#i tested him on two ruin guards and then had to run a domain three times before noticing anything | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scurvgirl · 6 years

Text

Meanwhile, Part Two

I am very excited about this one!!!

Fairy Tale AU

1, 2, 3, 4

Meanwhile, Part 1

Worldbuilding

Dirthamen and Falon’din belong to @feynites

Selene belongs to @selenelavellan

I really hope I did them justice.

Six Years Ago

For the past several centuries, Dirthamen has been researching the patterns involved in the magic of their world. The most common analogy for how magic operates is to picture lakes, streams, oceans, and deserts. It says that magic is like the water and some places have more than others. It is overly simplistic, and it supposes that magic has always been the way it is, and that the current flow is natural. Dirthamen hypothesizes that this is not the case.

Recently he has begun to think that the way magic is more concentrated in some areas is not necessarily due to flow but to magical gravitation, so to speak. Some of his data suggests that certain locations act as siphons for magic, pulling it in and filling the surrounding area with magic. But this pull renders some area bereft of magic.

So far, it is simply a hypothesis with a limited sample of observations. Mt. Garvunesh, a volcano two day’s ride south of Dirthirasan, is one of these observed places. It appears to be a natural siphon of magic, though a small one. The soil surrounding the volcano is rich for farming, but it also contains magical properties that many of the alchemists in his territory like to use.

The researching tower northeast of the city is another such siphon, though artificial. It houses some the best of the empire’s magical researchers as well as some of the greatest scientific minds. Through the study of gravity, they have come to this hypothesis. What this means is that there is a way, theoretically, to follow the magical gravitational pulls to where other siphons exist. And from there…they could dismantle them or use the, depending.

They have successfully triangulated the locations of three smaller siphons to the east, but there is a draw to the west that has been drawing Dirthamen’s attention. After a year of research, they believe they finally have the location for the draw – deep into the western forest, by the mountains. From the calculations, his cartographers predict that the siphon is located north of the safe path through the forest.

Curious, Dirthamen joins the expedition. There are cartographers, scouts, guards, and magical experts attending. All of whom are familiar with Dirthamen himself – it makes the journey that much less draining. It also allows him to feel his excitement more freely. There are several projects he would like to investigate if only he had the access to the amount of magic required, and if the predictions are correct, the results could be amazing.

First, they must find the siphon.

It takes several days to get deep enough into the forest. The magical experts and cartographers work together to chart their path while Dirthamen assists on some of the more esoteric calculations. On the fourth day, they decide to make camp early to prepare for approaching the siphon the next day.

Dirthamen can feel the magic in the air, a prickle to his skin that is strangely calming. It is familiar and it makes his body feel…strange. Malleable, as if he could change the very skin he is in.

He cannot sleep, the energy around him, in him, is too great. He lies in his tent, staring at the canvas when he feels it. Warm magic suffuses the air, drawing him out of his tent to find the entire camp surrounded by an ambient purple hued magic. The guards are asleep, purple air surrounding them, held in what appears to be a magical vice.

Fear spikes in him and he quickly rounds on all of his people, to find them all magically imprisoned. He casts a few spells, trying to test the barriers. They hold, undisturbed by any of his attempts to break them.

This…should have been predicted. Others would be drawn to the siphon, just as they were. He swallows and tries not to panic.

He…can leave, find help. Yes, get help, reinforcements to solve whatever prison his people are in.

Dirthamen goes to mount his horse to find that it too is imprisoned in the purple haze. He moves swiftly the way they came to run face first into a barrier. He snaps back, knocked to the ground as a flash of burning pain radiates from his fingers up his arms to his shoulders.

He is trapped.

Dirthamen has never considered himself to be claustrophobic, but the idea of being trapped here indefinitely is nothing short of terrifying. He staggers to his feet and tries opening a passage through the barrier. He pours as much magic he can into the spells to no avail. It is likely that whoever is doing this is using the power in the siphon. If he could just get to it, maybe he could counteract this spell.

The barrier ripples and a path appears, lined with purple, a straight line heading north – towards the siphon.

He is not naïve, this is a trap, he knows it. But…failing all other options, it is his only option. He steps cautiously down the path, following it into the dark, careful to not touch the barriers. Under different circumstances, he would like to study them, but the appeal is lost when it is being used to trap him.

He follows the path for over two hours before he sees it – a great tower rising from the forest floor. The moon hangs high in the sky, illuminating the tower. Light bounces off the walls, refracting in a way that makes it almost imperceptible, but it is there, shrouded in magic and clearly the siphon that had drawn them to the forest.

More of the purple magic wraps around the tower, thicker and brighter. Tentatively, Dirthamen reaches out with his own magic, wrapping it around the magic imbued in the tower. To his surprise, the magic within the tower is different from the purple magic trapping and guiding him.

