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harrenhalyuri · 3 years

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for us, the wounds kissed long before the lips

23rd of Sun's Dawn, 1E 461, Alessian Empire.

During the coronation of Emperor Gorieus, the Hortator and the head of House Dagoth steal a moment for themselves.

tags: drinking & talking; angst; one-sided relationship; attempt at worldbuilding

ao3 version here

They stumbled forward laughing and shushing one another as the heavy oak doors closed behind them - the warmth and merry of the coronation feast left behind as the two stepped out into the garden.

Nerevar recalled walking the streets of Nirnbuldihr - the cyan glow of the giant mushrooms reflecting on the windows of several shops. One in particular caught his eye, and he crossed the cobblestone sidewalk to inspect it more closely. Blown glass sculptures, colorful and intricate in the way the dwemer favored.

His favorite had been a piece hidden in the back of the window, as if outshined by more complex, elaborate pieces upfront. It had been a white glass diorama, depicting a cottage surrounded by trees swaying in the breeze - the sort of simplicity the dwemer had no interest in.

The garden reminded him of that diorama - covered in a blanket of snow, completely undisturbed by the world around it.

Voryn pulled him under the arches that covered the path to the guest wing, but the Hortator held him back.

“No, let us stay for a bit.” He answered, arm still draped around the back of his friend’s neck as he stepped on the soft snow. Voryn sighed, yet allowed Nerevar to lead him.

“Frolicking amidst the cold? Do you plan on inviting the Nords to join us?” The head of House Dagoth said snidely as he crossed his arms to warm himself.

Nerevar laughed and shoved him away.

“The snow never belonged to those s’wits, you’re simply thin-blooded from living under the shadow of a volcano.”

“Perhaps, and rightly so.”

The snow softly crunched under their boots as they wandered near a tree - now completely stripped of leaves, its gnarled branches seemed to reach towards the sky.

“It always snows in Akamora.” Nerevar inhaled deeply, enjoying how his lungs burned as he took in the crisp, cool air. “In the mountains, at least. The paths are sharp and winding, and it freezes over during winter. No caravans may come or go, not until Sun’s Dawn.”

The Hortator grabbed a handful of snow, the ice leeching the warmth of his skin through the kagouti leather gloves. Absent-mindedly he shaped it until a white sphere rested on his palm. Secunda and Masser bore down on them - the moon glow glinting on the high windows of Skingrad’s castle.

Nerevar recalled the moon glow glinting on the tip of ice spikes, sharp enough to be spears, at the highest peak of Akamora.

Azura had come to him then, for the first time, to bestow Moon-and-Star upon the captain - his fingers had been so stiff from the cold that he could barely feel them anymore, the goddess’s touch as foreign as the ring she had slipped on his finger.

When he came down from the mountain, the first ashlanders had hailed him Hortator, and it had felt just as foreign as the ring on his finger.

“It must be rather grim.” Voryn commented, the cyrodilic brandy swirling inside the bottle as he brought it to his lips. The distaste in his face was plain to see - it couldn’t hold a candle to the Dagoth brandy.

Nerevar smiled, his short-lived melancholia forgotten.

“How can you say that? Short-tempered caravan masters, cheap mazte and all the comforts of a straw bed...” The captain delighted at Voryn’s growing distaste as he spoke. The head of House Dagoth was a creature of comfort and status, something that had made the duo different as the sun and the moon.

"Lovely, I'm sure." Voryn replied with a sour expression. Nerevar laughed.

"For a researcher, you spent far too much time cocooned up in Kogoruhn." The Hortator recalled several jars containing fungi species and creatures preserved in a strong alcoholic solution, one more outlandish than the other. In his curiosity, the captain had pestered Voryn with questions until he nearly dropped one of the jars. The head of House Dagoth had snapped at him to stop before he accidentally unleashed a deadly plague and got them both killed.

That had been many years ago, before the war, when Nerevar was still seeking support from the great houses. The somber, willowy lord that had greeted him in Kogoruhn had been the first to join him - his support had been won easily, but his friendship had not.

"And due to that, couriers are eternally indebted to House Dagoth. Why would I waste my precious time wandering through mud in a thrice-damned swamp?” The councilor huffed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Nerevar laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“And what if your Hortator commanded you to?”

The previous distaste vanished in a second as the sharp, haughty aristocratic features softened; the ruby-colored gaze meeting his, warm as the liquor sloshing inside the bottle.

