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shesjustanothergeek · 10 months

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty-One

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I hope life hasn't been too terrible for y'all while I've been gone xD. While on this little vacation, I realized I have Computer Vision Syndrome (CVS). I know that sounds silly, but it actually really fucking sucks. When I write for a long period on my laptop screen (like 5 hours), I get awful eye pain, headache, migraines, blurred vision, vertigo, and nausea. I've learned different tips and tricks to help with it, so I'm doing much better. Thank y'all so much for letting me enjoy my break, and happy reading!

P.S. Updates will still be Sun/Mon.

Chapter Warnings: 0-100 real quick but with sexism, extreme anti-bastard language, minor ableist language, panic attack.

"My blood is red and unafraid of living, beginning to end.

I'm liquid smooth, come touch me too,

And feel my skin is plump and full of life, I'm in my prime.

I'm at my highest peak.

I'm ripe, about to fall, capture me."- Liquid Smooth, Mitski.

Surprisingly, life had proceeded smoothly after your tumultuous reappearance at Kings Landing. You expected more hardships to come, but astonishingly, they had yet to arrive.

However, becoming used to Aegon's advances took time. Following like a lost puppy everywhere you went, never far from his beloved little Princess. Much to your chagrin, people began to group you and the wastrel prince as a pair. Where one was, the other was sure to be.

Queen Alicent had dubbed you Aegon's keeper, ensuring he was not frequenting the Silk Streets and gambling houses as he once did. Playing the role of the Prince's Mother wasn't enjoyable at first, but you understood how much of an advantage this was, and a part of you grew to like it. It was the only sturdy aspect in your life, comforting and tending to Aegon's needs like a nursemaid, and should questions arise from your frequent sightings within the eldest son's apartments, the Queen herself would explain the rumors away.

Alicent prayed to the Seven that providing close contact with Aegon would convince you to see her reasons behind the line of succession and sway you to believe them. Even if that didn't work, she still found a way to control her scoundrel of a son and keep the blanket of shame from lying upon their backs. The Queen did not worry herself about the idea that her son might attempt to corrupt you. She was sure that if Aegon tried anything, you would physically overpower him and that her son's poor, borderline misogynistic words he called flirting would not work on a sensible woman like you.

Alicent had yet to inform her father of the schemes she concocted, and Lord Otto Hightower grew wary of the Bastard Princess and the Drunken Prince's time together. He knew of your loyalty to your family and how you believed with your entire soul that destroying centuries' worth of tradition and precedent would better the realm. By putting Rhaenyra on the throne, a girl he watched grow into a woman uncaring of duty, you would somehow prove yourself better than your worth.

But that was not how things were. That was not how dynasties secured their reign for millennia.

Upon reflecting on the situation, Otto realized he couldn't separate Aegon from you, for he was permanently attached to your hip. He needed someone under his thumb that you deemed trustworthy. Perhaps a knight that you respected and felt a familiarity with?

Otto summoned Ser Arryk to his study during the moment of realization. He tasked the Kingsguardmen to become your protector in the Red Keep regarding your newly appointed status as Small Council member. Lord Hightower knew it was a lie, and he understood you would too, but was comforted by the notion that Ser Arryk would accept this task with duty, honor, and integrity and would not fail him.

Yet, Arryk's reports back to him were trivial. He gave the Hand information he already knew and, at moments, even made him doubt putting the White Cloak to the task. The only thing that sparked Otto Hightower's interest was how many letters departed from the Rookery. At one point, when the Lord was genuinely desperate, he opened a letter addressed to Dragonstone, hoping to find something, anything that would give him that edge, but was greeted with a language he didn't understand and hot embarrassment for having been caught by the newly appointed Grand Maester Orwyle after the death of his predecessor.

But it was no matter, the Hand told himself. He learned how to wait. Otto Hightower spent many years playing a game no one else knew they were in and had not failed yet, for his daughter was crowned Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, and his grandson was in line to inherit the Iron Throne. Otto Hightower had to be patient, as he always was, and everything would fall into place.

***

The eldest Prince's head rested in your lap, his violet orbs following the shapes of the white cotton clouds in the afternoon sky. You watched Princess Helaena search for bugs on the underside of leaves, quietly humming to yourself a song Rhaenyra had sung to you on many occasions.

You had just finished picnicking with him, Helaena, and her children, the tots handed to a nursemaid after little Jaehaerys fell asleep in your arms. It was a request by Aegon to his sister-wife to have them all for lunch. An idea you planted in his head that initially did not include a third person, but upon Aegon's manipulation Helaena allowed you to come—explaining something about how good you were with his son and that it would be practice for when you made the eternal sacrifice that was the act of raising children. Helaena immediately brightened at the notion of you possibly bringing more babes into the Keep and agreed immediately.

A nuzzling sensation on your stomach stole you from your contented trance, looking down to see Aegon pressing his nose into the crevice where your stomach overlapped the apex of your thighs. He continued the movements as you glanced over to Helaena, ensuring she was still distracted by the pair of mating green beetles she found.

"Aegon," you chastised, cocking a brow at the burrowing Prince. "Your wife is standing ten and five paces from us."

"And?" he prompted, nipping at the thin golden fabric of your natural waistline.

"And she could suddenly become disinterested in the pair of breeding insects and see her lord husband burying his face into the navel of another woman," you snapped, slightly curling your lip as your fingers glided over his scalp.

"Helaena would not care. She is my sister," Aegon flippantly retorted, his words muffled by your gut.

You rolled your eyes, the ring of purple shimmering in the Spring daylight and momentarily distracting Aegon. "She is your wife by law and the divine. 'Tis an insult for you to be so openly disrespectful of your ties," you answered cooly.

The Prince groaned, the noise muffled by silk and flesh as he moved his hands, swiftly palming at your breasts before he sat upright.

"Your observations are always appreciated, little one, but I believe those skills could be put to better use," he teased, giving your tits another squeeze as you stifled a squeal before separating to a proper distance.

"Rotten prince!" you whispered heatedly to Aegon, glancing at Helaena again.

He snickered in response, taking a swig of the imported strawberry mead from Drone to hide his smirk. "I seem to remember you calling me a different name last night." He gulped down the drink, releasing a satisfied exhale. "What was it again? Good boy? My sweet Prince?" He feigned forgetfulness, gazing into the blue sky with a stubby digit tapping his chin. "Oh, that's right! I remember now! 'Twas-"

You launched across the patterned blanket the servants had placed and tackled Aegon, covering his mouth with your fist as he squealed like a captured piglet. He wriggled like one as you attempted to punch his cherubic cheeks, legs straddling his torso.

Suddenly, your name was called, startling you and causing your hands to move from Aegon's body and rest your weight fully atop his waist. You feared the worst. Helaena, furious at you and storming over to have you escorted from Kings Landing for your scandalous actions, destroying your plans.

"Please, don't hurt him too badly," Helaena said, still focused on the beetles. "I am certain whatever caused this isn't worth murdering him over, but if you must..." She trailed off, turning her hand over as the emerald bug crawled across the back of it. "I have not seen anything."

It took a few blinks to realize she was jesting. Her monotone, almost dreamy voice did not indicate if she was. A hint of a smile graced Helaena's thin, peony lips, a devilish glint within your eyes as you bent your knees to attack.

"Devious women! Evil women, the lot of you!" Aegon cursed in faux protest, wrestling his arms with yours as a grin split your face.

And that was how Ser Arryk found you, straddling the eldest son of the King as you rolled over the top of each other like fighting wolves, kicking the large wicker basket to his feet on accident. He cleared his throat as he reached you, Aegon using the distraction to his advantage as he flipped you over onto your stomach, mouth centimeters away from your neck.

"Princess," Ser Arryk interrupted awkwardly. Aegon deflated against you at the sound of his voice, resting his forehead on your shoulder in defeat.

"Good afternoon Ser Cargyll," you chirped, trying to control the blush that crept across your cheeks. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?"

Arryk's gaze flickered to the protruding flesh of your bosom before swiftly averting his eyes to the blooming shrubs. He cleared his throat again, the notch bobbing as he swallowed.

"The Hand has ordered a meeting of the King's Council, your Grace. 'Tis an urgent matter," he answered, his back ramrod straight.

You sighed in acknowledgment, using your palms to arch your body and shove Aegon off, his short nails catching on the embroidered beads of your dress. He groaned in annoyance as he flopped onto the ground dramatically, reminding you of Jaehaerys during one of his tantrums.

Righting yourself, you smoothed the golden fabric of your gown, which Helaena commissioned for you as a Maiden Day gift and finally felt appropriate enough to wear. You nodded at the Kingsguardmen, walking a few paces before turning to face Helaena and Aegon, the latter pouting like the spoiled boy he was.

"I apologize that our picnic must be shortened, my Prince and Princess. I'm sure we could meet for supper if that is feasible," you offered with a tilt of your head.

Helaena nodded, strolling over to her sulking brother as she nudged him with her slippered foot.

Arryk observed the interaction as he waited, his eyes trailing to places of sin. The way your flowing silk dress hugged your skin, the white pearls on the neckline complimenting your intricately styled ebony hair. Bronze beads were sewn on the gold fabric in a way that reminded him of a weeping willow, the same little balls threaded into your thin sleeves in a swirling pattern. His gaze danced over your curves next, your hips, waist, arse, anything he could see before you faced him once more, a brilliant smile on your lips.

Shame ran hot through his veins as he made contact with Aegon, his eyes dark and stare piercing. Arryk had only seen looks like that from men set to battle, hardening themselves for imminent slaughter. He knew of the Prince's quick anger, a secondhand source of it from his brother. Whatever Aegon was thinking, or more so planning, Ser Arryk didn't want to be a victim of.

He quickly turned, making his way towards an entrance of the Keep without regarding the sole reason he came. You watched Ser Cargyll's retreating form, throwing a perplexed look at Helaena and Aegon before following him, the string of pearls around your waist swaying with the movement.

Once you both were far enough away from the Godswood, you stood in Arryk's pathway, hands on your hips.

"Why did you leave so abruptly? 'Tis hardly proper as a member of the Kingsguard to turn your back on his kin," you interrogated.

"My apologies, Princess," Arryk bowed, muscles tense.

Your face soured, cringing at the emotionless sound of his voice. "None of that," you waved your hands, dismissing the subject. "Twas odd, is all. I've never seen you act in such a way before. It concerns me." You paused, pursing your lips as you glanced at the cracked red stone floors, moving closer to him. "Did Lord Hightower inform you why the meeting was called? Is that the reason for your callousness?"

Ser Arryk swallowed the lump in his throat that formed while watching your concerned face scrunch, the violet in your eyes becoming larger as your pupils shrunk in the daylight. He couldn't answer your questions truthfully without knowing your relationship with Aegon, redirecting the conversation to something more comfortable.

"I am unaware of the reason," Arryk answered instead, his posture still tense as he spoke. "It's rather unusual for the Hand to do this, no?" He noted the brief scowl that pulled your mouth, tucking your lips in to nibble at them.

"Yes. You are correct, Ser Cargyll," you nodded, pivoting on the balls of your feet as you proceeded with your journey. "It unnerves me greatly if you do not mind me speaking freely." You glanced at him in your peripherals. He encouraged you to continue, following a respectable distance. "The last time something like this happened, Grand Maester Mellos passed, and Mother encouraged me to have her Maester put forth. 'Twas humiliating when Lord Hightower said it was the Citadel's decision, not the King's."

You pinched the bridge of your nose at the memory, shame, and regret burning your ears to this day. Ser Arryk chuckled at your recollection and, without thinking better of it, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder as a friend or companion would. He recoiled faster than a striking snake once he realized, clenching his fist behind his back in abashment.

You peered at him curiously with a raised brow, assessing the situation. The knight had forgotten himself, acting more of an acquaintance than a protector. Some of you wanted to dismiss what happened and brush it off as a mistake anyone would make when spending nearly every waking moment with someone. Still, the other more intellectual side saw the opportunity that had just presented itself, and who were you to ignore it?

In your hopes that it was amicable, a grin crossed your face, hooking your opulent arm with his armored one, encouraging him to keep walking and that you weren't offended by his actions. You continued your conversation as if nothing had happened, explaining to him more times that you made a fool of yourself during court and your anxiety with the impending Lords you were about to face. Arryk listened intently, offering consoling words each time you finished, eventually loosening his flexed muscles. Once you were a few paces away from the Council Chambers, you parted from Ser Cargyll with a polite smile, asking him to wait outside the doors until the meeting was done. He, of course, agreed, finding a spot alongside the wall as you entered.

Insecurity flipped your stomach as the few Lords stared at you, each of their expressions one of shock. You gazed back at them, unsure of the reason for their behavior, as your nails dug crescents into your blanched palms. Alicent was the only person with a neutral look, hiding the faint smile on her plush lips between her hands as she sat in the high-backed chair at the end of the long table.

Lord Tyland Lannister smirked as you signaled Aemond to pour a glass of wine, needing the courage the firewater brought. You followed the direction of his eyes, realizing they were on your outfit, glancing between the pearl dragon earrings and necklace to the shimmering gold of your gown. You understood it was something you would have never chosen yourself, more comfortable in your red and dark day-to-day palette, but it was a gift from a princess, and you weren't expecting an impromptu meeting. It would be best if you had changed before attending, you nervously thought.

Lord Beesbury was the last member to join, rushing in with a flurry of robes and parchment, the scrolls tumbling out of his arms. You rose to help him and gathered the fallen documents, ignoring the impatient groans of the men above you. Lord Laymen gave you a grateful smile, dropping the scrolls in a pile on the oak table before seating himself.

Otto Hightower broke the thick silence with a sigh and clap of his hands.

"I apologize for the abruptness of this meeting, but I have news regarding aid to the Stepstones," he announced uncharacteristically cheery. "We have received the shipments requested earlier than initially thought, and our Master of Coin's secretary has counted everything himself."

You couldn't hide the annoyed tick of your jaw for not knowing this news first. Lord Laymen was told to come to you regarding when the imports arrived. He was the Master of Coin, and a portion of his duties lay in the imports and exports of Kings Landing. You felt a sense of betrayal at the man, your usual cordial look towards him replaced with an icy one.

"This is wonderful news," Lord Lannister replied boisterously, a smile hidden underneath his beard. "Mayhaps we'll finally be done with this Triarchy nonsense, and Lord Corlys will prevail." The Master of Ships raised his half-empty cup, everyone except for you mimicking his actions. "A toast," he hollered, looking at everyone at the rectangular table as you swiftly lifted your drink to match them, "to the Bastard Princess for finally ending this Gods forsaken war."

"Hear, hear," rang out in the room from all the men, only the two women posing across each other, keeping their mouths shut. You downed the entire contents of the blood-orange wine in one go, swallowing the biting insult that threatened to spill from your mouth at the namesake.

"Thank you, my Lord Tyland, but we shouldn't partake in any victory celebrations yet," you said, false appreciation in your tone. "I would like to see the shipments myself if that is all right with you, Lord Beesbury? 'Tis not that I don't trust your secretary; this project is something dear to me, and I would feel at peace if I were there to ensure it in person."

The older Lord nodded almost ludicrously, "Of course, Princess. We shan't proceed without your approval."

Tossing a saccharine smile to the gentleman under your dark lashes as Lord Jasper chimed in. "Princess, I would like to accompany you in the process. As the Master of Laws, I must ensure they have the required documentation to sail to Dragonstone. We have increased our naval patrol over Blackwater Bay, and I would hate for the goods to be confiscated. If they were, it would be out of my hands then."

You raised a skeptical eyebrow at Lord Wylde, unable to hide the look of disbelief on your face. It felt like an unnecessary request of Lord Jasper, and it insulted you to have him think he could get away with it. "They got here fine, did they not? Refrain from troubling yourself with such trivial tasks. I would be surprised if those men could even read," you quipped, forgetting the courtly tone excepted of you.

Suddenly, the room went noiseless, the joyful feeling replaced with something else.

"Many would say the same about a woman like yourself—a bastard from the slums of Flea Bottom sitting on the King's Small Council. Most people would think you suited elsewhere," Ser Jasper sneered, slighted by your remarks.

Your face grew scalding, your hands balling into fists on your lap. You couldn't contain the following words, the inherited rage from the Rouge Prince boiling to the surface. "Why? Are you looking for another wife? Gods rest her soul."

Gasps filled the room. Everyone, even the One-Eyed Prince, was stunned at the venom that had just spewed from your lips. It had only been a month since the passing of Lord Jasper's wife, not yet through the mourning period. You wanted to take it back as soon as you sounded it. Not because of how vile it was but because it cracked the mask of righteousness you wore with pride, showing how much you were truly like your reckless father—the man who slaughtered the innocents of Flea Bottom over a decade ago.

"It would fit you better," he snapped, "wailing in pain while you served the only purpose a woman like you is good for."

You shot out from your chair, nostrils flaring and lifting your skirt before thinking better of it in an endeavor to unsheath your dagger.

"Enough!" The Queen shouted, stopping you from doing something you wouldn't survive to regret. "The Princess shall survey the shipments without company. This meeting is finished."

Each member left the chambers like frightened deer; even the Hand himself left in such a hurry that it shocked Queen Alicent herself. You could feel their lingering stares as they went, putting your cutlass back in its proper place before flickering your glare to the only occupants still brave enough to stay. Aemond stared at you with regard of what could only be interpreted as amazement, his one purple eye wide and bow lips parted like a suffocating fish would—Alicent, still seated, staring at her raw cuticles, a shadow cast over her heart-shaped face from her forearms.

You left with a succinct curtsy and newfound gratefulness for the Queen, pushing the hair that had fallen over your shoulders behind you and meeting the bewildered gaze of Ser Arryk. He would undoubtedly heard the loud screech of your chair as you nearly pounced on Ser Jasper Wylde, and you could see the concern etched in the fine lines of his skin. You disregarded his outstretched hand that wishfully asks to link arms again, the skirt of your dress nearly causing you to trip from your brisk pace. Arryk swallowed the bitter discomfort that formed in his throat at the denial and caught up to you with haste.

"Your Grace, are you well?" The knight oppugned.

"Quite well. Thank you, Ser Cargyll," you gagged, swatting away a strand of hair that blew into your mouth. Arryk's armor clanked with his swift gait, his white cloak billowing behind him.

"Are you sure, my Lady? I heard a commotion moments before the meeting adjourned," he prodded, hoping you would answer his unasked question.

"I tripped Lord Larys, and he fell into his chair, finally putting the poor cripple out of his misery," you snarled, unsure of your destination as you continued moving. "Is that what you want me to say, hmm?" You stopped abruptly, whipping your body around to face him. "That the wildling bastard Aegon Targaryen found in Flea Bottom is an eel like everyone else? Mayhaps I should go back and live amongst my fellow leeches."

Ser Arryk stared at you in stunned confusion, shock, and befuddlement about where your frustrations and sudden outburst originated.

"Princess-" He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came, lips curling and uncurling as he tried to find the proper expressions. Arryk finally gave up, his cerulean stares closing as he straightened his posture, becoming the impersonal Kingsguard he trained to be.

Even in your rage, Arryk still found you beautiful. Your inklike mane was braided skillfully in a half up half down style, golden pearl pins framing the soft features of your countenance. Immediately he buried the thought, a blush dusting across his pale cheeks. He desired desperately that moment he had his helmet covering the pink. You soughed, realizing your anger was misplaced, and crossed your arms, the bronze beads of your dress catching one another.

Before you could apologize, you caught a blur of green in the distance, the Queen Consort walking purposefully towards you, a firm yet serene expression on her soft face. The knight took note of your gaze, no longer on him, and turned, his posture impossibly more tense than before.

You both bowed in unison as she halted, dismissing Ser Arryk with the wave of her emerald and peridot jeweled fingers. Eyeing her curiously, you fell beside her, assuming she wanted to talk privately. Queen Alicent hushed as you trekked the long winding hallways of the Keep, waiting for the palace's inhabitants to thin before speaking.

"Twas unbecoming of Lord Wylde to speak in such a manner. I want to apologize on his behalf Princess," she said, causing your stomach to tighten.

The Queen never apologized; not once could you recall a moment where she indeed had. High-borns never sought remorse for their actions from those beneath them. They believed themselves above such things, especially a Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You were just a princess, not even in line for the Iron Throne should something tragic happen to the people before you, and yet Alicent was seeking forgiveness. Not even for her actions!

"I believe your apology is unwarranted; you've done nothing wrong. I should hear this from Lord Jasper and not you, my Queen," you replied, flicking a brown and purple eye at her.

Alicent clasped her hands together, a position they seemed never to leave as she nodded grimly. "Yes, I agree, but he would never wound his pride like that. 'Tis the only thing men like him have."

You couldn't hide your disbelief, trying not to bring attention to your reaction lest she decide to rescind this brief moment of peace between you. While her mocking slightly disarmed your caution, you still trod carefully, not adding anything to what you thought of "men like Lord Jasper Wylde." When Queen Alicent saw you would not further her chaffing, she quieted, the delicate grin on her plush lips fleeting.

"It was sad, what he said," Alicent continued thoughtfully, "about your lineage." You glanced at her from the corners of your eyes, not indicating your thoughts. "It's unfair that you're the only bastard who receives nothing."

You quizzically raised a manicured brow at her, willing your mouth not to scowl. "How so?"

"Your adopted brothers. It is no secret that their father is not who Rhaenyra claims to be." You didn't hide the distaste from your look, ceasing your pace alongside her.

"Careful where you tread, my Queen. Some might think what you're implying is treasonous."

Her nude lips pouted, her aureate viridian earrings swaying as she followed. "I know you believe it to be true. I trust that there is comfort in numbers, I suppose. The more bastards in the House, the more likely one would be willing to accept their claim."

Rolling your eyes, you huffed, continuing the direction Alicent had set, yet not knowing where it was to be.

"Truly, I do not understand where this hate of bastards comes from. Men have them more than legitiment ones; why is the Heir not held to the same standard?" you griped, ignoring the Queen's unhurried footfalls to catch up to you.

"Because men do not give their bastards titles. They are not set to inherit what their father has, just as you're not."

You stopped striding again, storming to Alicent like an orange flame emerging from a dragon's throat. "I do not need more titles or gold. My worth is not defined by a piece of parchment or coin like yours." Your chest heaved, the necklace resting upon it, glinting with each breath. "Your implications of my brothers' birth will not be so easily forgotten as the King. My Mother will hear of this, and I-"

"The same Mother who refuses to give you what her sons of equal lineage have?"

The urge to strike her was powerful, your mind a raging inferno of acrimony, anger, and a cold draft of hurt. You quickly shoved it away, focusing on the two you could feel clawing at your ribs to escape. But before you could put your emotions into words, a door opened, a short curly white-haired head peeking out.

Aegon's curious amethyst eyes flitted between you and his Mother, attempting to discern what your clenched fists and red face were about, holding a chalice in his hand. You looked back at Alicent in a mix of malice and disgust for having been so worked up that you didn't realize she had led you to her son's door. Alicent's face was schooled, her back straight and neck high, appearing the ever-regal Queen her father groomed her to be.

"Princess, come," Aegon called, his speech lightly slurred, "join me for a drink. You look like you need one."

You hid the sigh of defeat from Alicent, facing her son with a placid smile. "I do not believe it would be proper of me to join you in your chambers without a chaperone," you countered, though you desired greatly to run into his room and lose the ire of the day.

"You are family, Princess," the Queen chimed in, eager to have you distract her eldest son from drinking too heavily and inevitably embarrassing her.

You glared. She knew of Aegon's unkinship-like desire for you, yet, she was content with practically throwing you into his chambers unsupervised. Every expletive you could think of wanted to be thrown at her, but you held your tongue.

"If her Grace is all right with it," you curtsied, hatred beaming as your voice displayed the opposite. "I shall join you for a drink."

Aegon smiled joyfully, taking a swig of his chalice before opening the door wider as you entered, but not before throwing Alicent a nasty look, the Queen's face unchanging.

You stormed over to the table in the middle of Aegon's greeting room, dragging the simple wooden chair on the stone floor as it screeched. Placing your head within your palms, you huffed, relaxing your constantly tense shoulders as the tipsy Prince sat across you.

"I wasn't lying when I said you look like you need a drink," Aegon teased, furthering his jesting with a slow sip from his cup.

Dismissing him with a shake of your head, you leaned back in your seat with your legs outstretched and face pointed to the ceiling in an unladylike position. You had already drunk an entire bottle worth of alcohol today, and it was only a handful of hours after midday, and waking up the next morn with a cotton mouth and a pounding headache did not seem like a pleasant idea.

"Perhaps I shall make you come, then, for a change." In response, you tilted your head down, your chin tucking into your chest, eyes in incredulous slits. "You always take such good care of me, little one. Let me return the favor."

You couldn't deny that the idea was appealing. It had been ages since you dove into the soothing water that was pleasure, always preoccupied with Aegon, social events, and politicking. The only moments you ever felt that insatiable need the spoiled Prince seemed to have was with him, but more important things were at hand during those moments.

Your pleasure was not a priority, only his. He was the one that needed to become smitten with you. When he finally was, you would give him a choice, stay with his little Princess under the warmth of your bossom, drinking wine and eating all the sweet cakes he could stomach, or die seated on the Iron Throne as your dragon's flames melted the swords into his flesh.

"I do not need tending to, Aegon, but your offer is much appreciated," you replied, standing as you walked toward the open balcony doors.