Shadows move and flicker and he turns around, trying to find the source of the movement. He is turned around, scanning the dark when the air shifts and he feels it. Or rather, her.

The woman is tall and dark except for the brilliant white of her hair. The purple magic responds to her, curling towards her as if it wants to touch her.

Under other circumstances, he would find her very beautiful.

Dirthamen swallows and cloaks himself in his own magic, shielding himself from whatever she may assault him with.

But she does not lunge towards him, and the magic keeps its distance.

“Why have you come here?” She asks, voice echoing.

“I-I,” he stutters. He takes a deep breath and tries again.

“I am investigating the magical gravitational pulls in this world and this tower appears to be a siphon that is pulling in a significant amount of magic.”

There is a long pause.

“You are Elvhen,” she states.

“Yes.”

“Your kind are not welcome in this forest.” She is referring to the beast slaying. The forests, this one as well as the smaller forests to the east, north, and south, are all popular hunting grounds for his sister and brother. They like to bring back trophies, heads of nymphs, wyverns, witches, and abominations are all common decorative items.

“I am not hunting,” he says. She stalks forward then stops shy of him being able to see her face.

“You are speaking the truth,” he thinks she sounds surprised by that.

“Are you not elven?” He asks.

“Do I seem elven to you?” Is her only reply. No, she does not. He has never seen magic cling to an elven person like it clings to her. He wonders if she is even using the siphon’s abilities.

“You seem powerful.”

“You’re an observant one,” she takes a step forward and straightens her back, “you are to leave the forest and never come back.”

He blinks, “And what happens if I do not leave, or I do come back?”

“I will be forced to kill you,” she says without hesitation.

“It is not that simple. The cartographers and researchers will not understand why we cannot continue.”

“Are you not their leader? I have watched you for the last few days, you gave the orders. Tell them that you must leave and cannot come back. Find another…siphon to study.”

The amount of adjustments to account for this siphon’s activity to find another siphon would be…significant. Not to mention difficult.

“We do not wish to disturb you or the siphon, only to study it.”

“Is that what you told the dragons?” She snaps and he grows quiet. It is not what was told to the dragons, but he can see the similarity.

“I was not responsible for that decision.” It is the truth, he had no part in deciding that the empire should go to war with the dragons. He was away, absorbed by his research while his brother, father, and sister pushed Mother into starting the war.

Four dragons who had been previously friendly with the empire had ben brought to Arlathan under the guise of a diplomatic mission. Only one made it out alive.

“Have you questioned the decision? Have you railed against your people for senselessly attacking u-them.” He catches the near slip and a wariness fills him. She…fits within the draconic category. Extraordinary magical abilities, guarding and possessive of a location, beautiful. Just because she wears the skin of an elf does not mean it is her true form.

It would certainly explain some things about her. Why she is impassioned so about his involvement with the Dragon War and the magic that clings to and exudes from her. He does not have so much as a blade on him. He was never the fighter in his family, he researched magical properties and hidden knowledge. Falon’din fought, as did Andruil and Father, but…not Dirthamen.

Not to underestimate her before the realization, but he feels the entire encounter become that much more dangerous and tenuous. This is her territory, and dragons are exceptionally territorial, particularly towards those they suspect have come to do them or any in their domain, harm.

The moonlight catches the line of her cheekbone, high and sharp, and the light glints in her eye. A slit pupil stares him down and she smiles. It reminds him of the smiles Andruil will wear when she is hunting.

“I suppose the ruse is ruined now,” she says, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Dragons like the show, they are bluffing creatures and will try to intimidate you out of a fight. They are liars. The words come to him from a foggy memory of his Father speaking to recruits, all of whom were likely to die.

He never saw the bluff as a lie – it was a genuine desire to avoid conflict. There are other lizards that are like that, they puff up their necks and make themselves look bigger. Cats do it as well, they puff up to scare away a threat. The difference is that dragons are far deadlier.

The woman grows taller with each step and great horns curl up from her head now. Silvery white scales cover her limbs as she looms over him, easily twice his height now.

“Leave, and do not come back. Do not speak of me or the tower.”

He nods his acquiescence. There is little point not to.

She grins, revealing sharp teeth and flicks a finger. The path back to the camp alights once more, she gestures for him to follow it. He steps back, unsure if it is wise to turn his back on her. But it makes her roll her eyes.

“You may run, I am not going to kill you now that you have agreed to my terms. I am not without honor, Elvhen,” she spits the last word as if it is a curse. He supposes it can be, considering how many of her kind the empire has slain.

