceedings with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.

She must not be the only one who had noticed, because the next day, her mother sits her down and begins teaching her how to alter her appearance with magic.

It makes her hyper aware of all her perceived flaws in a way she had never paid much attention to before. The slight crookedness of her front teeth. The fact that her left nostril is just the tiniest bit larger than her right. The sparse spray of freckles across her shoulders from long days of training out in the sun.

It is…strange to be without them. In a way she does not think she likes. Almost like wearing a mask.

There are definite advantages though. To not looking like herself. It makes it that much easier to look in the mirror and not see ghosts. Her father’s eyes. Her mother’s coloring. The echoes of a long-lost dream.

Aili finds that she can grasp the concept of it rather quickly.

The easiest change is her hair. She decides that she prefers it dark, unless her mother presses her to wear it in a different shade to match her outfit for an evening. Her skin shifts easily too, with a little more practice, and she moves away from the tawny golden color she had inherited from her mother, to more of a deep rich olive. And between the two, she hardly recognizes herself.

She never can seem to change the color of her eyes though. ~

Years pass, and Aili takes her place as her mother’s second, advising her and acting as her surrogate whenever needed. She finds that she has a much easier time loving her parents from afar, and spends whatever time she can out in one of the smaller country estates that her mother so rarely deigns to visit. She keeps in close contact with her beloved Aunt Lavellan though, extending whatever help she can to aid her in her efforts for subversion.

They are put somewhat on hold when the war begins.

She wants to fight, to join her aunt out with her father’s troops, but she is still considered young, and her parents will only humor her enough to accompany them to well-fortified campsites, when there is little to no chance of an actual skirmish.

Amidst it all, Aili has done her best to keep an eye on Ghilan’nain and Falon’Din, watching for any signs that they might be in pursuit of Glory at long last. But it is hard to keep track of between troop movements, and shifting supply routes, and building new settlements to provide for followers who have been uprooted by the fighting. Even Lavellan’s agents cannot keep track of everything.

The fighting drags on, long lulls of peace, broken by sudden fierce clashes. Over and over, like waves trying to beat down a range of mountains.

But every time she returns to the city, Arlathan almost seems to exist outside the rest of the world. The Nameless are discussed in hateful whispers, like an inconvenient infestation, instead of a serious threat. Distant and disconnected with anything that might actually change the course of their lives.

When she enters the meeting hall at her mother’s side, her eyes are automatically drawn to the delicate creature standing just behind Falon’Din. Long pale hair like spun sunlight. Smooth golden skin. Small and slight and somehow…lost.

Rage and grief flood the air around her before she even has a chance to form a coherent thought.

“Do not,” her mother warns, reaching over and taking hold of her hand in a way that likely seems purely affectionate from far away. Her grip is fierce. “I know that you have an affection for spirits, but this is a deed that has already been done. Glory has been given a most beautiful form by Ghilan’nain, and Falnon’Din favors them greatly. There are worse fates.”

“Do you really believe that?” Aili wonders, looking up at her frowningly.

“I believe…that sometimes one creature must be called upon to endure hardships so that others may avoid it,” Sylaise says evenly, reaching up and moving one of her daughter’s dark curls back into its proper place, “Let Falon’Din have his prize, so long as it keeps him from seeking another one. A far more precious one.”

Aili ducks her head, a sick churning feeling roiling in her gut. Sylaise catches up her chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“I did ask,” she assures her softly, “I tried to convince him to engage in some sort of trade in exchange for them. I knew it would upset you. Your father and grandparents did as well. Your uncle is much too fixated on the delights of having something that we all so obviously want to take away from him. He will tire of them eventually, as he tires of all things, and then we can attempt to broach new negotiations.”