The air was sweet, filled with the pollination of flowers and trees, the temperature mild, not too hot, nor too cold, a light-sleeved gown sufficient. Aegon quickly followed after you, resuming a mirrored position from the table on the railing, following your gaze to the southern side of Kings Landing.

He wished so ardently for you to give in to your human desires. It had been months of you living within the Red Keep, something Aegon had prayed to the Old Gods and the New since you left him. He spent countless sleepless nights buried high within his cups and deep within women's cunts to cope with his misery, going so far as to request particular whores with the same dark hair as you to bleach a strand to match yours. Nothing worked. It was never enough, never you.

Until now.

The most you had shown Aegon of the cunny he dreamed of was a glimpse on one secret night where his Mother had been particularly cruel with her words, something or other about spending time with his children. You had comforted him with a soothing ballad of kind words and lifting your skirts. Aegon came with such a force that he thought he saw the Stranger. He finally understood why they were called little deaths, for if he had spent like that every time, he would be dead by now.

Aegon perked at your sigh, watching your dress glitter in the sunlight as you crossed your arms. You looked like you belonged to him then, adorned in the same gold and opulence he loved to wear. He imagined then what life would have been like if you became his wife and not his dreamy-eyed sister.

How many children would you have now? Would he still have the twins?

Aegon chuckled at the thought, catching your curious stare as he quieted. No, most certainly not. He would never leave you a moment unswollen if you wed. You would have sired at least six children if your body and the Gods allowed it. Your breasts would weigh heavy on your back, and Aegon, the ever-doting husband, would heal you from that pain. He would fuck you until the babe's head dropped, and you could see its lanugo hair. He would stay by your side through every moment of your birthing despite the impropriety of it. Then, after that, Aegon would care for the wounds his child caused, dabbing at your tender womanhood and applying the ointments the Maester prescribed.

A thumping in Aegon's cock tore him from his fantasies, reeling him into the present. You unmarried and babeless, him a piss poor father for his current children and neglectful husband to his real wife. He brushed the thought from his mind, not wanting to fall into the home that was his self-loathing. You were right across from him, deep into your head. He could give it to you now, what he desired, and see how your little deaths would rake through your whole body.

"I can sense you staring," your voice struck like the water he fell into at Blackwater Bay this past winter, "and why you are doing so. You will not make me come, Aegon. I've no want for it."

"Is that a challenge, little one," he teased, pushing off the red stone banister and sauntering towards you.

"No," you answered, facing him with a steeled expression. "It's a command."

"Awe, but Princess, the look in your eyes says differently."

You guffawed, your brows shooting to your hairline as you tilted your head. "You must be drunk then, for you are seeing things. Come now, let's sober you up."

You signaled for him to follow as you walked back inside, only to be stopped by Aegon's deft hands. He moved you more forcefully than possible, dragging you back to your former spot and caging your legs between his.

"Aegon, be serious," you declared, attempting to move his limbs but failing. Despite his lack of training, Aegon could be relatively strong when he wanted.

"I have waited years for you to return to me. I have cried, alone at night in my chambers, praying that the Gods bring you back." You watched him with a look of surprise and sympathy, reaching your arm out to stroke his cheek, something you knew disarmed him, but he swiftly snatched it. "But they did not answer. Now, I have you, and I shall never let you leave."

Aegon's lips crashed against yours without warning, his pink tongue making its way to tangle with yours. You were frozen at the sudden foreign sensation, leaving your jaw to hang loosely open before he shoved a knee betwixt your thighs. The beads of your dress created harsh pinpricks of pleasure on your pearl, causing your mouth to open and your body to slacken, Aegon deepening the kiss instinctually. Your back arched over the stone railing, the Prince's hold being the only thing to keep you from tumbling to your death, digging your fingers into the fabric of his doublet for leverage. If you were to fall, you would ensure the unspoken heir would do so with you.

Aegon's mouth left yours, taking the chance to regain both your breaths before he dove back in, sucking and nipping at the expanse of your neck. His hands began to explore downward on your body, his nails catching on the metal orbs sewn into the fabric, treading lower, lower, and lower until he bunched the fabric of your skirt in his grip.

"Aegon." You tried to sound firm, but the word became a whimper. Squirming in his grasp to leave, you only became weak, the steady placement of his knee rubbing against that sacred area, turning your muscles to mush. "Stop."

He shushed you in response, nuzzling his nose behind your ear, inhaling the welcoming smell of lavender and dragon. "It's all right, little one. I'm here. You deserve this," he cooed, snaking his palm across your navel and down to your heat.

He felt the hair there, more plentiful than when Aegon last touched it, brushing over the coarse strands before entering a finger between your lips. You cried out at the coldness of his digits against your sensitive core, trying to heat his touch before venturing further.

"You're soaked, sweet girl," he purred into your ear, nibbling at the decorated lobe. "Why do you deny yourself so? You do so much for the kingdom, for your family," Aegon paused, parting your damp lips and sliding a slick finger over your bud as warmth shot through you, "for me." Your leg hitched at his touch, moaning loudly as his pad drew circles.

"I don't-" you wept, cutting yourself off as you felt a coil in your stomach form.

"You don't what?" he mocked, pressing firmer and causing a spark of ecstasy to bolt through you. "Don't want it? No." Aegon shook his head, answering for you. "You don't deserve it? No again. You do more in a day than my wastrel father did during his entire reign."

Aegon went faster now, his finger rubbing harder than before and making you leak onto your thighs. "Don't... talk about your father," you said breathily, your head leaning on his.

You felt the vibration of his laugh in your skull, giving you a momentary peck to your jaw in apology as his other hand dropped the skirt of your gown and wrapped it around your waist to grind into his touch. Your chest was heaving, your heart pounding, the wire inside your abdomen rapidly tightening with each refined movement.

"You deserve this. You know you deserve this," Aegon repeated, using your moistness to go faster. "I want you to say it. I want you to say it when you come," he haughtily commanded, his voice thick.

His fingers were too focused, his touch too good, and you were so, so deprived of intimacy. With a few more circles, rubs, and kisses, you felt the words tumbling off your lips, the coil wound too tight as your neglected cunt soaked his fingers with appreciation.

"I deserve this!" you shouted into the cerulean sky, Aegon's digits working you through your climax. "I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this," you rambled, your body having a mind of its own.

"You do, little one," he praised. "Let them hear it. Let them know your worth."

"I deserve this," you mewled one last time, nodding your head against the side of his resting on your shoulder, looking like the many cats of the Keep marking their scent. Aegon peppered you with kisses as you inhaled gulps of air. Your legs twitched, and you struggled to stand as the aftershocks subsided, held by only the Prince's strength.

It was impossible to think clearly, to fully grasp what had happened. The months, perhaps even years of negligence you spent with self-pleasure, finally coming to a rearing head, clouding your mind. The consequences of your actions failed you. Your only thoughts of how Aegon slowly dropped to his knees, pulling your skirt higher as he looked up with a mischievous yet admirable look in his violet eyes, his mouth latching onto your puffy cunt with a grin.

"One more," he murmured, his moist breath tickling, "I just need one more."

***

Aegon had lied. He did not only pry one more climax from you but three in total. Once on the terrace, back draped over the railing, your hair hanging over the ledge. The second time underneath the caring disguise of wiping away the slick from your core, only to be met with his middle and ring finger inside your tight velvet walls, and finally, the third, with a combination of his tongue and digits.

You knew you shouldn't have trusted the boy. Aegon was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for having an appetite that no amount of whores, food, or wine could satisfy. You didn't realize it extended to another's pleasure also. Your bones were made of the Apple Muse you adored by the end, your muscles so weak from the rapid tensing and untensing as he ripped those little deaths from you.

When all was said and done, the whore of a Prince took great care of you, ensuring your throbbing cunny was clean from both your fluids, and servants brought a pitcher of water.

You were drifting asleep, an action you knew was unwise to do with Aegon around. The possibility of waking with the intrusion of his cock inside your wall was at the forefront of your mind. That fear was the only thing that kept you from drifting off when your body all but screamed for it. You took to speaking with him to distract yourself from rest, reminding him with mumbles that you promised Helaena that you would dine with her tonight. Aegon would have to play the husband's role again and see his children.

It was always difficult to return to Helaena knowing what you had done with him but not the guilt an adulteress would have. Yours was different. Shame that you were playing a game with her husband, knowingly partaking in these acts of scandal towards a goal and not for the pleasure of it. You did not know which was worse.

You were sure that Helaena would not be upset for your actions as a typical Lady Wife would, for she didn't love him like one. You supposed she would be grateful for what you were doing, keeping him away from the Silk Streets, gambling houses, and fighting pits. Ensuring there were no more bastards than there already were running around in Kings Landing. Well, that was what you convinced yourself, at least so you could look at the People's Princess without your sins written across your face.

The timber of Aegon's voice tickled your ear, snapping open your eyes that you didn't realize were closed. "I had the maids tell Helaena that we shall dine in my rooms tonight," he chuckled to himself, pecking you on the cheek with a grin, "since you are in no shape to make the journey to her's."

You nodded, unable to protest, and pushed yourself against the headboard to make yourself more alert. Aegon scooted into place beside you, resting his head on your shoulder while he played with the rings on your fingers.

You still couldn't process what happened; disappointment was the only thing you could feel. The heavy-weighing claws of it tugging on your heart and dragging it into a bottomless dark pit, constantly carrying, pulling, weighing down on you until you felt the searing pricks of tears in your eyes.

You had let yourself down and succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh that had ruined so many great men in history. You promised to focus only on Aegon and his desires, and wrongfully, you thought it would be easy. You had anticipated that the Prince was like all other men with sex, only seeking their release, and hadn't planned for him to seek yours out. By all accounts, Aegon had been just that.

This was the first moment he had wanted you to reach ecstasy during your entire stay. The most Aegon ever begged for was a glimpse of your tits and cunny, working himself in his own hands during the process. Where had the sudden urge to pleasure you emerge from?

Perhaps the plan was going better than you thought. It's only natural for a man to desire a woman's warm embrace eventually. Still, you hadn't realized it would come at the unreciprocating hands of Aegon the Drunk and only for him not to want something in return. You had long ago made peace with the fact that you would endure the tearing of your maidenhead by him and expected nothing more to bear but this... Aegon had opened something locked tightly inside of you, and your mind could not understand it, so it found the only thing it did: hatred. Not hatred towards the eldest Prince but toward yourself.

You loathed yourself for what you did, what you allowed. You would understand the reasonings behind the act if it was only once, but you had allowed Aegon to take, take, take from you, willingly, knowing your morals. It was your fault for what happened. There was no one to blame but yourself.

You searched desperately for anything to justify what happened. Did it bring the unsung heir closer to you? No. You would've had the same results if you had just let him rape you. It further helped make Aegon realize he wanted to be with you more than having riches? No. The climax after edging him ten times would make him learn that. What was the justification?

You hadn't realized your chest began to pant, alarming the Prince beside you to look over in concern. You felt sick at the sight. His perfectly chiseled marble face staring at you with his amethyst eyes twinkling with rising worry, and you rolled off the bed, stumbling. Your body shook, shoulders tensed to your ears as your fists trembled, pacing aimlessly across his room. Succinct gasps left your quivering lips, tears welling in your eyes but refusing to fall.

Aegon watched with horror as you ran back and forth across the length of his bed chambers like a caged animal. He had no idea what to do, trying to call out to get your attention but receiving no response. Your hands go to your ears, trying to block out the sounds of a near-silent room as you hiccup.

Suddenly, the ground beneath Aegon shuddered with a bone-rattling shake, quickly glancing down and then up to see the dust from his ceiling falling to the floor. An ear-bursting roar boomed through the entirety of King's Landing, causing the filled cups of his room to vibrate in their place. He felt the stone floor shake again with the moving of the dragon's footsteps, no doubt belonging to Cannibal.

Aegon ran to you swiftly at your dragon's second room, seeing the edge of orange flames and smoke rising in the sky from his opened balcony doors. He knew of the bond a rider and their mount possessed, having witnessed it with his own Sunfyre when he too was upset, but never at this length. Cannibal was wild and still barely tamed, unaware of the social norms humans had that the others of his species understood. More roars sounded, but softer this time, as if they were in the distance. Aegon ignored them, focusing on trying to pry your digits that had wound themselves into your braided hair, your scalp blanched and roots nearly showing.

He said your name first, attempting to gather your attention from where it had run off, but that didn't work. Nothing worked. No amount of cooing and soothing, as one would do to a child, made it past your deaf ears. Aegon began to narrowly mirror your panic, his eyes wide as he searched desperately to find a way to calm you down. He had never seen you in such a state, nor anyone else for the matter, and felt the sting of tears gather in his eyes.

"Please, speak to me," he beseeched, voice thick with fear. "I've no clue how to help you."

Your pacing ceased when your slippered foot caught on the misplaced leg of a stool, falling to the ground with a strangled yelp that Cannibal seemed to mimic. Aegon took this time to fall onto the floor next to you, gathering you into his arms as you flailed and booted like a lamb stolen from its Mother. Before he could think better of it, Aegon slapped his hand over your mouth, recalling how he saw a stableboy do that with a spooked colt.

You squirmed and wriggled like a wounded rabbit caught in a snare, screaming like one into his palm as your blunt nails scratched across his cheek. Aegon ignored the stinging, using every ounce of strength he accumulated from training, brawling, and fucking to hold you down, nearly escaping him twice before he laid you underneath him, arm wrapped around your stomach on the icy stone floor. He pinned you there until your struggling ceased, the rapid flaring of your nostrils coming to a halt.

When Cannibal's midnight wings flapped in the air, Aegon knew you were calm, feeling secure enough to release you with the gentle draw of his hands. He let you rest there for what felt like ages, scrutinizing every involuntary twitch of your muscles lest he have to repeat himself. The call of Arbor Red was firm in his veins, but he disregarded it, shuffling until his back hit something to rest on.

The first words out of your mouth were not what he expected, sounding so small and defeated, causing him to pause before he understood briefly. "I must fix my hair before Princess Helaena arrives. Do you have a brush?"

Aegon silently nodded before he realized you could not see him, your cheek still pressed into the floor and facing away. "Yes," he answered aloud, bumbling over to his rarely used oak vanity.

He handed the silver brush as you sat upright and took apart your maids' handy work, fixing the style into something more straightforward and placing the pearl pins accordingly. Aegon observed with caution, keeping at least ten paces from you as if you were a rabid beast. You didn't fault him for it, nor dislike it, simply too numb to feel.

"Is it all right?" You startled Aegon, him taking a moment to realize that you were speaking.

"Of course," he nodded eagerly though you couldn't see, and you hummed in assent.

"The servants should be near done setting the table. We should wait for Helaena and the children there," you stated blandly, rising from your kneeled position and smoothing your dress.

Aegon agreed noiselessly, leading you to his solar as cautiously as he could, watching for any sign that he might lose you again, but there weren't any. Ony the cold countenance of apathy that he had only seen once before when staring at the severed head of your kin. The expression haunted him to this day, guilt rising in his throat like the burning feeling of acid, taking an armchair a respectable distance away.

Masterlist of Series

Once again, I'd like to thank you for your patience during my break. I lived in my George R. R. Martin era, but don't worry; this series won't take 27+ years to finish XD. For some reason, this post won't let me upload my full taglist, so I did it as a reblog in case you wondered why it's different. According to my idea chart, we're a little under halfway through the story, but honestly, it doesn't even feel like it. There are so many things ahead. It's just mind-boggling. Like, there's one point where shit hits the fan, and it's like, "whaaaat". I want to spoil it because it's crazy, but I shall keep my lips sealed. Anyway, thank you so much for reading this chapter and continuing this journey with me!!

Also, did you like my Miss Congeniality reference hidden in there? XD

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pieces-by-me · 3 years

Text

Strangers on the Road

Gif by the lovely @honestsycrets

Words: 2605

Summary: Goodness can be found everywhere. Even for a stranger on a strange road.

Warnings: mentions of ablism

Kinda feel like this is not that good and lost inspiration at the end but I didn’t want to just delete the whole thing. Would love to hear what you all think of this✨

The Silk Road was a lot of things but never boring. People would meet from west to east to bargain about jewels, exotic foods, animals, slaves and as the name says silk. Anything you could ever need you could find on the Silk Road.

There was a market place. Close to the border where sand meets snow. It was colder here. The sun not having enough warmth to burn you, but still keep you a bit warmer. The market was not the biggest but the last one you would find for miles before the terrain changes from rocky mountaintops to frost covered grounds. Hundreds of people scuffled about to find the best goods. Different prices were being called around the area by the handlers to make the travelers come to their small stalls and seats. Many big men would shout at the top of their lungs. Some women would walk about and thrust their fabric in peoples faces. Anything to make yourself and your worth known.

One small stand, it was so tiny you might not even call it that, was at the end of the market. At first sight one couldn't even see what was presented for trade or purchase. But the closer you came the more you saw. Small clay pots with lids on them, little bowls with salves and a basket filled with weirdly looking dried leafs. Medicine.

The young women behind her small stall made herself useful by cleaning small crumbs of dirt from her pots. Smiling at buyers that walked by and greeting the once that came to her.

Y/N may not have a lot of supply but the demand was high. So the little she had she could sell for more then some other merchants. With made her life a little easier. But even if she sold everything each day she would still scrape at the ends of her revenues. It's only enough for her to live each day. Which was fine. She didn't have anyone she needed to support. Her parents died when she was young and she never had any siblings. So anything she made was for herself.

It wasn't easy at the beginning. Having to collect plants in a mountains was not an easy task. Walking miles upon miles into the nearest forrest for maybe an hour just to run back as soon as the sun went down. It would be a death sentence to walk on the Silk Road at night as a little girl. And Y/N had to start make a living for herself at a young age. But she managed. The knowledge she inherited from her mother helped her a lot. As soon as she found the little round leafs buried under the snow she knew she could survive.

They weren't just normal weeds. If you cooked them they would make a tea that would help with the biggest pains. If you chewed them raw you could help your teeth stay strong. And when you stomp them together with with goat fat and a specific snake venom it would help heal wounds in half the time. That was her biggest seller. It was hard to come by. Having to milk her snakes herself and trading things for goat fat took time. Every time she made it it would sell out in seconds and it would be worth it.

Today was like every other day. Waking up. Skipping breakfast to open the stall. Standing your feet into the ground for the day. Closing up. Making preparations and tinctures for the next day. Sleep.

Y/N knew nothing else so she was happy with it. Every day she would stand between Bran the forger, the nice guy that couldn't really stand anymore due to an old injury he obtained in a fight, and Lorah the jewel seller, a hardheaded women with to many opinions and a need to gossip. It was noisy between the constant banging on metal and women's chattering about the best new stones or quality of an arm ring. But it was her little place and she couldn't imagine standing somewhere else on the market.

The sun stood high in the sky when, for the first time in years, something changed. A lot of different people would travel the Silk Road to trade and buy. Different people from different places of the world praising different gods and coming around with the weirdest foods. But never in all her years had Y/N seen a cripple being carted through the market.

He was not hard to spot. The wagon he was sitting in was a big telltale. There weren't a lot of people with carts like that. The next thing she spotted were his legs. Two legs in metal braces. They looked old and rusted, as if they were about to fall apart. And then, the last sign of the stranger were his eyes. Y/N only caught them for a second but the shade of blue that pierced though hers was something she had never seen before. They were clearer then Lorah's jewels. Bluer then the sky. She could have looked into them for the whole day and never would tire.

“What in all the lords name is that?”

The disgusted voice of Lorah snapped the young woman out of her staring. She looked at the cripple with so much hate it seems he had killed her first born child.

“What do you mean? He's just traveling through here.”

Bran voiced his thoughts.

“I can see that you old fool. The question is why is it even here in the first place. It should not be here.”

“He's not a thing. He's human just like you.”

Y/N small voice grew colder then what it usually was when she talked to the women. She didn't like the tone and words her stall neighbor used for the stranger.

“Y/N dear you're young and naive. Human puh. No we are humans, you and me. Bran even. But the likes of...him should have died right after the birth. See the legs. They're crippled and wrong. We used to bring them outside to die when children like it were born. It's not natural. It's evil and bad and must be banished from the world.”

Y/N was shocked. She knew that Lorah was opinionated on a lot of things and that she would stand for her word. But this? How could she decide that this men should have died when he was a babe? What kind of monster could decide who lives and dies just by the way they were born?

“How can you truly think that? Your jewels might be beautiful but your heart is ugly Lorah.”

“I'm not the only one with that knowledge little witch. You'll see. That creature will not get anything from the people here on this market.”

Witch. Lorah knew that Y/N was called that behind her back and that she didn't like it. But she was rather a witch then heartless. She turned around to face the evil women once more but was met with nothing. Lorah must have stormed away in believe of having the last sentence and won the argument. Pathetic.

“Let her be Y/N. She sometimes seems as evil but she has truth to her words. The poor man won't find anyone to trade with him. He looks like he will travel farther east and probably die in the cold. Crippled people don't make it far in life. It's a wonder he made it this far. God must've be kind to him.”

“There are a lot of people here who will trade with anyone. They need the money and don't care if he's a cripple or not. And screw your God Bran. Your God would want me to burn alive for simply knowing some herbs.”

The clanging from bended metal was the only answer she'd get from the smith. Maybe she shouldn't have insulted his believe. Whats done is done.

Movement from the stranger caught her eyes again. He was making his way out of the cart with the help from a crutch. Also looking as if it would fall apart. Something was off about him though. His motions looked ragged. Tugging, almost as if his muscles would give out. She looked at him and again her eyes met his. This time she could see that not only the color of his eyes were blue but also the whites around them. Pain.

She knew what blue whites meant. In her live she met some men that came back from battle with light blue colored eyes. And they always proclaimed to be in the worst kind of pain they've ever felt. Him walking around with his crutch you wouldn't see that he felt pain with every step he took. It could simply be hard to walk on this ground. But she knew. And her heartstrings pulled tighter at the picture of this man struggling to only get food or whatever it is he needs.

Y/N hadn't realized how close the stranger has come. He was close enough to see the goods that were sprawled out on her little table and for her to see that there was a silver of a necklace peaking through his tunic. It looked like a hammer and she recognized it immediately. Nothing interested him though for he just walked by her without a glance. But she couldn't let that stand. Back in her head she searched for the old language her father tried to teach her. It was hard but she managed. She turned to him and with little confidence she called.

“Stranger”

That made him halt in his step. Turning around he met her eyes. This time on purpose. His eyes were filled with a sort of anger and he answered to fast with too many words for her to understand.

“Please, talk slower”

“How do you know my language?” It came out more of an demand then a question.

“My father thought me.”

“But why did he teach you Norse. You don't look like a Viking.”

Her answer came after a short minute but with a small smile on her face.

“I'm not Viking. But my father was friends with some. Back when he was alive.”

That made the stranger pause again. He was considered what she told him. You could see it.

“What is your name?” This time it was a question.

“Y/N and yours?”

He hesitated. Should he tell this woman who he was? Could it come back and bite him in the ass if he told the truth?

“You don't have to tell me. It's not of my buisn..”

“Ivar”

His interruption made her to stumble over her words but after she heard that he told her his name her small smile grew larger. Ivar had to say she had a nice smile. And she was the first one to start a conversation with him and not the other way around.

“Well Ivar, is there something you might need that I can help you with?”

“No, I'm looking for food and you only sell weird looking porridge.”

Her smile didn't falter. “Well I don't have food but you can buy something six stalls to your right. Bella sells the best and cheapest dates on the whole road. Also if you say that I send you she will probably give you more for your money. But here please take this”

With the last words she turned around, ducked behind her stall and when she came up again she held a small brown pouch filled with dried leafs inside a yellow cup.

Ivar looked at her with skepticism. Why would this weird, yet beautiful, women talk to him and then also help him?

“I don't have enough gold to pay for...whatever that is. And why would you help me with food when you would gain nothing in return?”

“I don't want your gold. I just want to help. I see the way your eyes are blue and I know that you are in pain. So why wouldn't I help you when I can? Also Bella owns me one for making medicine for her son so it's nothing really”

Y/N held the pouch still in her hands but with the missing answer form Ivar her smile fell just a little. But she wouldn't take no, or the lack of one, as an answer. So with a little smirk that looked more mischievous than the smile she held before she threw the little bag to the side of him that didn't hold him up on his crutch.

With a startled look, as if he was expecting a knife, he caught the bag. The stare he threw back at her made her laugh so hard even on Bran's face grew on. He observed the weird interaction between the two even though he couldn't understand a word they'd said. He hand't seen Y/N laugh and smile for a long time.

“Well now it's yours and I don't take returns” Her voice matched her smile and after a moment to overcome his initial shock Ivar smiled back. And Y/N swore her heart skipped a beat.

“Fine... then as it seems that I am stuck with this..would you explain to me what I have to do with it?” His smile was a little dimmed but still on his face.

“You'd have to boil the leafs for a while and then drink it slowly. Little sips. And no more then one cup.” She gave him the cup too and he hid both of her gift somewhere in his robe.

They held eye contact. Knowing that their interaction would be over soon. Him still plagued with hunger and her with the need to sell more of her goods, now that she gifted some away. But neither wanting to let the other go. Y/N was the first person since he fled Kattegat that was actually nice to him. She treated him like a person and not ogled at him like the freak he was. Well as the freak he saw in himself.

