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gerbiloftriumph · 3 years

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The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3)

His name was Gwydion--but that wasn't his name. He lived in Llewdor--but that wasn't his home.

Alexander escapes Manannan's grasp and flees to Daventry, hoping he might find a place that he might call home after years of loss and loneliness. While Daventry embraces him, loves him, shows him all the stories it has within it, the country is also suffering under the worst winter in memory. But it might not just be a hard season: there might be something out there, something chasing the lost prince. Something malevolent, intent on destroying the kingdom snowflake by snowflake, spreading a curse across the lands and infecting its king.

(Or: I don't like how King's Quest 2015's Chapter 4 played out, so I've rewritten the whole thing to fit my headcanons and character desires.)

~*~*~

1/8

(1: Found Family)

~*~*~

Gwendolyn was smiling when she walked into his room, but Graham, after decades of being king, could tell when someone’s expression was false. It wasn’t especially hard in this case. He could see tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. She kept up the brave face right until the point when he spoke his first words to her that day: “Do you want to talk about it?”

She froze, one foot in the air. “Talk about...?” she said, with forced nonchalance.

“Whatever you like. But I think you have something specific on your mind.”

And that was all it took for her carefully drawn face to crumple.

“I just don’t get it. Everything seems to make Gart mad these days,” she said, sinking into the chair by the bed. “I can’t seem to do anything right. He keeps yelling at me.”

“Oh, is that what I heard this morning?” Graham tried to get her to smile with him, but she was looking away, twisting the strings of her hood through her fingers like a little net. “Sweetling, can you tell me what he’s yelling about?”

“I don’t wanna say,” she said, her face buried in her knees now as she drew herself up into a ball on the chair. Her voice was muffled. She looked like she was shrinking into herself, like she didn’t want to take up any space at all, like she wanted to hide. She looked so much like Alexander in that moment that Graham felt his breath catch: he could so easily see his son curled up in a corner of the ice cell, shivering and wanting to disappear, certain that he had led the kingdom to destruction just by existing.

"Here, now. Have I ever told you a story about your father?”

~*~*~*~

It was snowing both outside and inside Daventry castle.

Outside: that was perfectly normal. It was the end of the year, the lazy autumn finally reaching its end and the snows starting to build up. This was the first proper, heavy storm. Flakes pelted the windows, which were shuttered against the cold. Colorful tapestries had been drawn over the frames, darkening the corridors but keeping the place relatively cozy and comfortable despite the bone deep cold ache seeping out of the exterior stone walls. Wind whistled through the high crenellations, furiously whipping the flakes high against the towers before letting them fall gracefully into heaps that the royal guards would have to shovel out of the way later.

Inside: well, after eighteen years, that was kind of normal, too. Paperwork snowed up in its own sorts of drifts, covering the floor and audience chairs in the throne room. Paperwork that Graham had been ignoring.

He’d been doing okay. Eighteen years was a long time. Or, at least, so he told himself. The hole that Manannan had left when he’d ripped Alexander from his cradle eighteen years ago, stolen the prince of Daventry, leaving the taste of a broken lullaby on Graham’s lips—that hole never filled, but sometimes it was easier to ignore. If he didn’t think about it. And Graham had Rosella to take care of, his beautiful clever daughter, and Valanice to take care of him, his wise, confident wife, and he in turn cared for her, and for his country, to help the land and the people on it grow, tending to it just as the farmers tended the fields. Daventry needed him to be strong.

And he was strong. Mostly.

But, at the end of the year, when the seasons ticked over and the date changed with a finality and a clang...it all came rushing back. The sharp loss. The searches. The failures. Again and again, the failures. Eighteen years come and gone and nothing to show for them. The wizard had just vanished from the earth with his captive as far as the royal family could tell.

Somehow, at the end of every year, Graham’s arms felt weak, and his head ached, and his heart hurt. Even though Valanice understood, even though she held him close and they wept together for what they had lost, around them the demands of the kingdom kept endlessly pressing. After eighteen years, they had to finally accept that Alexander would never come home.

Rosella, his dear sweet princess daughter, carried them through the winter seasons. She learned closely from her tutors, always asking why the kingdom was doing something one way and not doing something another way. She had suitors to meet, plans to make. She, more than the council, more than the guards, more than anyone, seemed to keep Daventry on track when the year ended and the next year (the next year of failure) began. When Graham felt at a loss, overwhelmed (how could he lead a country when he couldn’t even protect his family), Rosella picked up some of the loss.

She had started attending council meetings too young. At first, it had been cute, even a little funny, to see her golden hair bobbing at the table. She had carried a stack of heavy addenda books to her chair herself so that she could sit on top of them and stare imperiously over the councilors. Graham hadn’t the heart to tell her to leave, and she made her attendance a habit. She started figuring processes out, and over the years she started to offer tolerable ideas, and then impressive ones. Sitting at council so young, so fanciful and creative, she was able to twist policy with fantasy with abandon. Without the careful thought that adults had to put into every sentence. It gave her wild confidence. Planted ideas in her head that Graham was mildly sure weren’t exactly princess-like.

But after all, the Cracker family was new to royalty. Who was to say what a Cracker Princess should be?

It wasn’t fair, perhaps, like it was taking away part of her childhood. But Rosella was determined to do what she wanted, and what she wanted was to be a part of Daventry in every single way like her father. Ruling and adventuring in almost the same breath. She went to council, and then she went tree climbing. And then she came to council the next day with her arm in a sling after daring to climb too high. Royal Guard Number One despaired, unable to keep her in check.

But this year was different. She would be turning eighteen soon. Eighteen was an important age. Eighteen was the age Graham had joined the royal knighthood of Daventry, found his path, changed his future.

Eighteen.

She was distracted, and understandably. She was going for walks more and more often out in the tangled forest paths. Sometimes the family came with her, especially in the springtime when the new year’s fear wore away and fresh life started poking out from the cold dirt. Although, her birthday (her twin Alexander’s birthday) was in the spring, and that brought its own pain.

She was probably on a walk somewhere now, Graham thought. He wandered through the sheaves of paperwork piled high as his nose in some places, flipping a sheet here, reading one there, sticking another in his cloak pocket for closer examination later. He wished he was with her too, with Valanice at his side, breathing that crisp Daventry winter chill.

He daydreamed about the route. The promise of hot chocolate and snowberry pie from Wente’s bakery, maybe a new order of cozy woolen socks and blankets from Acorn to stave off the chill, with a detour to Amaya’s warm smithy to sit by the forge and talk about the latest order of rust-resistant armor on order for the royal guards. And then, maybe, by himself, a longer turn by the old well, past the plaque commemorating a brave knight lost, listening to the crunch and crackle of snow under his boots. Just because. Just in case someone had returned to the underground caverns. A boy (a man, now) with hair as dark as Graham’s had been at that age.

He chased the thought away, settled down in his throne, skimmed another page without reading it, wondered if he could order another cup of cider or if Valanice would swat him for putting more sweets in his rounding tummy. She was here, too, somewhere in the hills of paperwork. It was Valanice who had insisted that they clear some of the work before the year end, who insisted they couldn’t sink into the usual sorrows. She herself had hauled the papers into the throne room rather than his office so that he couldn’t ignore them. She would give him a solid (albeit playful) smack if she caught him with one of Wente’s oversweetened ciders. Maybe later.

“Dad?”

Rosella was back from her walk. She had dragged in some boy with her, some scruffy teen half covered in frozen mud, with snowflakes melting in his hair. The lad was staring at the throne, at the crown on the pedestal nearby, at the magic mirror (fuzzy and dark these last eighteen years as though cursed, although Graham realized with a sudden start that the colors had returned to it sometime recently when he hadn’t been paying attention). The boy was swaying dizzily. He looked exhausted, poor thing. Graham stood, stuffing the addenda back in his cloak pocket. “Welcome, young man, to Daventry Castle.”

“Dad?” Rosella repeated. Her voice cracked.

Valanice’s head poked up from somewhere in the stacks, like a rabbit in a burrow. “Oh! You look dead on your feet, dear boy. Might we offer you some tea, or maybe even a blanket?” She struggled out of the snowdrifts of paper, dress catching on piles and pulling them after her in little avalanches.

“D-Dad?”

That one...that wasn’t Rosella speaking. That was...the boy. The scruffy filthy lost looking...eighteen-year-old boy...with raven black hair....

The smile froze on Graham’s lips, faded. His heart beat in his ears so hard that it hurt, that he couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t hear the paper sliding out of its heaps as he knocked it over in his haste to get by, couldn’t hear his footsteps pounding over the carpet, couldn’t hear the sudden burbling laughter pouring out of his own mouth, couldn’t hear Valanice’s shriek and scramble over the rustling, slippery sheets, couldn’t hear Rosella’s frantic explanation, couldn’t hear Alexander’s voice for the first time in eighteen years.

But he felt the boy in his arms as they went for an embrace. Valanice’s arms wrapped around his own as they gently, so gently, afraid of crushing the boy, afraid of frightening him away like a bird, like a ghost, like a dream, held him together.

Alexander squirmed under their grip after a few seconds, apparently not used to contact no matter how soft, and the family backed away, gave him space, let him breathe, and they all stared at each other, unable to think, unable to talk.

“I think...I’m back,” Alexander said, and then his knees buckled beneath him and he went down in a heap, and the whole family reached out and caught him, and everything was different and everything had changed, but the weather didn’t pay any attention, and the snow fell even harder, swirling into drifts and making the royal guards, as unaware as the weather, sigh and clutch their shovels.

~*~*~*~

Days whirled past relentlessly.

Questions, answers, suspicions. Joy, relief, apprehension, fear. No one knew quite what to do. This was unprecedented.

Graham and Valanice hovered anxiously over the boy as he regained his strength. They were impossible to tear away from his bedside, huddled together while the boy slept, fielding more questions from staff and citizens themselves than the boy himself answered. Valanice even took to strapping her old short sword around her hip as though she would have to take up some defense of him (from Manannan, or goblins in the night, or assassins, who could say?). But the more the color returned to the boy’s sallow cheeks the more he looked like his parents. The nervous whispers in the halls about imposters faded away.