“Please,” Aili scrapes out in a broken whisper, “Please, help them. Who knows how many years it will take until he will consider giving them away? Who knows what he might do to them in the interim? What if he-”

“I will not start a feud with my brother in the middle of a war,” Sylaise answers sharply, “You are so fixated on sparing them, but consider all the other lives it would put at risk. The followers Falon’Din would sacrifice to bolster his power to win such a fight. Where is you compassion for them?”

“I…” she begins haltingly before bowing her head again, “You are right, of course. Forgive me. I met Glory once, when I was very young. It was kind to me, and I am afraid I have let sentiment cloud my judgement.”

“You never told me that,” Sylaise blinks at her. Aili shrugs despondently and her mother smiles, stroking her hair fondly, “You have a soft heart, my sweet child. But you should not be so quick to let it show. It makes an easy target for loose daggers.”

Her aunt is of a slightly different opinion.

“I am going to kill him,” Lavellan informs her quietly when they are alone in a somewhat secluded corner of the room, her tone casual, as if asking Aili what the weather has been like in Sylaise’s territory as of late. It is the third day of their meetings, and there are less people and less general enthusiasm for the tasks at hand. Falon’Din is still parading his new acquisition around, but he is drawing a noticeably reduced amount of attention for it, and it seems to be irritating him to no small degree.

“Not if I beat you to it,” Aili grates out under her breath, “But in the meantime, something must be done to help Glory.”

“I am open to suggestions,” the General nods, “but this might not be the best place for such a discussion.”

“Of course,” Aili agrees, her eyes still glued on the poor creature as Falon’Din all but drags them across the room. They seem despondent. Confused. Barely capable of stringing together whole sentences.

Her jaw clenches, frustration and sorrow radiating from her in fits and bursts. Lavellan eyes her pensively.

“This…is not just about another abused spirit, is it?” she wonders.

“Do you remember some years ago, when I asked about whether it was right to allow something terrible to happen in order to ensure that someone you love came to exist?” Aili returns.

“I think so?” Lavellan answers slowly.

“Well,” Aili sighs dejectedly, “This…is the terrible thing. I tried to stop it, but it happened anyway. And worse than that… I think it might have happened because of me, in some part.”

Lavellan puts a hand on her shoulder. Steadying.

“At least you do not seem to have made things any worse than they were going to be without you,” she offers, though she does not sound any more comforted by the idea than she expects Aili to be. “I’m sorry, lethallan. Hopefully, we will have better luck with other attempts we make to change how history will unfold.”

“What if it was Solas?” Aili asks pointedly. Lavellan’s eyes move back towards the helpless figure being touted about the room like a prized show pony, and her expression sours further. Her hand twitches towards her blade, as though on reflex.

“I never said we were abandoning them to their fate,” she reminds her firmly, “We will find a way to get them away from him, I promise.”

“In the meantime, I think I shall remind my dear uncle that he cannot, in fact, have everything he wants,” Aili grinds out, her hair already lightening. Her aunt grabs her by the wrist.

“Don’t,” she hisses out, “If he is focused on getting back at you, you’ll have even fewer chances at getting Glory away from him.”

“Precisely,” Aili retorts, finishing her shift back to her natural coloring, but leaving the alterations to her features and complexion, giving her that strangely manufactured sort of beauty that Sylaise favors. “If all his attention is on me, he will not be paying attention to anything you might do. He will be watching my people, not yours. If he raises a hand to me, Elgar’nan will beat him senseless, assuming my mother does not kill him first. He wants to flaunt something that everyone desires and no one else can have, and I intend to flaunt right back.”

“This could backfire spectacularly,” Lavellan points out, “What if this makes everything that much worse for Glory? What if he takes out his frustrations on them when he cannot get at you?”

“…I am not sure I believe anything could make things too much worse for Glory than they already are,” Aili murmurs, “And it could just as easily have the opposite effect. He could get bored of them more quickly, and move on to something else.”

“Are you willing to risk that?” Lavellan wonders.

Aili pauses for a moment, catching her gaze.