And Ivar was the first men that made her laugh and made her truly feel happy for a little while. She could forget the struggle of having to be alone in this world. She would miss him. Even though they only knew each other for an hour she would truly miss this stranger with the blue eyes.

And what she didn't know was that Ivar would miss and think of her for the rest of his journey. He would see her act of kindness a far greater thing then just a small favor. And her laugh would bring him warmth when he went into the snow filled forests.

“Thank you” His small voice was filled with honesty.

“You are more then welcome. I wish you all the luck and that your gods help you on your journey”

He hadn't expected to hear that but it brought him a little bit of hope. If the gods made him meet her he was on the right path.

He only bowed his head a little, a sheepish smirk on his face, and made his way away from her and to the mentioned stall from Bella. Dates sounded magnificent right now.

Ivar vanished in the masses of people but her smile stayed on her face.

“Well someone is a little smitten”

“Ah shut up Bran”

Her insult was met with laughter from the old forger.

__________

Tags: @youbloodymadgenius

#history vikings #vikings #vikings ivar #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar x reader #ivar x y/n #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar imagine #ivar fanfic

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hyrule-kingdom-updates · 3 years

Text

Astor just sighed to himself as he walked down the castle’s long hallways.

The windows on this level of the castle spanned from the floor to ceiling, with natural sunlight dripping in through the gold trim. His eyes squinted at the light, and he let his hair fall closer to his face. I should get a hood one of these days.

His footsteps were mostly quiet and unnoticable, which unfortunately for him, led to a less than ideal collision with someone as he turned the corner.

“SON OF A—”

The man ran straight into Astor, his papers scattering across the floor. He shook a fist at the prophet, angrily—he was some old soul with blond hair with bits of grey, and a weathered round face with a set of furious blue eyes.

“Watch where you’re going, you clod!” Ligero yelled. “I have half a mind to report you for interfering with sensitive documents!”

Astor leaned down, picking up the papers—seemingly just full of various recorded tax benefits—and rolled his eyes, mumbling. “Yes...and we wouldn’t want you to stress yourself working on only half a brain…”

“What was that?”

“Mm...nothing…”

“You youths...I hate mumbling…”

Astor fitted the papers into a neat stack before handing them back to Ligero, which he snatched up, flipping through them carefully. The prophet gave a shallow, shallow bow.

“My deepest apologies...Lord Ligero.”

Ligero suddenly stopped reading, raising an eyebrow and looking him up and down for a moment. “Do I...know you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “If the stars had aligned correctly, this would be our first and last meeting.”

The Lord wagged a finger at him as his eyes lit up. “Ahhh...you’re that crazy star seer. The one aways snuggled up in the queen’s shadow…”

“Gh…...I’m not—”

“Yeah…” Ligero rubbed his chin. “You’re that sickly twig that’s been whining about our deaths and such...always making a fuss since Elane died.” He chuckled to himself, while Astor scowled.

“Her Majesty’s...passing, puts the future of Hyrule on a path of certain doom. I believe I’ve made my predictions of past clear, that the princess will not awaken her power in—”

“Ayap-yap-yap-yap-yap-yap…” Ligero opened and closed his hand like a mouth in mockery. “Listen boy, you won’t win any favours by spewing your miserable thoughts at every meeting.”

“Maybe I don’t desire your favour.”

“Well then who are you looking to please? Cause I’m afraid it’s a little late to cuck His Majesty any further.”

“Excuse me?” Astor took a step forward, but the Lord stood his ground with a smile, cocking his head to the side.

“I mean, that’s the only reason some nobody like you is here in the first place, isn’t it? Royal connections? Lovely pity on a scrawny useless orph—”

“I’m here to do my job.”

“Aw, don’t live in denial, boy. I have an eye for this sort of thing. And I’m always partial to helping a lad in need…”

Astor was already turning to move past Ligero, but suddenly stopped. He smirked to himself in amusement. “Is that so…?”

“Oh sure. My own son I’ve raised to be the peak of perfection. Striking young man, dashing blond—like me—and skilled. Rising up the knight’s ranks faster than an octo balloon! That’s all me, all my parenting right th—”

“And which son is that?”

“My oldest, my…...one, son.” He glared at him with a frown.

“Hmm…” Astor could barely hold back from snickering. “And what do you think of this oldest son then?”

“Oh, too much of his mother’s child, if you ask me. But much better than I in some regards, though of course, not all of them. Ohoho…”

“Yes…” Astor smiled to himself. “You’re a funny man, Ligero Hartell…”

Ligero finally stopped laughing to himself. “But you see, perfection like that isn’t born. It’s made and nurtured, you have to coax it out of them.” He poked Astor’s chest, and he flinched away in disgust. “Quit your mumbling, your babbling, your little grief stricken dreams, it’s all useless. No one cares for it.”

The Lord went to pat his head, like a puppy, but Astor dodged out of the movement with a verbal “nope” as he whipped behind him. Ligero just shrugged. “If you can’t churn yourself to be a better man, then you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. You want to be something more? Something of actual merit? Taken more seriously than some child that was dragged up these polished steps out of a late woman’s mercy?” He flicked his wrist, adjusting the cuff of his pristine white sleeve. “Stop chasing the dead. Don’t be blinded by replaceable things like compassion and the sort. Find a wealthy friend or something, get rich, get power.”

Ligero turned to continue walking down the hall. “Besides, even if it is like you say—then all the more to ride the sayings of, ‘You only live once.’”

Astor glowered, watching Ligero walk away. He scoffed, and started to turn back towards his own destination, before the Lord called out once more—

“And cut your hair or something! You’re no Rito, quit with the braids. It’ll get all greasy and frizzy...Trust me, I knew someone with hair like that, once.”

Astor’s expression softened just a bit—nearly undetectable—before immediately being replaced with a darker scowl.

He kept walking, his deep purple robes dancing just a finger-widths above the stone polished steps. He opened and closed his hand to himself, miming Ligero’s speaking.

“Always partial to helping a lad in need...gods, seems childhood memory has still captured him to perfection.” Astor came up on the wooden door, and walked inside.

The ceiling was a stone dome, littered with old parchment maps, and Sheikah charts, along with chalk that outlined ancient constellations and designs. There was an old chalkboard—stolen, from the Sheikah department—with further sketches and notes, torn out pages from old journals and texts pinned to the board and walls. Even the window was covered by hanging gyrospheres and astrolabes, twirling in infinite suspension. Since they blocked the window’s hinges, they were probably the reason why the room smelled so musty.

Astor closed the door, and flopped down on an old velvet bench, staring at the ceiling in silence.

“BOO!”

“GAAaaAAAh!” Astor shot up, whipping his head at the dangerous intruder, only to find a giggling, blonde girl.

She was doing her best to muffle her laughter by holding her hands to her mouth. “Gotchu again, Mr. Astor!”

He sighed. “What are you doing here?”

The princess shuffled towards his desk, hands already bored and ready to play with the nearest pointy object. “You took so long to get heeeeree….why was that old guy even talking to you?”

He fixed his hair behind his ears, not really paying attention. “Oh? You heard all that, then?”

“Yeaaah, the halls are—” she cupped her hands over her mouth, “—ECHOEY, Echoey, echoey...echoey….” Her voice grew fainter at each repetition.

“Stop shouting in my study. You’ll attract the rats…”

“I like rats!” She ran back up to Astor, sitting on the other end of the bench. “They’re like dogs! But small!”

“They’re rodents. Think more possums and mice.”

“Like that old guy, right?” She played with a loose thread on her dress. “Last week you called him a gross...virgin? Vermin… Velvet…? I forgot the word—”

Astor suddenly scooped the young Zelda up under her arms, holding her out in front of him like she was a disease. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, alright? That’s our secret.”

“Put me doooooooown!!”

“No. Get out. I’m working.”

The princess struggled in his grip so much that by the time he reached the door with her, she was nearly upside down. He opened the door and she craned her neck up, pleading at him with an upside down frown.

“Pleeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase let me stay??? Dad never bothers to look for me here….and your room is so cool! Even mom hung out here a lot…” Astor physically flinched, and Zelda took that as an opportunity to let loose some puppy eyes. “Pweaaaaaaase????”

Astor was so ready, so ready to shake her off his arm and let her possibly break a bone tumbling down the steps. “Oh! It was an accident, Your Majesty. She was so busy talking and talking and bouncing off the walls she forgot how stairs worked! I tried to stop her but she used her superglue prank again! Oh what a shame!” It would have been so easy…

Instead, the prophet just sighed, turned around, and let her topple onto the room’s floor. She yelled a “Yay!” before scuttling towards the windowsill, adorned with sparkly objects. Astor made his way to his desk, muttering.

“You can stay for five minutes. But don’t touch anything.”

Zelda immediately started touching and spinning the gyrospheres around in her hand.

The princess pranced and sat and played and pondered around the room—five minutes, ten, fifteen, and twenty. Finally she hobbled up to Astor, her arms full of shiny orbs and trinkets. She peered at his desk.

“So whatcha working on?” Zelda asked, looking at the weird sketches. “You seeing the future and stuff?”

“Something like that,” he replied stiffly. Silence resumed in the room.

Zelda set down her arm full of collectables, before standing on her toes to catch a better glimpse. “So what’s gonna happen? What’s gonna happen in the future?”

The prophet rolled his eyes, still trying to focus on his work. “Oh, you know. Death, doom, destruction. You’ll fail to awaken your powers, everyone perishes...the usual sort.”

Zelda crossed her arms and sat on the ground with a huff. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”

“Oh yeah? Well if you can see the future, then WHAT am I gonna do next? Betcha can’t tell!”

“You’re going to attempt a backflip.”

“I’m going to do a b—” Zelda had jumped up, her arms already in the air, before she let them drop and sputtered angrily. “H-Hey! How’d you know that?!”

“Because that’s what you always do to try and disprove me.” He nodded towards the broken chair beside the door, along with a broken shelf, and a broken footstool.

“Hmph!”

“But that’s not how telling the future works anyways.”

“Oh yeah, well how am I supposed to know if you never TELL ME!” She suddenly scrambled into Astor’s lap, trying to steal his papers.

“H-Hey! Get off you insolent—”

“Tell me what your jooooooob issssss you never doooooooooo anything despite having the coolest room…” Zelda palmed her face on his papers, refusing to move.”

Astor was just about pulling his hair out, before taking a deep breath. “If I tell you, will you get off me?”

“Maaaybe.”

“Ugh. You’re insufferable…” Astor leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“Well it’s like this. Every choice and possibility exists. Every universe and timeline with every outcome and conclusion you could imagine exists in the grand unknown. There’s a universe where you’re a boy, there’s a universe where you don’t exist, there’s a universe where you’re quiet and don’t bother me all the time—”

“Is there one where my mom’s alive?” Zelda leaned her head back and looked up at him.

He was silent for a moment, pondering his words. “...Yes. There is.”

He finally raised an arm, gesturing to the decorated ceiling. “See now, predicting the future is all a matter of trying to identify exactly what kind of universe you’re in. You look to the stars—gifts from the spirits, who roam as a constant in all timelines. You look to dreams, and magic, and visions...your surroundings, the people...there’s a pattern and predictability that I can use to identify what universe we’re in, and how the future will play out.”

“So you think we’re in the one where the Calamity wins?” Zelda raised an eyebrow.

“From what I’ve seen, I’m almost certain. Yes.”

“That sucks.”

“It does...suck.”

Zelda jumped up and went back to playing with the gold and silver trinkets. “Why don’t we just go to a universe where we don’t lose?”

Astor turned back to his work. “Because that’s not possible.”

“Really? You sure?”

Astor stopped, pondering for just a moment, before shrugging and continuing to work.

“Probably anyways. I imagine millions of people have tried before, millenia ago. And from the looks of things, nothing’s worked.”

Zelda fiddled with an Ancient Core.

#???#Assivus Hartell #long ago and long away #hku spoilers #Ligero Hartell #Didymos Astor #Princess Zelda Mallory Hyrule

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thehaemanthus · 3 years

Text

Our Savaged Souls

Trying out a new thing of posting the full chapter on tumblr. You can read from chapter one one AO3 (unless it’s not your thing, and in that case you can send me an ask and I’ll be like! sure! I love to be accomodating! I’ll post full chapters on tumblr :) )

Feyre Archeron is born under the new Wall separating human lands from the Spring Court- her home. She hunts in her forest, forms a friendship with the High Lord's third son, and is introduced to his friend. Then it all goes wrong.

Chapter 6

Tamlin soon forgets his ire about the Suriel. Or at least, he pushes it down far enough and eventually bounces back, dragging her out on more adventures. He manages to swing by for a few hours of her birthday party, and then is required at home for much of the spring. By the time the summer rolls around, Feyre can tell he’s eager to be away from family and make up for lost time.

The latest outing is a jaunt to a pool of liquid starlight, one that Feyre has visited only a handful of times. It’s one of Tamlin’s favorite places, she knows, and she felt the honor in the first invitation.

Her linen dress brushes just past her knees, only half of her hair pulled back in anticipation of a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in the shade and wading in the water. No boots or tight braid needed today. Her contribution to the picnic is a batch of scones, some ruby-red cherries, raspberry preserves, and roasted almonds. With her bounty and dress, Feyre decides to winnow rather than pick through the forest.

Feyre expects it to be a small party, but she does not know how small it actually is until she arrives.

There are two people there. Tamlin and Rhysand.

Of course. Rhysand. Of course he is here.

“You managed to make it on time!” Tamlin greets her with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and takes her basket from her hands, retreating to add it to their pile of food and blankets. The space already looks inviting, dappled in shade. Sweating bottles of lemonade and ice water peak out from a wicker basket full of white porcelain plates with painted primrose borders and crystal glasses. A partially wrapped loaf of bread and hard cheese rests on top, along with a sharp knife and a bounty of fresh fruits.

Feyre scowls. “I was late one time, Tam, it’s not funny anymore.” She glances at Rhysand. It would be impossible to pretend he’s not there. It’s just the three of them. It would be rude to not say anything. It should not be difficult at all to just greet him. She wrangles her expression into something pleasant. “Hello, Rhysand.”

“Feyre darling,” he smirks. “I thought you were calling me Rhys now?”

She actually turns a bit red and fumbles. Thankfully, Tamlin’s big mouth saves her. “When did that happen?”

“A while ago.” Rhysand reclines on one of the picnic blankets, lounging like a cat. He waves a hand. “Won’t you join us, Feyre?”

There’s really no way to refuse. She takes a seat, folding her legs under her. “It’s hard to break a habit. I’ve been calling you Rhysand for a long time now.”

“I’ll have to keep reminding you, then,” he says as he roots through a picnic basket, plucking out a tin of cookies. “Want one?”

“Thank you, Rhys,” she stresses his name, plucking one of the cookies from his hand.

He smiles at her, and the tension seems to melt away.

Has she always looked at him like this, or did the Suriel trigger something in her soul that flipped the world upside down? Feyre wonders how long this feeling, this awareness of him has been growing in her heart, encroaching so slowly and naturally that she has not noticed until someone drew her attention to the blossoming.

For a child of the Night Court, Rhys looks good in the sun. She has always known he is beautiful, but something has changed. As they chat and nibble on the picnic, Feyre observes him. There is something fuller in his laughs, more playful in his smirks today. It would be impossible to forget that he is an Heir— powerful radiates from his body and he approaches every conversation and confrontation with arrogance. He is still guarded. But if his true soul is an impenetrable fortress, Feyre thinks they’ve passed through the gates of one or two battlements.

The sun beats down on them, stronger now that the world has moved and positioned itself in summer. The Day Court is absolutely sweltering, Rhys informs them, and there’s been some problems with heat sickness in Summer. In Spring, Feyre keeps an extra canteen of water and takes frequent breaks when romping about.

Sweat gathers at her brow and pools on her upper lip. Eventually, sipping cool drinks and relaxing in the shade is paltry comfort.

“I’m going for a dip,” she stands. “Anyone want to join?”

The males scramble up after her. It’s some work to unlace her stays, so they end up shucking their clothes and splashing into the pond before her. Feyre finds herself sighing in relief when they don’t look twice or offer to help. It would be well meaning from them, her friends, if not a little playful and flirty. But if Rhys offered…

Mother above. Surely it should take her longer to fall?

“Are you coming?” Tamlin calls from the water, flicking some water in her direction. It glitters like diamonds where it lands on the grass and dirt. It might not actually be water, but Feyre has never known what else to call it.

She scowls. “It takes a little longer for me.” She toes off her slippers, wiggling her feet in the cool grass. In the past, Feyre hasn’t had trouble with stripping down to almost nothing and jumping into lakes and rivers. Now, she keeps her chemise on and tries not to think too hard about it. After tossing her hair pins on the blanket, she wades in.

The pond is cool and refreshing. Sunlight almost blinds her as it bounces off the surface. Feyre glides through the water, slowly acclimating herself. When she dunks her head under and emerges, the liquid starlight clings to her lashes and makes the world look brighter and chaotic. She swipes a hand at her eyes and blinks to clear her vision.

Tamlin floats on his back, golden hair floating around his head like a halo. Rhys lazily swims a circuit around the pond, much like she was. Feyre treads in place for a moment before floating a bit closer to Rhys.

Sensing her presence, he surfaces. Feyre’s breath catches. She’s sure he reads something incriminating on her face, but before he can speak she opens her mouth. “This pond suits you.”

“Oh?” he questions. His feet must reach the bottom, because while Feyre is working to stay afloat at the edge, he is merely holding out his arms to keep himself steady.

“The starlight.” Her eyes roam over his face and dip down to his neck before shooting back up. If she looks too far down she won’t be able to return her gaze to his face. “Son of the Night Court. It all works.” She waves a hand in his face, and he laughs. The starlight clinging to his hair and shoulders and dripping from his chin bring out the constellations in his eyes.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, darling,” Rhys nods at her.

She wishes she had a mirror, if only to try and memorize her own look for a painting later. “Do I?” she asks, leaning back a bit in the water and pretending like his words do not send her heart racing.

Her eyes are on the sky, but when Rhys is silent for too long she propels herself upright. He’s frowning a bit, looking more unsure of himself than she’s ever known him to be. “Rhys?”

“I can show you,” he says, expression much too serious for an afternoon swim.

Feyre laughs softly. “You have a mirror? Where are you hiding that?”

Rhys’s smirk lacks some of its swagger. He brings up a hand and, from nowhere, conjures a hand mirror. “I do have some tricks up my sleeve. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.” As quick as it appeared, it's gone.

Feyre cocks her head. Rhys wants to show her what she looks like, but without a mirror or any reflective surface...and it’s not like he’s an artist…

She gapes a little, swimming closer. Tamlin is still floating on his back, hearing muffled from the water, but she lowers her voice anyway. “You’re daemati?”

It’s the only thing that makes sense. And she would expect no less from Rhys. In addition to being obscenely powerful, to have this as well...he won’t just be a powerful High Lord, he’ll be unquestionably dominant.

His brows lift a little in surprise before his expression settles. “Clever girl. I shouldn’t be surprised that you guessed.”

Feyre bites her lip, torn between being pleased and being concerned. She does not think that Rhys has ever used his power against her. But how would she know? She has heard plenty of stories, has been given plenty of reasons to be wary of the Night Court. Feyre is not so arrogant as to think that she is a worthy target, but just the thought of her thoughts being combed through or someone getting information from her mind is disconcerting.

Rhys— whether by looking at her mind or her face— knows where her thoughts lead her. He moves a little closer as well. “I have never looked in your mind, or Tamlin’s for that matter. I’m not that kind of male.”

“I know.” The words are said without thinking, but they ring true.

He does not look convinced. “If I wanted to use you, I would have hovered in your mind as you hunted the Suriel and asked them a question myself. I would have probed your mind to see what you asked.”

She nods. Part of her knows it to be true, but another part, an animal, instinctual part, shies away from him.

But the Suriel told her to trust Rhysand.

It’s not effortless, but she stays. “You keep it a secret?”

“We keep it quiet,” Rhys admits. “We” probably means his family, his Court.

What does it mean that there is a secret daemati ready to inherit one of the mightier Courts of Prythian?

If she was a good person, she thinks, she would tell someone. But being a good citizen and a good friend are directly opposed at the moment. It does not take Feyre very long to decide which title is more important to her.

“I won’t tell anyone.” She values her friendship with Rhys, trusts him more than she maybe should. Even considering what the Suriel said, she would be a fool to throw herself into his arms blindly.

“Thank you.” Under the water, he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I know you still aren’t comfortable with this.”

It’s difficult to meet his eyes, so she looks down. Right at the curves of his shoulder, where brown skin and black ink peek from beneath the surface. Her mouth goes dry, but she manages to force words out. “It is...strange. To realize how vulnerable I’ve been.”

There are dangers in Feyre’s life, but she has always known them. She has rules, has trained and armed herself against threats. Don’t stay out too late after night falls in the forest, don’t stray too close to creatures who have young ones to protect. Keep your eyes averted when speaking with the High Lord and try to not attract too much attention, bite your tongue in front of certain people and laugh and gossip in secret circles only.

There is no such defense against Rhys. At least, she assumes so until he speaks. “I can train you to shield your mind.”

Feyre blinks, shocked. “You can?” It’s possible? And he would offer that to her?

A deluge of cool water drenches her. Feyre cries out in shock, whirling to scowl at a laughing Tamlin.

“You two are much too serious,” he says, slapping the surface of the water again to send another splash their way. “What were you talking about anyway?”

“We had a run-in with a daemati in the Night Court a while back,” Rhys says smoothly. In an instant, his cool confidence is back. He swims away from Feyre, closer to Tamlin. She is sure there is a good reason he turns his back and tells herself it does not sting. “I was telling Feyre that I wouldn’t mind offering some lessons on how to shield her mind.”

“Why would you need to shield your mind?” Tamlin asks her.

She scowls. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t you want to keep your thoughts private?”

“Sure,” Tamlin shrugs. “But it’s not like any daemati would target you.” He is lackadaisical and inattentive, paddling around the pond like a slippery otter. The mere word “daemati” was enough to alter Feyre’s mood, but Tamlin is barely affected.

“She’s been spending time with two sons of High Lords,” Rhys points out, flicking some water into Tamlin’s face. “I’d say that makes her plenty vulnerable. You should learn to shield, too.”

Tamlin nods, finally starting to take it seriously. “You were taught?” He propels himself upright, staring intently at Rhys. It is not hard to see how Tamlin esteems their older friend. Anyone who spends five minutes with the two of them can see how Tamlin might look at Rhys for approval, how he weighs Rhys’s words and commits them to memory. Sometimes, Feyre worries about how reliant Tamlin is, how he has replaced his own older brothers with the Heir to the Night Court. But she hardly has room to talk.

“Almost as soon as I could grasp the concept,” Rhys says. “I’ll give both of you lessons. It’ll be hard to test without an actual daemati, but it’s worth trying.”

You’ll have a bit of an advantage over Tamlin. Feyre gasps as Rhys’s voice echoes in her head. Her limbs freeze. She sinks a little in the water before propelling herself back up, sputtering.

Tamlin glides closer. “Feyre?”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, pointedly not looking at Rhys. “I thought something brushed my leg. What lives in this water anyway?”

“Nothing natural,” Tamlin scowls at the opaque surface as if his ire can be translated to whatever dwells below. “Come on, let’s leave before we find out.”

Feyre wades out of the pond, chemise sticking to her skin and hair dripping down her back. She squeezes her hair to dry it as best she can, then moves to gather a fistful of her chemise and wring out the water.

It’s silent for a moment. When Feyre looks up, she sees two males looking at her instead of getting out of the pond.

Emboldened by their attention, Feyre raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Tamlin coughs, looking away and stepping out of the water. He passes her without a comment, even as Rhys continues to look. Her challenge is answered as his eyes rove over her body, from long bare legs to the wet material clinging to her hips and chest. She half expects something flirty to spill from his mouth, but he just keeps the smirk on, looks his fill, and emerges from the water.

It takes a lot of effort not to pay him back in kind, though Feyre does sneak a look at those tattoos and well-muscled chest.

The light breeze chills their damp skin, and the once sweltering heat becomes a comforting embrace. The trio sprawl out. Between bouts of dozing off, they have a contest to see which pair is best at tossing grapes into someone’s mouth. When Feyre’s hair is mostly dry and her fingers get caught in tangles, Rhys slips behind her and braids it back.

She is half awake as his fingers comb through her hair, catching every other word of his explanation that his little sister has now grown old enough to demand all sorts of hairstyles and pampering from her devoted older brother. Feyre hums with a smile, picturing the scene.

There’s a knock on the edge of her mind. One she is better prepared for this time. Rhys slips a memory into her mind, one that is not hers, but his. Through his eyes he sees a head of black hair, a young girl’s bedroom, a reflection of him and a little girl, the former wrestling with a hair brush and the latter rifling through a basket of ribbons. There is a love infused in that memory, a feeling so pure that it nearly brings a tear to Feyre’s eye.

I almost neglected my promise earlier. Rhys’s voice is low and smoky in her mind. A moment later, a different memory. Her grinning face, covered in droplets of starlight.

There is emotion in this memory too, though not the all-consuming devotion Rhys feels for his sister. But it is something, and it makes Feyre smile anyway.

It is the perfect day. Feyre is not naive enough to think that this dynamic, with her two dear friends, can last forever. Rhysand will one day become High Lord, and Tamlin’s own role will likely change when his father passes. But fae are immortal, and she is untouched by death, and the thought of painful change is so far away in that perfect summer afternoon.