“As though I wouldn’t know myself,” Valanice fretted, twirling the ends of her hair on her fingers. “Completely unfounded rumors.”

“Yes, but they don’t know you as well as I do,” Graham said, and he kissed the tip of her nose.

Once he was deemed well enough to talk, Alexander answered everything posed to him, though often without the detail they sought. He said where he had come from (Llewdor) and how he had gotten to Daventry (hidden amongst the crates and baskets of a pirate ship). He said what he had been made to do (keep house for the wizard), but he wouldn’t explain more, and no one wanted to push him.

Except on one detail, a detail that hovered over their heads like a black cloak. The most important detail.

“Will the wizard be coming back?” Royal Guard Number One pressed. He still remembered the attack, still remembered the violence. The fear of that night, and of all nights after.

“If he does, he’ll have a hard time doing much more than scratching,” the prince replied. And he didn’t (or maybe couldn’t) explain more than that. Not yet. No1 seemed frustrated, but a sharp glance from Graham made him subside, for now.

Alexander—sometimes he responded to his name, more often he didn’t, still used to that Gwydion name Manannan had forced on him—was quiet, and tried to take up as little space as possible. But he seemed to want to be helpful. As soon as he was allowed to leave his sickbed, he started searching for chores. He was often found outside trying to feed the chickens, and the servants had once caught him pawing through the broom closet looking for a bucket and mop.

“You don’t have to earn your place here,” Valanice told him gently. She reached out as though she wanted to sweep his unruly forelock, so like her husband’s bouncy curls, out of his eyes, but she held back when he flinched ever so slightly.

“Of course not, Ma’am—er, Mom. Still, though, do you think they need help sweeping the throne room?”

At his first presentation to the public, hastily gathered together as a means to silence rumors still floating around the kingdom, he stood uncomfortably next to his family, shifting awkwardly and blushing at the attention, candlelight glinting off his wary eyes. He ducked out at the first moment possible. No one saw him again for the rest of the night—he was good at finding little nooks and alcoves and burying himself in them, entirely out of sight.

Rosella, though, was determined. The Feys had brought Alexander hot chocolate during his days spent recovering from that terrible sea voyage, and while Alexander wouldn’t admit it, she could tell that he loved it. One chilly evening not long after the presentation, she invited Wente to the castle kitchens. She helped him mix up a fresh batch, getting melty chocolate chunks everywhere in the process (accompanied by No1’s barely muffled groans of annoyance when he walked past and saw chocolate halfway up the walls). She plonked two steaming mugs on a tray, covered them to keep them hot, and went in search of her brother.

Always searching, even after he’s been found.

As it happened, he was in his room.

It was a lovely room, near hers. It was always meant to be his, but it had sat sad and empty and dusty for eighteen years. They’d swept it, cleaned it, and let him have it as a blank canvas to do as he wished with. Which...he hadn’t done much. Guest rooms were richer with cozy decor than the crown prince’s room.

She knocked gently, pushed open the door, and found her brother kneeling on the floor by the bed, looking at something. He twisted to face her, shoving whatever it was behind him, yanked the bedspread down, smiled unevenly. Fear gleamed in his eyes. She leaned sideways, peering around him. A scarf trailed out from beneath the bed.

“Isn’t that the scarf Acorn made you?” she asked.

“Is what?” Alexander said with false cheerfulness. He kicked out behind him, and the scarf vanished under the bed.

“Are you hiding it? You don’t have to, I’ve seen it, it’s a nice one. He makes tons of them, says it helps him relax. You should wear it, it’ll be warm.” She put the tray on the (bare) desk and knelt beside him. She reached forward under the blanket, not actually bothering to look where she was reaching, and he made no move to stop her.

But instead of the scarf, her fingers felt something hard. A box? She gripped it, tugged it, but it was stuck, so she pulled harder. It popped free and caused an avalanche of clattering, rattling, dinging noises under the bed.

She glanced at Alexander, who now looked hopelessly guilty, and studied the box in her hands. It held a silver inkwell and quill, delicately engraved with looping vines. “Normally, people put these on their desk,” she said.

“Do they? I mean. Of course they do. Because they’re normal people. And I’m a normal person, too.”

Rosella pushed the blanket aside, revealing a veritable treasure trove. Gifts glittered in the candlelight, things the kingdom had cheerfully given to its lost prince. Welcome home cards, and cups, and papers, and embroidered pillows, and small tapestries, and hats and gloves, and a cloak, and an ornate dagger, and pressed flowers from warmer times, and other odds and ends that didn’t seem to have a use except in some esoteric way that only Alexander understood. His crown was under there, too, a slim golden circlet he was supposed to wear during official occasions but could otherwise be ignored. She dropped the blanket, hiding the inventory again.

Alexander was twisting his fingers together. “Please, don’t tell...I...”

Rosella took his hand in hers. It was cold. She pulled him so that he sat on the bed next to her, and then she pressed one of the hot chocolate mugs into his shaking fingers. Then, ever so carefully, she leaned against him. Lightly, so he could shrug away if he didn’t want her to touch him. He tensed, and then, just as carefully, leaned back, so that they propped each other up. The twins sipped their hot chocolate together. The torches in the hall snapped and popped, but otherwise the room was quiet.

Once the mugs were empty, Rosella said, “I can help you decorate, if you like. There’re some nice tapestries under there. It’ll be warmer in here with them up. If you don’t like the designs, I can help you swap them.”

Alexander didn’t say anything. He held his empty cup in both hands, swirling the dregs of chocolate.

She stuck her finger in the bottom of her own mug, dragged it through the remnants, and licked it away. Alexander shyly did the same, and then smiled. The first one she’d seen from him, she was sure. His eyes were still a little uneasy, a little guarded and suspicious, but he nodded. “I would like that. It does get a bit cold up here.”

“I think I saw a blanket from Acorn under there, too,” she said. “Maybe we could get that, if you want. It might be more comfortable in here with it.”

Alexander hesitated, then reached under the bed and pulled out the box with the inkwell in it. “And you can show me where to set this up? Like I’m supposed to, like a normal person.”

“Normal in this castle is relative,” she said, putting her hand on top of the box. “It can go anywhere you like. Which can include your desk.”

He thought about it, and then nodded. “That makes the most sense for it. On the desk. And. And, maybe...we can put out the pillows.” He swallowed and backtracked, glancing at the door as though expecting someone to be watching, judging, ready to take away his few treasures again. “Um. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“I think that would be a nice idea. Are you still okay with putting up tapestries tonight?”

“Um. Could...?” he stopped, looked down.

“Could?” she prompted.

“Could we have another hot chocolate, first, and then...you help me pick out the right ones?”

“Absolutely.”

#the goal is for you to read valanice as either vee or neese depending on your personal choices in ch3--she's more wholly here #ohhhh we startin ohhh man we startin i've been talking about doing this for like three years and we finally startin #haven't quite decided a publishing schedule yet even tho it's done #kings quest #King's Quest #fic'ing #ch4 #King Graham #alexander (king's quest)#neese #vee #rosella (king's quest)#you'll see a couple gerbils in written form here and there; i've been nurturing these headcanons for ages #Gwendolyn (king's quest)

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crearuru · 3 years

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The Color of Affection, part 3

Pairing: marthadelle (martha x adelle), bravely default 2

Wordcount: 3,662

Adelle had dressed for the cold, thank to Martha's coat, but she was fortunate enough not to have to deal with another blizzard. The smaller monsters on the way to the Frosty Forest were simple enough, but guarding the entrance to the grove was a Goliath; grotesque, massive, mutated mounds of pink and purple flesh, said to be formed from piles of corpses of those who died on the battlefield. This one must be from the First War of the Heavensbow... What was that, a hundred years back? Two hundred? Edna had mentioned wars as something that humans did, and Lady Esmeralda oft warned of how violent humans could be, but her sister was always hesitant to describe in detail their aftermath. Looking at the Goliath, Adelle could see why. Such gory details would've only stirred up even more worry about humans, and Adelle knew her sister wasn't keen on dissuading the residents of Mag Mell from human interaction any more than they already were.

Adelle steeled herself, wishing to take this enemy out while making as little contact as possible. Her sword was definitely the way to go, if she didn't want to catch Contagion. She analyzed where the connective tissue binding the monstrosity together lay, hoping to incapacitate the creature by amputating it without rupturing any of the purple boils littering its body. The smell of battle was going to be awful...

Initiating a surprise attack only after the creature's back was turned, she stabbed her longsword deep into the back of its right arm, and then used her weight as leverage to slice the blade through. The Goliath roared, Sickly Spittle dripping from its maw. It swung around to see whatever had attacked it from behind, but Adelle's sword was stuck fast, and she clung to it for dear life. The momentum from such a large foe kept Adelle spinning, and with a sickening snap the tendons holding together the creature's arm were severed, sending Adelle careening about thirty feet away, faceplanting in the snow. Stabbing her sword downward and using it to pull herself up, she realized the Goliath had seen her... and it was NOT pleased, to say the least. It charged her, and she realized she would not get another opportunity to disassemble this unholy monument to violence, and so she waited. The beast was 20 feet away now. 10. Right as the beast lunged for her, she jumped up, landing upon its "head" (if such a thing could be said to truly have a head as we would recognize it) with a downwards stab. It flailed blindly, for a moment, but it could not right itself with its arm removed, and so, after a minute of thrashing, the beast fell apart, to dust. It left no items behind.

That's one source of Contagion the world won't be needing to worry about anymore... Cleaning off her weapons in the snow, and dusting off her hands, Adelle made her way inside the Frosty Forest.

The paths wound back and forth, though it wasn't as confusing as the Wayward Woods had been set up to be. The skeleton mercenaries did not seem to notice her, and the Coppices were easily avoided once you knew what to look for, although Adelle had indeed learnt what to look for the hard way. Crossing a fallen tree that had long ago settled into its role as a makeshift bridge, she followed more winding paths until she reached the innermost part of the forest. She was tired from her fights with the lesser monsters, as well as the Goliath, but at least she was warm.