Dirthamen turns and walks quickly back to camp. It takes a great effort to not run, but her words stick with him. She is not without honor, and just as she promised, he makes it to camp uninjured. The purple mist lifts and it is like a play resumes around him. His people look to him, surprised to find him at the edge of camp and not in his tent.

“My lord?” Asks one of the cartographers.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, “We must leave. I cannot explain, but we must leave, and not come back.” Questions are hurled at him but he shakes his head and fields all of them. He cannot say, at least…not here.

The next day, the expedition heads back to Dirthirasan. Most are confused, some are frustrated, and he is woefully still curious. The way the magic emanated from the dragon woman was unique, and perhaps…perhaps the tower is not the siphon.

They return to Dirthirasan and he readjusts the parameters for the research. They turn the focus from inanimate siphons to animate ones. There are a few creatures that are easy to examine and see if they are pulling magic to them. It is a much smaller scale, and he must call on Ghilan’nain to assist him.

Even as they research the implications of creatures being small siphons, his mind wanders to that night often. He has no name, no knowledge of her. And yet, almost every night he sees her in his dreams. Dreams that do not make any sense, he sees her, or even feels her. They are like soft echoes, suggestions, and it fills him with a bone deep longing. It wrenches his heart and distracts him from his work.

He searches the archives on known dragons and finds none that fit her description – there is one that comes close, but dragon described is male and Dirthamen suspects he would not have left that night alive if the dragon described in the archive was there that night.

He wonders if she has charmed him. She haunts his dreams, a common visage of white hair and bright eyes – a sinister smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

Dragons can make you grow mad as obsession consumes you. More words from Father’s speech. Is this what he spoke of?

A year passes and Dirthamen feels drawn more and more to the forest to the west. After another dream about that night, he cannot take it anymore. He equips himself for an expedition and leaves without so much fuss. He does not tell anyone where he is going, only that there is something he must go find. It is for a personal project, he says.

The forest is as he remembers, verdant and beautiful, full of treacherous creatures that can easily kill him. But when he reaches the old campsite, he forgoes bringing his blade. He does not want her to believe he has come to kill her, only to have this compulsion removed.

He leaves his horse and all his belongings in the warded camp and sets forth to the tower. The trail to the tower appears different in the daylight – full of colors other than purple.

It does not take long until he sees the tower in the distance, reflecting light and keeping its own figure obscure. He realizes that this must be the Glass Tower from the old logs on ancient magical structures. It was a hub of activity a few hundred years before the Dragon War, but something happened, magical experiments gone awry is likely, and it was abandoned. Its location has been lost for nearly a thousand years. It would make sense, then, that if it was still the siphon. The animal research has come back positive for minor gravitational pulls, however, which may imply that the Tower is a siphon and the dragon woman is also a siphon. That would greatly help explain the amount of draw this region seems to pull.

The ground vibrates with force and wind suddenly gusts from the tower towards him. A glittering, long object flies overhead before landing in his vicinity. The sun grows dark as shadows suddenly shroud him and what he suspects is her in her true form.

“I told you to stay away!” She growls, voice angry. When his father or brother sounds like this though, there is a different edge to it – it makes him brace for the impending strikes, but this does not instill that same fear.

“I have not come to harm you,” he says instead, “I have come to request you remove whatever spell you have placed on me.” There is movement and he gains the sense of being surrounded without actually seeing anything.

“You lie!” She growls, low and menacing, “I have placed no spell on you.”

Dirthamen blinks. She…has not placed any spell on him? His brow furrows as he scrambles to find another explanation. Other than bewitching him, it could be natural fascination. He has not seen a live dragon up close. And she had been beautiful in that light, so different from the descriptions his family has always regaled him with.

“I do not understand,” he says softly.

“Have you told anyone what you saw that night?” She demands.

Dirthamen shakes his head, “No. I have kept it to myself.” He should have been more thorough in his investigation into the dreams. Perhaps there would have been another explanation, but he had to ensure he was not discovered, it…limited his scope.

She moves again and this time he thinks he sees the flash of a green reptilian eye in the shadows. She is much closer than he originally thought, making him step back. His foot hits something very solid and he falls to the ground.

The object he tripped over moves and suddenly a reptilian face is peering down at his, rows of sharp teeth visible in a sneer. Claws land on his chest and hold him to the ground while she bends over him.

“You have left me no choice,” she says, “I cannot risk letting you go, but you have honored part of my wishes. It feels wrong to kill you.” The claws secure around his chest and lift him up as she rises. Reflexively, he holds onto the limb, feeling her smooth scales, focusing on that rather than the wrenching feeling as she launches herself into the air.

His eyes shut, the ground disappears, and everything moves at a rapid pace. Stomach churning and lurching as she stops, landing hard against something, then moving again.