She cannot be blamed for thinking peace will last for a good, long while.

Being the Lady of the Spring Court is good for little else besides ordering the servants around the house.

Alis can grumble and protest and toss every veiled hint that she can think of, but in the end she cannot prevent Feyre from leaving her bed. Sleep came and went in the night. When the discomfort impeded her peace, Feyre tossed back healing tonics and pain remedies and whatever cocktail of drugs that the healer left on her nightstand.

Her smaller cuts are healed, but her ribs are still tender. The worst bruises are black and blue and impossible to look at. Feyre chooses a boring corner of the room to stare at as Alis dresses her in light fabrics and a dress that laces loosely. Alis picks a gown in an opaque green with a yellow underskirt, as if that will lend color to her pale skin or brighten her gaunt face.

Feyre tells the staff that she and the High Lord will not be entertaining any guests and to send away anyone that might drop by. Not that anyone comes for Feyre unless she specifically invites them.

The only other person in her home besides the servants is Lucien. He clearly did not expect her to leave bed and nearly leaps from his seat when she slips into the dining room. “You should be resting.”

She probably should. There is an exhaustion that has settled in her, infused in her bones and powdered on her skin. Her tongue is weighed down. Feyre has no words for her friend, only enough energy to squeeze his shoulder as she walks past to take her seat. She sees the way his eyes scan her, the way his jaw clenches when he notes how she sits gingerly.

Tamlin’s chair at the head of the table is empty. The space feels like a chasm.

When Tamlin is home, the table usually is weighed down with food. Today, Lucien just has one plate sent up from the kitchen. Feyre gets the same toast, fried eggs, and sausage. No platters of sliced fruit or tureens of gravy or plates of sugary pastries. Lucien pours her a cup of tea wordlessly.

Feyre eats in peace, but Lucien has a stack of papers by him that he leafs through in between bites. With Tamlin gone, his work will be all the more difficult. Lucien cannot make certain decisions, cannot sign off on projects, cannot approve a budget. But there are some things that must get done and emergencies to deal with.

“Anything I can help with?” Feyre speaks her first words of the day.

Lucien’s eyes flick up briefly. “I’ll let you know.” He’s gone a few minutes later, only a squeeze of her shoulder as a goodbye.

There are things Feyre can do, even some things that Tamlin might expect her to accomplish. Ferye thinks of the piles of letters she can respond to and the parties she might plan. The next holiday is never more than a few months away, and Tamlin likes to take any opportunity to celebrate and fill their home with his friends.

She does not do any of that.

The servants push back on some of Feyre’s whims, but they can never outright refuse her. A few months ago, it was a battle to get them to relinquish their gardening tools. Another battle to ask one of the gardeners to teach her, show her, and not do anything beyond that.

But a few months ago she was also a bit more fragile, and so they followed her directions with less protesting than she usually was in for.

Now, Feyre knows where to find the tools she needs. She slips on the gardening gloves that Alis procured and forced on her. While it might be seemly for the Lady of Spring to prune a few roses, cuts and calluses were utterly unacceptable. Feyre can stroll in the gardens, can even kneel in the grass, as long as she has a wide-brimmed hat to shield the delicate skin on her face.

How she longs to rip off the hat, unpin her hair, and sprint through the fields once more.

No one disturbs her as Feyre weaves through the perfectly manicured gardens. She passes tall hedges, venturing deeper until she crosses into a little hidden nook. It is cordoned off by nothing more than a charming wooden gate, but symbolism is strong. No one has ever entered without the express permission of the Lady of Spring.

Feyre let the little space go unattended for years, not caring much for gardening or pretty flowers. Now, the hidden nook is ringed with blooming jasmine. She might add a stone bench in the middle, but for now she is happy to sit on the grass.

A proper gardener might prune and use sophisticated techniques to care for the jasmine, but Feyre likes to see it grow wild. She removes weeds and brushes away dead leaves. In Spring the bushes are almost always flowering, clogging the space with their intoxicating scent. She would have kept blooms in her room, if not for what they symbolized.

Jasmine is a Night Court flower.

Tamlin does not come to her jasmine garden. He either does not know or was informed and has not confronted her directly. Now that she is in the garden, Feyre wonders if this is, in part, what set him off.

The flowers are not for Rhys. Not really. True, they remind her of him, in a way. But she mostly likes the scent, likes that when she smells it she immediately feels at peace. Jasmine is not the most beautiful flower in the world, but it is still pretty. A flower alone cannot make her happy, but it settles something in her soul anyway.

White jasmine is crisp and clean. Pure.

For a while, Feyre had no closure after the loss of her child. These things happened, so the healer ensured she was physically healthy and then sent away. There was no goodbye, no body, no ceremony to send the child off. They were there one moment and gone the next, not having made any mark on the world besides a scar on Feyre’s heart. She does not know if they were male or female, if they had Tamlin’s blond hair or her own darker shade, if they would have had freckles or their father’s straight nose. After they were gone, the child seemed to exist for Feyre and no one else.

So she planted the jasmine.

Now, as she lays on her back in the grass, she can imagine it. A giggling toddler, running circles around her. But not here, not in Spring. The flowers perfume the air and make it all too easy to pretend she’s in another place.

Maybe the jasmine is selfish. Maybe Feyre did have another motive in creating this secret space.

While she is here, she can mourn her child. While she is here, she can pretend that she is someplace else.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction

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lobster-tales · 3 years

Text

The Moon - Yueki

Day 6 of Winter ATLA Femslash Week. This work is available here on AO3.

Prompt: The Moon or Ten years later... / Post-Canon

Suki makes a choice that will save the world, but at a steep price. But what she must lose, Yue is grateful to gain. Also they totally fall in love. Based on the song "Hijo de la Luna" by Mecano

Night became necessary for Suki. Her days belonged to the Fire Lord and officials, ensuring the Kyoshi Warriors were at their posts. The only time she had for herself was bathed in darkness, when she scaled the walls of the palace and perched on the tiled roof. Most nights, she was content to sit under the stars, letting the sky swallow her whole.

This was not one of those nights. Suki pulled her knees closer to her chest, her eyes downcast. Around anyone else, even her warriors, such a vulnerable posture would betray her, compromise her strength in their eyes. She could only let down her guard when she was alone.

A cloud drifted past the strongest source of light. Suki looked up at the full moon, relaxing in the silver glow. Well, she was almost alone.

“Hey Yue,” Suki said. “Me again. How are you?”

She was met with silence. Suki never received an answer from the elusive moon spirit, but she made sure to ask anyway. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really have any good news. Everything’s still the same. Fire Lord Zuko’s been bedridden for nearly a week now. Yesterday, he looked like he was getting better, but his fever went up again today.” Suki paused, unsure how to proceed. “Aang is a wreck. Katara has barely slept. She and the other healers have been working to find a cure, but so far they haven’t succeeded.”

Suki slid her hands down her calves, the fingers of her left hand gently grasping the wrist of her right. “I um… I overheard some officials in the hall. They were talking about who's next in line just in case…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “They mentioned Azula’s name, but she’s still recovering. She won’t be able to run the nation in her state. Which leaves… no one.

“I know what happens when there’s no one to take the throne. I’ve read about coups before, and even all of my warriors wouldn’t be enough to stop the Fire Nation officials, or at least,” Suki said darkly, “whoever poisoned Zuko.”

A breeze ruffled her hair. In the distance, far beyond the palace walls, a dog barked. And still, the moon said nothing.

Suki pressed her lips together, fighting back the wave of feelings. Tears already welled in her eyes as she said, “And… I don’t know what to do.” She looked skyward, her cheeks wet. “I know… you grew up during the war too, Yue. We all did. I don’t know what it was like in the Northern Water Tribe, but for the rest of us…” Suki began to shake, her voice trembling. “I don’t want it to happen again. It

I don’t think the world could survive another war.

“And it’s not just that, it’s…” She began sobbing, burying her face in her knees. She whispered hoarsely, “Zuko’s my friend. And I don’t want him to die.”

Suki wept openly, letting the feelings tear through her. She had spent countless hours fending them off, forcing through the pain. She had to be a leader, to stay positive in front of everyone. Now, she could release those thoughts, each ragged breath a testament to her fear.

A hand pressed against her back, gliding gently across her shoulders in a show of comfort. Suki froze. Who could have followed her this high up? Maybe the Avatar?

She lifted her face, the cold light spilling across her features. Her mouth dropped.

A girl sat beside her. Physically, she looked to be 16, but her eyes betrayed centuries of knowledge. Her white clothing contrasted her dark skin, the fabric floating around her. Her white hair was pulled into two loops, a water tribe band holding the style in place. The girl smiled, a hint of uncertainty in her blue eyes. “Hello Suki.”

Suki’s breath escaped her in a single word. “Yue!” She tried not to gawk, reigning in her expression like she did around the Fire Nation officials. Unsure how to address a spirit, Suki rose to her feet and bowed respectfully.

Yue remained seated, nodding. “Please, sit.”

“Yes, your… spiritness.” Suki lowered herself onto the tile, crossing her legs beneath her and keeping her spine straight.

“No, just… call me Yue. Please.” Yue considered her carefully. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Yes. I am.” Blood rushed to Suki’s cheeks as she began to think. After the war, she’d spent countless nights beneath the moon’s glow, pouring out the feelings that she couldn’t share with anyone else. What had Yue heard? What secrets did she spill by accident?

“I know this must be a shock for you,” Yue murmured. “But… I know everything that’s going on. About Zuko, the poisoning, and I want to help.”

No amount of diplomacy training could stop Suki from staring. “You… want to help? I thought spirits didn’t interfere with human affairs.”

“I’m not all spirit,” Yue said. “I actually used to be human. Part of me still is. And as someone who used to live in the material world, I want to do something to protect it.”

Suki had heard the story before, of the water tribe princess who sacrificed herself to become the moon spirit. Yue’s act had been described like death. She never thought Yue had retained any of her humanity, much less enough to intervene.

“How?” Suki asked.

“Well, I actually can’t do it alone. You see, the moon spirit has the power to grant a wish.” She hesitated. “But at a steep price.”

Suki searched her face, trying to guess what a spirit could want, or even possess. “Anything.”

Turning her head, almost ashamed, Yue murmured, “For someone to get help from the moon spirit, they must give up their first born child.”

Dread washed over Suki. “Zuko can’t. His first born child… He needs an heir.”

Yue nodded slowly. “Anyone can make the wish to heal him. Anyone can make the deal.”

A thought struck her. One that put the sour taste of martyrdom in her mouth. She had told her pupils a thousand times: the greatest strength of a Kyoshi Warrior is her warrior’s heart, because not all battles needed weapons.

Suki straightened her arms, hands on her knees, and she took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. In exchange for his life, I’ll give you my first born child.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Yue bowed her head reverently. “Consider it done.” Suki expected her to disappear, but instead Yue leaned forward and embraced her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “But also… thank you…”

Her skin was cold, but Suki didn’t mind. Without thinking, she lifted her arms around Yue. The moon spirit stiffened at the human contact, then relaxed into her embrace. Yue pressed her nose into the crook of her neck.

Suki asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you thank me?”

“Oh!” Yue pulled away, averting her eyes. “I… Sorry, that was inappropriate.” She tucked a loose strand of white hair behind her ear. “I know it will pain you to lose the child, but… it gets lonely, up there.” She nodded towards the full moon.

Suki searched Yue’s blue eyes. She realized the opportunity she’d been granted. After years of telling Yue all of her secrets, now she could return the favor. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Yue frowned. “What… it’s boring. Really.”

“Come on,” Suki said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You already know everything about me. Now I want to know about you.”

“Oh.” Yue glanced at the sky, biting her lip. “Well… I guess I could stay for a few minutes…”

***

Violet dawn crept over the horizon. Yue surrendered to the hour, wrapping her arms around Suki again. Their laughter still hung in the air around them.

Suki murmured, “Will I see you again?”

“Only once, when you…” Yue paused. “When you… finish the deal.”

The thought sent a jolt through Suki. Over the last several hours, she’d forgotten the terms. Yue was such a lovely distraction.

“Goodbye, Suki,” Yue whispered, and her form disintegrated.

Suki lowered her hands. Yue’s smell lingered on her clothing, the soft scent of moss. When the first beams of sunlight touched Suki’s skin, she still faced the space Yue had taken up. She waited a few more seconds, exhaustion setting in.

In the palace below, someone shouted Zuko’s name. Suki rose to her feet. She would go see him. Katara would cry, Aang would hug her. None of them would ever know the cost of his recovery.

Suki looked at the moon, still hovering in the morning sky. Then she descended.

***

The hills of Kyoshi Island were short relative to other ranges in the Earth Kingdom. The highest point on the island was shorter than the lowest in the nearby Patola Mountains, home of the now empty Southern Air Temple. This summit was named Hei-Ran Peak, after the mother of Avatar Kyoshi’s wife. A wooden hovel had been constructed on the flat top. Rumors said Kyoshi would meet with her enemies here, away from civilians.

Suki sat several yards in front of the hovel, legs crossed, facing west to watch the sunset. The winds of early spring bit at her, but the bundle strapped across her chest kept her warm. The trek to this spot had rocked the child to sleep, and she could feel his steady breathing.

A few minutes passed, then an hour. The sun and all it’s light disappeared. The stars became visible, and Suki saw her shadow lengthened by a brightness behind her. She remained seated, still.

A hand pressed against her back, gliding gently across her shoulders in a show of comfort. Suki relaxed into the touch, rising to her feet and facing Yue. Two years had passed since their first meeting, but the moon spirit hadn’t aged at all.

Yue grinned, almost sheepishly. “Hello Suki.”

“Hey Yue. How are you?”

For the first time, she got an answer. “I’m good,” Yue said with a smile.

Suki wasn’t sure how to proceed. She felt like there must be some ritual, some rite she had to perform, but hours of research on the subject had revealed nothing. Apparently, very few individuals in the history of the world had accepted the deal with the moon. “I brought him.”

Yue’s eyes widened, and she reached a hand towards the bundle across Suki’s chest. “Is this him?”

“Yep.” Suki carefully removed the fabric concealing his face.

Yue leaned in, gasping at the sight. The infant had the dark skin of a water tribe descendant, with snow white hair. He slept soundly.

“He’s… he’s beautiful,” Yue said. “Who’s the father?”

Suki chuckled to herself. The question was fair, but that part of the process had been the easiest. “Sokka.”

Yue froze, meeting Suki’s eyes. “Oh? I thought you two weren’t...”

“We’re not, but we kept in touch after the break up. Besides, I thought if you had the choice, that’s who you would have gone with.” Suki gazed down at the boy. Though she’d known his fate for years, no amount of preparation could soften the upcoming loss. “So um… how does this work?”

“We don’t have to do it right now,” Yue said. “I was thinking maybe we could… talk? Like last time?”

Relief washed over Suki. Not once in the last few years had Yue left her thoughts. In her dreams, she still heard the sound of Yue’s laughter, smelled her mossy scent. Suki outstretched her hand, indicating the hovel. “I can make us some tea?”

The night passed easily. Yue told Suki that the tea was delicious, withholding the fact that she’d long lost her sense of taste. A few hours in, the child woke up crying, and Suki showed Yue how to change his cloths and feed him. Yue learned diligently, though in the spirit world, he would not need any of those things.

The three of them laid together on a bamboo mat, the boy in the middle. Yue had not stopped smiling, her eyes on the boy. Suki trained her gaze on Yue instead, focusing on her face, filling in the gaps of her memory.

“Did you name him?” Yue asked.

“No. I thought you would want to.”

Yue considered for a moment. “How about Arnook? After my father?”

“You don’t have to ask me,” Suki said with a smile. “But that is a good name.”

A moment of stillness passed.

“He made the deal, didn’t he?” Suki asked. “Both of your parents did.”

Yue pressed her lips together, her eyes solemn. “Yes.”

“But you grew up in the human world.”

“When I was born, the spirits gave my father a vision. He knew I would become the moon spirit,” Yue said. “So… he negotiated with the moon. I would get sixteen years in the material world, then spend the rest of eternity as a spirit.”

Suki nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”

A thought crossed Yue’s mind. “Did you want to? Negotiate, I mean.”

“No,” Suki said, tracing her fingers over the baby’s small hand. “He was never my son. Always yours.”

“He could be yours, too.”

Suki frowned at her. “What?”

Yue shifted, leaning on her elbow. “You could pass over to the spirit world, live with us there. Humans have done it before.” She tilted her head. “Actually, I know someone who is planning to, when his time here is done.”

“Who?”

“Zuko’s uncle, Iroh.”

“Iroh?” Suki’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

Yue smirked. “You think you’re the only one who talks to the moon?”

Heat raced across Suki’s face, but she pushed through the embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Do you want to? Live with us?”

Yue looked at her so earnestly that Suki hated her next set of words. “I can’t, Yue. At least, not yet.” She sighed. “I still have work here, unfinished business.”

“Ah. I see.” Yue’s face fell. “Well, when you’re done… come find me.”

Suki grinned. “That won’t be a problem. You’re hard to miss.”

“How dare you.” A playful look flickered across Yue’s features. “It’s not polite to comment on a lady’s weight.”

They chuckled together. In a movement so natural that Suki felt she was born to make it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Yue’s. The kiss was soft, not hungry or needing, and Yue hummed contentedly.

“The sun’s about to rise,” Yue whispered against her lips.

“Damn.”

Yue scoffed, pulling away. “Not in front of the baby.”

“He can’t understand me,” Suki said, leaning in and kissing Yue again.

“Suki,” Yue giggled. “I have to go.” She ran her fingers through Suki’s hair, murmuring, “I’ll see you again?”

“Of course.”

Yue reached for Arnook, taking the baby into her arms. “Say goodbye, Arnook.”

He gurgled at Suki, and she held up her hand in a lame wave as a response.

“Goodbye, Suki.”

“Goodbye-” but both Yue and Arnook had already disappeared.

Suki rolled onto her back, gazing up at the ceiling of the hovel. Sunlight peeked through a few holes in the wood. She closed her eyes, and slept.

#winter atla femslash week #suki #yue #hijo de la luna #yueki #the moon #my fic

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sarasalandhistory · 4 years

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Empress Li Xiao

Up first, my great something or another grandmother, Empress Li Xiao, the Phoenix Queen. Now there are a lot of legends about her but here’s everything I’ve managed to compile that are actually facts about her life.

Empress Li Xiao was born 900 years ago in what would one day be Chai. However when she was alive, Sarasaland was barely more than a series of warring tribes and city-state that were ruled by violent warlords and the deadliest was known only as Zhēngfú zhě to Chai villages. It was said that even just by looking at you, he could turn your blood to a freezing chill; others would say he could destroy an entire land with only himself. It was said no one could even come close to him without dying under his gaze, but unfortunately for him the end of his empire would come in the form of my great-great-something grandma.

Li Xiao lived by herself in the village, that would one day be our capital, after the death of her parents (What are their names? I dunno, they’re names are lost to history) supporting herself by being textile merchant (Which is actually where Sarasaland comes from! From the textiles Empress Li Xiao made! There are even a few on display at the Sarasalandian Museum of Ancient History in Chai.). Known for being the most beautiful girl in the kingdom with silky ebony-black hair that reached her waist, milky white skin, and almond-shaped chocolate eyes, many tried to date her but all were turned away because in her own words, "I want someone who will love me for me," and that was all she said on the matter and thus lived her years alone until she turned 21 years old and the Zhēngfú zhě came into to conquer the tiny human village that fell within an hour. Forced to pay tribute to Zhēngfú zhě, he caught sight of Li Xiao (who was the one to offer up their year's harvest, so he wouldn't burn down their homes) and demanded she be his wife. Horrified and angry, she played along and even got him to let the wedding to happen tomorrow so she would be able to come up with a plan. In the middle of the night she fled to an old friend, Lang Ling, home. Lang Ling, not wanting to see his friend (and secret crush) married off to a monster gave his spare clothes to her as well as supplies so she could flee somewhere else. After thanking her friend, she fled the city in the dead of night.

Having never seen anything outside of her village, Li Xiao was both wary and curious about what the rest of the lands had to offer and with nowhere left to go she explored all the lands. From the burning sands of Birabuto to the icy peaks of the Easton Kingdom. Now you are probably asking how she gained the nickname, Phoenix Queen, well this comes from one of her travels in Birabuto. While walking through the sands, she came across a great bird of orange, yellow, and purple feathers who had fallen to the ground and when she tried to touch the bird it burn her finger. Wanting to help the suffering creature, she braved the burns and pain and brought the bird to her hut where she cared for him for months until he felt well enough. As thanks for caring for him, the phoenix gave her great power to free her country and people and she gladly accepted. Her first stop was the Birabuto village of Maahes that was ruled by a cruel leader who cared little for the people. Her name was Serpci. Li Xiao was able to raise the peasants against the leader and she used her new powers to help the Gaos, and by taking Serpci by surprised the Gaos and Li Xiao took the village back and Serpci died. As a gift for helping them, the Maahes Gaos offered gold and fine jewel but she rejected them saying "I have no use for your gold," but the Gaos then offered themselves as an army to which she rejected before they insisted. This continued on throughout the many villages until the Warlords grew worried and tried to bring down the rebels and their leader, but every time they got close the Phoenix she had rescued would warn her and tell her to blind the army using her magic.

After defeating the corrupt leaders and three of the four great warlords who was still in the future Chai, plotting her death, but Lang Ling having heard she was back left his brothers and sisters to secretly join her. After many long treacherous battles they finally defeated Zhēngfú zhě and then sealed his body in a forgotten tomb in Birabuto but unfortunately, the Phoenix was wounded he but promised that he would be bound to Li Xiao and our family forever more. Li Xiao and Lang Ling had fallen in love and wanted to marry but the kingdoms wanted her to be the first queen of the newly united kingdom. under the new. Knowing the kingdom may fall to another cruel lord, she accepted but only with Lang Ling as her king and the kingdom agreed. They named Li Xiao the Phoniex Queen and along with her crown she set out to rebuild the kingdoms. She gave the land a new name, (Sarasaland), made her greatest generals from the war Lords and ministers, set up trade routes between the kingdoms, and financially helped scholars and artists to bring back joy to the battered lands. 5 years after she became queen, tragedy struck. Her first child, a girl with black hair, would not wake or make a noise. The worried and broken hearted parents brought their daughter to healer after healer until an immortal clairvoyant named Merlee suggested that the couple take the child to the tops of the Easton where a sacred spring where the light of the silver moon was always cast. The pair thanked the clairvoyant and brought their daughter to the mountain and laid her in the spring, where she finally cried thanks to Moon and she was given the name Jiao-Yue, who had eyes of as white as the pale moon. She and her husband would die in their 70's after their granddaughter, Hatsheput, turned 21.

Nowadays, Grandma Li Xiao is honored and remembered in a festival in Chai's festival of Fènghuáng Nǚwáng Jié, which means Phoenix Queen Festival. Its was filled with games, food, singing, and a reenactment of the battles of Li Xiao. (I got to play Li Xiao three years in a row!)

#mario #princess daisy #daisy #super mario #sarasaland

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descensummichael · 5 years

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My Heroine (Michael Langdon x fem!OC)— ix. the darker it gets

Hey hi, back at it again with another part! I’m having a lot of fun writing this, despite me taking literally over a year to only have ten full parts written. Staying inspired to write is hard and idk how most of you do it tbh. Anyways, hopefully this part will make more sense than the last (lol). Catch up here if you haven’t already!

Warnings: depictions of violence, lots of religious imagery, Arella is generally p feisty/angsty in this one

Arella continued down the sidewalk, her heels tapping rhythmically against the pavement. She kept up her pace, not even glancing back as Michael called for her. The conversation that had just occurred between the two of them freaked her out, though she was determined to ensure that Michael didn't see this. The slight upper hand she had gained on him had been a pleasant turn of events, and she wouldn't allow things to swing back the other way.

She couldn't help but snap at him, closing herself off as he explained himself. But it wasn't anger that caused the reaction this time; it was blatant fear.

She knew exactly what he meant.

The feeling that the words weren't hers, even though they were clearly coming out in her voice. Feeling as though she was being manipulated into saying things she otherwise wouldn't. She understood it all.

And it terrified her, producing a frigid chill that coursed through her and made a home in her bones.

But maybe this was Michael's intention; these strange happenings did ultimately begin to transpire after their very first meeting in the bar nearly two months prior. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence, and all of this was just his sick way of fucking with her head. There had been an evident power struggle between them since the beginning, and he didn't seem to be one who would give up his hold on it that easily. She was quite cognizant of his kind, those with superiority complexes so substantial that any loss of sovereignty could cause them to spiral.

The way Michael seemingly submitted, all arrogance gone as if he was no longer the same person, did not make logical sense.

The entirety of the situation, and Michael in general, did not make sense. Nearly every brain cell was screaming at her to run, to never look back. When her eyes met his, vibrant red danger signs flashed in her mind. This boy was going to bring her nothing but trouble, and the overwhelming sense she had of this was palpable. She could feel it in her chest as her heart threatened to pound through her rib cage. She could taste it on her tongue, feel its nails clawing at her throat.

Run.

Get away.