Looking around, Adelle spotted the calmagrass, as expected. It was the only thing resembling grass in the frigid terrain, so it wasn't hard to miss. At least Martha hadn't sent her into a trap. That's a 100% success rate on humans not luring her into a trap so far! That surely bode well, yes? All humans could stand to be more like Martha, or at least, Adelle thought so.

After gathering up a bundle about the size of a folded winter coat, Adelle set back to the Serpent's Grotto mostly without incident... Mostly. She heard voices as she approached the cave, and, fearing a potential confrontation, hid beside the entrance to the cave in such a manner as to not be visible to those exiting.

"I trust there have been no... problems, Guardian Martha?" The voice was drawn out, sounding not unlike an instruments whose strings were pulled too taut. It was a deeper voice than she was used to hearing, from fairies or from Martha, and so she presumed this might be an example of a "male"? The voice certainpy presented itself with a mightier-than-thou inflection. Adelle wasn't sure if it was all male humans who were like that, or just this one, but the voice sounded... Snakelike.

Martha sighed. The new Bishop, Helio, was pressing her for details. How he would've made the rank of Bishop so quickly without understanding that the Grotto was not a streetcorner for gossip, Martha did not know, but he was certainly acting the fool. "No, Bishop Helio, there have been no issues." She did not trust the new man with information of Master Gwydion's injury. Helio practically had TROUBLE writ across his face, in big bold letters. But, he was a fellow priest of high-rank, despite his relatively recent arrival, and a certain respect was due.

"Are you sure? Archbishop Dominec says that the Lord of Dragons has to communicate to him through the ether now, due to failing health. It would be a shame if any harm were to befall the savior of Rhimedhal." The man's face was drawn up in a false smile. He knew he was riling her up.

Martha winced. She had been meaning to tell the Archbishop, but was waiting on supplies for the Master first. She could not leave His side to communicate to others His wishes.

"I'm telling you, Bishop Helio, everything is under control. I'll not let anything bad happen to the Master if I have anything to say about it."

"Are you sure that a... woman, of your make, can really do much? It just seems that I should be able to assign someone more-"

Martha's spear was at the Bishop's neck before he could finish his sentence. She didn't have to put up with this.

"Might I remind you, Bishop, that my father was the Guardian before me. I'll not see his legacy tarnished, I assure you. Now run along before you wake the Master." As she said that, she pressed the spear ever so gently against the Bishop's neck, with enough control to draw only a pinprick of blood. "I must remind you that you are to afford your peers the same respect afforded to them by their positions as you yours." A smile, as she cocked her head. The slight edge to her voice softened, the words she spoke rang like bells as she bid the Bishop: "Now, have a nice day, and a safe trip back to town."

Helio's outward composure was cool and calm, but on the inside, he felt a fury that could not be put into words. This rough, coarse woman is in over her head. As soon as he got the seeds of his plan settled into the hearts of Rhimedhal's citizens, he would have the last laugh. As for now, it would be best to watch himself. Martha carried more sway in Rhimedhal than he did... for now.

"Thank you very much for your... hospitality, Guardian Martha. I apologize for my trespasses. May the Lord of Dragons preserve thee." He took a step backwards, then two more, turning around only when out of the immediate range of Martha's spear.

Once the stranger was gone, the gleam of his golden neck adornment nowhere to be found, Adelle slowly crept out of hiding and into the entrance of the cave. She caught a glance of chestnut hair round a corner into the cavern, and as she quickened her pace, accidentally kick a loose pebble.

Martha, thinking Helio may have come back to harangue her some more, turned on her heel, prepared to give a "lecture" of her own, when she saw Adelle's startled face looking back at her. Martha eased her grip on her spear, and the irritation writ upon her face was quickly cast away in favor of the familiar smile Adelle knew.

"What was that all about, Martha? Who was that?"

Ugh. Martha didn't want to think about the Bishop a moment longer than neccessary. Leading Adelle back towards Master Gwydion's chamber, she figured she owed at least some explanation. "Just a pain in my rear, questioning me because he's got it in his head that he needs to make some big, sweeping changes now that he's got himself appointed Bishop. At least he took a break from rambling on about the 'fairy menace' he's always playing up to the townsfolk. 'Menace' my ass. No one's seen a fairy in hundreds of years!"

Adelle's lips were drawn taut. So, there were humans that still hated fairies. It's true no fairies had left Mag Mell in centuries, save for... the Queen, but humans truly called fairies a menace? At least Martha seemed not to put too much stock in that belief...

"Despite being a mercenary, I haven't travelled all that much yet. Is this 'fairy menace' something most settlements believe is a problem?" Adelle did her best to keep her voice steady. She seemed to be doing a pretty good job...

"Oh, heavens no! It's a load of rubbish that most nations don't put any stock into. When Helio started bringing it up to the town, he had Archbishop Dominec eating out of the palm of his hand. Made him Bishop soon enough. Though, I'm certain he must have other qualities that make him suitable for the position. It's just... strange, is all. Him being promoted so quickly, I mean. I know I've mostly kept to myself in this sacred place, all these years, but you'd think I would've met Helio while I still lived in the capital, while my father tended the Grotto. Never heard the name 'til he started making a stir of things."

Martha didn't say this, but she had read up on fairies, as a child. The children in town used to play games involving 'flight' that had to be shut down pretty quickly. Said they wanted to fly like fairies, whose grace was said to be otherworldly. Oh, Galahad sure was entertaining, being so stern when his sister Gladys would jump down the stairs. Until the incident with their parents, Martha remembered having fun with the rest of them...

It was a shame, truly. There were rumors of a cloaked figure, dagger in hand, lurking around the property. But their parents didn't make it. Throats slashed, in their sleep, red rivers running out the door and down the stairs. Galahad and Gladys had been out late that night, playing fairies, jumping off of forts of packed snow, into the fresh white mounds below. The poor dears came back only to find that accursed trail. They alerted the guards, who followed it, but then when they saw it came out the open door of their home... Galahad was sent away. Gladys was still in town, but...

The children stopped playing fairies after that. It was around that timeframe Martha's da died, and she moved out to Serpent's Grotto. She heard from Gladys once in a while. That someone was putting posters of fairies up around town. More disappearances. They had stopped, about a decade ago. Martha hoped the town was safe again. It should be, right? With more priests to keep the peace?

Adelle, for her part, was too consumed in thought of her own to interrupt Martha's long, contemplative pause. Were humans still afraid? Would they kill her if they knew? Would they kill her if they didn't know? Just how violent were they? Why had her sister expressed such a fondness for them?

Adelle looked at Martha again, and she knew. She knew why the fondness remained. Her chestnut hair, her stunning smile, her emerald eyes, the softness of her skin... Though, there was another color in those eyes...

They reached the Lord of Dragons' chamber. Martha made to examine Gwydion's wounds.

"You brought the calmagrass back. This... should be enough. Thank you, Adelle." Martha resolved to dwell less upon the past, for the time being. She had more than enough time to think on it when she was alone; she needn't sully time with company present. It was such a precious rarity.

Adelle handed over the bundle of calmagrass, and Martha set aside about half of it, then half again of that. She brought it to the stovetop, lit the fire, filled the pot with water from the falls in the back of the chamber. As she set the grass to boil, a minty smell began to permeate the room.

"It smells like... Mint?"

"Definitely doesn't TASTE like mint, I assure you." Gwilym's piped up. "The texture of the paste is almost as bad."

"Oh, Gwilym, there's no need to raise such a fuss. It's not like you're the one who will be taking the medicine." Martha smiled as she pet the top of Gwilym's head for a moment, then sat beside the pot, stirring it every once in a while to ensure the calmagrass didn't stick to the sides.

"So is it to be taken orally, or..?" Adelle wasn't quite sure on how the medicine was to be prepared. It couldn't hurt to learn how.

"It can be taken orally, or applied as a salve. Though, to be safe, I tend to give both kinds of dose when the Master grows ill. It's been a while since the last time he took it, though." Martha looked over to Gwydion at that, the concern on her face writ clear as day. Adelle hoped that all humans might be so empathetic. She wouldn't hold her breath, though.

An hour passes, then another as the two sit, both trying to forget about Helio. Adelle told her companion a story about the time she got stuck in the branches of a tree and couldn't get out until someone noticed the rustling of branches and muttered cursing. Martha, in turn, told Adelle some of the details of the children playing fairies. She left out the more gruesome details, but Adelle seemed... uncertain, hearing about fairies.

If Adelle had indeed looked to be uncertain, well, that would be because she was. How could humans forget the conflict of the Night's Nexus, the very thing which drove fairies into hiding? Were the humans just forgetful, or... or was it that the positive memories of fairies outweighed their perception of danger? Could it be that hatred of fairies was instilled later in life, or was it just a recent development in this region? And what of other regions, would they kill her on sight? Was Martha just exceptionally kind, or was she indicative of the greater portion of humans? The man she heard earlier certainly didn't seem very friendly...

"Adelle? Did I say something wrong?" Martha had gently placed her hand on Adelle's shoulder, in a gesture seemingly meant to comfort her. Adelle shook her head.

"No, I'm just... Interested in fairies, I suppose. Is the Lord of Dragons' paste ready? I still need to ask about my sister."

"Yes, it's just about done. A moment, please." Martha had set about cooling the pot about twenty minutes prior. What was once a hunk of wet calmagrass had settled into a white, gelatinous paste, with flecks and strips of green scattered throughout it. She took a handful of the calmagrass she set aside earlier and approached Gwydion.

"Master Gwydion, it's time for your medicine." The massive dragon stirred, trails of smoke rising from his nostrils.

"Is it time, already? It seems as though I fell asleep such a short while ago..." Stretching out his wings, Gwydion revealed a great sore along the side of his chest. Martha set the raw calmagrass on a stone before him, that he might not suffer the indignity of being hand fed in old age. As he set about attempting to sweep the bitter medicine up with his tongue, Martha began applying the salve to the sore. With this, the dragon winced, before easing back into slumber.

Adelle sat in silence for about half an hour, watching Martha diligently apply and massage the salve into the wound without pause. She wondered as to how best integrate herself in the areas the Lord of Dragons might point her towards. Hopefully it would be somewhere a bit warmer.