The claws release him, and he stumbles to what feels like a stone floor. He tries, then fails, to keep from retching. He staggers and falls back, shutting his eyes once more to make the world just stop spinning so horrifically.

“I…oh, um,” she says. It is his only warning before magic fills the air and settles over him. He tenses but the magic is soft and when it falls on him, it feels almost like snow. It sinks into his skin and his stomach stops lurching, the spinning in his head halts, and the nausea with it all dissipates quickly. His breathing remains labored as he recovers, feeling himself not feel like he is going to turn his insides into outsides.

“It’s been so long. I forgot how first-time flyers react,” she says, friendlier than she has been previously. Dirthamen does not respond, still feeling his body resume its equilibrium. The moments drag on until he finds the ability to roll his body from his prone position to sitting upright. He sucks in a deep breath and hesitantly opens his eyes to find wonder.

There were no accounts of the interior of the Glass Tower, no one could find it, let alone explore it. And yet, here he is, sitting on the floor in what appears to be one of the upper rooms, the window flung open to reveal sky – not even the tops of the trees are visible. The wind whips by, howling, but it does not shake the structure or enter the window. Inside, the room is large, big enough to house the very large dragon that is sitting by the window.

Her body is long and slender, covered in shimmering white scales. Ivory horns curl above her head and soft white feathers cover her wings. Her green gaze watches him closely as he orients himself. The floor is stone, but it is polished, covered in runes. The walls are of similar make, with only some wooden accents and furniture. The window dominates the far wall where she sits, plenty big enough to allow her access.

It is a tower interior, remarkable in its size and the runes, but…little else.

“What are your intentions?” He asks softly. Her head tilts in an oddly endearing way.

“You are my prisoner. If you cannot stay away, then you may not leave.”

“I cannot leave my people,” he says immediately, followed then by, “my family will track me here.”

Her eyes narrow and she leans in closer, “What is your name?”

“Dirthamen Evanuris,” he answers, and she hisses loudly. She says a few words in a language he does not know, her body twisting and twining as if in pain. Her head shakes, writhing before she suddenly snaps down to him, her head, and teeth, very close to his body.

“You are one of them! I should…I should kill you!”

“I…” he wants to defend himself, tell her that he has not killed a dragon, that he has kept her secret. Even if his family did track him here, they would have to track him – not her.

But she does not move – not to retract, but also not to kill.

“I…I hate your kind!” She says, “I hate this!” Her nostrils flare and he can feel the heat of her breath, so close. His heart races. She could very well kill him, easily. Just…chomp.

But his family would come for her then.

“You came here to be rid of a spell, instead I shall impart you with one. You are cursed to never be able to speak of this tower or me or anything about me to anyone – alive or dead or otherwise unspecified. And every full moon, you will return to me to have this curse renewed – if you do not, you will die.” Purple magic rises form her and sinks into him like icicles. A gasp of pain wrenches from him as his knees give out from the weight of the magic.

“This is unnecessary!”

“I have seen too many die by your family’s hand, I will not risk more,” she says, resolved. Her claws secure around him once more and he is wrenched back out with her as she takes to the skies. His body is wrenched back with her and his head is sent spinning once again. When they land, he slumps to the forest floor and tries not to retch again. He fails.

“I will see you in a month, Dirthamen Evanuris, do not be late.” He hears, rather than sees her fly away, leaving him alone in the dirt, cursed and sick and terror stricken for his future.

For the entirety of the first month, Dirthamen feels a dread in the pit of his stomach. He secludes himself often, unable to be around people for too long. Everything seems to be on edge and he fears having to go back into the forest.

But the full moon arrives, and he makes the journey. He arrives at sunset and she is waiting for him in the old campsite. She is in her elven form, sans scales and horns. By all respects she looks like an elf. It an unnerving deception, even if it is a beautiful one.

He dismounts and walks slowly to her. Her hands are folded in front of her and she is very still as she watches him.

“I was worried you would not come,” she says.

“I do not wish to die,” he answers. Her frown deepens, and she raises a hand.

“Let’s get this over with. Kneel.” He does as she says, kneeling into the soft earth as she strides to him. She extends an arm out, holding her hand above him, nails long like her claws. Her magic swirls out of her and digs into him. His body tenses and he grits his teeth at the pain. He is not unaccustomed to pain, though it has been awhile since he has had this much in his body. But just as quickly it is there, it is gone and a wave of soothing magic settles over him instead.

“I do not like causing pain,” she says, and there is a brokenness in her voice that leads him to believe her. But she is doing it and will continue to do it as he returns to her every full moon. He swallows, remaining on the forest floor as she moves away, disappearing into the night.

He is proven wrong the next time he must go to her. Her magic sinks into him, but it is like standing under warm water. It makes his skin tingle and flush, but it does not hurt. He looks up at her in surprise.