She was moving faster now, the clicking of her heels growing louder, less balanced. Her fingers reached up to her neck, wrapping around the cross that hung there so tightly she could feel it pierce into her palm. She was hot, feverish almost as she glanced over her shoulder, almost half-expecting Michael to be there. When he wasn't, she breathed a sigh of relief, her hand falling to her side as she looked forward again.

If Michael intended to drive her mad, it was working, she thought, becoming irritated with herself more than anything.

Unaware of where she was headed, if anywhere at all, she allowed her subconscious to provide guidance. It always took her to where she needed to be. Pulling her hood low on her forehead, she let her mind to go blank, counting the number of steps in between each block of concrete.

One, two, three, one, two, three, four, one, two, three...

Shortly after, she stopped at the bottom of a massive set of stairs. Sighing, she ascended them hastily, yanking open the heavy doors at their peak. After removing her hood, she smoothed her hair down as she took in the dimly lit room. It was completely empty this time of night, the tapping of her boots noisily echoing as she made her way to the front pew. As she took a seat, her eyes settled on the large crucifix before her.

If anyone could help her, it was him. She allowed her eyes to fall shut, lips moving in a silent prayer as she clasped her hands on her lap.

But she couldn't stop thinking of Michael. She couldn't stop thinking about what he said, how she was desperate to fulfill her parents' image of her. How all of it was a lie.

Seems like bullshit to me, Michael's words murmured in her mind.

Maybe it was bullshit, she wondered, but promptly shoved these thoughts away as she began muttering a prayer aloud.

"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth," she spoke, squeezing her eyes shut.

You come here, pleading to god, pleading he'll put you on the right path, his articulate statements came again.

"And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit," she continued, her tone growing louder.

Let me tell you something.

"Born of the Virgin Mary," her voice cracked.

He's not listening.

"He descended into hell," she could no longer think straight, the saccharine intonations in her mind taking over.

He's not listening.

Was he? She wondered, the chorus in her mind ceasing all at once, leaving her in a deafening silence. The only sound was her breaths as she attempted to even them out.

The longer she sat there, the quiet atmosphere hanging uncomfortably around her, the more she believed Michael's words. Arella had spent much of her life struggling to correspond to the expectations her parents had for her, but none of it was ever enough. She had a temper, she was much too loud for a little girl, too stubborn, too bossy, and for heaven's sake, why couldn't she just take things for what they were without arguing about it?

She yearned for something different, to be free of the constraints placed on her since she was a child. And here Michael was, literally offering a chance at that. She was well aware of how wrong it was, the ache she had for him, but she was finding it harder and harder to resist.

Sighing, she pressed her palms against her eyes before speaking dryly: "God, help me."

But no help ever came.

❦❦❦

Arella was beginning to hate herself as she swiftly proceeded down the steps and onto the sidewalk once again. A chill had descended, and she shoved her hands deep into her pockets as she headed back in the direction of where she parked her car. Sliding her phone out, she was almost tempted to get an Uber back to the cafe.

Stupid, she thought to herself, tapping on the screen with her nearly frozen fingers.

She didn't have a chance to react as she collided with someone walking the opposite way. Slightly startled, she stepped back, going to move around them. Fingers grasped her left arm as her phone was taken out of her right hand. Her gaze drifted from the hand clutching her arm up to the face of its owner.

"You should watch where you're going, baby. Never know the kinds of people you could run into on these streets," the stranger spoke, a malicious smile forming across his features. He was still holding her phone above her head, a chuckle leaving his lips.

She smiled sweetly at him, juxtaposing the rage she could already feel amplifying, scraping at her chest, begging to be free. "You shouldn't have done that."

"What?" He questioned her, sneering. "What are you going to do about it, little girl?"

She wouldn't— couldn't— swallow it any longer, burning white-hot behind her eyelids until her irises were nearly black. Blatant ignorance was one thing, but condescension she refused to tolerate.

She tilted her head slightly to one side. A cracking sound resonated as each of his fingers were removed from its grip, bending unnaturally backwards.

"What the fuck?" the man exclaimed, falling to the pavement below him. "What did you do to me?"

"You're right," a final crack came from the arm holding her phone. Crouching down, she plucked it out of his hand. "You don't know the kinds of people you could run into on these streets. You should really be more careful."

She smirked down at him as he cradled his arm in his broken fingers, tears streaming down his face now. She stood back up, continuing on her way as she ignored the cries coming from behind her.

She knew exactly how she was going to handle Michael and the whole situation.

Maybe God was listening after all.

#tell me what ya think #AHS #ahs fanfic #american horror story #american horror story fanfic #american horror story: apocalypse #american horror story: apocalypse fanfic #michael langdon #michael langdon fanfic #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon fanfiction #my heroine

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thedcdunce · 5 years

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Zealot

“They seek to complete Project Reunification. Should that happen, the survival of all mankind will be in jeopardy.” - Zealot

Real Name: Lady Zannah

Aliases:

Lucy Blaze

Sister Zealot

Gender: Female

Height: 6′ 0″

Weight: 120 lbs (54 kg)

Eyes: Blue

Hair: White

Race: Kherubim

Powers:

Kherubim Physiology

Dark Sorcery

Abilities:

Master Martial Artist

Weapons Master

Enhanced Intellect

Weaknesses:

Mental Illness

Universe: Wildstorm Universe

Origin: Born a Kherubim Lord from the planet Khera

Citizenship: American

Base of Operations:

Washington D.C.

Halo Building, New York City, New York

Parents: Harmony; mother

Marital Status: Single

Occupation:

Warrior

Majestrix of the Coda

Assassin

Government Operative

Education: Traditional Kherubim Education, Advanced Coda Training

First Appearance: WildC.A.T.s #1 (August, 1992)

Powers

Kherubim Physiology: Zealot is Kherubim, and a Kheribum noble meaning all her abilities are enhanced to various degrees, extremely long-lived, and nearly immortal. Her vocal cords are highly developed allowing a far wider range of tones than what is possible for a human being.

Enhanced Senses: Zealot's senses are more developed than those of earth humans; most notably her sight and hearing. She is easily at human peak as far as her ability to note detailed objects. Her hearing on the other hand is very enhanced.

Superhuman Stamina: Zealot has a very high level of endurance. Her body and will are so strong, she will continue to try and fight even against overwhelming odds and when pain wracks every portion of her form. As a note, this isn't invulnerability. Simply a very high pain threshold.

Enhanced Durability: As a Kheribum her skin, bones, and muscle tissues are denser and super-hard compared to a normal human. A regular bullet will not adequately harm her.

Accelerated Healing: She can regenerate damaged or destroyed bodily tissue with far greater speed and efficiency than an ordinary human. She can regenerate from anything, even injured tissue, brain cells, missing limbs and organs. Gunshot and stab wounds, cuts, and broken bones can perfectly heal in a few minutes.

Enhanced Immunity: Her body neutralizes all detrimental contaminants making him immune to all poisons, toxins, venom, viruses, bacteria, diseases, disorders, parasites, allergens, and radiations.

Immortality: As a Kheran, Zealot possesses virtual immortality. Her race is extremely long lived and she has been on Earth for literally the whole of human civilization and is showing no sign of growing old anytime soon. She is for all intents and purposes biologically immortal.

Superhuman Agility: Zealot has a level of agility that is quite literally astonishing. Her agility, balance, flexibility, dexterity, and bodily coordination are enhanced to levels that are beyond the natural physical limits of an Olympic gold medalist, with a quickness far beyond norm. She's capable of feats such as vaulting off of walls, going from flips into a vertical stomp, adjusting her rate and direction when in terminal velocity fall and is essentially, well over Olympic level as far as her ability to flip, dodge, dive, spin and move about. This, coupled with her strength and endurance makes her a formidable fighter alone, not to mention fighting skills.

Superhuman Strength: As a Kheran, Zealot is naturally stronger than a normal human, this ability is further compounded by her extreme level of training and abilities as per her status as Coda Majestrix, and level of experience. She can lift/press up to two tons of weight with effort and in addition to this, knows how to best apply her strength.

Dark Sorcery: For one hundred years, Zealot was in service of the weaver of souls Tapestry. During that time, Tapestry attempted to subvert Zealot into her own image. In that time Zealot became a powerful enchantress with skills and powers nearly on the scale of her teacher; along with the potential to be among the most powerful magic users on the planet. Although later Zealot would purge herself of these terrible abilities, powers she would rarely use. Zealot still has a powerful mystical aura and abilities she demonstrated when she faced Tapestry once more.

Telepathic Communication: The ability to project a dreamy vision of flowing white energy; read minds, view and erase memories of others with or without the person's consent.

Teleportation: She can send herself and/or anyone to anyplace she/they wish to visit without any space/time restrictions.

Mystical Blasts: The ability to generate powerful blasts of arcane force.

Matter Reconstruction: The ability to reconstruct matter such as clothes into a different form and appearance.

Mystical Shields: The ability to generate protective shields of magic

Mystical Manipulation: Twists and subvert other magic's cast at her; return energy projections sent to her back to their source without loss of momentum or power.

Abilities

Master Martial Artist: With weapons that are older then some civilizations and a status that placed her as the head of an order of warrior women. Zealot has literally been described as one of, if not the deadliest assassin on the planet. Her fighting abilities are unmatched among the coda, with and without a blade. And she can hold her own against virtually anyone, including those physically better then her, in one on one and even group combat. She is more than a match for the best of the best. Her range of martial arts knowledge spans almost all arts known to man and include the alien fighting arts of the Coda.

Weapons Master: Her skills with weapons mainly focus on the use of bladed weapons such as the Coda Clef blade and the katana blade; as well as the one and two handed sword. She is also an expert marksman. She is skilled in the use of throwing objects, such as daggers and the bladed weapons connected to the back of her armored costume.

Throwing

Firearms

Swordsmanship

Enhanced Intellect

Occultism

Computer Operation

Criminology

Multilingualism

Medicine

Historiography

Interrogation

Intimidation

Tracking

Survival

Surveillance

Weaknesses

Mental Illness: Zealot hides emotions and is prone to obsessive tendencies.

History

Lady Zannah, also known as Zealot, is from the planet Khera, where she was part of one of the leading political and cultural groups known as The Coda. On Earth, she became a prominent member of the WildC.A.T.s.

On Khera

Zannah was one of the few fertile Kherubim and therefore she was picked to mate with Lord Majestros of the other leading faction of Khera, the Pantheon. In this union she gave birth to a daughter named Kenesha. However, because Zannah desired to be a warrior rather then a priestess like other Kherubim mothers, her mother Lady Harmony declared the child dead, took a lover and claimed her as her own. This meant Kenesha was brought up as her sister and Majestros was told the child had died.

Trapped on Earth

Thousands of years ago Zannah became one of the Kherubims who had become stranded on Earth when the explorer ship she was on crash landed after battling a Daemonite warship. It was only due to her lover Stratos that she was able to survive, as he was able to get her into one of the ships rescue pods. Not long after she joined the earth war between Kherubim and the Daemonites who wanted to take the planet over.

Zannah and the other survivors were scattered, but found they could easily hide amongst the human population. The Daemonites, while less humanoid used their powers of possession and shape-shifting to hide amongst the population. It was then that the next few millennia was spent waging a secret war, unknown to average humans.

Founding the Earth-based Coda

Not long after crashing on the planet did Zannah start to train human females in The Coda fighting tradition. She even took part in the Trojan War on the Greek side. The payment she was to receive was the 99 baby girls to add to her new Coda. During the war she helped the warrior Ulysses come up with the idea for the Trojan Horse, for her part she spared the royal family, so the massacre would not affect the women and children. The rest of the Coda would not allow such a betrayal of the tenants she had taught them, even from its own founder. She also further earned their contempt when she refused to kill her ally Artemis in a duel she had won. She was then cast out into exile.

It was during her exile that she came across the witch Tapestry and was forced into being her slave, in return for Kenesha's life being spared. She was a slave for many centuries through which the witch tried to brainwash her into thinking like her, but Zannah stayed true to herself though wasn't completely the same. It was during this time that she was taught dark sorcery by Tapestry, though because of its corrupted nature she would refuse to use it for many years after she had escaped.

Team One

In the 1900s Zannah took the name Lucy Blaze and joined Team One, alongside fellow Kherubim survivors Emp, Majestros, and John Colt. She would form a short lived relationship with John and they have a child, she then gives the child to a Siberian family for the child's protection. The team battle the evil Helspont on the first mission. Helspont is a Daemonite Lord and has formed a group known as the Cabal, made up of post-humans and Daemonites. The Daemonite wanted to destroy all humans using nuclear missiles so the Daemonites could rule the planet. Team One fought him and one of their members Regiment succeeded in destroying the only missile left at the cost of his life. The team disbanded after.

WildC.A.T.s

Years later, now going by the name Zealot, she came into contact with a human male named Cole Cash. Zealot trained Cole in Coda fighting arts but despite his training he still preferred firearms to edged weapons. Cole later took the secret identity of Grifter. The pair would join forces with Lord Emp in gathering half blooded Kherubim to form the WildC.A.T.s.

During her time on the team she again fought Helspont and his followers. This time he wanted to bring Daemonites to Earth, they foiled his plans. When Voodoo joined the team she also trained her in Coda fighting techniques. It was during this time that Zealot would be brought face to face with her old master Tapestry and the group she had hired. The WildC.A.T.s became involved and the battle even caught the attention of Mr. Majestic and Savant.

Zealot later was involved in the discovery of a crashed Kherubim ship, which the team used to travel back to Khera. Khera turned out not to be the utopian society they had thought it to be, even Zealot was confused as her memory was very different then what she had remembered of her homeworld. Zealot learned along with the rest of the team that the war against the Daemonites had ended thousands of years ago, and they were now second class citizens living in slums and ghettos. Zealot's attitude toward the situation strained her relationship with Voodoo. Also the Coda wanted to kill her hoping she would become a martyr for their cause. Zealot was disgusted and along with the rest of the team returned to Earth. Upon returning they found they had been replaced by a new team. The new team was Mr. Majestic, Savant, Ladytron, Max Cash and Tao. However, Tao was revealed to had been manipulating the team into starting a gang war and she almost killed Tao when they attacked him, but Majestic killed him first. However, it was reveal later that Tao staged his death and had a hypnotized shape-shifter Mr. White in his place.

Wildcore

Zealot was recruited by Department PSI to be a part of Wildcore when they had to deal with a group of aliens known as the D'rahn. She gained intel using a alien database, kept by a group of alien exterminators known as the Puritans. She learned that the D'rahn seek to hunt down earth's Kherubim, during the intel gathering, the D'rahn attack the military base killing the Chasers who protect it. The only people to make it out of the base alive are Zealot, the leader of the Chasers Brawl, and the leader of the Puritans, General Grant. Grant turns out to be a Daemonite in disguise and swears his faction's loyalty to the D'rahn, in turn the D'rahn enlighten them and they become more powerful. Wildcore is able to erase all but ten names of the earth-bound Kherubim, though they are not able to save any of the names left over but one. His fiance Alea is enlightened and she joins Wildcore. At the advice from Ferrian, Wildcore sought for Majestic for help, and their sorcerer ally Azrum to go look for Tapestry to get her help. Majestic joins the battle and kills the Typhon of the D'rahn causing them to retreat. Tapestry is found to have imprisoned Azrum and enslaved Zealot, she then reshapes the world, but Ferrian regains his memories and saves them. In the escape the team loses two members and Zealot left the group.

Coda Revisited

Zealot then returns to the WildC.A.T.s. During a mission involving Daemonite tech being used to turn humans into super soldiers in an Irish village, Zealot tries to save a group of children and is mortally shot. After being shot the village was caught in an explosion and the team believed her to be dead. In truth she was in hiding from various Coda factions, whom she was hunting down in secret, and had a one night stand with a drunken Grifter, who then joined her in her quest. F.B.I. agents soon tracked her down and sends Agent Orange, who unbeknownst to them is under Jack Marlowe's control. The Coda also tracked her down and sends Sarin to capture her, Agent Orange and his agents. Zealot was tortured and about to be executed when Ladytron, under Grifter's control, Mr. Dolby, the Beef Boys and C.C. Renozzo are sent after her. They eventually are freed and the Coda and their base were destroyed.

Kherubim Truth

Sometime later Mr. Majestic requested her help after his time-travel adventure revealed a world controlled by the Daemonites. Zealot, Majestic and Desmond go off in search of a ancient Kherubim tech known as a Planet Shaper. They are attacked by Helspont on their journey. Desmond merged with the device and the they find out that the Kherubim grew in power by enslaving species on planets and taking over that world and that Daemonites were a race that fought back against their control. Soon a rogue Kherubim of the Shapers Guild named Javen arrived. He wanted to use the Shaper and remake Earth into a new Khera and use Majestic's DNA to breed a new race of Kherubims. However, he found that Majestic's body was breaking down due to his dimension and time travel and attempted to take their child Savant as the next best thing. During the battle Majestic made Zealot reveal that she was in fact Savant's mother and he was her father. He then went off to stop the Kherubims forces on his own.

Nemesis from the Past

Some time later a Kherubim named Nemesis made an appearance and it was revealed that she was at one time the lover of Majestic and he used his position to get her trained as a member of the Coda despite her being an Adrastea. Later Zealot and Nemesis became rivals and friends, but because of politics Majestic could not continue a relationship with her and was ordered to mate with Zealot. Nemesis was later framed for the death of Coda members by a Brotherhood of the Sword member named Raven and Zealot swore vengeance against Nemesis, not knowing the truth. Sometime in 2005 Zealot caught up with her, who was killing Brotherhood members. Zealot and the WildC.A.T.s attacked her only to lose easily. She was then bested by Mr. Majestic, who took her to the Halo building where the truth was revealed. In ensuring the battle against the brotherhood Zealot, Nemesis and Majestic made peace with each other and fought side by side, and Nemesis in turn risked herself to stop Raven but is saved at the last minute by Majestic.

World's End

Following after Armageddon, Zealot and the rest of the Wildcats fought all manner of mutations and beasts to bring refugees back to the Halo building in Los Angeles for safety. She and her team were repeatedly, violently confronted by a overzealous Majestic, who wanted the building's supplies of Halo Batteries. After a later hostility with Majestic was altogether pacified, he told the Wildcats that he intended to offer them a chance to live on his Hawaiian kingdom. But disallowed some for being "undesirable", in which Zealot was included for lacking the capability to breed since the birth of Savant. When hearing this, Zealot was especially concerned of her daughter and demanded to know from Majestic as to what happened to Savant since she had left for him. Majestic, however, retorted to the fact that their daughter had always been on her own without the truth of her true parents.

After refusing Majestic's offers and the departure of Nemesis and Backlash, Zealot and the Wildcats were later called from help in Hawaii by Backlash and Nemesis who discretely warn of Majestic. Suspicious, Zealot and the Wildcats left for Hawaii on a feign 'visit'. When Majestic left Hawaii with Spartan to Asia, Zealot and Nemesis silently communicated each other through a training session of the problem. She then realized from Nemesis that Majestic had forcefully kept Savant imprisoned as a breeding mare through test tubes in bringing "pure" Kheran heirs. After releasing Savant, Zealot and the others barely escaped and returned to the Halo building where it was under attack by Daemonites. Zealot and Grifter helped in clearing out the invading Daemonites and allowing the building's refugees to board the MIRV, before everyone escape with the destruction of the Halo building.

Zealot and her team later helped John Lynch and Team-7 in stopping her former teammate-turned villain, Tao, who intended to become a god from stealing the powers of Void, Providence and Max Faraday. During the midst of battle against Tao, Zealot and her daughter Savant were sent by Spartan in recruiting Majestic's help. Upon seeing each other, however, Zealot and Majestic briefly fought each other after the later was still outrage over Nemesis' apparent death until Savant clarified them and informed that Tao was at fault for Majestic's behavior and indirectly responsible for Nemesis' death. When Zealot and her allies gained the power of the Creation Equation and subsequently facing her worst fear, in which Zealot was manipulated into trying to kill her own daughter while Majestic tries to prevent them. Following Tao's defeat, Zealot was granted a new and improve version of her costume patterned after her original attire.

When the Wildcats were looking for The High in Colorado, Zealot and the others were summoned to UnLondon by the Authority and offered the chance of leaving Earth on the Carrier. Zealot decided to stay on the planet and soon joined in the conflict against the militant Knights of Khera, which she greatly acknowledged of their notoriety. She and some of Earth's heroes were sent to the North Pole in succeeding to destroying one of the Knights' terraforming machines. After the Knights' defeat, Zealot and Maul decided to leave the Wildcats after hearing Spartan, who became the de facto leader of Earth's superhumans, of unifying Earth which she vehemently disagreed and preferred on training humanity into a defense force.

Following the three month period of Earth's reconstruction, Zealot claimed African nation of Zanzibar as her protectorate. After this, she recruited willing women across Africa into her own Coda army dedicating to her claim of defending Earth from alien threats. Though her Coda is fewer in numbers, Zealot had Jeremy Stone to artificially impregnate some of her volunteers to produce more female warriors through Kheran technology. This, however, cost the lives of some of the volunteers under the experimentation given that the technology are only specifically suited to Kherubims. Zealot was not concerned of this after Jeremy Stone had informed her of this, much to Jeremy's shock. Eventually, Midnighter, who was carefully concerned of Zealot's agenda since her departure from the Wildcats, investigated Zanzibar and learned of the Coda's fatal birthing process. Ultimately, Zealot and Midnighter engaged in single combat. Throughout their fight, the two were evenly matched as they argued back and forth of their flaws in which Zealot struck a chord in Midnighter in being unable to saved his adopted daughter Jenny Quarx. Eventually both combatants were literally grabbing at each others' throats when Maul, who grew tired of the violence and the guilt for cooperating with Zealot's plan, intervened to stop their fight. As he did this, Zealot was about to slice him out of reflex. Immediately, Maul had no time to avoid this and shrunk down at the subatomic level, in which everyone thought he disintegrated. Zealot was shocked of what she had done, but didn't believe that her sword disintegrated him. She was then chided by Midnighter, who points out that not only did she "kill" Maul but also lost him to maintain the machines for the pregnancies. But Zealot just coolly told him that she and the Coda will move elsewhere and continue their mission in protecting Earth, in which Midnighter vowed that he would follow and stop her wherever she went.

Fun Facts

Since Armageddon Zealot had started a sexual relationship with Grifter.

Almost no one in the Wildstorm universe can beat Zealot hand-to-hand skill wise. Backlash and Midnighter come close, yet in the end, Zealot has weapons older than him and her superhuman attributes. With a sword, she has shown herself to be unmatched.