The dragon's head rose once more, a rumble emanating from his chest into the stone which comprised the cavern. "You, stranger. You have come to ask of your sister?"

"My sister Edna, yes."

"A moment, then." Gwydion attuned himself to the mountains, feeling the snow, the wind, the cold; he was his domain, as his domain was he. He felt the bones of the earth, mineral desposits stretching deep into the mountains, into the stone below. He heard the wind's whispers, the thud of snow collapsing a tree's branch. The trace of powerful magic, having left but not long ago. Yes, he knew where Edna had gone.

"Your sister has been making quite a journey around these parts. Go to the town of Enderno, west from the southern bridge. You will find supplies there. Or you might go west, to Rhimedhal's capital. If you go to Enderno, you should head further still to the south, to Wiswald. She has been passing these 'heirlooms' around, it would seem."

Adelle bowed to the dragon, appreciative of his help. "Thank you for your help. I'll be going now."

"Adelle wait. Before you go, I..." Martha looked to have reluctantly accepted her time with Adelle was nearly done for the foreseeable future. But she had promised something to her friend. "I promised you, if you brought me the calmagrass, that I would show you something. Before you go, I'd like to make good on that promise, if you've the time."

"I may have the time. What is it?"

"We'll need to wait just a moment longer. The stars should be out soon."

It was late in the day, Adelle thought. I'd already be getting a late start on the day's travels; waiting a bit longer won't kill me. Not with Martha, I don't think.

And so the two waited. As the sun set, they bundled up together, each enjoying the feeling of the other beside them, close, and warm. Another bottle of firewine hadn't hurt things, either.

"The stars should be out now. Follow me." As Martha stood, she pulled Adelle up by her hand, the two leaving the cave together, each with an arm around the other.

"Might I lift you, Adelle?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh just answer the question, silly."

"...You may."

Martha swept Adelle off her feet, and with tremendous force pushed off from the ground, sending the two of them skyward. She was excited to show Adelle what the world looked like from up high.

Adelle hadn't thought Martha could jump this high. She must've been limited by the indoor nature of the cave during our fight. It was surprising to see a human who was able to understand the beauty of soaring through the air, not a care in the world. The wind on your face, cold as it was (though the warmth of Martha's chest she was held tight against helped tremendously with the cold, even despite her armor.) The view of the ground zooming past you, the ruffling of your clothes in the breeze, the way the stars remained just out of reach... Adelle had a feeling the next set of humans she met weren't going to have such a mastery of the skies. Perhaps Martha's skills... not, not perhaps. There was no mistaking that Martha's jumps were a result of training with an Asterisk. It would explain her questionable choice of attire, as well. But... she couldn't take flight from Martha. Perhaps the only human she would ever meet who could grasp flight.

"It's... beautiful, isn't it Martha?"

"Yeah... It is. Have you ever seen anything like it?" Martha clutched Adelle ever tighter against her as they fell to the ground, immediately jumping once more.

"You could say that...~"

"What do you mean, could say that?"

"Hey, I've been spilling the beans about my life for a good day or so. A woman has to keep a little bit of mystery about her, right?"

The coy wink Adelle gave drove Martha batty. She may never know what Adelle meant, but the happiness on her face at the majesty of the winter mountains' majesty was undeniable. The two leapt and bounded across the peaks, the Aurora above providing the perfect backdrop to the night.

Deep into the night, the two returned to the cave, giddy and hotfaced despite the bitter cold of the mountains. They wrapped eachother in blankets and slept peacefully after a night of raucous debauchery, for the firewine tasted so much better with someone to share it with, and despite Adelle's remaining fear of humans... Martha was nice. She was sure of it, even before the wine took the edge off.

In the morning, Adelle woke groggily. She smiled as she saw Martha beside her, but she knew she had to go find her sister.

She knew if she let Martha keep her Asterisk, then she'd have an excuse to come see her again. She gathered her supplies, and, despite giving Martha a peck on the cheek before leaving, otherwise made sure not to disturb Martha. As she stepped out from the chambers, she waved goodbye to Gwylim and Gwydion.

And so she set out for Wiswald.

#bd2 martha #bd2 adelle #helio #bishop helio #surprise surprise bishop helio is sexist and or transphobic #apparently i really like commas #bd2 spoilers #bdii spoilers #i dont even wanna know how many words this is it feels longer than the other chapters #the color of affection #prequel fic #marthadelle

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highqueenofprydain · 5 years

Text

While We’re Waiting...

(Prydain fic, circa The High King)

Melynlas snorts when he steps outside, evidence of displeasure at being left saddled and bridled so long.

“I'm sorry," he breathes, sliding a hand beneath the horse's mane, trying not to acknowledge the tremor in his fingers, the fear knotting his gut. "I was in a hurry when we arrived, and…well, after that, I forgot. It's been…an evening full of surprises."

The big silver head knocks him in the chest indignantly and blows a mild reproof before turning to follow him to the stable. His mind churns, darkly, while he unsaddles the horse, rubs him down. He hasn't been in this building in years, but his hands automatically find the hooks even in the darkness, hanging up tack and jingling bits with a foreboding sense that something so familiar should be comforting, but isn't.

When he steps out she is waiting for him, standing by the gate, glowing amidst the shadows of twilight. He is struck, again, with how…no, not different she is; that's just the dress. She doesn't look different, she looks…more. She is more herself; taller, softer, wiser, fiercer; there is more carried in the proud tilt of her head; in the sculpted lines of her neck and shoulders; in the grace of her slender hand resting on the gatepost; in the quiet, serious, steady gaze resting on him.

His mouth goes dry with all the things he wants to say, and finally only the least of them comes out. "I thought you were staying with Gwydion."

She looks weary; he thinks, aching, of the light in her eyes earlier that afternoon, now dimmed. "Dallben's chamber is so small," she murmurs, in a voice just as dark. "There wasn't room for all of us, and Achren won't leave him. It's odd, but somehow…she seems to belong there now, more than I."

“You trust her?"

She meets his gaze sharply. "Of course not." He is silent, and her eyes soften, slowly, as she watches him. "But we haven't much choice, have we?" Her breath is a barely audible sigh; she turns away, and he thinks he hears her mutter, "about anything," but maybe it's just his own thoughts, shouting at him.

“This isn't…" he begins, then falters as she pauses, turning back towards him, and the words how it was supposed to be die in his throat. For a few moments he cannot speak, looking at her, standing there. In this place where she belonged. Where her unbearable absence had driven him out almost three years before, full of questions like goads, one - still unanswered - that he cannot, now, bring himself to ask. Not when so much else hangs over them.

The silence stretches, thin as wire. She stirs suddenly, mouth twitching."You really did cut your own hair with a sword, didn't you?"

He blinks in surprise. "I…well. Yes, but…"

She laughs, an unexpected silver chime in the darkness. "You're a fright. Come on." She motions for him to follow her, marching across the yard determinedly. "There's no use sitting 'round doing nothing but worrying. It's like watching yourself get older."

Pausing at the scullery door, she waves him inside, pulling her golden sphere from some hidden pocket in her long skirts before following. Warm light fills the room as the shadows scurry to hide behind rows of baskets and iron pots, to dive into the mouths of clay jars. He stoops to avoid the bundles of dried herbs dangling from the rafters, the air dusty with fading summer smells of rosemary and dill, sage and mint.

She lays her bauble on the table and looks around, sighing contentedly. "This place hasn't changed any, at least. Sit down. I'm going to cut your hair."

He plunks onto the stool she indicates, dumfounded. "You're what? Now?"

“Who knows when I'll have another chance?" She rummages in a wooden drawer, comes up with a pair of shears and snips at the air briskly. "When the world's on fire, find something practical to do. Teleria's advice, and it's surprisingly good, I find." She steps closer to him, squints at his head, and frowns. "Hm. You know, I can't believe I'm saying this, but…you should wash it first."

He raises an eyebrow. "I seem to remember someone complaining about—"

"Yes, well," she sniffs, leaning back, "it's one thing to be scrubbed down against your will when you don't need it. When you actually could use a good washing, that's something else again." She grins, for the first time since that afternoon; her gaze dances down to his feet and back up again, and his heart pounds. "I daresay, after running the woods for as long as you have, the rest of you needs it just as badly, but I'll settle for hair just now."

Hot water still simmers in a small cauldron over the embers in the scullery hearth; she dips out a large pailful; shoves it and the soft-soap bowl into his hands. "Go wash outside. I'll find a comb. And…" She pauses, staring at him in consternation, and slowly reaches up to touch his rough jawline, running her thumb across its edge as though she's never seen it before. "…And a razor, I suppose? Do you even have one? Does Coll have one you could borrow?"

He laughs, to hide the way her slightest touch twists the breath out of him. "What's the matter? You don't like the beard?"

She pulls a wry face halfway between a scowl and a grin. "Is that what you call it? I thought at first you were just filthy. If it were really a beard, I might. Though it would take some getting used to. You don't look quite like you." Her hand is still on his chin, turning his face thoughtfully as she studies him. "But just now it's not one thing or the other. You're like a sheep shorn by a blind man. Did you clean up at all while you were gone?"

“When Kaw showed up and told me you were coming home," he says, nettled, "I thought only of reaching you as quickly as possible. Would you rather I had stopped to…clean up…first?"

Her lips part in an audible breath that seems not quite brave enough to be a laugh, and he memorizes the freckles scattered across her nose, wishing his arms weren't so full of soap and bucket. "For future reference," she murmurs, leaning toward him, unbearably close, "yes. I would."

Her dancing eyes draw him in and he's about to drop the bucket, water and all, but before he can she pulls him up, off the stool, and pushes him toward the door. "Now, go wash. I'll be back in a moment."

The chill night air he stumbles into is a relief, even after he's stripped off his jacket and shirt to pour hot water over his head. But by the time his wet hair is pouring streams over his shoulders and down his back, his skin is steaming into the air and he's shivering and blowing like a horse fording a river. She's already there when he hurries back into the scullery; after one wild, wide-eyed look at him she tosses him a large hempen towel and turns around to add another log to the fire. And stoke it. Vigorously. A little longer than necessary. Certainly the extra light isn't; her bauble on the table is flaring so bright he can't even look at it directly.