“I do not like causing pain,” she says again, and he cannot help but smile.

“You modified the spell.” She nods. She did not have to alter the spell, it was achieving its goal, and his pain is not her problem. He is reminded of what she said in the tower, how she should kill him, how she hated his kind. But not him.

“You do not like violence,” he says and she nods again, slowly, looking away from him.

“This war has forced many of us to do things we do not want to do just to survive…” she turns back to him, her stony façade returning, “You may go now.”

The next time he goes with the full moon, he brings a book. The Glass Tower is said to house one of the most impressive libraries on the continent, but he doubts it has been updated since it was lost. There have been many books made since then. He is not entirely sure why he feels like he should bring the book, but he does.

After she casts her spell, he asks her to stay a moment. He thinks she is going to refuse his request, but she is still there when he turns from retrieving the book from his pack.

“Is that…” she does not finish her sentence, and he wonders if she has received many gifts. Likely not recently, dragons were said to be semi-social and visited with each other, but his family has been…thorough.

“It is a story about a librarian who becomes a knight,” he says, hand running over the smooth leather of the binding, “it is very good.”

“Does this knight slay a dragon?” She asks, and he shakes his head.

“No. They become a knight on a quest to break a curse placed on their lover,” he clarifies.

“Oh…that…hm.” He is learning that when she does this, she is conflicted but because she is holding herself back from something. He understands that – who she is and what she ought to do conflicting.

“Why did you bring it?” She asks.

“I thought you might like it.” He answers as honestly, he can without saying he does not know.

“Why…would you do that?”

He does not have a sufficient answer for that. Instead, Dirthamen holds it out to her, “Please take it.”

She reaches forward and takes it from him, careful to not touch him. He pulls his hands back, feeling…disappointed? He shoves the feeling to the side and focuses on watching her take the book. She opens it and scans a page before closing it, a small smile dancing upon her lips.

“Thank you,” she says.

The next full moon, he brings another book. They stay even longer in the camp, speaking about the previous book. She read it over it over the month and talks excitedly with him. She eagerly takes the next book he offers, and the full moon after that, they speak on it too.

They continue on like this for six full moons. On the sixth one, they are sitting in the camp. She is holding the new book in her lap and she takes a deep breath.

“My name is Selene,” she tells him.

“Selene,” he repeats softly. It is a beautiful name and it fits her, with the moon in her hair and the light in her eyes. Selene.

Dirthamen rides the high of knowing Selene’s name all the way back to Dirthirasan. He rides his horse into the stable and grabs his things, heading back into his castle for a change of clothes. He opens his door and high comes crashing to the ground.

“Hello, Brother,” Falon’din greets, leaning back in a favorite chair of Dirthamen’s.

“Hello, Falon’din,” Dirthamen responds, remembering that he can still move, it is his room, his castle, his city, after all. So, he moves, setting his bag down by his dresser.

“Your people said you were not here. I didn’t believe them, but shit you weren’t. Where were you?”

Dirthamen keeps his back to Falon’din, it is always easiest to lie to his brother when he isn’t looking at him. “I was in the field, doing research.” He moves away from the dresser and towards his bed, hidden behind a screen, separating it from the sitting area.

There is a bound person on the floor next to his bed. Sickness rolls through Dirthamen that he struggles to hide. They are pretty, long blonde hair, indigo eyes, small. There is blood on his bed and on them.

“I had to entertain myself while you were gone, your people have gone soft,” Falon’din says derisively. They begin to cry silently.

“How long have you been here?” He asks his brother.

“Two days, everyone said you would be back yesterday.”

“There was a storm,” which is true – there was a storm, and it did delay him. Dirthamen bends down next to small, shivering follower of his and carefully undoes their binds. He makes sure to not touch them. He takes his own cloak off and offers it to them. They quickly wrap it around their body and when he bids them to stand, they collapse.

“I will have to pick you up,” he whispers. He waits for them to nod before he gently pulls them into his arms.

“They require healing. I will return shortly,” he tells his brother.

“Whatever, they weren’t that great anyways,” Falon’din waves in an out-of-character dismissal. But it is good, Dirthamen thinks, hopefully they will be able to recover in peace.

He leaves the bedroom and they sag against him, soft cries muffled as they press their face to his shoulder. He will request to have their quarters improved, whatever quarters they have, and to have as much access to the healers as they require. It will not…it will not make up for what has been done to them, but he can offer what little comforts he can.

Dirthamen leaves his cloak with them at the healers after they appear reluctant to let it go. It is no issue, he has others and can always have another one made.

Falon’din stays the rest of the month. His next bed partner is not as lucky as his first, and instead of going to the healers, a service is planned. Any request for Falon’din to stop his activities is met with similarly violent rejections.