“I’d wander until time itself ceased to be if Muthsera willed so.” Despite the devotion, the lord councilor had steel in his voice; unwavering as the very core of Nirn.

Nerevar let the snow sphere fall to the ground, the reverence in those words overwhelming as he broke his gaze away, before joining the councilor on the stone bench. The orange glow of a candle reflected on the windows above; a small flickering flame moving as a servant crossed the corridor. The former captain followed it until the speckle of light vanished behind stone walls.

“I miss it.” He blurted out, seized by a deep longing as the world seemed to be reduced into that snow-covered, unperturbed garden; as if its two occupants were the only souls in Nirn.

“By the Three, how I miss it! To Oblivion with those titles and thrones and crowns; I miss the road, I miss the ache after a long day’s march and falling on the straw at night too tired to think.” Nerevar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands. Azura had blessed him with the strength to carry the title of Hortator, yet he craved the simplicity of being nothing more than a captain, with no past nor future beyond the next town.

The Hortator missed walking through the crowded streets of the bazaars; the cramped food stalls with ill-tempered merchants that served meals with enough spices to burn his tongue; the shady cornerclubs where you had to watch both your tongue and your coin purse.

Now he signed papers, spoke with lords, and followed the proper etiquette befitting his rank; he watched the streets through the high windows of his palace, as if his brethren were tiny ants. The former captain pulled his hands away and felt a tear roll down the bridge of his nose; the liquor was truly getting to his head. He placed a hand on his councilor’s knee; the several layers of red wool soft under his glove.

“Let’s leave - just the two of us and the road ahead, like it was before the war. We’ll name ourselves whatever we wish, we’ll sleep under the stars and chew on marshmerrow pieces as we travel.”

“Where shall we go, sweet Nerevar?” The young lord played along; his voice soft as a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the stillness around them.

“Wherever you desire - do you still wonder about Hammerfell? I’ll take you to see the dunes that stretch as far as the sun, you’ll study their beetles and giant scorpions for as long as you wish, then we can drink qishr and break bread with the nomads.” Nerevar found himself smiling as he recalled the heat of the desert and the loose, colorful fabrics the natives wore.

He turned around and reached for the bottle, fingers brushing against his confidant’s. Only then, Nerevar realized his councilor had forgotten his gloves inside the hall; the golden skin contrasting against the snow, the long, elegant fingers trembling with the cold.

“Oh, Voryn.” The former captain frowned, quickly pulling his own gloves off and taking hold of the other’s wrist; the scarlet nails vanishing into the supple leather as he adjusted the glove.

“Remember when you fell sick, five days after we departed Kogoruhn? We had to-” The sentence fell on deaf ears, vanishing under the branches heavy with snow as lips met his, swallowing his words with hunger. A hand connected with his chest, closing into a fist as Voryn pulled him closer; as if it weren’t enough.

Distant and haughty Voryn, who ate sparingly and never smudged the red paint he wore on his lips, bit the Hortator’s lower lip before pulling back; eyes half-lidded as he brushed the tip of his nose against Nerevar’s in a silent plea.

The ink-colored hair contrasted against the pale golden skin; the black fur collar brushing against the captain’s chin; a pale pink blooming on his cheeks, either from cold, the brandy, or something else-

Heart hammering against his ribcage, blood drumming on his ears; it was the slightest tilt of his face that thrice-damned him as Voryn’s lips smashed against his; a devotion he was unworthy of every time their tongues met; muffled prayers in form of sighs and whimpers.

Unworthy, unworthy, unworthy. A voice whispered in his mind, taunting him; in his mind’s eye he saw peach-colored lips curled in derision, teeth bared like a wolf’s. Almalexia’s snarl.

Somewhere, a door groaned open and the sounds of the feast reached the garden, shattering their sanctuary; the weight of being Hortator came crashing down on his shoulders. Nerevar pulled back as if he had been burned, his palm on the young lord’s shoulder firmly holding the other back. He looked down, unable to face the confusion, the longing. Too much, it was too much. His hair was disheveled, pale strands falling against his face and he felt grateful for the cover.

“Nerevar-” The head of House Dagoth began, voice hoarse and breathless.

“Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, I’ve wanted-”

“It was a mistake.”