“All we can do is try. Fix what can be fixed. Save who can be saved.” ~

The fact that she has altered her coloring is not lost on anyone, least of all Falon’Din, even as he does his best to pretend as though she is beneath his notice. There is also some quite murmuring about the obvious similarities between Sylaise’s child and the Lord of the Dead’s new prize. Aili walks with her head held high, trying to project confidence that she does not quite feel as she approaches the pair of them.

Falon’Din is still acting as though he is unaware of her existence, and she takes advantage of the moment to extend her hand, and trace a single finger down the side of Glory’s cheek. Her heart wrenching at the sight of the bright blue vallaslin scrawled across their face. Spilling out over their features like tears.

“I think I know you,” she tells them softly.

Glory blinks up at her with violet eyes. Not quite the same shade as hers, but noticeably similar. Their expression is glazed, as though drunk or possibly drugged, but they seem to find the wherewithal to meet her eyes when she speaks to them.

Falon’Din’s grip of her hand is crushing.

“Do not touch what is mine,” he hisses out, furious, and clearly barely holding himself back striking her, or something much more. Aili smiles at him, doing her best not to wince. Or rip his arm from his socket and beat him to death with it. But there is collateral damage to consider, including Glory themselves, so she restrains herself.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” she says brightly, venom seeping out around the edges of her tone, “I am curious by nature, as you know. Aunt Ghilan’nain’s work is always so impressive, is it not? To be capable of binding such a powerful spirit and building such a beautiful body for it to inhabit… I find myself almost in awe. She did not get all the details quite right though, did she? The eyes are still a little too blue. Still, I must congratulate her before the meetings conclude; Ghilan’nain’s Glory is a sight to behold.”

“Glory is mine,” Falon’Din all but shrieks.

“Glory cannot simply be given,” Aili snorts in disdain, “Real glory is only for those who earn it. Who seek it out with a true, clear purpose. Who embody the things that it values so much that it comes to them willingly. Ghilan’nain achieved this Glory. All you did was receive a gift.”

Falon’Din raises a hand to strike her-

And Sylaise yanks her back away from him, fire in her eyes, radiating cold fury.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demands, and Aili is not sure which one of them she is talking to. Her uncle seems to find his tongue before she does, though.

“I am teaching her a valuable lesson about insolence,” he snaps.

“She is a child,” Sylaise retorts.

“She is only a child by your warped perceptions,” he snarls back, “She is more than old enough to receive punishment for her actions.”

“She is my child,” Sylaise reiterates through bared teeth, “If anyone is going to punish her, it shall be me, and no one else.”

Falon’Din makes a face, and Aili gets the distinct impression that he is weighing the outcome of starting an all-out brawl in the middle of the meeting hall. His conclusion seems to be that it would not end well for him. He scoffs.

“See that you find the time in that busy schedule of yours to teach her some manners,” he spits out as he storms off, all but dragging Glory in his wake, “Before she offends someone with less magnanimity, and something tragic occurs.” ~

But despite the obvious threat, and several attempts made on her life, including one where she was nearly stabbed during a procession in the streets of Arlathan itself, the only figure who seems to attract tragedy is poor Glory.

Aili does not see them fall, too busy maneuvering her own small portion of her mother’s troops across a different area of the battlefield, it is one of her first major fights, and she is eager to prove herself capable. But she feels it somehow. Down in the marrow of her bones. And she hears the cry that follows. The outrage and fury.

She turns, and breaks formation, trying to fight her way over to where they have fallen, but she is too far away.

She comes for them after. When the main body of the army has withdrawn and there is no one left on the field but the dead and the dying. And the carrion birds circling overhead.

As gently as she can, she pulls the shaft of the black arrow from their back and seals the wound with healing magic, turning them over in her arms and caressing their face. Not dead. Not yet. But close. Closer than she would like.

She gathers as many fragments of the shattered spirit as she can find, and lifts Glory’s body in her arms as though they weigh nothing. Hastily making her way towards where she knows some of Lavellan’s agents are waiting.