If only Dirthamen could pinpoint what Falon’din had come for, then his brother would leave and cease harassing the fair-haired and bright-eyed folk of Dirthirasan.

Dirthamen is so preoccupied with is brother’s visit that he does not keep track of the moon’s phases. By the time he feels the presence of the full moon, it is too late. Full moons last four days, and it takes that time to reach the campsite, and by that time he will be….

He tries to leave anyways, maybe if he has the horse run through the night he can make it. But his brother finds him and there is…an altercation.

“You will not leave me!” Falon’din shouts, striking Dirthamen in the face. The stomach.

Dirthamen is going to die.

On the final night of the full moon, Dirthamen resides in his room. It is quiet, Falon’din has preoccupied himself with another of Dirthamen’s people now that he has been incapacitated. He wonders what will become of his people when he is gone. Will his brother take them? Will Mother intervene?

He also thinks of Selene. Will she think he has betrayed her? The thought has never crossed his mind – but he will die because in a way he did. He did not go to her when she had established he needed to.

His stomach lurches. Death will come from the gut, he guesses. Pain coils low in his belly and he stares up at the ceiling. Gut wounds are supposedly the most painful. They are slow deaths, full of agony. The curse was meant to punish, and he deserves the punishment for not doing as he was instructed.

Sudden movement at the window captures his attention. A white raven sits on the sill, ruffling its feathers. An exceptionally rare bird, one he had always wanted to see – fitting that now is when he would see it.

The bird flies into the room and he reflexively sits up, shocked as it lands beside him, staring with…intent up at him?

“Will anyone come in here?” It asks. Wait, no. That is Selene’s voice.

“N-no,” he answers. Light emanates from the raven, engulfing it and in a bright flash, it is gone, replaced with a Selene that is leaning over him.

“You’re hurt,” she says, reaching for his face. Her touch is soft and her magic swirls with it as she brushes a thumb over the cut on his cheek. The sting and hurt are smoothed away, making him sigh.

“I apologize for not coming,” he says softly. To his surprise, her expression does not turn mean, her touch remains gentle.

“I was worried,” is all she says. No harsh words, just softness. He leans into her touch, eyes fluttering closed as he feels the familiar warm magic settle into him. Her other hand cups his other cheek, framing his face in a deeply reassuring gesture.

He brings his hands up to hold her arms. He sends in just a touch of his own magic to join hers, earning him a soft sigh. Selene leans down and rests her forehead against his, murmuring his name, sending a shiver down his spine.

He does not know when he began to feel this way for her, but it feels right and good. Better than the relief of not dying is her, warm and comforting. He whispers her name back in the small space between them. He leans up, shrinking the space and presses his lips to hers. A small noise of surprise escapes her, and he fears she will pull away. But then she sinks into him, kissing him back.

As quickly as she kisses him, she pulls back, eyes wide. She retracts her hands and steps away.

#my writing #fairy tale au #dirthamen #selene lavellan #dirthalene #i had to split up what is going on with dirthamen into two parts #because there is A LOT #i was going to include all of what happened for him to end up engaged to serahlin but i needed to focus on the selene bit #really explore that #we are entering Plot Arc #i really hope y'all like this and i did it right #i love dirthalene so very much #(if i messed up anywhere. let me know. i can fix it)

15 notes · View notes

christinaepilzauthor-blog · 7 years

Text

Hero's Journey: Royal Brothers and the Great Fire of London

by Sally A. Moore

351 years ago on September 2, 1666, the Great Fire changed the face of London forever. Its advance ignited the spirits of its people for good and bad, and tested the mettle of the two brothers who governed England: Charles II and his brother, James, Duke of York.

By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Sometime between the hours of midnight and 2 a.m, a flame sprung up in the baker's oven of Thomas Farriner.

By daylight, most of Pudding Lane and Fish Street Hill were destroyed and the fire showed no signs of stopping. Samuel Pepys, an administrator for the Royal Navy, arrived at Whitehall to report to the King.

"So I was called for, and did tell the King and Duke of Yorke what I saw, and that unless his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down nothing could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor [Sir Thomas Bludworth] and command him to spare no houses, but to pull down before the fire every way." (1)

Charles II and his brother James had returned to London in 1660 on the invitation of Parliament to end the Commonwealth and restore the throne of England. In those first six years of Charles' reign, the Stuart brothers had garnered a reputation for a dissolute lifestyle with a people still in the throes of a Puritan hangover.

"The loose morals of Charles's court were an unfailing source of public scandal, and as early as August 1661 Pepys was commenting on 'the lewdness and beggary of the court, which I am feared will bring all to ruin again'." (5)

King Charles II, by Unknown artist National Portrait Gallery (NPG 1313)

Charles and James kept many mistresses and their profligate spending drew the criticism of his people. Contrary to Puritan doctrine, the Merry Monarch and his band of favourites spent long hours gambling and drinking, and the King's courtiers publicly engaged in duels and verbal attacks one another.