“Oh.” Voryn inhaled sharply as if his lungs had suddenly been emptied.

“I’ve...I drank more than I should have. We both have.” His words feel hollow, and he can no longer tell if the bitter taste on his tongue belonged to the brandy, or the shame. The silence stretched; neither dared to move.

“I see.” His voice is flat, devoid of emotion; the usual aloofness reserved for others. Out of the corner of his eye, Nerevar watched him straighten his posture; the dark hair falling like a curtain, obscuring half of his face.

Other guests left the feast; their chatter and laughter permeated the garden as they walked down the path to the other wing of the castle. Nerevar felt the red gaze pinned to his back, yet no words left his lips. He watched the snow under his boots; watery and muddy as it mixed with the dirt below.

At last, he heard the rustling of fabric as Voryn rose to his feet; impeccable posture as he towered over the Hortator.

“May this servant be excused, Muthsera?” The words rolled easily off his tongue; the sharp formality of it made Nerevar wince.

The Hortator forced himself to lift his head and face his long-time friend; clad in red wool and black fur, the snowflakes melting on the long, inky hair; the blank expression betraying nothing, except for his lips; the red paint had been smudged, contorting their shape.

“Yes.”

From the cradle, the heir of House Dagoth had been taught the games of persuasion and deceit; a master in concealing his thoughts behind a mask.

Nerevar took a hollow, cowardly comfort in it.

Voryn Dagoth bowed before him, as etiquette mandated, before vanishing into the corridor; the sound of his footsteps hammering inside the Hortator’s head until they vanished, leaving him with nothing but a headache and the cold.

After finishing the bottle by himself, the former captain laid in bed, watching the moons slowly crossing the sky through the windows; his dreams haunted by both his closest friend and his wife; one seeming to shift into the other as they pinned him against the sheets; ever-hungry as they sought out his lips.

It was late morning when he rose; mouth dry and head throbbing like it had been split open with an axe. The hearth had been tended to recently, the fire crackling as it consumed the logs. He turned in bed, still wrapped around the sheets.

Voryn will understand, he understands the importance of duty better than anyone. He reasoned with himself.

A single kagouti glove on the floor, as if someone had pushed it under the door.

Across the hallway, a lord painted his lips red; immaculately framing the natural shape of his lips. His unbalanced emotions shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces when his fingers trembled for a second and a smudge appeared.

Duty, he’s devoted to duty, the lord repeated mentally, as he collected the shards.

#voryn dagoth #indoril nerevar #nerevoryn #one writing tag to rule them all

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isauntervaguelydownwards · 2 years

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beneath a mountain (real enough to touch)

Belba was grateful that Dori had left the rooms, even if it was daunting, the whole prospect of seeing Nori again. She loved him, and even though everyone said he loved her as well… it wasn’t easy, changing her thinking. She had assumed that he didn’t love her, that what they had was just – convenience, for him. A soft body to warm his bed, maybe, companionship during the long, cold nights.

She smoothed a hand down her tunic, cupping her stomach. If nothing else, she had the faunt, and no one would take her child from her. She took another deep breath, steeling herself for the heartbreak she was sure to experience, and then entered Nori’s bedroom.

cw: depression, mentions of delusions, fem!bilbo.

pairing: bilbo/nori

fill for @febuwhump day 28: "presumed dead" replaced with alt8 "I'll never forgive you"

fifth and final installment in "beneath a mountain series"

The sight that met her was devastating, even in the dim light. Nori looked gaunt, in a way she hadn’t ever seen him, and even his usually so carefully maintained hair had lost all its lustre. She couldn’t stop the gasp even if she tried, hand going to her mouth as if to stifle her despair.

“Oh, Nori…” she whispered, not wanting to wake him if he slept – he looked like he desperately needed what sleep he could get. Despite her best efforts, however, his eyes flew open.

“I know you’re not here, not really,” he rasped, voice so hoarse it was nigh-on unrecognisable to her. “Always this apparition, taunting me with everything I could have had and now will never have… not usually pregnant though. Is this the final taunt? The be-all of everything I will never get to hold in my arms, again or ever?”

“Pull yourself together, Nori,” she said, trying and failing to not let on how much his state and words were affecting her. He looked like a broken shell of the dwarf she loved, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap him in wool and nurse him back to health. Belba hesitated but took the plunge. “I’m real, I’m here, and… I’m sorry for not having been here for so long.”