#zealot #lady zannah #lucy blaze #sister zealot #wildcats #WildC.A.T.s #team one #wildcore #the coda #dc #DC comics #thedcdunce

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punkscowardschampions · 5 years

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Ali & Carly

Ali: [Weds night before her bday] Ali: woman you home Carly: not mine y? Ali: because ITS YOUR BIRTHDAY Ali: and I need to come bearing gifts Carly: now? k then Carly: ill get there before u Ali: you @ one of the lads then? Ali: no rush 'cept I do wanna be the first so like b4 midnight cinders 🎃👠 Carly: i werent born @ 12 tho & u kno that from doing my chart 🔮🌟 Carly: but ur so cute Ali: tru but Ali: i'm excited Ali: can't start the party without guest of honour 7 Carly: aw Carly: i wont take these 15 💊s yet 👼 Carly: we can party together Ali: 🎁? Carly: idk can u call it a 🎁 if u have to give back Ali: Boo 👎 Carly: not what he said when we were done Ali: 🙄 still Ali: not very festive of him Carly: idc its been fun Carly: coulda stayed in w ma & da but its not a retirement party in the works like Ali: for now Ali: but I got better plans than either Carly: yea? Ali: 'course Ali: who am I Ali: who are we Carly: 🐅💙🐇 Carly: i barely knew u on my last bday 😢💔 Ali: it's insane Ali: you're so important and integral to me how did we not get together before then Ali: I'm not the only one with plans tho 🌌💕 Carly: too many lads to swap first ha Carly: i kno my ma has been planning all wk but idk cuz shes learned to be subtle somehow Carly: must b her new man teaching her things Ali: Eskimo sisters for life, baby 😂 Ali: 👀 come thru shaz Ali: sounds promising Carly: 🤞🌌🔮 Ali: not her new man, obvs Carly: hes no cavante tho still only a few yrs older Ali: if I beat you I'll hit her up for the scoop Carly: 🍀 Ali: 😬 Ali: I guess we've got her answer for the age old experience vs stamina Carly: could b where i left her wine drunk in the hot tub still Carly: falls asleep there more than the marital bed Carly: mermaid energy ha Ali: not wine drunk Ali: worse energy than coke rage, I swear Ali: watch out cat lady, protect your children Carly: aw ill look after them Ali: 👼 Ali: I'll take any bday bumps for you 💪 Carly: never liked coke or wine soz ma if thats my 🎁 Carly: still my hero 💙 Ali: those people are the worst Ali: lemme buy something for me and give it to you Ali: no sharon THAT IS NOT 👏 IN 👏 THE 👏 SPIRIT 👏 OKAY 👏 Carly: my gma does that every yr! xmas too Carly: so boring unwrapping that bible each time Carly: good rolling paper tho Ali: 😂 Ali: the lord is in you, it's what she wanted Ali: just in your lungs but you know Carly: ha Carly: what r u bringing me boo? Ali: don't you want the surprise babe Carly: idk last time u really surprised me it was w a divorce so u could get ur man Ali: 😥 Carly: 😂 jk u kno i love surprises Ali: just devastated you're calling me predictable for the last, how many months Ali: cut me deep, birthday girl Carly: i dont surprise easy Carly: y the lads like me Carly: dont b sad baby Ali: never Ali: not when there's partying to be done Carly: yay Ali: and a 👸 to celebrate Carly: ur sweet 🍬🍭 Carly: i dont look like a princess rn Carly: no running away Ali: you always do Ali: even when you running from ogres Carly: ur gonna make me look worse when im crying too Ali: meant to save them for the party Ali: but I'll never tell Carly: ha its been a few yrs since a bday tantrum Carly: really had to wait for that bike tho Ali: and #werk baby Ali: you were as adorable then, how your parents didn't spoil you is a mystery to me Carly: ask them if u do get here before me Carly: but before i was medicated i wasnt as 👼 could b the answer Ali: lecture 'em on how wrong they were, more like Carly: ur a bias little 🐱💙 Carly: & u didnt kno me then even if u do remember i grew into my 👂s Ali: 😂 Ali: well I never grew into my 👁s and my 'tudes no better either and you still love me so Ali: deal with it, Walsh 😜 Carly: aw u were the cutest 👶 Carly: & u get cuter every yr Ali: hey, don't spoil my heartfelt message in your card! Ali: 😏 Carly: im sorry Carly: ill have 1 for the road & forget Ali: I think one of the boys just catcalled me without offering to give me a ride in their white van/carriage Ali: see me struggling here lads, is that part of the appeal? probs Carly: which y? ill threaten to uninvite him from the party Carly: 1* Ali: not the kinda bitch to resort to racism 'cos I'm mildly upset or angered but they really be looking the same behind the wheel of a transit, like Ali: think it was one of Ronan's brothers? Ali: and in fairness, never slept with you so whaddya owe me, kind sir Carly: ha Carly: if he could see & be seen @ the wheel then i reckon i kno Carly: & i have slept w him so he will b 💔😢 if he cant celebrate w me Ali: my hero 💚 Carly: 💙 Carly: been thru every1 old enough in that fam now ha Carly: gonna have to move like Ali: I wish I could tell you the surprise was a hot new fam Ali: alas Ali: wouldn't fit them on my back, like Carly: 😢💔 Ali: I've let you down Ali: how could I Ali: gonna eat my feelings 🎂 Carly: 🍯🐝 no Carly: never Ali: what's the dresscode for this shindig then Carly: idk not allowed to go w bday suits Carly: my da overruled me Ali: gotta whittle down my knock you dead options Ali: even with those stifling guidelines, tah Mr Walsh, I should manage it Carly: i believe in u baby Ali: 👼👼👼 Carly: im back btw Carly: used my wings mayb Ali: damn Ali: was really hopinh for some 1x1 with your ma Carly: she will scoot over in bed for u Carly: not just me who misses u Ali: awh Ali: can we convince her to give you your present early or nah Ali: I say yeah Carly: me too so 2 votes Carly: my da will b asleep too deep to cast his even if she says no weve outnumbered her Ali: 💪 Ali: I'll put the phone down and run Ali: gimme 5 Carly: k Carly: be careful tho Carly: some of the 💡 r out Ali: 👌 Ali: my middle name Carly: fun is ur middle name Carly: how many do u have? Ali: as many as you want Ali: 😉 Ali: but just the one, actually Carly: hot Carly: u can have 1 of mine then wed both have 2 each Ali: are you actually 👑 Carly: my ma wishes Carly: queen of the site tho Carly: ha Ali: I've not bought her a crown Ali: not soz Carly: its k shes got her prom tiara somewhere Ali: memories 🎶 Carly: am i gonna peak before 18 too? Ali: never Ali: only way is 📈 baby Carly: u make me feel really happy u kno Ali: ☀🌻🍓🍯🐝🐰 Ali: it's mutual boo Carly: im crying Carly: & smiling Carly: its the 💊s ma Ali: it's the 💘 Ali: she gets it Carly: aw Carly: yea shes really 💘 w the lad from the chemist Carly: knocking our 💙 off the top Ali: can't be having that Ali: got all weekend to prove we're 🥇 Carly: til ur bf shows up Ali: nuuh Ali: it's all about you Carly: ur so nice to me Ali: you'll see feel and believe it ✨ Carly: 🔮🌌 Carly: r u gonna stay? Ali: can I? Carly: yea Ali: then yeah Carly: aw ur my 🎁 Ali: I haven't copped out that hard, don't worry Ali: come help me Ali: not very gentlemanly of me but I wanna be with you before we've gotta hear about the prom queen's glory days Carly: k Carly: 💪💙

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a--world--apart--fic · 6 years

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A World Apart - Chapter Six 1.1

Notes: This next chapter will be released in two parts, the second one being released on Wednesday. If you prefer part two tonight and just a sneak peak on of chapter 7 Wednesday, tell us in the comments and we’ll post chapter six part 2 this evening! Discusses serious, adult topics. Please heed the trigger warnings! Tagged long post for mobile.

Rating: M

Trigger Warning: Assault, Violence

Word Count: 4440

Musical Accompaniment: Kongos - Come With Me Now

Tag List: @writtenbycandy, @hopefulmoonobject, @heatherfilliez, @theroyalweisme, @indiacater, @tmarie82, @enmchoices, @the-everlasting-dream, @diamond-dreamland, @lizeboredom, @drakewalkerwhipped, @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @kingliamthirst, @snyggflicka, @debramcg1106, @choicessa, @drakelover78, @starstruckzonkoperatorbat, @blackcatkita, @drakewalkerfantasy, @jadedpixiescribbles, @walkerismychoice, @walkerduchess, @hamulau, @simplyaiden-blog, @hhiggs, @drivenbyfantasy

Chapter Six ~ The Beaumont Bash 1.1 May 1914

The young lordling has been smoking nervously ever since the gleaming line of cars began rolling up the long drive. He's not in his brushed red and gold uniform tonight (though Evie happens to think he looks very fine in it), but in full formal suit and tails. His hair is mussed, like he's been running his hands through it for hours. He dawdles in the morning room, seemingly without a care, but Evie can feel the nervousness rolling off him in waves, and it is making her nervous too. She wants to help him, but doesn't quite know how. If only she could, he might smile at her, he might --  

The front door bursts open and Evie can hear them, lightskirts, ladies of the night, perfumed and painted courtesans from Madame Louisa's in the city. Evie freezes, listening to their inane chatter, and quickly scurries to the door to let them in. They are like butterflies, she thinks, all in pastels and gauze and spangles, so beautiful, so free.

  "Evie! Come with me now." Mrs. Brody, the indomitable housekeeper, bustles up to the door, taking Evie by the arm. She nods stiffly to the young lordling, for though she may not approve of the bacchanalia about to descend upon the honored house of Beaumont, she knows which side her bread is buttered on.  

"Oh... Evie, is it?" Maxwell catches her just as Mrs. Brody is set to frogmarch her to the attics, where the duke has ordered the young servant girls to be locked up until dawn to safeguard their virtue.

  "She's going to the attics, as you well know, Lord Maxwell," Mrs. Brody puts in firmly. She is not a fan of the young lord. Why, just six months ago last Yuletide he let the peacocks in for a lark, and it took an age to get all their droppings off the furnishings. "Is there something you wanted?"

  "Mrs. Brody, you are dismissed." Evie nearly swoons at his decisive tone, but composes herself under the housekeeper's glare.

  "Evie, remember to be on your best behavior, girl." In a stern tone, she instructs further, "Just come to the kitchens when you're done."   Evie supposes the chef will lock her in the larder, but anything to stay abreast of the excitement tonight. She'll be the envy of all the other maids. "Yes, madam!"

  As soon as the housekeeper has gone, she curtsies to the young lord, hoping he cannot see her blush. She can tell he is embarrassed by the exuberance of the courtesans, and he gently closes the door as the gramophone cranks up and Irving Berlin's Maple Rag pours from the room. "My lord?" 

"Evie, I have an important task for you. A certain special lady is to arrive soon. She is to be placed separately from both the noble ladies and the courtesans, in the morning room."

  Maybe he will kiss her hand. Maybe he will give her one of his sweet smiles, so rare these days now that he has gone. "Yes, m'lord." All thoughts fly out of Evie's head when he does exactly that, bending courteously and kissing her hand, and rising his head with a sweet smile. She is flustered and breathless, her heart pounding. 

"Wait here," he says. "She will arrive soon."

  When he goes, Evie creeps closer to the door of the drawing room, listening to the bright chatter of Madame Louisa's girls, her head filling with dreams of masquerade balls and young lordlings who doff their hats from white steeds on a bright Cordonian morning.

•••

Sophia’s nerves are frayed to the quick.

“My love, what’s troubling you?” Liam places his hand on her bouncing leg. “Do you not trust me?”

Trust me. His words spur unwanted memories of that awful night causing her stomach to churn. Before then, he had never once given her cause to question anything he asked, and now, it’s all she can do not to. Still, for all his faults, (and all her indecision) she loves him so. “All you’ve shared is that we’re attending a celebration in Ramsford. I don’t enjoy surprises, Liam…”

“Surely there are some surprises you enjoy,” he says huskily, pulling her into his lap and pressing his length against her. “Maxwell has planned a celebration to best the travelling circus from last year’s Beaumont Bash as a final hurrah for Bertrand before the wedding. Let your worries fall away and allow me to share an evening of decadence with you, Sophia.”

“You’ll be with me the whole night?” She cannot help the moan that escapes her lips as he brushes soft kisses across her collarbone.

He pulls back from her, and she swears for a brief moment when his eyes meet her own that he is the one who is troubled. “Not exactly, my love.”

Liam senses her trepidation and wraps his arms tightly around her. She does not trust him, not fully, but still melts into his embrace. Sophia is at odds with herself, not able to make sense of how she can still find assurance in his strong arms while thinking of another. Liam watches her in unrest, and then his mouth has found hers, his kiss bruising and desperate, like he is trying to hold onto her, to mark her -- like he knows her heart no longer belongs to only him. Drake.

“And where will I be that you will not?”

“There is a game of sorts planned for the men of the court with a band of courtesans and noble women, akin to a hunt if you will.”

“A…hunt?” She interrupts, gulping. Liam runs his thumb over her cheek.

“Sophia, you will not be anywhere near the game, I promise you. The details of what happens on the playing field are unimportant. Lord Maxwell and I have made arrangements to have you sequestered. When we arrive, you will be given a sash and a mask to wear and placed in a room. You are to stay there until I come for you, Sophia. Understand?”

“What will happen when you come for me?”

“We will go to a private bedchamber in the estate and I will worship you until the sun rises,” Liam tucks a curl behind her ear, his eyes softening. “No one but I will lay a finger on you, my love. You are mine, and I am yours. I don’t wish to bed another woman, and you are here to help me from having to participate in their appalling game.”

“I am yours, and you are mine,” she repeats, once out loud, and continually in her head until her nerves begin to fade.

When they arrive, Sophia mouth falls open in awe at the sight of the legendary Beaumont Estate. It does not rival the palace in size, but does in opulence. “Remember love, do not leave the room. It may be quite some time before I come to you,” he warns, handing her an ornate white feathered mask. The chauffeur opens the car door and she is whisked inside by Liam.

Maxwell greets them at the door, and before she can protest ushers Sophia to a young maid standing at the sidelines, clutching sashes tightly in her hands.

“Are you meant to show me to my room?” The girl doesn’t respond at first. She looks as if her head is in the clouds. Sophia asks again, and suddenly the doe-eyed maid springs to life.

“Oh! Yes, my lady! I’m so sorry. Please, follow me.”

Sophia glances back at Liam who offers her one last reassuring nod before following the maid down a long hall. She vaguely listens to the girl chatter on, saying something about an attic, and about her virtue being protected, but she is distracted too. Now that she is alone and at the mercy of this silly girl, she begins to feel like something is not as it’s meant to be.

“Well, here is your sash, and this is your room my lady! You’re awfully lucky to get to stay downstairs,” she says sadly. “I must be off before Mrs. Brody has my head. Enjoy your evening ma’am.”

Sophia bids the maid a good night and enters the room expecting no company, but is greeted by dozens of women naked as the day they were born. They are dancing to loud music playing on the gramophone, and Sophia is transported to the days of her youth. She knows exactly what these women are.

Yes, something is definitely wrong.

•••

Maxwell sprawls in his chair, trying to mimic Lord Rashad's confident stance and cocky grin. He knows he isn't fooling anyone from the contemplative look that Lord Tariq shoots him, but he doesn't care when he's got a mug of Skullcracker ale in his hand. His brother sits at the right hand of the king, beaming from head to toe. Bertrand has no idea yet what to expect, and Maxwell is on tenterhooks with his envious thoughts. He should have been the one to arrange this for Bertrand, isn't he blood, doesn't he know him better than anyone?  

Apparently not.

  "Lord Maxwell! Come join the festivities!" Liam cocks a brow. Come save me, his face says.  

"Oh, Maxwell doesn't fuck the housemaids!" Bertrand roars with laughter. "I even hired some comely wenches to tempt the lad, but I've not had to turn away a single girl with a belly!" A strange expression flits over his features, then is gone. "Not for Max's sake, at least."

  "Perhaps he hasn't found the kind he likes yet," Tariq says smoothly, sitting a shade too close, his thigh rubbing against Maxwell's on the sofa. "Perhaps he yearns for different... pleasures of the flesh?"

Maxwell jumps up, crossing the room to stand near Liam. His toe is tapping in his boot. "No, I..." he looks into his ale. I don't. And he thinks of a pair of gray eyes, and a heart-shaped face, and his chest aches with sorrow. For that story ends on a moonless night, on the banks of a river, and he pushes it away from him, determined to forget.

  "Let me tell you all a story," Rashad begins, giving a side-long look towards Maxwell. "I became a man at sixteen, when a comely lady of the court took pity on me and taught me the art of the bedchamber."  

Duke Hakim slaps his knee. "I'm sure she did! Married nobles are notoriously hungry for young, strapping lads to fill their empty beds!" Maxwell can see Rashad roll his eyes. Duke Hakim is one of the only guests who can be called part of the 'old guard', a contemporary of the Blood King and a diplomat. He is oft away, but has made a point of coming to this Ball -- to what end, Maxwell knows not, but he's sure he won't remain in the dark for long. Though if Duke Hakim means to find a match for his lovely daughter in this crowd, he must play a deep game indeed.  

"Well, what else are they supposed to do with their time? Surely you're not suggesting something so common as taking up women's suffrage, or riding to hounds?" Liam clinks his glass with Bertrand and Tariq.

"I think women's suffrage is a worthy cause," Maxwell puts in timidly, and his brother roars, slapping his thigh.  

"You would, Max! What's next, women in trousers, working like men? Shall we put my bride-to-be to be in charge of the estate? I think not! The only thing worse than having her in charge would be having --"  

Liam rescues Max with a polite shake of his head. "Progress will come, Duke Ramsford. I am not entirely opposed to --”

 "Enough of such talk. We are here to honor Duke Ramsford tonight." Rashad interrupts Liam, turning the conversation back, and Maxwell sees Liam's knuckles clench white on the stem of his glass, just for an instant. Rashad hides his sneer, raising his drink. "To the comely noble ladies of Krona..."

  Hakim takes up the refrain. "To the ladies of Portavira we've fucked in their bedchambers, right under their husband's noses..."  

"To the wenches we've tumbled willingly or unwillingly..." Neville smirks.

  "To the servants who made us men!" Tariq roars, and they all clink their glasses together.  

"Hear, hear!" Liam slaps Bertrand on the back. "Soon you will join the ranks of married men, and your bachelor days will be behind you. Take one mistress or a score, but --"

  Rashad interrupts again. Loudly. "Perhaps his majesty desires to share the tale of one of his own conquests?"

He is utterly mad to use that tone with the king, Maxwell thinks. It barely borders on mocking, and there is a dark undercurrent on it, slick and oozing. Rashad's jealousy and anger is a live thing, a coiled viper ready to strike. The noble ladies of Krona. Plural. Rashad dances with death tonight. "My lords --"  

"It's too bad my brother and father are no longer with us. I should like to see their faces when they learned I fucked the American whore." Liam raises a glass to their shocked faces, and drinks deeply.

  Bertrand recovers first. "Keep it in the family, that's what I always say!" He rises, slapping Maxwell heartily on the back.  

The conversation flows after that, and Maxwell learns more about the preferences of these men than he ever wanted to know in his life. His head is spinning with all the things he is yet so innocent of, and he refills his mug of ale.   "Lord Maxwell, come, sit!" Rashad waves him over. "Lord Neville was about to tell us of his conquest at last year's ball! Tell me, Lord Neville... was it the red headed tightrope walker? I always had a fancy to know if the carpet matched the drapes," he snickers into his beer.  

Neville preens, enjoying the attention too much. Maxwell has never liked Neville. He is a hypocrite of the worst sort, avowing to despise all the things he himself partakes in, and his arrogance knows no bounds. He is thin-skinned, and takes offense at all imagined slights. Why, just last year, he was nearly struck from court when he killed a man in a duel, claiming that a man drawing too soon was an excuse to shoot him in the back. No, Maxwell has no desire to know about Neville and any of the circus performers.  

"The fire eater was impressive as well," Tariq interjects thoughtfully. "Such expressive eyes, but then everyone knows Spaniards are passionate." Everyone ignores him, focusing on Neville, who is puffed up by the attention like a little banty-cock.

 "It was when the elephant escaped," Neville proclaims, drawing a groan from Bertrand.  

"Must you bring up that wretched beast? My gardens and hothouse have yet to recover!"

  Neville runs a finger along his wine glass with a crafty smile. "Oh, indeed, that must have been quite terrible for you! Where was I... Ah. The elephant thundered away and we split into groups to search for it. I convinced the little elephant dancer that it must be down by the summerhouse --"

  "The elephant dancer!" Bertrand is thunderstruck, jaw hanging in amazement. "Dear fellow, her husband would have snapped you in twain!"

  Neville grins slyly. "The big Indian man? He should be thanking me for teaching that little bitch a lesson! Be that as it may, she came to like it. She fought like a wildcat, but that only makes the prize that much sweeter."  

There is a drawing back from the company. This was not the story any of them cared to hear, not tonight. Liam in particular is looking ill, and Rashad has a look on his face as though he wishes he had never asked.

 "See, Lord Maxwell, they do not have to be willing. Only taught to be made to," Neville finishes.

  "I think that's a lesson I could quite do without," Maxwell says firmly, turning his back on Neville, who hisses. "Now, to the revels. Lord Rashad?"

Rashad seems discomfited, but recovers admirably. "Tonight, gentlemen, I have planned quite the surprise for Duke Ramsford," Rashad rises amidst cheers. "Outside this room, we have several delectable ladies, hand-picked just for tonight from Madame Louisa's! They're mixed in with the married ladies of the court, all ready to spread their legs -- but only if you catch them first!"

  "And just how will we do that?" Liam asks, a rakish glint in his eye. "I suppose you have some idea for us, Lord Rashad.

"  Rashad's nostrils flare upon Liam's direct address, and he puffs out his chest. "Quite. When our Lord of Misrule blows the hunter's horn, the strumpets will dash across the fields with a thirty second head start. We will follow on horseback."  

"That sounds frankly medieval," Liam says, shaking his fair head. "And these ladies are all willing?"

  "Who cares if they're willing?" Lord Neville sneers. "To the winner the spoils."

  "And how will we know the married ladies from the whores?" Duke Hakim licks his lips.

  "Duke Hakim, always with the important details." Rashad holds up a slip of ribbon. "The whores will have white sashes around their waists, and the court ladies will have their house colors. For their husbands to find them, naturally," he says with a round wink, taking in the whole company on the joke, for no happily married Cordonian lady would choose to participate in such a spectacle. It's only the known lightskirts who are here tonight. "We will meet near the sundial to crown Duke Ramsford our Lord of Misrule, and dedicate this night to Dionysus.

"  As the gentlemen depart, each handed a devil's mask on his way out the door, Rashad pulls Maxwell aside. "I would thank you for the honor of allowing me to plan the entertainment," he whispers in a low voice. "And so, I will give you a small gift. The lady I spoke of at the beginning of the night is here, and would be very amenable to you catching her. She will be wearing a green and black sash. She will provide quite the education -- should you wish to become a man." With that, Rashad ties his devil mask on, and exits the room.

  Maxwell stares at the mask in his hand. To become a man. Almost unconsciously, his hand goes to the peacock button in his pocket, and he rubs it just once, for luck.

  •••

Maria primps at the mirror, carefully covering scars left over the years from many a man too near the clutch. She catches sight of a wide eyed pretty blonde coming through the drawing room door in her reflection and rolls her eyes. Maria has been with Madame Louisa since her breasts budded in her youth and tires of the chaste, callow lasses joining their ranks. She would never admit it aloud, but she is envious of the girls (they can barely be described as women) men have a taste for now, and longs for the days when a more adventurous women was considered a prize, for she has never and will never be au courant.

She watches out the corner of her eye as the other girls swarm the blonde, curious to know everything about the fresh meat.

“You’re new! What’s your name?” Millie, another courtesan, asks brightly. The blonde’s defiant silence catches Maria’s attention.

“I’ll handle her,” she places a hand on Millie’s shoulder, a taunting smile playing on her round lips. The redhead nods and steps away, knowing better than to refuse a woman of the old world. There are ranks even among whores. “Your name, girl. Don’t be so afraid, you’re among friends here,” she purrs, stroking the girl’s cheek. The blonde meets her gaze, tight lipped and challenging, but Maria senses her fear. “You will speak when spoken to. Know your place, whore.”

When the girl says nothing, Maria raises her hand and strikes the girls face with an ear splitting clap. “Sophia! It’s Sophia,” she cries, wincing.

“Madame Louisa picked a harrowing night to be your first, Sophia,” Maria jeers. “Best get out of that dress before the Madame comes in and sees you clothed. She’ll whip you until you bleed if you displease her.”

The courtesans erupt into laughter as Sophia shrinks back from Maria shaking her head. “Have you not yet learned your lesson, Sophia? You will do as you’re told or I will deliver you to the hands of the Madame myself. Surely that swindler Kane picked this one from the lot! She’s such an innocent little bird I’ll eat my hat if she lasts the night!” Another bout of howling fills the room.

Maria sees the color leave Sophia’s face, her eyes widening in terror at the mention of the name Kane. Something about the look in her eyes makes Maria’s blood run cold, but she is a hardened woman, with little empathy left to give. “Off with your clothes then, little bird,” she says firmly amidst the roaring laughter.

“No. You don’t understand I’m not supposed to be here,” Sophia protests, but Maria grips her arm tightly. “Very well, if you want to play rough so be it.”

With a snap of Maria’s fingers the courtesans descend on her, cackling with glee as they tear at her dress, ripping the fabric clean from her body until it’s shredded in a pile at her feet. Maria smiles smugly at her as Sophia clutches her white sash tightly in her hands, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Take her to the other room and be sure she’s ready for the evening. Do not bring her back until there’s a smile on that lovely face.”

•••

Adelaide slips into the bustling room full of whores clad only in a thin silk robe and her sash, a glass of bubbling champagne in her hand. She was terribly bored with the other noble ladies, all still fully dressed and droning on about which of them will be caught by the king when the festivities begin -- as if they are here for anything but to be fucked. The scene before her is much more her taste: loud music and light-o’-loves gossiping about the size of the cocks that would fill them up in a few short minutes.

“Oi, think you have the wrong room ma’am.” One of the women cackles from across the room. Adelaide scowls at her address, ma’am.

“On the contrary, I’ve a feeling this is the company I’ve been seeking all night. Ma’am makes me sound so old, darling. Call me Adelaide,” she gives the woman a calculating smirk, surveying her competition.

“Alright then, Adelaide, the ladies of Madame Louisa’s welcome you. The best cunny money can buy,” she winks, cupping her mound for emphasis. “Name’s Maria. Care for a drink?”

She nods and Maria pours her two fingers of moonshine and sits in the chair across from her, legs spread wide without reticence. Adelaide licks her lips, admiring Maria’s perfect, curvy frame. She has dabbled with women now and again over the years, and has half a mind to begin tonight’s festivities early with the beautiful woman before her, bare and slick between her thighs.

“Can’t say I’ve met many ladies wandering willingly into a den of whores. You seem like the kind of woman who has tasted forbidden fruit, Adelaide,” her mouth twists into a cat like grin. “Any advice for my girls on which men to slow their pace for this evening when the hunt begins?”

Adelaide laughs heartily. She’s more than tasted forbidden fruit, having learned when she was a blossoming young girl the power spreading her legs held over the men of court. In truth, she’s laid with most noblemen in Cordonia, even the king when he was a strapping lad of just nineteen years, eager to learn the ways of women like his brother before him. “A lady should not reveal all her secrets. All I will say is seek the tall lad with bronzed skin and black hair, run far from the short, smug lad that looks like a weasel.”

“A lady doesn’t spread her legs and fuck her way through noblemen without recompense either,” Maria snorts. “You’ve come seeking friends in low places. There’s no need for false modesty here, Adelaide. At the very least tell me more of the weasel.”

“I applaud your candid nature, darling,” she chuckles, clinking her glass with Maria’s. “I fucked the weasel Lord Neville just once, years ago in Krona, more out of pity than for pleasure. He’s a cretin; a scrawny, spineless man that even young noblewomen with no other prospects don’t wish to take as a husband.”