He sits back on the stool, tousling at his hair, watching her with a grin. "All right. I'm ready."

She does not turn, but demands, in a voice higher-pitched than her wont, "Are you mad, going about bare in this cold? Wrap that towel 'round your shoulders before you catch your death."

“Washing was your idea," he reminds her amusedly, suspecting certain things he is not yet confident enough to say; but he hastens to obey the instruction. "And you know how wet clothes keep you even colder. Besides, if you thought my hair was dirty, my shirt—"

“No doubt," she interrupts, jabbing at the fire again, sending sparks flaring up the chimney. When she turns her face is scarlet, lower lip gripped tight between her teeth, eyes dilated and glittering, but she avoids his gaze, focusing instead on his hair with an appraising frown. He tries looking straight ahead, but this means staring directly at the hollow of her throat and the light flashing off the silver crescent nestling beneath it, and he swallows hard and shuts his eyes.

“Tch," she mutters, "what a mess you've made of yourself. Good thing it grows back." Her fingers slide through his hair, lifting it at temples and brow, pushing it away from his face; he finds breathing suddenly laborious. "It's going to have to be shorter than you're used to, to get it all even again."

He keeps his eyes shut, but the space is too small; he can't avoid the lavender-and-rosewater smell of her, the warmth of her next to him. His jaw clenches. "Do whatever you want."

The words seem to hang in the air. Her hands and breath pause for an almost imperceptible instant before continuing on, and she moves around to his side, contemplative. "Llyr. You've got some bits cut halfway up your neck. Are you sure it was a sword? You didn't really use a spoon?"

“Would you just cut it?" She's behind him; it's safe to open his eyes now. He reaches up, exasperated, to rearrange the offending strands, but she pushes his hand away.

“Hang on, it's got to be combed first." Carved-horn teeth bite pleasantly at his scalp, gliding over the crown of his head, tugging gently, alternating with the pressure of her hands, the pull when she has to work a tangle free in her nimble fingers, and he sighs louder than he intends. "It's nice, isn't it," she remarks, "having it done for you? One of the things I did enjoy on Mona. Not the washing, you know, but the combing and braiding and all. There's something soothing about someone else's hands in your hair."

“Mph," he grunts, noncommittal; soothing isn't quite the word he'd use, or nice either, though certainly it's all far from unpleasant. The shears open and close with thin metallic rasps and his shorn hair ends graze his shoulders like a caress; her fingers twist, languid, at the long strands at the back of his neck and he makes a sound even he doesn't quite understand, turning it into a cough at the last moment to mask it.

“Be still," she orders, over a breathless chuckle. She works around to the other side and back to stand in front of him, taking his face in her hands to tilt it up and examine her work; he can't shut his eyes again without being desperately obvious. So he allows himself to stare, sinking into the sight of her until he's drowning in it.

“There," she says. The word comes out hoarse and she clears her throat hastily. "Much better. It can grow out properly now."

“Well, so long as you're satisfied," he mumbles, and she swallows hard, favors him with one moment of searing eye contact before turning to lay down the shears.

“I'm not. But the next bit's up to you." She hands him a razor, borrowed from one of the men in the cottage, though he does have one in his saddlebags, a gift from Hevydd the smith, who had first noticed the need for it. "If you know how. I don't want to be responsible for slicing your throat."

“I do know how, thank you." Hevydd had taught him more than smithing. He takes the blade from her and nods toward the bucket. "Need more hot water, though, would you mind?" She fills it silently and hands it to him, pushes the pile of his discarded shirt and jacket to the side and hoists herself onto the table edge. He snorts. "You're going to watch?"

She shrugs, grinning smugly. "What else is there to do?"

He grunts and goes for the hot water to distract himself from the answers that instantly present themselves, all unacceptable under current conditions. Drat Arawn and his everlasting machinations. He can't decide whether to laugh at or be ashamed of himself for being so personally affronted by the latest evidence of trouble brewing; for wishing, if it had to happen, it could have happened just a few weeks later. It feels small, and selfish; there is so much more at stake than the two of them, and yet…

The copper blade shines like her hair in the light of the bauble as he takes it up, willing his hand not to tremble. She watches him with frank curiosity; he's acutely aware of it, every second, as he manipulates the tool over his face.

“Interesting," she observes, after a few minutes. "Ticklish process, isn't it? Would it be easier with a mirror?"

“You know we've got no mirrors here," he answers, shaking out his stiffening wrist. This task is still a novel one and he tends to grip the blade too hard, anyway; now, with her watching, it's almost impossible not to clench his fist around it.

“Oh, I have one," she says, "actually. A gift from Teleria, if it's survived the journey; I haven't checked yet. But I suppose it's best if you learn to do without, what with how rare and fragile they are. And anyway they make it harder sometimes; having to do everything backwards from what you see. You should see me trying to braid my hair in a mirror. It's like weaving with your hands behind your back."

He has a mental image of her hands twisting into her own bright hair, sliding through the tumbling fiery waves of it, and shakes it off hurriedly. "Be glad you don't have to do this as well, then. Girls have it easier."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Oh, no, women have their own ways of handling such things, as I also learned. You'd be shocked to know how many uses there are for honey and beeswax. At least among the nobility; I'm not sure about the rest."

“But you don't have…" he begins, and stops, seeing her expression; that don't-be-an-idiot look he hasn't seen in years but recognizes instantly.

“We don't have beards," she finishes for him, with a catlike smirk. "Thank goodness, because that implement looks dangerous. But we-"

“I don't want to know," he retorts, his face flaming.

Her smile is arch, mocking him. "Oh! Well, then, never mind." Glancing down, she picks up his shirt and holds it up in two reluctant fingers, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh. Shall I take this to be washed, or just throw it in the fire?"

“I only have one spare."

"Wash, then," she sighs, dropping it to the floor. "You might have made yourself half a dozen, while you were busy weaving that cloak. But you've never been a very sensible creature."

He smothers his grin with the towel, lets it drop back to his shoulders, and rubs at his chin to make sure he hasn't missed anything. "There we are, done. Care to inspect?"

She slides off the table and stands before him again, close, too close. Her hands cradle his face, thumbs sliding over his smooth jawline; his newly-exposed skin burns at the contact and he holds his breath.

“Oh, yes." It's barely more than a whisper, fanning over his face. "There you are again, Taran of Caer Dallben." Her eyes trap his, inescapable. "I've missed you."

He's dizzy, drunk, falling, reaching for anything that might catch him and the closest thing is her; but just as her head is drooping to meet his she bolts upright, suddenly, her whole being alert and tense and distant. The bauble-light in the room, blazing until now, flickers like a candle in the wind, and dims.

He clutches at his knees, baffled and off-balance. "What is it?"

She looks through him, her gaze unfocused; grips his arm as though to anchor herself. "Gwydion. He's awake."

"How do you know?"

Her eyes focus on his face again, filled with an unearthly glow - or, perhaps, merely the firelight reflected in them. "I just know," she says simply. He's had to accept stranger things from her before, and scrambles up from the stool, snatching his jacket from the table and wrestling it on as she retrieves his towel and shirt from the floor with a sigh.

They cross the yard together, not touching, in brooding silence, making for the soft glow in the cottage windows. He pauses at the gate, turns to her suddenly. "You know…this isn't how I imagined today was going to turn out."

She stares at him inscrutably, chews her lower lip. "No. Nor I." A shadow of - regret? frustration? - crosses her face, and she shrugs and laughs a short, bittersweet laugh. "But few things turn out like you think they will, I've noticed. Even you aren't quite what I imagined."

He wants to ask what she imagined, and how he's different, and if she knows how much more she is than he had dreamed even in three years' worth of dreams, and a million other things; most of all he wants to ask her —

But there are voices, urgent and anxious, inside the cottage, and there is no use asking questions that can't be answered with any surety, just now.

Before she moves past him to open the door she touches his cheek once more, wistfully; whispers, "Not yet," and he wonders, not for the first time, if she can read his mind, so succinctly and simultaneously to answer none of his questions….and all of them.

#prydain #fanfiction #taran/eilonwy #chronicles of prydain #my otp

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atlantic-riona · 5 years

Note

GIA CHILDE I AM HERE TO PROMPT LIKE A CRAZY CHICKEN okay so 4, 24 92, 97, 101, 110, and whatever you want honestly it doesn’t even have to be these pick and choose I AM HERE TO ENABLE YOUR WRITING

EXCELLENT I HOPE THESE SMALL OFFERINGS WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY

(I played fast and loose with the dialogue prompts, so like…in some of these the line doesn’t really get said! Also, I had to replace 97, because that one got a little bit spoiler-y, so instead I went with 13 and 59 (which is a slightly edited snippet I’ve written already but haven’t figured out where it goes yet). And not all of them are complete–most of them are just snippets that will probably appear in future chapters.)

4.“Who gave you that black eye?”

“Who gave you that black eye?” Gwydion demanded.

Alasdair gingerly fingered the area around said eye. “Someone wholooks and feels a lot worse than I do right now, hopefully.” Atleast, he’d be surprised if Val wasn’t curled up into a ball andmoaning to his friends like the coward that he was after the drubbingAly had given him. He’d spent quite a long time waiting to give Valhis comeuppance, and he’d be very disappointed if said comeuppancehadn’t been successful.

“Sit down. Now,” Gwydion said, nearly hissing the commandwhen Alasdair loitered by the door for a half-second too long.

He rolled his eyes, made his way across the tiny room, and floppedbackwards onto the bed. It creaked alarmingly under him. He snorted.“Shoddy workmanship.” Then again, not much was made for someoneof his height and build. But in his opinion, well-made furnitureought to hold up under any sort of person.

“Then build us a new one.”

He considered this in all seriousness, then shook his head indismissal. “You won’t be in Eblana Ladrem long enough for it tobe any use. Plus, I don’t think I could do it in time, what withschool and everything.”

“Oh, the great Aly finally admits that there’s something he can’tdo? Today is an interesting day.”

Kneeling down next to him on the bed, Gwydion leaned over to examinehis eye. In his hands was a small vial of…something.