“Stop!” a voice calls out, and she turns her head to see three scouts approaching, all bearing Ghilan’nain’s markings. “Our lady wishes that the body of her failed experiment should be returned to her for study. We have been ordered to remove them from the battlefield.”

Aili pulls away her helmet so they can see her face. Free of any vallaslin. The symbols of Sylaise scrawled over the shapes of her armor, bright as moonlight. She scowls at them as they seem to put two and two together and realize who they have been shouting at.

“You are free to take them from me, if you can,” she offers simply, continuing on her way.

She changes directions a few times, wandering about until she is sure she is not being followed before doubling back and seeking out her aunt’s people.

“Here,” she says, passing the limp body into one of the agent’s arms, “You are…Desire, yes? My aunt told me you would be the one to help them. I was seen taking the body away, which means Falon’Din and Ghilan’nain’s eyes will be on me. Keep them away from Sylaise’s territory. Find somewhere secure in my father’s lands. His voice has been largely quiet on this matter, and they will not suspect him.”

Desire looks as though she is caught somewhere between bursting into tears and vomiting. Aili can hardly blame her. She takes the pouch of spirit shards from her hip and passes it to her.

“This was all there was left of them,” she informs her quietly. “I am…so sorry.” ~

The years pass much as they always do. Armor and battles. Fine dresses and festivals. Mountains of tedious paperwork to ensure that her mother’s territory runs smoothly. Especially in the more rural areas she is most likely to overlook.

She has no word of Glory.

Aili insisted that it be that way, for their safety. And because she does not know what sort of strange effect she might have had on them, if she had been the one to shape their views of the world. If her obvious devotion would somehow be misconstrued as an obsession similar to Falon’Din’s.

The spring festival arrives in Arlathan again, and her mother insists, as she always does, that she attend.

She is in an outfit that makes her feel like a walking rosebush more than anything else. Live flowers blooming across the top of her gown, bright blushing pink and dark velvety crimson, offset with threads of gold and touches of starlight all tumbling down into a gauzy green skirt. Her hair is a loud flaming red, and her skin is pale, as though suggesting she is merely another type of rose.

The damn train on this dress is an absolute menace.

She spots them standing near the General, out in one of the open courtyards in front of one of the Pleasure houses. Melarue’s if she is not mistaken. She does not spend much time here herself, unless there is some function going on in the city, but it is difficult to know anything of the Pleasure District without hearing their name.

Aili hears her heart thundering roughly in her chest as she walks over to them, attempting to act casual. They look younger, brighter somehow, than she remembers. They wear their hair in a slightly different fashion and, the biggest difference of all, the vallaslin written across their face is done in copper instead of red. June’s vallaslin.

“Aunt Lavellan,” she greets, pressing forward for a brief embrace, made somewhat awkward between all of her leafy bits of finery and the shapes of the General’s armor. Her eyes shift to her companion and she nearly swallows her tongue. They will not be the same, she reminds herself. They will not know her. “And who is this?”

“My name is Uthvir, my lady,” they say with a courteous bow, “I have the honor of serving your father as a cartographer.”

“A fine and noble profession,” she commends.

“Thank you, my lady,” they reply with another inclination of their head.

Silence blooms between them. Lavellan gives her a look. Uthvir blinks at her. And for her own part, Aili finds herself at a complete loss for words.

I think I know you, she nearly blurts out. She can see the same features that she fell in love with. Their nose. Their chin. Their eyes. The face of her spouse.

The face of her beloved daughter.

Instead she tugs a rose off of her dress, a red one, and hands it to them.

“You should dance with me some time,” she tells them instead, smiling faintly and hoping they do not catch the slight waver in her voice, “When you are feeling brave.”

#aili lavellan #uthvir #lavellan #hot mess au #fic #*SCREAMS*#FINALLY #I AM FREE #FREEEEEEEEEE #the sharp one likes your shine!

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