“Lord Neville?” Maria spits out her drink and turns to address the room, thoroughly amused. “Girls, tell Lady Adelaide of our romps with the incomparable patron Lord Neville.”

“Oh gods, that worm frequents the brothel asking for the vilest acts and has a prick the size of a thimble. You can barely feel the damn thing,” a brunette chirps from the corner.

The room erupts into laughter, save for one girl in the corner grasping a feathered white mask who looks terrified. “That girl, how long has she been with Madame Louisa’s?” Adelaide is sure she’s seen her face before.

“The waif? It’s her first night.”

Before Adelaide can say more, the drawing room doors burst open and a brutish, domineering woman snaps her fingers, silencing the courtesans.

“It’s time, ladies. Sashes on,” the iron-handed Madame orders, and every girl falls into line like soldiers -- save for the one with the familiar face. She stalks the line of her working women, looking at them as if they’re nothing more than meal tickets, sending a chill creeping down Adelaide’s spine.

“Back in line, wench,” she growls, stopping dead in her tracks at the break in the line where the frightened blonde stands back. “Or I’ll whip you as an insurgent until you beg for mercy!” The Madame pulls a switch from her belt, bringing it over the pretty blonde’s back with a thundering thwack, drawing a deafening scream from the girl and a collective gasp from the courtesans. “As I was saying, this night is an important one for our gracious host, the Duke of Ramsford. Anything these men require, you will do without question. Now, on your way girls.”

Shuddering, Adelaide is unexpectedly glad for her noble birth as she watches them go, knowing the bleak fate of these women might have been hers in a another world.

#tw assault #tw violence #historical au #choices trr #trr au #trr #the royal romance #choices the royal romance #king liam #liam x mc #drake walker #drake x mc #maxwell beaumont #choices fanfiction #a world apart

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jiminsbyuns-blog · 7 years

Text

Seven Deadly Sins

Part 1 | Part 3

Featuring: BTS, You

Warnings: Sci-Fi/Fantasy!AU

Written by: Admin V

Seven boys. Eight portals. And one you–fighting for freedom in a toxic world that seems to be trying to kill you at every single goddamn chance it gets.

- The Past -

“Seokjinnie!”

You raced over to Seokjin, the skirts of your dress a huge plume behind you.

He was standing in front of the flower garden, hands behind his back. His hair was tied up in its usual high ponytail, intelligent eyes surveying the colors of flora in front of him. He was always so studious. It was something that you loved about him, that he could focus on one thing with such pinpoint concentration.

It made it easier for you to scare the pants out of him, after all.

His head turned at the sound of his name. Seeing you excitedly running towards him, his lips curled up in a smile. Ever the more energetic one between the two of you.

The day was bright and there was the most pleasant breeze. The palace was completely lit with sunlight, fluffy clouds passing by overhead in the forms of white cotton candy.

It was a place of modern, oriental elegance. Red columns lined the walkway, supporting the outside halls. The roofs were adorned with tiles curled at the edges, and lanterns hung at certain corners, emitting a peaceful atmosphere. Circular doorways, lined with the most gorgeous of polished woods, were shut closed with paper screen doors and concealed any signs of movement inside.

But at this time of day, you knew that the people of the palace were most likely in the Courtyard, the central area for citizens to gather after lunchtime.

And what you also knew was that Seokjin would be here instead, thinking.

He tilted his head towards you.

“I told you not to call me that,” he said with a sigh.

You just giggled, arm hooking around one of the red columns. You peeked out from behind it, sneaking a glance at him.

“You know you like it!”

Seokjin shook his head, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. You were never really a listener to begin with.

“You’re younger than me.”

“So?” you pouted. “I act more mature than you.”

Seokjin scoffed. “Says the girl hanging around a pillar, balanced on the very edge of the flower garden.”

The flower garden.

It was a huge pit that had been dug out, going down several feet almost like a pool. Rectangular in shape, it was filled to the brim with all sorts of various kinds of flowers and trees, and dotted with other features such as mini pools filled with koi. Bamboo shot up from behind these pools of water, leading into other less oriental, more European flowers: roses, bluebonnets. A symbol of Eastern and Western cultures coming together—if flowers could do it, than surely humans could do it, too.

You quickly retracted your foot from the edge of the pit. Seokjin was right—you couldn’t be falling left and right, injuring yourself. You already knew the punishment for that.

“It’s one of the last preserved pieces of true nature,” you said. “I just think it would be nice to be close to it once in awhile, okay?”

Seokjin sighed. Nodded. He glanced up at the sky—that is, the technologically programmed one. Fake clouds and fake sunlight. It was a barrier created to protect those inside the palace, to prevent the toxic air and radioactive water from entering.

But it was a barrier from the true world outside, too. And Seokjin—Seokjin knew this.

“Oh goodness gracious,” Seokjin huffed. You might have thought you were firmly planted on the sidewalk, but you still had half a heel hanging off the concrete. Quickly, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you away—far away—from the edge of the flower garden.

“Seokjinnie—”

“You need to learn to be more careful!” he admonished. “You’re going to get punished again if you injure yourself.”

“But—”

“There’s no buts about it.” Seokjin pulled you beside him and kept his grip firm so that you wouldn’t accidently trip and die. Lord knew, you could most certainly do that. “Royal court girls like you must not be bruised nor scarred—you must be beautiful. I won’t let you get hurt under my watch.”

You rolled your eyes. “How princely of you.”

Seokjin glanced down at you. You were pouting in the other direction—cute. Though he knew that it would tick you off, he still went ahead and chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” you snapped.

“I am a prince after all,” Seokjin said matter-of-factly. “I might as well put my lessons in chivalry to use.”

“Wow, I’m so honored.”

“You should be.”

If you had gum in your mouth, you would have snapped it.

The two of you didn’t say anything, for a second. The sound of water running in the pools below was the only thing you heard. It was peaceful, quiet.

It was also a time of meditation.

You noticed how Seokjin hadn’t taken his arm away from you, and your heart warmed. No matter what his teachers said, he would always take care of you.

He always had.

It was a rare moment when you thought of your past before you had come to the palace. You barely remembered the other kingdom from which you had left. All you knew was that it had been draped in lots of airy cloth, sheer chiffon fabrics and everything seemed to be so crystal clear. White. It was the exact opposite of the palace here—the scenery so bright, the columns a fiery red.

Seokjin rubbed your arm affectionately, another sigh leaving his lips. The two of you were getting older now. Things were bound to change soon—it wasn’t always going to be like when you were young. Back then, things were easier. Both of you would roughhouse with one another and scream and yell and the emperor would merely chortle with laughter.

These days, when he saw you two together, he scowled.

“Seokjinnie,” you said quietly.

“Hm?” He looked down at you.

You stared blankly at the flower garden. It was supposed to be a thought provoking place, but everything you thought of was dead, monotone.

“Do you think you’ll ever meet a princess that you like?”

Seokjin frowned, taken aback. You never asked questions like this. Where had the old you gone? The one who would force him to give you everything from piggyback rides to hugs—”I’m your princess, Seokjinnie! Serve me!”

Seokjin looked away, stiff and tense.

“You know I don’t want to marry.”

“But you’ll have to eventually, right? Or else the Others…” You gulped uncomfortably, nervously.

The threats from the Others had become alarmingly frequent recently. The Others—a people from another planet. You didn’t understand the whole situation as well as Seokjin did, but what you did know was that they wanted to marry the Earth and their planet together. They wanted the princes of Earth to marry the princesses of the Others’, to unite a whole solar system and create a whole entire new race of people. A new Kind, to be brought to a New World.

And if not…

You didn’t even want to think about it.

Seokjin turned you around to face him. You were so beautifully adorned today, in a pure white silk top and a full, red skirt. The handmaidens had done well—pulling your hair up into a glossy updo, beads and charms falling from the hairpin slotted into the strands.

The hairpin—it was something that Seokjin had given to you when he was young after his travels to another kingdom. It had been gifted to him from the king of another land. It was an absolute treasure, a mixture of rubies and moonstones glittering in the shape of flowers blooming in moonlight.

And Seokjin always thought you were exquisite when you wore it.

“You don’t need to worry about the Others,” Seokjin whispered in hushed tones. He was adamant, alarmed. “That is my problem. I am the prince here, not you.”

“But Seokjin, how can I not worry?” you nearly cried. You reached out to grip his belt, looped through pieces of beautifully carved jade. “What if you—”

Seokjin put a finger to your lips. Glancing around to make sure that nobody was listening, he spoke quietly.

“You know that I am training to master my Element, beautiful.”

The endearment never failed to make your heart race. You knew that he was only saying the word to calm you down, but you were constantly worrying yourself into a frenzy. What if the Others’ threats were one day not threats anymore, but a reality? What would happen to Seokjin? What was going to happen to everything that you knew?

Seokjin’s nimble fingers curled a loose strand of hair around your ear, the palm of his hand coming around to cup your cheek. His eyes, the deepest, warmest brown, showed nothing but concern for you.

“What are you so worried about, princess?”

Your hand went up your face to interlace with his fingers. “That I won’t be able to do anything to stop it. To help.”

“It is not a royal court girl’s place to do so.”

“I don’t care, Seokjin!” Your voice shook with the rage of the tears beginning to bubble in your eyes. “What will happen to my mother? What will happen to you?”

“Sh, sh, sh,” he hushed you, immediately wiping the saltwater from your cheeks. “Beautiful, beautiful. Listen to me.”

He brought you in close, pressing you against his chest. His arms were so strong, his hands so huge, practically swallowing you up.

His lips brushed against the crest of your ear.

“You know that I am a Peak Fire. And you are, too.”

Elements. Peaks.

Each human, according to their date of birth and their horoscope, always had an Element. Being a Sagittarius, just like Seokjin, meant that you were Fire Kind—a human with the potential to bend the Element to your will and use it for battle. And depending on what week a human was born in during the time of their horoscope defined how strong their Element could be: Low, Mid, or Peak.

Though several years apart, you and Seokjin’s birthdays fell on the same week: smack dab in the middle of Sagittarius’s time.

You were a Peak—just like Seokjin.

You knew that Seokjin was strong, probably much, much stronger than you made him out to be. But royal court girls were not allowed to train alongside the men unless a teacher deemed it to be so.

It was just unfortunate that all of Seokjin’s teachers did not favor you.

“I am not allowed to learn to train my Element,” you spat.

“I understand, and I know.” His hand rubbed the small of your back. “But you’re my little Sagittarius girl, aren’t you?”

Seokjin kissed the top of your head.

“You are my Peak Fire, and I will train you.”

Posting this real quickly bc I haven’t been able to write more recently :(

If you have any requests or ideas (I could really use some fresh ones!), feel free to send them over to our ask box!

xoxo Admin V

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El Chapo: Inside the Hunt for Mexico's Most Notorious Kingpin

New Post has been published on http://gossip.network/el-chapo-inside-the-hunt-for-mexicos-most-notorious-kingpin/

El Chapo: Inside the Hunt for Mexico's Most Notorious Kingpin

Illustration by Mike McQuade

Rush hour starts early on Heroin Highway, generally by 6 a.m. Hockey dads in sport-utes; high school teens in car pools; commodities brokers and pensioners making their early-morning runs into Chicago on I-290. The Eisenhower Expressway – the Ike, as locals call it – is a straight shot in from the western suburbs to the mob-deep blocks of West Chicago. So Gangster Disciples and Vice Lords are up with the sun to pitch their work to the early birds, hugging the corners under the Ike’s offramps to do much of their day’s business by 8 a.m. Since cheap, potent heroin flooded Chicago 10 years ago and addicted a bell-cow demographic – middle-class whites – those corners off the Ike have become bull markets for gangs strong enough to hold them down. “They serve you in your car, quick-out in under a minute, and you’re back home in Hinsdale before the kids wake,” says Jack Riley, the ex-special agent in charge of the Chicago office of the Drug Enforcement Administration. “That’s why gangsters kill for those corners. They’re the Park Place and Boardwalk of the drug game.”

Riley, the town’s most famous federal agent since the days of the Untouchables, put together a strike force that jailed the major kingpins and left the gangs rudderless and scrambling. “We knocked down the big guys – the suppliers and OGs – but the young ones started killing their way up. That’s what happens when you get your targets: The gangsters don’t know who they work for.” Actually, even before his strike force rolled up the leaders, no one here knew who they really worked for. Riley estimates that Mob City has 150,000 gangsters in residence – and though most are in endless wars with one another, they’ve all blindly served the same master for 10 years: Joaquín Guzmán Loera, better known as El Chapo. The king of all kings has likely never set foot here, though he made this city his American office, trucking heroin (and coke) from Mexico by the metric ton and taking billions of dollars out in small bills. Chicago has been a most congenial hub for Chapo. Centrally located and braided by interstates, it is a day’s drive, or less, from most of America – and from the Mexican border.

For 15 years, Chapo has been Riley’s white whale, the object of an obsession that teetered on derangement and sidelined everything else, including his family. “I love my wife and kid, but I was never home for dinner,” says Riley, who fought Chapo’s proxies in five different cities while rising through the chain of command at the DEA. Seven years ago, when he returned to Chicago for a third (and final) tour of duty, his charge was to quash Chapo’s deadliest gambit: a species of heroin spiked with fentanyl that killed seasoned addicts by the hundreds. Riley stormed in, knocked a bunch of heads together and brought everyone – the DEA, FBI, state troopers and Chicago PD – under one roof to chase the “choke-point guys”: brokers who were buying in bulk from Chapo and selling wholesale weight to the gangs.

By most measures, Operation Strike Force was a smash success; arrests and seizures soared, the local drug lords fell and the busts netted many millions in cash forfeitures, enough to pay the salaries of strike-force adjuncts. But by the only metric that mattered – the price of heroin on the street – Riley’s mission was a wash. “It was 50K a kilo when we started this, and 50K a kilo” three years later, he says.

For the past year and a half, El Chapo has been in solitary confinement in a Manhattan facility. He faces life without parole.

And so, in 2013, Riley summoned his stagecraft and pronounced Chapo public-enemy number one. At a press conference carried by hundreds of outlets, Riley and members of the Chicago Crime Commission proclaimed Chapo the greatest threat since Al Capone, a mass poisoner of the city and its suburbs. The fallout from Riley’s broadside surprised everyone, Riley included. “At most, I hoped they’d find some corrupt colonel to go after him down there,” says Riley. Instead, the Mexican government was barraged with phone calls from infuriated business leaders. “They screamed that Chapo was disgracing their country” and demanded his arrest, says Riley. Authorities in Mexico changed their tack, offering new levels of cooperation. That included a firm commitment to use SEMAR, Mexico’s tactical corps, to hunt down Chapo in the hills. Working hand in glove, the DEA and SEMAR closed the net on Chapo. A year after Riley’s announcement, they chased him to Mazatlán and arrested him, without resistance, in his hotel room. His escape from prison in 2015 merely prolonged the ending: He was busted by SEMAR (using DEA leads) five months after he’d fled. Thus fell the dragon: After a 30-year reign of murder and terror, Chapo was caught fleeing a sewer tunnel in a shit-stained tank top and chinos.

Last spring, I flew out to sit with Riley, who retired after Chapo’s arrest. At 59, he’d moved with his long-suffering wife, Monica, to a resort town whose name I can’t divulge. (For 10 years, Chapo has had a price on Riley’s head, a threat confirmed in recent interviews with captured traffickers.) A ruddy, white-haired bruiser who holds court from a bar stool, Riley seemed dispatched from the days of fedoras and cops lighting Luckies at crime scenes. Born and raised in Chicago, he joined the DEA out of college and moved his family 12 times as he climbed the ladder. By the time he had quit last fall, he was the nation’s number-two drug cop, having been at or near the center of nearly every major mission to catch foreign kingpins since the early Nineties. (It was his squad in Washington that built the intel platform to bring down Pablo Escobar in Medellín, Colombia; that helped catch the leaders of the Cali cartel and, later, the overlords in the Mexican mobs.) Riley recites their names, but they mean nothing to him now. Only Chapo endures, though he’s being held at the Manhattan Correctional Center, where he awaits his trial of the century in New York.

“Part of me understands it – he’s done, he’ll die in jail,” said Riley. “But the other part says, ‘No, he’s still out there.’ All those routes he opened, all that fentanyl he shipped – he’s gonna kill our kids for years to come. This monster he built, this Sinaloa thing: It’s too big to fail now, thanks to him.”

“Explain it to me,” says one retired DEA agent. “How did this mope become El Chapo?”

In the months we talked, either in person or on the phone, Riley spoke of Chapo in the present tense, as though he were still at large at his mountain retreat, running the world’s largest supplier of illicit drugs from a town without power or plumbing. Twice, Chapo had famously escaped maximum-security prisons, traveling Mexico in bulletproof cars to dine and frolic with call girls in seaside towns. Since 2001, when he launched a crusade to corner Mexico’s $30-billion-a-year drug trade, he’d been everywhere and nowhere, growing the parameters of his empire and leaving defiled corpses as deed of ownership. He waged war by atrocity in Juárez and Tijuana, bribed generals and governors to feed him intelligence, and sent his lieutenants to the DEA, ratting on both his enemies and his allies. “Other bosses you waited out ’cause they always make mistakes,” said Riley. “But this guy? Invisible. You couldn’t find him.”

He grunted and drained the last of his beer. We’d been at this bar for hours and hadn’t looked at menus; Riley flagged the bartender and ordered lunch. Since retiring, he had spent his time knocking tee shots into tree lines and starting early on the day’s first cold one. Maybe it was just his nervous system resetting, but six months after he left, he still mooned over Chapo, the enigma he never fully worked out: “He’s on top for 30 years, has billions of dollars hidden – and he’s a second-grade dropout who can barely read and write and has to dictate love letters in prison. So explain it to me, ’cause I don’t get it: How did this fucking mope become El Chapo?”

Jack Riley, former head of the DEA in Chicago, spent 15 years searching for Chapo.

If you wanted to create a nursery for narco princelings, you’d probably build your greenhouse in the mountains of Sinaloa, where the conditions for pathology are peak harvest. A dirt-poor ribbon of rivers and farmland on the southwest shank of Mexico’s coastline, Sinaloa was largely ignored by the central government from the moment it became a state, in 1830. Roads went unpaved, villages did without schools, and no self-respecting official would visit the plazas of those remote, no-horse towns in the Sierra Madre. And so the peasants, left to their own devices, developed a shadow economy. In the 1920s and Thirties, they ran booze to Tijuana, where Hollywood’s darlings blew in for the weekend to flee the dry torpor of Prohibition. Marijuana grew wild in the pastures; farmers trucked their bales five hours down the road to market in Badiraguato. In time, some harvested the poppy fields that Chinese tradesmen planted in the 1860s. Sons were taught by fathers how to bleed the bulbs for their vile-smelling opium gum. You couldn’t make a killing, but you could make a sort of living if your kids didn’t waste their days learning how to read.

That was Chapo’s boyhood, and the boyhood, by degrees, of most of Mexico’s drug lords of the past half-century. He grew up with, or close to, kids who became his partners and, eventually, his mortal foes: the Beltrán Leyva brothers, five cutthroat charmers who would one day be his enforcers and political fixers; the Arellano-Félix brothers, seven legendary sadists who roasted their victims alive in vacant fields. Even Chapo’s mentors were from Sinaloa, first-gen capos like Don Neto and El Padrino, who turned a backwoods sideline into a multinational machine that stretched from Cancún to San Diego. To this day, Sinaloa’s hills are to gangsters what western Pennsylvania is to frac pads and NFL quarterbacks.

“He came of age in the Eighties, when everyone got rich moving coke,” explains one former Mexican operative.

Chapo was one of seven kids born to Emilio, a rancher, and Maria, a devout Catholic, in La Tuna, population 200. The family raised cows and grew sustenance crops behind a two-room house with dirt floors. What money they laid their hands on was earned uphill, where Emilio tended his poppies and marijuana. Once a month, he took the yield to Badiraguato. There he’d be paid for his contraband, then drink and whore all weekend and go home broke. A mean little man, he beat Chapo and his brothers; Chapo fled, for good, in his early teens. He stayed at his grandma’s, grew his own weed and sent some of the proceeds home to feed his siblings.

Chapo (Spanish for “Shorty”) was a small, squat teen who burned to spit his nickname in people’s faces. He wore hats with tall crowns that lent him an inch or two, rocked on his tiptoes when talking to friends and later, as a boss, only posed for photos while standing on a custom-built stool. His will to power sprang from being the picked-on runt despised and driven off by his father. That’s not junk science; it’s the finding of the psychiatrist who assessed him as an adult in prison. While jailed for eight years in the 1990s, Chapo sat for therapy sessions. The psychiatrist filed a report on the man he treated. Chapo’s “tenacity” and “disproportionate ambition” were wound to a sense of inferiority. To compensate, he craved “power, success and [beautiful women],” orienting his “behavior toward their obtention.”

No farm was going to hold a kid like that, and at 15 or 16 (early details are murky) he won an introduction to the don of Badiraguato, Pedro Avilés Pérez. Avilés, the first of the air smugglers in Mexico, hired him to do odd jobs for his lieutenants. Chapo rode along on their runs to the U.S. border, soaking up knowledge of roads and checkpoints and befriending dispatchers and truckers. Though he couldn’t read or write, he had a head for numbers and a steel-trap memory for detail. Best of all, he didn’t have an ounce of mercy in him. Ordered to kill a man, he’d calmly walk up to him and put a bullet in his head.

Avilés’ lieutenants were a dream team of smugglers. After Avilés was killed in a shootout with cops, they moved the operation to Guadalajara and named it the Federation. Chapo learned logistics from Amado Carrillo Fuentes, an avid flier who bought a fleet of planes and was nicknamed “Lord of the Skies.” From Ismael Zambada, the silent assassin called El Mayo, Chapo learned to leverage violence just so, using only enough to send a message. And from Arturo Beltrán Leyva, he learned bribes were the grease that kept the wheels of power turning. “He was around smart guys and paid attention,” says Alejandro Hope, a former senior operative with CISEN, Mexico’s version of the CIA. “And his timing was perfect: He came of age in the Eighties, when everyone got rich moving coke.”

Chapo’s first big break was a quirk of history: the U.S. war on Colombia’s cartels. In the 1970s, when Escobar and his counterparts in the Cali mob swamped Miami with coke, they put themselves in the crosshairs of the DEA. “They got rich, then they got lazy – they talked on their phones, which was how we finally took them down,” says Riley. By the middle of the 1980s, U.S. Coast Guard cutters had sealed off the cartels’ sea lanes in the Caribbean. The Colombians had no choice but to transship over land, sending their coke through Mexico to America. This arrangement wasn’t new – they’d used Mexicans for years and paid them flat fees to serve as mules. But now all the leverage was with the Federation, and Chapo was the first to see it. “He said, ‘Screw you, Pablo, I’ve got the smuggling routes. From now on, pay me in coke,’ ” says Carl Pike, a former special agent in the Special Operations Division, an elite unit created by the DEA that brings together the resources of a couple of dozen agencies to attack the cartels from all sides. “The Colombians took Chapo’s terms because he was the best at what he did: getting their drugs off the plane and up to L.A. in 48 hours or less.”

“Chapo was creating a new kind of cartel,” says one expert.

Then a second piece of luck fell into Chapo’s lap. El Padrino, his cartel leader, ordered the kidnapping and killing of a DEA agent named Kiki Camarena. It was a blunder that brought the hammer of God down: a tenacious offensive by the Mexican army, at the behest of the U.S. government. Padrino was arrested and sentenced to 40 years, handing off his kingdom to his capos. In 1989, Chapo’s peer group divvied up the country: Amado Carrillo Fuentes took the routes through Juárez; the Arellano-Félixes got Tijuana and the coast, and Chapo took the run straight north to Arizona, sharing Sonora with El Mayo and the Beltrán Leyvas. He had recently turned 30 and was still wrapping his head around the burdens of excessive wealth. But he was already investing in creative fronts: “He bought a fleet of jets for ‘executive travel,’ and a grocery business to can cases of peppers that actually contained cocaine,” says professor Bruce Bagley of the University of Miami, a cartel expert who’s written six books on the narco-economy. “He was so sure of his supply lines that he guaranteed shipment. If any of his loads got seized by the cops, he paid the Colombians in full.”

Chapo learned to use just enough violence from the assassin Ismael Zambada.

While the other capos got drunk on plunder, building villas with waterfalls and private zoos, Chapo lived like a handyman, sequestering himself on a dusty ranch 20 miles clear of Culiacán. (He was by then twice married, with at least seven kids; he’d go on to have 11 more by five women.) But it was his vision that firmly set him apart. “Chapo was creating the new cartel, a decentralized, hub-and-spoke model,” says Bagley. “He saw what was happening to the top-down version: If you chopped the head of the snake off – Pablo being an example – the rest of his operation fell apart.” Chapo formed alliances with local gangs and cut them in on his profits. He planted cells in new cities and left his staff alone to run them, and happily shared power with his closest partners, El Mayo and El Azul, a former cop. They were men like him: discreet and coolheaded, occupied only by business. The other lords’ loud lifestyles were an affront to them. The only fit response was to take their routes from them – and Chapo knew whose turf to grab first.

The other capos got drunk on plunder – Chapo lived like a handyman on a dusty ranch.