Alasdair treated it to a suspicious glare. “What’s that?”

“Poison,” Gwydion replied in an absentminded way, reaching out togently trace the bruise. He winced. Even the light touch stung a bit.“And after I give it to you, you’re going to tell me exactly whatyou’ve been up to. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

Gwydion reached out and tweaked his nose, which he knew Alyhated, and grinned. “Or else I get Bran and you can tell himall about the adventures you’ve been having. Pick your poison.”He glanced at the vial. “It’s not actually poison, by the way;it’s an ointment—”

“I know.”

“I was only joking about—”

“I realized.”

“Touchy, touchy. Well?”

Alasdair sighed. “Is there a third option?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

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24.“We’re playing checkers. If you don’t like it,leave.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bran watched as his littlest brothersidled closer, nibbling at his lip. He returned his gaze to the boardbefore Conor could notice the attention. This process—which hadbeen going on for the last twenty minutes—repeated for another fivebefore he heard a voice pipe into his ear. “What’s that?”Conor’s tone was curious, but trying not to sound like it was.

“Your move,” Bran said to Art. To Conor: “It’s soldiers.”

Conor shuffled closer. “What’s that?”

This was the tricky part. If he showed too much interest, Conor wouldbolt. If he didn’t show enough, Conor would get annoyed and leaveanyway.

So he kept his eyes trained on his pieces as he answered, “It’s aValaviri game. Everybody plays it on the continent for fun. I wasjust teaching Art how to play.”

Across from them, Art sat back, narrowing his eyes at the board. Forsomeone who had only learned the basics of the game an hour ago, hewas proving to be a challenging opponent. Bran had barely managed tocorner one of his brother’s pieces, and even now he wasn’t toosure that Art wouldn’t find some way to escape.

When Conor didn’t say anything, Bran hesitated. But he hadbeen showing some interest, and he was still here…“Do youwant to know how to play?”

A shrug. “Okay.”

Well, it was something.

While they waited for Art to make his move, Bran explained the way itworked. Each side had a certain number of soldiers—usuallydistinguished by color traditionally, although right now they wereusing pebbles and shells—and the goal was to capture the board, orthe “city,” by trapping the opposing side’s soldiers with one’sown soldiers. Conor didn’t say anything as Bran demonstrated how tomove the pieces around, but he did lean in as Art finally decided tomove one of his pieces on the outer sides of the board, rather thansave the soldier that had been captured. Which left another piece ofhis wide open…

Bran plucked the captured soldier off the board, and was justreaching out to trap Art’s other piece when Conor tapped his hand.“Not that one.”

“Why not?”

Conor shifted an inch or two closer and pointed at another spot onthe board. “Move here instead.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He paused, then jerked his head at Bran andretreated a little ways. Bemused—but also a little pleased—Brangot up and followed him over to the other side of the room. When hebent down, Conor whispered, “Because he’s trying to trap you. Ifyou capture that piece, he’ll be able to get a bunch of yours inthe next ten moves. If you go where I told you to go, you can traphim instead.”

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

92.“You’re so clingy, I love it.”

The streets were dark and wet. Only the moon shone down upon theslippery cobblestones. Cait hopped up onto the rail of the bridge andstrolled along it as if it were a safe, dry walkway instead of arotting, slick piece of wood.

Lucan resisted the impulse for about a minute before he caved andasked, “Could you not do that? You’re putting horrible visions ofyou falling and dying in my head.”

She twirled, shooting him a smug look over one shoulder. “Jealousof my talent?”

He closed his eyes and waited until the dizziness attacking his headstopped. “Please, Cait, we’re fifty feet up.”

“Only twenty-five,” she corrected, and skidded a little. Hesurged forward.

In apparent bewilderment, Cait examined the hand wrapped around herankle. The cool night air blew the loose strands of her hair backfrom her face as she looked from his hand to his face. Lucan triedtelling his fingers to let go, now that there was no danger, but theyseemed to have other ideas that overrode those mental commands;namely, that letting go would lead to certain death some thirty feetbelow for someone he considered a friend. Someone who could perhapsbe—a good friend. Yes, that was it. A good friend.

Suddenly she laughed: a short, delighted laugh that brought ananswering smile to his face. In one fluid motion she shook his handoff and jumped down. She didn’t land with catlike grace—her bootsmade an echoing thump when she hit the ground, and when shestraightened and started off down the bridge again, her stride couldbe charitably characterized as more of a spirited march than a smoothstroll—but it was graceful, nonetheless, in a way that was purelyCait.

“Wait up,” he called after her.

Already at the end of the bridge, she stopped and turned to wait forhim. “You’re awfully clingy tonight,” she observed.

“Sorry.” Lucan fell into step next to her as they made their waydown yet another unfamiliar street, and found himself wishing that hecould stay to learn its name. To walk these streets with her untilthey became as familiar as the back of his hand. To not know that, assoon as he found his quarry, he would leave and never return. Hestole a glance at her, so as to capture this moment deliberately inhis mind.

Cait’s head was down, and a small smile played about her mouth. Shelaughed again when she caught him looking at her, but more softlythis time. Her eyes crinkled just before she laughed, he noticed. “Idon’t mind,” she admitted. “I like spending time with you.”

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101.“Don’t be an asshole. Asshole.”

Marian shoved him. “Hey! What was that for?” he protested.

“For being an absolute menace to the population at large!”

“Marian. Are you calling me a menace for not being able todistinguish between different shades of blue?” Aly’s tone wasincredulous bordering on ‘politely concerned for her sanity’.

“Yes! You shouldn’t do things like that in public!” Shesniffled, only halfway caring how illogical she sounded. As long ashe didn’t realize the true cause of her almost-tears, it didn’tmatter. And for a minute, she thought her ploy would work.

“Well, excuse me for never having set foot in such a ‘highquality establishment’ before, where such lowly beings as myselfget looked down upon for not knowing the difference between blue and,uh, turquoise blue or azure—” He paused. “Thisisn’t about the colors, is it.”

“Of course it is! What else would it be about?”

“Oh, I don’t know, my brother?”

She turned her nose up. “I’m certain I haven’t the faintestidea what you’re talking about.”

Alasdair gave her a long, long stare. “You’re not a very goodliar, you know. I can always tell when you’re bluffing.”

Summoning all the tattered scraps of her composure, she drew themaround herself before facing him. “Who’s bluffing?”

He puffed out his cheeks. “According to you, my skills at dealingwith emotions could use work, so please don’t make me strain themwhile I drag the answer out of you.”

His teasing tone irked her. She wasn’t in the mood right now.“Don’t be an asshole. Asshole.”

He gasped. “Mar! Such language! What would Bran think?” Heelbowed her. “Do you write about me in your diary?”

The subject change had given her such whiplash that it took her amoment to process the question.

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110.“Quit stalling. Where’s your father?”

“Quit stalling. Where’s your father?”

Oh, this was wretched. This was absolutely wretched. Marian lookedwildly to her right, where Bran had flattened himself against thewall, staring at her with wide eyes. He shook his head and mouthed,Not yet. Beyond him, Alasdair hunched over her father’sdesk, meticulously replacing papers as fast as he dared. If he wenttoo swiftly, the rustling of the papers would draw attention.

“Marcus,” the prince reproved in a long-suffering tone, beforeturning back to her with an apologetic expression. “Sorry abouthim. Look, we really need to speak to your father, so if we couldjust…”

Without thinking, she moved to block his path to the door of thestudy. “He’s not in right now.” She was amazed at how easilythe lie came out. Behind her back, she made hasty (and subtle)flapping motions indicating the need to speed things up. “ShallI—that is, I’ll tell him you were looking for him when he getsback,” she said, remembering Bran’s story about misdirection.Phrase what you want them to do as a statement, not as a question,and most people won’t push further. And don’t give them time todwell. “In the meantime, would you like something to drink? Inthe triclinium, perhaps?”

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(I replaced 97.“I don’t need a hero, I need a husband” with 13. “Looks like we’re gonna be stuckhere for a while” and 59. “How do I even put up with you?”)

13. “Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for a while.”

“Looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while,” Artsaid, kicking at the loose dirt. A pebbled rolled off to the side,into the darkness, where it made a surprisingly loud clunk. Somethingshifted above them. They froze.

When it seemed likely that the ceiling wasn’t going to collapse onthem yet, Alasdair reached out—slowly—to grip Art’s shoulder.“Maybe move a bit more carefully, okay?”

His mouth had gone dry. He touched the papers inside his bag, to besure they were still safe, and then nodded. Then he remembered thatit was too dark for Aly to really see the nod, so he said out loud,“Right. Got it.”

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59. “How do I even put up with you?”

“Who’s a good boy?” Alasdaircrooned. “That’s right, you! You are!” He held the puppy up tohis face with childlike glee.

“He is not a good boy,” she saidfrom her seat by the window. “He is the least good boy I know.”

Alasdair gasped and clutched thepuppy to his chest. “You take that back.”

“I will not,” Marian saiddefiantly. “The little monster chewed up all of my sewing today. Doyou know how expensive silk is?”

“He is not a monster!” Thepuppy’s ears were covered as Alasdair glared at her over its head.“You take that back right now. Apologize to Puppy.”

She couldn’t help it; she threwback her head and laughed. “I can’t take you seriously when youcall it ‘Puppy,’ Alasdair. Give it a real name, won’t you?”

“Puppy,” he said with emphasis,“is not an it. Puppy is a he. And he’s not a monster, soapologize.”

“I refuse,” she said, stickingher nose in the air.

Boots thumped against the floor asAlasdair jumped to his feet. “Puppy and I,” he announced withgreat dignity, “are leaving.”

He was halfway out the window beforeMarian thought he might actually be serious. She rushed over as hevanished outside. “Alasdair?” The night wind, cool and gentle,ruffled her hair. Below, there was only blackness. “Alasdair?”She bit her lip. “I take it back; Puppy’s not a monster.”