"These high-spirited gentlemen… diverted themselves at times with poetry, plays and literature in general, at times with sardonic comment on everything about them, couched, very often, in scabrous language." (4)

Who was this self-indulgent Stuart king with a brother to mirror him, and why should the English people tolerate such pleasure-seekers as the governors of their nation? Wasn't the plague two years before and the recent severe drought evidence enough of God's displeasure? The fire was to challenge the worth of these men at home and earn them notoriety abroad. Pepys, despite noting; the indulgence of Charles' court; the mistresses of both men at hand; the King in his bed with dogs everywhere; and his nobles in the outer chamber at cards on a Sunday, also recorded the King's immediate action upon hearing news of the fire.

"A clerk was summoned and the King dictated and signed a parchment. He handed it to Pepys, instructing him to find Sir Thomas Bludworth and give him the royal orders." (3)

In addition to the instructions for the Mayor, the King promised the assistance of the King's Royal Guard. The Duke of York informed Pepys that if soldiers were needed by the mayor, he would have them.

Duke of York, by Peter Lely [Public domain], Wikimedia Commons

Pepys hastened to find Bludworth, but upon handing him the royal orders, the poor man, more suited to enjoying the royal favour of his appointment than in carrying out its duties, expressed himself overwhelmed.

"To the King's message he cried, like a fainting woman, 'Lord! what can I do? I am spent: people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses; but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it.' That he needed no more soldiers; and that, for himself, he must go and refresh himself, having been up all night." (1)

Bludworth retired without carrying out the King's orders to continue the effort of pulling down houses. The King and the Duke of York took a barge on the Thames to see the extent of the damage. What they found was a city in dire threat of destruction.

"In the eighteen hours or so since the fire had broken out at the Farriner's, it had destroyed twenty-two alleys and wharves, nearly a thousand homes and ships, and six Livery Company Halls, including those of the Vintners, the Watermen and the powerful Fishmongers... Nine churches were in ruins along with the parishes they served." (2)

It was evident to the royal brothers that the fire would not be contained without immediate and sustained effort. Watching the flames devour the city, street by street, Charles and James became convinced that their intervention was crucial to saving the city.

"In a risky move which showed how seriously he viewed the situation, Charles overrode the Lord Mayor's authority as chief magistrate and told Browne [London Alderman, Sir Richard Browne] to [continue the effort to] pull down buildings, concentrating on the area below London Bridge towards the Tower, where the presence of large quantities of gunpowder was making everyone nervous. He also ignored Bludworth's refusal to ask for troops." (2)

In spite of these actions, the fire took on a demonic momentum, devouring homes, shops, warehouses, and even spilling onto the Thames on slicks of oil and tar. The people fled in panic, unable to comprehend the destruction that seemed without end. Black smoke hung over the city and the sky turned blood red in reflection of the flames.

"Beside the dreadful scenes of flames, ruins and desolation, there appeared the most killing sight under the sun, the distracted looks of so many citizens, the wailings of miserable women and the cries of poor children and decrepit old people with all the marks of confusion and despair." (3)

Faced with the loss of life and every material thing they had, the people gathered in the street and made a pitiful appeal to their king.

"The glow of the fires and the spurts of flame soaring into the heavens had lit up the windows of the Palace of Whitehall during the night. Citizens gathering outside the walls of his palace, held back by the company of Guards stationed before the gates, had woken Charles with their pleas of 'God and the King save us.' " (3)

The hapless Bludworth was nowhere to be found, and Pepys noted that he was not seen for three days. While the mayor fled, the "dissolute" Charles and his brother sprang into action, declaring themselves stewards of the city. Recognizing the dire nature of this threat, they left the comforts of Whitehall on Monday morning, September 3, and spent most of the day and night fighting the fire.

"The streets were a bedlam of noise: the rumble of iron wheels, the cracking of whips, the rattle of carts jolting over the cobbles, the stamp of hooves, the sound of running feet and a cacophony of shouts and yells, voices raised in curses or prayers, and 'the fearful cries and howlings of undone people'." (3)

By Unknown- Display in Museum of London, copy from Pepys Library in Magdalene College, Cambridge [Public domain]

Wading into the fray without regard for personal safety, the brothers toiled alongside the citizens, alternately encouraging the people and the troops and passing off buckets of water or pulling down houses and calming the residents, acting with the determination of men of who would not shrink from the responsibility of saving the city that had welcomed them home six years before.