There are roughly two kinds of agents who go to work at the DEA. The Type A’s – Jack Riley, for one – are moral avengers who wage their war on drugs in a fissile rage. Then there’s the second type: the behind-the-scenes mechanic who patiently builds a case for weeks or months, and goes home to his wife and kids at a decent hour.

Miguel Q. is a Type-B plugger who chased Chapo almost as long as Riley did. (Still on the job, he asked that I change his name; active agents risk their safety going public.) He’s done multiple missions, on war-zone footing, in cities south of the border. He was on the scene for Chapo’s arrest in 2014 – and his escape from prison a year later. “Most ridiculous engineering I ever saw,” he says of the trench dug under Chapo’s cell from a half-built house a mile away. “I mean, a dead-plumb line” from end to end, and “a hole just big enough for him to ride that cycle” and be out and on a plane back to the hills. “Who even thinks that, let alone does it?”

Well, Miguel, for one: He’d seen it up close as a young agent in the early Nineties. At the time, he was focused on truckloads of coke coming through major checkpoints out west. “It was Arellano-Félix dope, or so we thought,” Miguel says – the cartel owned these particular checkpoints. Then his team started hearing chatter about a tunnel underneath the fence. A tip led them to a warehouse on the Mexican side, where miners were digging a quarter-mile tube, with rail cars, strong rooms and ventilation piping. It was a stroke of audacity and technical smarts far beyond the prowess of the Arellano-Félix Organization, who were brutal cocaine cowboys with a penchant for boiling rivals in acid and pouring their remains down a drain. “We’re like, ‘Who is this guy, and how many tunnels has he got?’ ” says Miguel. Hundreds more have been discovered in the decades since.

Chapo while he was incarcerated in Juarez, Mezico, in July 1993. Gerardo Magallon/Getty

What vexed Miguel wasn’t that he knew so little of Chapo; it was that no one in Mexico seemed to know him either. Since co-founding the Sinaloa cartel in 1989, Chapo had run it, yet there wasn’t a single recent photo of him on file. It wasn’t till his arrest, in June 1993, that the public got a glimpse of him. He’d been caught in Guatemala after fleeing the country in connection with a gunfight at an airport. The shootout had left several bystanders dead, including Juan Jesús Posadas, the cardinal of Guadalajara. Posadas’ murder was an inflection point: the day that Mexico was forced to come to terms with the narco-state growing under its feet.

Chapo was convicted in a closed-door trial and given 20 years, hard time, for narco-trafficking. He treated this as a senseless inconvenience. At Puente Grande, a supermax facility 50 miles west of Guadalajara, he bought off everyone from wardens to washerwomen and settled down to do his business. He received his lieutenants in a sumptuous parlor and sent them away with detailed orders on where to ship his tonnage. He brainstormed markets with his older brothers, whom he’d deputized to manage his affairs. They were easy enough to reach; he had cellphones smuggled in. He was partial to BlackBerry, a Canadian company whose hardware was hellish to crack, says Pike.

But Chapo wasn’t all work. He paid guards to round up hookers in town for orgies he threw in the mess hall. He kept up his spirits with fiestas and concerts: Chapo loved to dance with pretty chicas. The first feminist drug lord, he ordered the prison’s integration with a select group of female convicts; one of them, Zulema Hernández, became his muse and in-house lover. He sent her schoolboy mash notes in hothouse prose that he dictated to his steno, a fellow convict. All the while, he juggled conjugal visits from his girlfriends, wife and ex-wife. The wear and tear of a multivalent love life took its toll on Chapo. Cocaine had previously been his drug of choice, but in jail he renounced it for Viagra. His people brought it in big batches, along with steak, lobster, booze and tacos – Chapo’s weakness, besides women, was food. Eventually, the overindulgence levied its toll: At the time of his rearrest, in 2014, he’d been scheduled to meet with a specialist – “the penis-pump doctor to the stars,” says Riley. “The vitamin V didn’t cut it anymore.”

“We knew he was moving tons while he was still in jail, ” says one agent. “Turned out he had hired the warden”

In the end, though, he mostly used his time in jail to learn from the errors of other bosses. “Rule one: Don’t talk on phones or send texts,” says Miguel, who walks me through Chapo’s communications methods. A densely complex system of encrypted squibs and Wi-Fi pings between lieutenants, it was built around a network of offshore servers that bounced the posts off mirrors in other countries. “We found 60 iPhones and hundreds of SIM cards when we raided his house in Guadalajara – and still we couldn’t track where his calls came from,” says Miguel. Chapo hired experts to constantly revise his tactics, and always made sure to toss his phones after a couple of days of use. He was an early adopter of social media, deploying hackers to mask his instructions to staffers on Snapchat and Insta-gram. “After years of trying to track him, we moved on in 2012 and got up on his tier-two guys – the bodyguards and cooks,” says Miguel. Still, it took two years to divine his “pattern of life” – the small corps of people who served Chapo closely and could point to his general location.

Rule number two: Be a nimble supplier. He fitted tractor-trailers with elaborate traps – fake walls and subfloors that hid hundreds of kilos of product (and millions in shrink-wrapped cash on the trip back). He bought jumbo jets and filled them with “humanitarian” goods for drops in Latin America, then flew the planes back, bearing tons of cocaine, to bribed baggage handlers in Guadalajara. There were fishing vessels and go-fast boats and small submarines that could lurk underwater till the Coast Guard passed above. “We knew he was moving tons while he was still in jail, but we didn’t find out how till later on,” says Miguel. “Turned out he had literally hired the warden” to work as his logistics guy. That warden, Dámaso López, would vanish from sight shortly before Chapo escaped. Over the next 15 years, López rose through the cartel ranks, overseeing much of the daily churn while el jefe traveled the country dodging cops. Though Chapo trusted no one but family members and the men he came up with in Sinaloa, he made two exceptions to that rule. The first one was for López; the second, a pair of brothers who became his distributors in the States. In both cases, he’d have cause to deeply regret it.

Chapo used an intricate network of tunnels to ship drugs to the U.S. Mexico Police

Given his honeycomb of routes and the tonnage he pushed through, there wasn’t much point in warring for turf. But something happened to Chapo during those eight years in prison, some fundamental shift in his sense of self. Once happy being the wizard behind the curtain, he now seemed intent on announcing to the world who the real boss had been all along. “He broke out of Puente Grande with an S on his chest, thinking, ‘I’m the baddest motherfucker on the planet,’ ” says Dave Lorino, a retired DEA cop who helped mastermind the case against Chapo in Chicago. “He’d learned he could buy anyone, get out of any jail – and there was nothing that us gringos could do about it.” “Prison made him hard, at least in his own mind, and all the other bosses were soft,” says Riley. “He thought, ‘Why should I settle for a chunk of the pie when I can have the whole thing?’ ”

After escaping Puente Grande in 2001, either crouched in a laundry cart or strolling out the door – “official” versions vary; none are confirmed – Chapo lost no time planting his flag. He paid Tejano pop bands to spread the news, crafting narcocorrida ditties that sang his praises and warned rival capos to leave town. Stories began running in the Mexican papers about Chapo’s generosity to the poor. “He was building roads here and sewage plants there and schools in the pueblos and all that crap,” says Riley. “But the hell of it is, we never found those schools – and if he ever built a road, it was for his trucks.” The thesis of these ploys was always the same: Chapo was the great exception. He was the honorable capo who would swell peasants’ hearts with his derring-do defiance of los Yanquis. “Please,” says Riley. “This is a guy who chops heads off and leaves ’em in coolers.”

In 2002, Chapo launched a war on the Gulf Cartel; he sent his death squad, Los Negros, into Nuevo Laredo to bang it out in the streets. The Gulf returned fire with its own band of crazies, a U.S.-trained group of army deserters who called themselves the Zetas. The Zetas were (and are) a special slice of hell, terrorists who happen to deal drugs for a living and are as happy killing citizens as narcos. To defeat them, Chapo upped his cruelty quotient. His assassins stormed a nightclub and rolled severed heads across the dance floor. Body parts were stuffed in the mouths of dead Zetas as dumb-show warnings to his foes: “A hand in the mouth meant you’d stolen from him; a foot meant you’d jumped to the other team,” says Riley.

By 2006, Chapo’s violence was general in Mexico. He pushed his fight with the Zetas into Juárez, where the gutters ran red for years. Tens of thousands of people were slaughtered in Murder City, as Juárez came to be known. Riley was the agent in charge of El Paso, Texas, when the worst of the carnage erupted. “We’d intercept calls from the other side of the fence” – Chapo’s hit squads checking in with their bosses. “They’d say, ‘We took care of that thing on Calle so-and-so; what else you got for us tonight?’ ”

The violence of the Sinaloa spreads into the streets, like this shooting in August 2009. Reuters

Being two miles from bedlam – with no jurisdiction – drove Riley to desperate measures. He broke with protocol and phoned the local papers, calling Chapo a “coward” and a “butcher.” Chapo took the bait: He put a hit out on Riley. One night, Riley was at a gas station refueling when two men in a pickup pulled in. They got out of the truck and came at him in the dark. He drew his pistol first. They turned and fled. “Maybe that was a warning: ‘Back off and shut up,’ ” he says. “I hope he knew better than to have me whacked. He’d seen what happens when you shoot DEA.”

History bears this out: Chapo has never killed a fed or declared war on the U.S. government. But it’s clear now that he entertained the option. According to multiple witnesses who’ll testify at trial, Chapo went looking for heavy ordnance in 2008 to attack the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. He was furious at extraditions of cartel leaders, who were getting long sentences in U.S. courts and dispatched to spend their days in federal pens. Many of them were sent to Supermax, a facility in Colorado where inmates live in near-total isolation. It was one thing to do time at Puente Grande, where a man of Chapo’s means could live like a pimp while waiting for his crew to dig him out. It was another to go to Supermax, where anyone wishing to pay him a call would be subject to extreme vetting by U.S. Marshals.

In 2007, Chapo tipped the DEA off to a coke shipment coming from a man he’d grown up with. “Chapo was basically saying, ‘No more friends,’ ” says one agent.

Still, that Chapo would consider buying a bomb suggests that he’d lost his bearings. In 2007, Miguel was stationed in Guadalajara when he got a hot tip from Chapo’s camp. A ship from Colombia was bound for Manzanillo with an enormous cache of coke onboard. Of even greater interest was the name of the cocaine’s owner: Arturo Beltrán Leyva, or ABL. Chapo and ABL had been like brothers since their teens in Badiraguato. They’d made each other rich with their complementary gifts: Chapo the genius at blazing new routes – ABL the master of pervasive bribes. To be sure, there’d been tensions building between them – but what made Sinaloa the world’s biggest drug gang was its settling of internal disputes. Its bosses had stuck together while Chapo was away, then welcomed him back, without a squawk, when he returned to his seat of power in 2001.

“For Chapo to reach out about ABL’s dope – yeah, I was shocked,” says Miguel. “All those years together and all the money they made? Chapo was basically saying, ‘No more friends.’ ” One morning in the fall of 2007, Miguel and 120 heavily armed troops descended on the freighter. Unsealing the shipping pods, they found double what was promised, almost 25 tons of cocaine. Gathered end to end, it ran four basketball courts in length. Street value: $2 billion. “When we loaded it out to burn on the Army base, it was the biggest fire you ever saw,” says Miguel. “And I had to stick around for every minute, make sure no kilos went out the door.” With the exception of El Mayo, Chapo had burned all his bridges; he was now, like Macbeth, so steeped in blood that there was no going back, only forward.

Authorities distributed this photo of Chapo in 2011, when he was on the run from authorities. Reuters

Somewhere in America, in the witness-security wing of an undisclosed federal prison, sit the two men whose testimony will seal Chapo’s fate. Margarito and Pedro Flores, identical twins in their thirties, are two of the least fearsome thugs on the planet, nerds who somehow noodled their way to the center of Chapo’s circle. “They’re, like, five-foot-five and a buck-40,” says Lorino, who spent months debriefing them when they surrendered, in 2008. “I laugh when I read that they’re Latin Kings. Real Kings would eat ’em for lunch and still be hungry.”

In 2005, while launching his quest to monopolize Mexico’s drug trade, Chapo was told about a pair of Chicago natives with the best broker network in the country. For years, the Flores brothers had been buying in bulk from one of Chapo’s lieutenants near the border. They were smart and street-avoidant, faithfully paid on time and looked like they worked at a Wendy’s in La Villita, the barrio on Chicago’s West Side. Chapo was intrigued. Set a meeting, he told his guy. The twins were brought to Mexico for the rarest of honors: a face-to-face with Chapo at his compound.

Chapo was impressed when he sat with them: They were all about business, not bravado. He and his principal partners, El Mayo and ABL, came to an agreement on a deal. They would front as much dope as the twins could handle and give them a break on the price. They would also allow them to buy on terms instead of cash on delivery for each load. For the twins, it was like cashing a Powerball ticket. In the summer of 2005, they swamped Chicago with Chapo’s H. Almost immediately, the city’s hospitals were packed with ODs: Newbies and junkies abruptly stopped breathing after snorting or spiking the product. The Chicago DEA went to wartime footing, scrambling to interdict the lethal batch that would kill a thousand people in less than a year. Agents traced the dope to a lab near Mexico City. “Chapo had brought in chemists to make it extra-super-duper,” says Riley. How? By adding fentanyl, a synthetic narcotic that looks (and cooks) like heroin. “It’s 30 to 50 times stronger than heroin, and you can’t tell which from which when you cut ’em up.” In May 2006, authorities raided the lab and arrested five employees. One of them had been busted in California for manufacturing fentanyl.

But Chapo shrugged off the takedown. He had a vise grip on Chicago – and Milwaukee, Detroit, Cincinnati, Columbus, Ohio, and cities farther east that the twins supplied. From 2005 to 2008, they moved $2 billion of Sinaloa’s product. The arrangement worked smashingly for the cartel. It was supplying half the coke and heroin in America, according to reports by the Justice Department. It had partners in West Coast cities, was moving heavily into Europe and planting new cells in South America. With cash pouring in from every port, it was paying hundreds of millions a year in bribes to Mexican officials, and getting white-glove service in return. Attempts by the DEA to catch Chapo and his partners were subverted time and again by intel leaks. “Outside of SEMAR, there was no one we could trust,” says a frustrated DEA hand. “We’d feed them information and our informant would turn up dead.” Often, Chapo would saunter away minutes before a raid, as if to thumb his nose at the pinche gringos.

He’d become, in short, the man he dreamed up as a pudgy teen in La Tuna. No one could touch him, and everyone feared him. He even had the requisite beauty-queen wife: In the summer of 2007, he married Emma Coronel, Miss Coffee and Guava. Their wedding was virtually an affair of state. Drug lords and ladies flocked to the event, dancing to Tejano combos playing songs of praise for the groom. For added amusement, the Mexican army swooped down to finally corner Chapo. This time, he didn’t even make it exciting. He skipped out a full day early, having fed the generals a phony wedding date.

Chapo trusted the Flores twins (Margarito, left, and Pedro) from Chicago, but he would come to regret it. U.S. Marshals Service

In May 2008, Chapo called the Flores twins to a summit at his compound in La Tuna. Pedro couldn’t make it, but Margarito went, taking the five-hour car ride up the mountain. He’d done this once before, but something was different this time: As he glanced out the window, he saw bodies chained to trees, their flesh being eaten by coyotes. He’d been in the game long enough to know what that meant – there was a tree along that road reserved for him.

At the meeting in La Tuna, Flores was given an ultimatum: Stop buying ABL’s dope now, or else. “Chapo told him to pick a team – and he only warned people once,” says Lorino, the retired DEA agent. “He liked the twins personally – they’d made him a lot of money,” but he was prepared to kill them and forfeit billions to settle his accounts with the Beltrán Leyvas. This put the Flores twins in a desperate fix: Soon after, ABL called and told them not to buy from Chapo. Caught between two killers, the twins weighed out the options, then phoned their lawyer in Chicago. Reach out to the DEA, they told him – “We’ll give them Chapo and ABL if they protect us.”

In June 2008, DEA agents flew to Mexico to sit with the Flores twins. “We needed a lot of convincing; we’d been promised Chapo before,” says Lorino, who was at the meeting. “But the twins, man, they had the bona fides.” There were stacks and stacks of logbooks listing every drug shipment, four dozen cellphones with texts and voicemails saved from Chapo’s lieutenants, and flowcharts of brokers back in the States who were buying hundreds of kilos apiece. It was one of the greatest caches of court-admissible evidence in the history of the War on Drugs, but the DEA wanted more: It wanted Chapo himself on tape. In exchange for reduced sentences in a witness-protection wing, the twins agreed to stay in Mexico for several months and record their every phone call with the cartel. They also promised to tip the DEA to each major shipment going north. Lorino returned to Chicago and assembled a team of agents to obtain warrants, tap phones and stage raids. Then he sat and waited, holding his breath.

“In two weeks, we got the first call,” says Lorino: a quarter-ton of coke in a produce truck. He alerted state troopers, who pulled over the semi a half-hour south of Chicago. Major takedowns followed for the next four months. Stash houses, count houses, tractor-trailer loads – three tons of cocaine and heroin were seized, $22 million in cash was recovered, and 68 people were arrested in Chicago, many of them brokers and gang chiefs. By November, the feds had their sweepstakes ticket: two crystal-clear audio recordings of Chapo and Pedro Flores discussing a 20-kilo order of heroin on the telephone. “I was putting my daughter to bed when my cellphone rang: ‘Dave, we got the big guy on tape,’ ” says Lorino. “I said, ‘Dude, if you’re fucking with me, I’ll end your career.’ But he said, ‘Nope, it’s over. We got him cold.’ ”

Marines of the Mexican Navy took Chapo into custody. David De La Paz/Redux

In the following years, Mexican soldiers and marines killed or caught dozens of the 37 tier-one drug lords on the country’s kingpin list. Chapo was the 33rd to be nailed. He was first busted in February 2014 in Mazatlán. But the following summer, he was gone again, vanishing down the wormhole below his cell. Riley, who’d left Chicago for Washington, D.C., to take the number-two job at the DEA, let himself seethe for 10 minutes. Then he made calls to Mexican officials, demanding they dedicate a SEMAR unit to a third, and final, arrest. SEMAR is the unicorn of Mexican law enforcement: a bribe-proof corps of tactical fighters trained by U.S. soldiers in Colorado. Small in relative numbers (there are just 16,000 marines), they rarely stay in one place long, racing from fire to fire. But the government, mortified by Chapo’s escape, agreed to Riley’s terms. It dispatched 100 marines to track down Chapo, using leads from the special-ops group in D.C.

“We went back to what we knew – get up on his people,” says Riley, meaning the cooks and drivers who serve him. Pings from their phones suggested Chapo was in the hills, moving nightly between a cluster of farms in and around La Tuna. SEMAR rallied for an all-out raid, then got orders from the top to stand down. “I was furious,” says Riley. “What’s the fuck-up this time?” He learned after the fact that the actor Sean Penn, on assignment from Rolling Stone, had gone up the mountain to see Chapo. SEMAR was instructed to wait till Penn and his associates left, then go in hot and heavy. This it certainly did, storming La Tuna in a shoot-’em-up, weeklong siege. Eight people perished, none of them Chapo. Reportedly, a SEMAR marksman had him in his sights as he ran from one of his ranches. But Chapo was carrying a small child, and the marine declined to fire. Chapo slipped into the bush and disappeared.

When Chapo was caught, one agent couldn’t believe it. “I wanted pictures of that prick in cuffs,” he says.

For weeks, he and his henchmen went zero-dark silent: No calls or BlackBerry messages hit the wire. Then someone saw Ivan, Chapo’s son and security chief, scouting neighborhoods in salty Los Mochis. A sweatbox of a city on the Sinaloan coast, it had everything Chapo lacked while he hid out in the hills: fiery taquerias, underage hookers and an easy in-and-out by land and sea. SEMAR sent spies in civilian clothes to check out the report. They fixed on a bloc of condos getting aggressive renovations – loads of steel and concrete were arriving daily. For weeks, the spies lunched at a corner bodega and heard chatter among the workmen that “Grandpa” was coming. Late one January night, sitting vigil across the street, they saw a white van leave the complex. There were three men inside it; one of them looked like Chapo. “They were going out for burritos and porn – who else would need both at that hour?” says Riley.

Before dawn on the morning of January 8th, marines stormed the condo. Inside was a maze of reinforced doors designed to blunt and confuse them. By the time they crashed the right one and killed Chapo’s gunmen, he’d bolted down an escape hatch under a closet. Accompanied by El Condor, his lieutenant and chief assassin, he slogged through thigh-deep water in the sewers. Emerging a mile later, he was barefoot and filthy; none of his men were there to scoop him up. Chapo jacked a car, ordered its occupants out at gunpoint, then raced through town, heading south. He made it a couple of miles before police cut him off; the prolific killer went meekly. For the third and last time, he’d surrendered without a shot after his men fought and died to protect him.

Riley was at a ceremony in Quantico, Virginia, presenting badges to a class of new agents. His cellphone, on vibrate, kept growling in his pocket; it all but killed him not to answer for an hour. When at last he ducked out, he got the word from his team: Chapo was being held by the cops. “I refused to believe it till they sent me proof. I wanted pictures of that prick in cuffs.” An hour or so later, a photo came through: Chapo sitting disheveled, in a dirty wife-beater, his hands bound tightly behind him.

Riley informed his chief, thanked his counterparts at SEMAR, then rounded up the boys to celebrate. They all piled out to a bar in Crystal City – a dozen senior DEA agents roared like pledges at the final keg party of rush week. News of Chapo’s capture flashed across the television. From then on, none of them could pay for drinks; fellow patrons bought toast after toast. “We were badly overserved,” Riley recalls, still basking in the glow of that night. Alas, he was so excited that he did it again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Finally, his wife said enough. “Chapo never managed to kill you,” she said. “But keep this up and you sure will.”

A year and a half later, Chapo sits in his cell, quietly losing his mind in solitary. He is denied human contact, except with his lawyers; his wife and kids are barred from seeing him. One hour each weekday, he leaves his cage for a slightly bigger enclosure. There, he can either ride an exercise bike or watch a nature program; the TV isn’t viewable from the bike. His hair is falling out and his “mental health” declining: He suffers “auditory hallucinations,” per his lawyers. “We run a real risk of him going crazy,” says Michael Schneider, a senior public defender on Chapo’s team.

In early 2017, Chapo was extradited to the U.S. on multiple charges under the kingpin statute. AP

Chapo faces 17 counts in Brooklyn’s federal district, including charges of narco-trafficking. A conviction for narco-trafficking would get him life without parole under federal kingpin sanctions. In no known universe does he stand to beat those charges. Among dozens of witnesses on the government’s list are fellow narcos who’ve pleaded out for shorter terms. The most crucial, of course, are the Flores twins, whose encyclopedic records are damning to the point of overkill. “His lawyers can attack them till the cows come home – there’s nothing they can do about those tapes,” says a U.S. attorney. Adds Riley, with a sprig of Gaelic glee, “How great that the rap he can’t get out of is for 20 lousy keys of smack. He wipes out Chicago and kills tens of thousands of people – and his smallest deal is the one that does him in.”

Then there are the indictments in five other cities, though no one thinks those trials will happen. The likeliest outcome, say those close to the case, is that Chapo pleads guilty to an omnibus proffer that settles all counts, Brooklyn’s included. Says the U.S. attorney, “He can’t win at trial, but he has assets he could trade” for better conditions in prison. It’s presumed that Chapo’s hiding billions of dollars in cash and business holdings. If the feds want that money, they will need his help to find and claw it back. A second bargaining chip is his years-long log of bribes paid to Mexican officials. Under the Obama administration, that log would be worthless – but in the age of Trump, it’s priceless. Vicente Fox, the ex-president who compared Trump to Hitler, has long been accused of taking money from Chapo in exchange for going easy on Sinaloa. President Enrique Peña-Nieto, who vowed never to fund Trump’s wall, lost close colleagues to bribery charges after Chapo fled in 2015. If Chapo has any proof that he paid those people, he’ll be holding a set of aces when the dealing starts.

Finally, there’s the question of his legacy. For years, experts thought that the syndicate he built would stand long after he fell. “If you kill the CEO of General Motors, General Motors will not go out of business,” said a Mexican official to The New Yorker. But 20 months after Chapo’s final arrest, his monolith is falling apart. His sons – the “Chapitos” – are at war with Dámaso López, the ex-prison warden who helped Chapo flee and became his key lieutenant for 15 years. In February, López lured the sons to a narco summit in Sinaloa. Gunmen broke in and tried to kill the Chapitos, who fled, on foot, into the brush. “This was weeks after Chapo was extradited – the war to replace him was on,” says Alejandro Hope, the ex-intelligence officer for the Mexican CIA. It was a bold betrayal and a sign of the chaos to come.

Ten years ago, five cartels ran Mexico. Now there are 80 splinter sets, all of them vicious and unstable. Beheadings are banal, civilians are being slaughtered and the government hasn’t the faintest clue how to stem the havoc. Mad as it sounds, we may mourn the passing of Chapo. He was the Assad of cartel bosses, but he kept the carnage bottled, stopping at his side of the fence. What replaces him – chaos – respects no borders. We could wake one day and find we’re next door to Aleppo, with flames overleaping our beautiful wall.

Watch our exclusive interview with El Chapo from 2016.

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