“Ha,” said a supremely satisfiedvoice above her. Marian shrieked and stumbled backwards as Alasdair’shead popped into view, his green eyes shining like a cat’s. “Iknew that would work.”She clapped a hand to her chest,breathing hard. In front of her, Puppy panted cheerfully, his tinytail beating a happy rhythm against Alasdair’s chest where he wasbeing cradled ever so tenderly. In deference to Puppy’s sensitiveears, Marian decided against swearing and instead fixed her glareupon an unfazed, smirking Alasdair. “You are the most aggravating—”

“I know,” Aly said sweetly. Heclambered back into the room, obviously pleased with himself. “I’maggravating, irritating, horrible, terrible, no-good, devious, tootall, and I have no taste in shirts.”

“Well, at least you saved me thebreath and time of having to tell you yet again,” Marian sniped.

“And I could fix the shirt problemif you would just let me—”

“The day you pick out my clothesis the day I—oh, wait, that’ll never happen,” Alasdair shotback, still grinning. “Ever.”

“Just a little embroidery—”

Alasdair turned away, cradlingPuppy, and for a moment Marian worried that she might haveaccidentally hit a true nerve in their familiar argument; but then hegrinned at her over his shoulder. “Hush,” he said with mockconcern. “Puppy shouldn’t have to see us fight.”

“Oh, you,” Marian said, morerelieved than she cared to admit. “How do I even put up with you?”

“I have no idea,” Alasdair said,squinting down at Puppy. “I’m told that I can be somewhat of ahandful.”

“Who said that?”

“My professors.”

“Was this before or after youcaused multiple explosions at the university?”

“No comment.”

#my writing #the raven's return #very long post #this ended up featuring a lot of Marian #probably because I'm in the middle of writing her chapter #so I'm used to her narrative voice #also #the one with Cait and Lucan?#I'm 99.9% sure that it's the moment Lucan falls for Cait #XD

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ailelie · 7 years

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King’s Quest (reboot version)

So. I know this doesn’t fit the old canon so much, but given the Odd Gentleman’s reboot version of King’s Quest, but I still want a fic with Alexander back when he was Gwydion. For...spoilers

He learned to journal from someone and not only kept it up, but passed it on to his daughter.

Manny taught him magic.

Alexander grew up wanting to be an amazing sorcerer (like Manny?).

If you talk to him throughout the game, he references being ordered around and becoming good at taking orders.

He says he almost misses being called Gwydion. He named his daughter Gwendolyn which sounds very similar.

I want a story that complicates the Manny--Alexander relationship. Manny named him Gwydion and raised him. He taught him how to read, write, and do mathematics.

I want the story where he teaches magic to Alexander like its a secret, like Alexander is special.

I want the story where he gives Alexander his first journal.

I want the story where Alexander dreams of becoming a marvelous sorcerer just like Manny and wishes he could make Manny proud of him.

Where Alexander initially grows up calling Manny some variation of “Father.”

But I don’t want Manny to be a good guy. Manny is manipulative and cruel. He also raises Alexander to be quiet and write his thoughts out in his journal (which Manny definitely reads when Alexander is sleeping) rather than speak up. He does not allow Alexander to play, but instead demands he follow orders without question at all times. He’s never proud, but always pushes for more. Alexander does emotional magic without appearing emotional; Manny forced him to practice repeatedly to hide his internal fire and keep a calm face while casting. Now make it bigger. Smaller. Aim. Aim better. Do it again. He never gave sweets or toys or allowed Alexander to have fun. Everything was to learn or further Manny’s schemes.

I want the story of when Alexander hits puberty and struggles against Manny’s control, when he talks back like he hasn’t since he was a toddler. I want Manny to hit him (I don’t think this would happen sooner because of Manny’s brother’s upbringing) and for that to be a shock and betrayal. I want Alexander to slowly realize how Manny has isolated, manipulated, and controlled him. I want him to call Manny “Manny” before he learns about his real family, because I want him to wield the name like a sword. Manny is what Manannan tells his dupes and slaves, his “friends” to call him. While I doubt it’d bother Manny that much, I want that moment to be Alexander, through the use of this name, basically saying that he realizes now that Manny never loved him and that this was all a long con.

And that’s when Alexander first gets locked away dungeon-style. But, over time, he learns the truth, that he has a real father and family who love, miss, and are looking for him. So he plots (Manny taught him through example how to plot so well) and creates the cat cookies.

He could have poisoned Manny. Don’t tell me that with Manny and his brother’s set-up that Alexander couldn’t have. Instead he makes a cookie and Manny eats it. I wonder if Alexander brought it to him, heart-pounding, as a peace offering and apology. But he eats it and Alexander runs.

And it takes a while and kindness always puts him on edge (it is unfamiliar; Manny was only ever kind when he wanted something or Alexander had done something wrong). And it takes a while and he keeps a couple cat cookies in his pocket at all times, creating more when he can, because they’re a symbol of his freedom and they keep him safe. And what if Manny finds him? And it takes a while, but he practices his magic and imagines what it will be like to have a father who is proud of him.

Then he arrives and...he doesn’t fit. He doesn’t know what pie he likes and he’s the first to lose the game and he doesn’t tell puns or get overexcited about things. And Graham hates his magic. Graham even scolds him for a nervous habit. And then Graham lets him go off alone.

It gets better. It gets so much better and being able to confront Manny again and defeat him again is something he needed so badly. He needed to reject that part of his life one more time.

He grows to love his family, but, when he’s relieved when he has to live outside of Daventry in his wife’s kingdom. When he can have his family, but at a distance large enough that he can breathe.

And, when Gwendolyn learns how to write, he gives her her first journal, but as much as that journal was a punishment and way for Manny to control and manipulate him, it was also a refuge. He teaches her to write reflectively in it, to understand her mistakes and grow from them.

He lets her become whoever she wishes to be, offering to share his magic, but not forcing it. (He still practices magic regularly, probably created lights as a mobile for Gwendolyn and has vague memories of Manny using magic to comfort (well, quiet) him, too). He gives her freedom enough that when Gwendolyn hears her grandfather’s story she questions why her grandfather could not just accept her father for who he is.

He tries to be a better father than the man who raised him.

I want the long conversations with his wife when he sorts out just how much of his childhood was manipulation and abuse and how he wishes he could just hate all of it, but he can’t. It isn’t that easy.

#fic i want to read #king's quest #alexander #gwydion #manny

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crearuru · 3 years

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Marthadelle fic, The Color of Affection, chapter 2

Pairing: Martha/Adelle, bravely default 2

Word count: 2,914

Adelle dreamt of finding her sister. Of three lights, one after another, joining the cause. And then of a fourth light, from within. And another, not itself a light, but... something... intertwining with her own light. A color humans couldn't see... but she could.

Martha, on the otherhand, dreamt of the strange traveler who had arrived the day before. Of her silver hair, her ocean eyes, matching her blue top, the golden tassals of which went only as far down as her sleeves. Of the strange symbol on her scarf, resembling an arrow fired through the middle of a horseshoe, swirls on the ends... The scene of Adelle dancing with her through the night continued into those dreams... Until she awoke.

A dull ache rang through her head, and though her antennae were hidden by magic, they too felt the ache of a dulled sensory organ. Her eyelids hung heavy, any attempt to open them feeling as though one were moving through honey. (As to how she knew the feeling, well... Let's just say one shouldn't get too close to a Vesp's hive.) She was too tired to open them, at first, but when she finally noticed something cold and hard pressing into her from underneath, she took note of her surrounding quickly, and scattered memories of the night before quickly returned to her. The heat of the firewine, the fear of meeting her first human, that quickly eased due to the pleasure of seeing Martha's face, reassuring Adelle even despite her initial fears about humans. The way she stumbled over her feet with Martha as she tried to dance, winglessly. The warmth in the air, and the flush of Martha's face as the festivities neared their end. The warmth of Martha beneath her, soft skin juxtaposed against the cold, hard metal armor, against the... decorative tail..?

It was that last set of points which brought Adelle back to reality. She stretched, sitting up, realizing she had collapsed atop the first human she met like it was nothing. Maybe I'll have the good fortune that all of them might be this pleasant, Adelle mused. Still... The embrace of another was quite comfortable. And Martha didn't seem to have woken yet... Edna had said physical contact with humans was much the same as between fairies, and Adelle wasn't seeing any reason to doubt that claim. Perhaps she could just lie down again...

"Hey! I see you're awake now, eh?" Rang out a youthful, bright voice from behind her. Adelle froze, slowly turning her head to the source. It sounded similar to, yet much higher in pitch than, Gwydion's had the day before. As her eyes met the source of the intrusion, she realised it was a dragon... A very, very, very small dragon. His red eyes pierced her, though he did not seem as though he might attack. "I've been tryin' ta get Martha back to her bed all night, but I must say she's much heavier when someone is clinging to her like a beaten egg to flour."

A bed? Why hadn't Martha gone to bed, before they collapsed? The cave floor was cool to the touch, and for stone she had to admit it was somewhat soft, but it was still stone. Did humans make a habit of foregoing available beds, or was it just this one? And had Adelle seen this dragon yesterday? She couldn't remember... Gwydion slept soundly atop his altar, though a low, pained rumbling sound projected all throughout the caves from his snout. But this was not Gwydion.

"What's your name, little guy?"

"Little guy?! I am Gwylim, of the mighty Draconic line, and I would prefer to be addressed with the dignity such a position brings, thank you very much!" The tiny dragon turned his nose upward indignantly, though the effect was muted by even Adelle's sitting height being taller than Gwylim.

"Alright then, Gwylim. My sincerest apologies for my slight against you." Adelle had read that if one were to meet a dragon, unlikely as it was, they were to be shown great respect. And her hosts had not given her any reason to withdraw respect. But the little guy was so cute! And he looked so soft!

Adelle extended a hand outwards, not really thinking as she gently pet the back of Gwylim's head. "Hey, just what do you think you're- ah... Actually that is quite nice. I suppose I could go for a bit more of that, eh?" Gwilym curled up against where Martha's side and Adelle's leg met, and he shifted back and forth a bit before closing his eyes with a sigh.