"By the end of the day the King's clothes were soaking, his face black, his whole person muddy and dirty. But there were many testimonials to his bravery and resolution as he stood up to his ankles in the water, joining in the work with a will, wielding a bucket and spade with the rest, and encouraging the courtiers to do likewise." (4)

Their efforts were frustrated by changing winds and empty water reservoirs as a result of a drought, as well as the panicked flight of people. Charles carried a bag of coins to entice men into joining the effort, adding his personal royal plea to stand and fight. There were few takers, and even the royal guards were balking at their duty in the face of the growing wall of fire.

"By mid-morning on Tuesday the pall of smoke hanging over the city had grown to biblical proportions. It was so great, claimed Thomas Vincent, 'that travellers did ride at noon-day some miles together in the shadow thereof, though there were no other cloud beside to be seen in the sky'. On the rare occasion when the sun did manage to break through the gloom, it was as red as blood." (2)

Pepys described the fire from his garden as "…extremely dreadful, for it looks just as if it was at us; and the whole heaven on fire." (1) By Wednesday night, September 5, the fire was quelled, leaving a smouldering heap of destruction that covered up to 80 percent of the city and an estimated 100,000 homeless. In all, 13,000 homes, 89 churches including St. Paul's Cathedral and 52 Guild Halls were destroyed. The fact that anything was still standing and the loss of life estimated to be low was a miracle of heroic proportion. Without the courage of the royals it is likely that the fire would have consumed the rest of the city. The veneer of Charles' court had burned away and exposed the men beneath who claimed the ruling class. While so many minor officials ran away, the royal brothers led their courtiers and people to triumph over the engulfing flames. The Paris Gazette, in spite of relief on the part of the French that the fire would prevent an impending attack by the English, published a glowing story about the role of the Stuart brothers.

"[The Gazette] had nothing but praise for Charles II, crediting him with personally organising the firefighting and, through his kindness and courage, earning the lasting tenderness and veneration of his people." (2)

James, too, was cited for his bravery and his ability to stay calm in the crisis, organizing the destruction of buildings to create a break for the fire.

" 'Next, Princely York, with sweat and dirt besmear'd/ (More glorious thus than in his Robes appear'd. James was seen 'handling Bucketts of water with as much diligence as the poorest man did assist'. John Rushworth, a witness who wrote these words, went on to point out that 'if the Lord Maior had donn as much, his example might have gone far to saveing the Citty'."

In London, superstitions, despair and anger caused riots, the people blaming alternately the Dutch, the French or the wrath of God toward the ways of the King and his court for the catastrophe.

"Charles was anxious to reassure his subjects. So he addressed the crowd, telling them that the Fire had been an accident, and not a plot. It had come from the Hand of God. Just why God should have chosen to punish London in such a dramatic fashion he declined to say, although in the coming weeks and months there would be plenty who thought it an obvious and well-deserved judgement on Charles's dissolute ways." (2)

The aftermath of the fire was a period of hard-earned growth for England, with the new building slowly revitalizing London and a renewed respect between king and his people that lasted, with a few notable bumps, throughout his reign.

"…pleasure-loving, easy-going as the Court of Charles II was, it was not a bad and certainly not an evil place." (4)

Charles never lost his taste for the pleasure-loving life that his people both loved and criticized him for. He continued to collect mistresses as some collect coins. But he and his brother had proven what Charles had professed to the people during the Great Fire: that they had the will and the means to protect their kingdom, a promise that was to test Charles' resolve again in the years to come. References: 1. The Diary of Samuel Pepys, 1660 – 1669

2. Permission of Heaven, the Story of the Great Fire of London, by Adrian Tinniswood, Pimlico, Random House UK, 2004

3. The Dreadful Judgement, the True Story of the Great Fire of London, by Neil Hanson, Doubleday, 2001

4. Charles II, His Life and Times, by Antonia Fraser, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1993

5. The Life and Times of Charles II, by Christopher Falkus; Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1992

This Editor's Choice was originally posted September 2, 2016

~~~~~~~~~~ Sally A. Moore is an award-winning writer from Kingston, Ontario in Canada. Represented by The Rights Factory Literary Agency in Toronto, she is currently writing a historical fiction/fantasy trilogy. Her writing credits include fiction and creative nonfiction, as well as poetry prizes from the Ontario Poetry Society and the Montreal International Poetry Prize. Sally is Past President of the Writers' Community of Durham Region (WCDR), a member of the Historical Novel Society, and the recipient of the Len Cullen Writing Scholarship. Sally holds certificates of achievement from Humber School for Writers and a diploma with Distinction in Commercial Communications.

Connect with her through Twitter (@SallyMoore11), LinkedIn, and her Website. For more information about her work, check out her portal, Legend of Three Crowns.

Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors

0 notes