Who knew dragons could be so... cuddly? Adelle was quite content with her current situation. She knew she'd need to ask about her sister once Gwydion woke up, but... It couldn't hurt to sit like this for a while until then, could it? She hadn't ever really spent much time collapsed over another, save for a few absolutely legendary parties she and Erin had thrown for their 150th and 250th birthdays. She hadn't yet seen any flowers to bring back for her childhood friend, but there might be some wherever... wherever... Had Martha asked her to fetch something last night? She remembered something about being shown the world "the way Martha sees it"...

Heat flushed through Martha's body. That must have been quite a night, to leave her still buzzing in the morning. That wasn't your box-standard firewine, was it? It had this kind of... sweetness, to it. It reminded her of honey, but... it wasn't quite honey? The taste lingered in her mouth, but as she went to stretch, then smack her lips, she noticed a weight pressing down on her. More detailed memories from the night before returned. Feelings of suspicion, leading to bargaining, from there leading to... Adelle! The silver haired woman sat facing Martha's left, atop her lap. Martha's complexion took on a rosy hue. What had happened the night before? She always socially threw herself a bit eagerly at those who she was willing to give a chance, but something about Adelle... The way the light shone down through the chamber's ceiling, through the greenery growing up, along, and atop the walls, landing upon Adelle's bright face, her shining eyes, the embroidery upon her scarf and top...

Martha's would've gone to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. She was grateful the cold exterior surface of her armor might do some to conceal the flustered warming of her body. She felt Gwylim at the side of her waist, Adelle looking upon him with a satisfied expression. She gave off this... energy, this glow, faintly reminiscent of fire. Maybe that warmth had kept her safe through the bitter winter blizzard. Rhimedhal's clime was fiercely frigid year-round, but in a blizzard midwinter it was... It could freeze even the monsters solid, if they didn't hunker down... though of course, they would thaw enough to move by the time summer rolled around. It was a miracle the beautiful woman's supplies hadn't grown tough as ice. "Come to think of it, the firewine alone doesn't explain it."

Adelle jumped a bit, hearing Martha speak that last thought aloud. She hadn't realized Martha was awake, and realizing her position she quickly cleared her throat, dusted herself off and scooted off to sit... beside Martha, instead of atop her.

"Doesn't explain what?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Good morning, Adelle. Did you enjoy the festivities last night? There's nothing quite like a drink or three to ease the tension." Martha smiled, and it was so... warm. So kind. Her hair flowed so nicely along and past her face. Were all humans this... beautiful? Adelle could have sworn there was a new color in her eyes, as well. She couldn't place where she'd seen it last, and if she'd tried to explain it, well, humans didn't exactly have a word for it. But the light just... Sparkled, in Martha.

"Am I to take your silent smile as a 'yes'?" Adelle looked away, her face tinted pink.

"It was... It was nice." The fear she felt towards humans remained, but something about this one was just so... inviting. It almost didn't apply to her. Adelle could see why her sister Edna spoke so highly of them.

"Well, I'm glad we've all had a chance to bundle together for the night, but I believe the blizzard has passed. Might I send you to fetch some calmagrass from the nearby forest? Master Gwydion would surely be able to start you on your quest once he's had the chance to heal. I'd have shared the firewine with him, but, ah... H-he's in no condition for it! Yeah, that's it." Martha had a taste for wine rivalling that of the Master, but, well... She hadn't thought she would polish off the whole bottle in one night. She knew Adelle had more, but did not wish to presume the entirety of the stock of vintage was fair game. Lord of Dragons knows she'd gotten the short side of the stick on the last couple of visitors.

Come to think of it, those other visitors had been mercenaries too. They claimed to be looking for treasure, and so to satisfy them Martha gave them one of the chests that had been laid about the Serpent's Grotto. They were meant as offerings to the Master, but he had given permission to part with one so that he might not be disturbed. The blonde haired woman and her muscular, pompadoured companion had been excellent sparring partners. She would've sent them to fetch the calmagrass, but they were on their way before the thought ocurred to ask it of them. He was rather boorish, too, although his womanly companion kept his temper in check. What were their names again? Dag and something?

Adelle rolled her eyes at Martha's lame excuse. Though of course, the presence of the nectar she had added to the firewine would've more than tempted anyone with a sweet tooth. When gathering nectar from large enough flowers (or raiding a Vasp's nest), sometimes the dust coating a fairy's wings would get added to the mix, which resulted in either extremely sweet nectar or an accelerated fermentation of Vasp honey into a sort of mead-based solid lump of delicious. Adelle's mouth was watering just thinking about it. The colored powder given off by a fairy in flight was supposedly something to do with magical residue, something about symbiosis with flowers or... something. Though fairies were born from flowers, she had yet to see proof of this with her own eyes in her approximately 26 decades in this world. They were supposed to be born very rarely, and the texts seemed to indicate the fairy dust had something to do with the fact fairies are born of flowers instead of being born like other creatures on this world, but her best guess was that it was a gift from the creator of fairykind. The dust improved their food, their drink, their flight, (and, in Adelle's opinion, their ability and appreciation for artistry,) constantly throughout life, to the point humans were rumored in scary stories to have once trapped fairies to get their dust as a seasoning of all things. It would be dehumanizing, if they weren't already not humans, but the sentiment remains. Lady Esmeralda said that memories of ways to siphon massive amounts of magical energy from the dust existed in one of the Asterisks, but with all of them stolen... It wouldn't exactly be feasible to use dust to seal the Night's Nexus at the moment. But back to Martha...

"Yes, I can fetch the calmagrass. As medicine for dragons, I'm told it works well enough, although I hear it tastes really bitter."

"Too right it does! If it were me and not Da who had to eat the stuff to get better, I'd never recover!" Gwilym's dissatisfaction at having been moved from his more comfortable position was readily apparent. He hated bitter foods.

Martha wondered how Adelle knew that despite clearly not being from around Rhimedhal. As far as she knew, dragons were really only established in the cold mountains she called home. I suppose literature on the subject has had more than enough time to spread, over the years...

"Before you go, though, Adelle... I want to make sure you can handle the monsters in the area."

"I'm certain I can."

"Then would you do me the honor of fighting me?"

Adelle blinked. Once. Pause. Then twice. Was Martha still cross with her for her intrusion? She had thought a night of fine drink might have eased that tension, but-

No. The look in Martha's eyes was not one of anger. It was the same conviction Edna had shown before she left. It was the same passion as Erin had shown the night Lady Esmeralda had her and Adelle fight eachother to prove Adelle could handle the human world. But there was something more... Adelle couldn't place it.

"...I'll fight you." Adelle saw the corners of Martha's mouth turn upward, and Martha jumped, in one fluid motion, across the quite sizable chamber to fetch the spear she kept beside her bed. Adelle hadn't realized she'd be fighting an aerial opponent, much less with wings hidden, leaving her functionally flightless. But she had agreed to fight, and her legs were strong enough to manage at least a few short launches into the air. She would need to use Martha's momentum against her.

"On three?"

"On three."

"One..." Adelle gripped the dully-hooked dagger at her side. Should she use it to redirect the spear, or the longsword at her back to counter the strike?

"Two..." Martha's grip tightened on her spear. A few drops of sweat from the anticipation of her first real fight in ages trickled down her pointed chin, meeting the cave floor below with an echoing plink!

"Three!" Their voiced rang out at the same time. Adelle lept forwards at Martha, aiming to knock her off balance before she could jump; alas, Martha was faster, and lept up, up to where the wall started to meet the ceiling, and she stuck her spear into the stone with a CRUNCH, deep enough to grant herself leverage. Adelle began to run in an incosistent, back and forth zig-zag pattern, to make Martha's next move less easily calculated. This would be so much easier if I could use my wings, Adelle bemoaned. But if she pretended to trip-

Martha saw Adelle fumble, and, seeing a potential opening, pushed her feet against the wall with enough force to both jump and pull her spear free of the stone, speeding towards Adelle like an arrow fired from a quiver. As Adelle heard the crumbling of a weapon wrung free from stone, she rolled to the side of where she had been, looking up at Martha with a grin. Martha, having already pushed off from any available surface, could do almost nothing to alter her course. But almost nothing is not nothing, and so she prepared to shift her weight around the spear rotationally, giving it a spin and just barely adjusting its angle. Adelle's longsword struck the spears durable neck, sending both herself and Martha sliding in opposite directions upon the ground, still standing. Martha, realizing she would need to incapacitate Adelle quickly to save her energy, jumped not towards the sky but with full force towards Adelle even as she slid away. Adelle, quick as a flash, dropped her sword in favor of reaching for her dagger. As Martha made to strike, Adelle slid the hook of her dagger along the neck of the spear's blade, twisting it upwards and pulling Martha into a stalemate; all four hands possessed between the two of them were dealing with the spear, Martha's both along the body, while one of Adelle's were on her dagger (having drawn away the blade's neck) and the other catching the spear at a point between Martha's hands. The two of them stared into eachother's eyes, unblinking... A moment passes. Then another. The only sounds throughout the cavern being that of running water, that of the almighty Lord of Dragons' pained snores, and, perceptible to the two of them, that of the other's breathing.

Then, they both start to chuckle. One laugh becomes a few, and they collapse to the ground beside one another, casting their weapons aside. "Well, I... don't suppose I'll need to worry... about you defending yourself!" Martha spluttered. She had only acquired the Dragoon asterisk relatively recently, and the jumps took a lot of energy out of her.

Adelle, meanwhile, was still a bit warm, so she was glad the fight ended quickly. Was it the firewine from last night that has me feeling like this? No... I'm normally fine after what I had...

"May I, ah... do you have any spare coats? In case of another blizzard while I'm getting the calmagrass."

Martha wordlessly brought her a slightly too big, fluffy white coat, with four buttons on the front to hold it shut. It looked comfy.

"I always keep a couple spares, in case one of mine gets torn and needs mending, so it might not be your size..."

"It'll work well enough. I'll go fetch the calmagrass. I'll be back as soon as I can!"

And with that, Adelle put on the coat, gathered her supplies, and set out eastwards for the Frosty Forest.

#marthadelle #bdii martha #bd2 martha #bd2 adelle #adelle bravely default #bdii adelle #wlw #wip #bd2 spoilers #gwydion #gwylim #mentions of #dag and selene

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