“Usually when you’re here you tell me how pathetic I am, love. I shouldn’t call you that, should I? You don’t love me, you even left when you figured out I love you…” his voice trailed off, the sound full of despair. She realised she had to do something, probably drastic, to wake him from his fugue.

“If you don’t wake up now, I’ll never forgive you,” she muttered, before nudging him over slightly in the bed. Once she had managed to get him to (bemusedly) move, she shoved her hands in his hair, hunched over him best she could with her stomach rather in the way, and leaned her forehead to his. Locking eyes with him, she saw the first signs of actual awareness, but it was nevertheless with some trepidation she took a deep breath and continued. “I love you, you are my One, and the child is yours – I’ve never let anyone else touch me.”

His hands came up to hesitantly rest on her hips, and inwardly she fairly purred at the long-missed touch of her cariad. He looked disbelieving, but she took that as a sign that he had actually heard what she said, and not discounted it all as a fever dream – again.

“But… you’re a hobbit?” he asked, voice full of confusion but sounding more aware than he had their entire encounter so far.

“We have cariads, Heart Loves, and you – you’re mine, Nori.” She knew she was crying, tears falling down her cheeks unchecked, but she figured she’d count herself lucky if she didn’t start sobbing as well. She’d never been much of a crier, but the pregnancy hormones certainly changed that. “But I heard about the dwarves Ones and… there’s never been anyone not a dwarf, and how could I stand by and see you love someone else? Especially once I found out about the faunt. My heart couldn’t take it, Nori love.”

“Belba, amrâlimê, you are my One!” Nori grasped her hips harder, and had he been well the grip would have been bruising. As it was, she could feel it, though it wasn’t much more. Suddenly he looked like he was entirely present, and something within her relaxed from a tension she didn’t know she was holding. “There’s only one I could ever love and that is you! That my cowardice was enough to drive you away – to make you think you or our… our pebble? We’re having a pebble?”

She laughed tearfully, removing one hand from his hair to grasp one of his, moving it from her hip to her stomach.

“We’re having a little one, Nori, we’ve been blessed.” She yelped as he sat up, taking her with him with a surprising strength considering how he’d looked when she entered the room, and almost wrapped himself around her.

“I love you so much, Belba, and I’m sorry I ever let you think anything else.” He cupped her cheek with one hand, thumb stroking her cheekbone, and kept the other hand on her stomach. After so long without, his touch was pleasantly distracting, leaving her aware of every single point of contact. “I will spend the rest of our lives making it up to you, if only you will stay – here, with me, and let me love you.”

Unable to resist any longer, she pulled him down to kiss her, a kiss full of passion and relief. If their lips tasted far saltier than they should, neither mentioned it.

When Dori, several hours later, opened the door to Nori’s bedroom, he was pleasantly surprised to see Belba still there and Nori looking newly groomed - and happier than Dori had ever seen him. He was wrapped protectively around Belba, one hand on her stomach, the other under a pillow. If Dori knew his brother right, that one held a knife.

Dori smiled to himself, closing the door and leaving them to it. Everything improper that could happen had already happened, and if there was anything both Belba and Nori looked to need, it was rest. They probably wouldn’t rest if they weren’t together, and Dori wasn’t taking any chances with his brother – or his family.

Dori had always wanted a sister.

#the hobbit #nori #bilbo/nori #type: text #bilbo baggins #fanfiction #my writing #febuwhumpday28 #febuwhump2022 #febuwhump

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fairyhaven13 · 3 years

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Have you ever gotten so in love with a song that you HAVE to make an OC for it and end up making multiple versions of the same character?...Yeah, that’s what happened here. I know the background is very similar to my Dishonored OC’s background but I really like the tile shading tutorial I reblogged a while back and so I just did it again in different colors. It makes me happy. And, yes, it’s not Drawtober, but I’m so tired that it’s hard to do prompts, and creepy goth girls are still kind of Halloween-y.

This is Alexis, or LXS in her robot form. LXS on the left is a My Life as a Teenage Robot OC, and Alexis on the right is a Sly Cooper OC. She’s based on the song “You’re So Creepy” by Ghost Town. I had to make an OC based on the girl in the song, but in order to work with the song’s dynamic, she had to be shipped with a nice, sunshiny character. This was a challenge for me, as usually I fangirl over hyper, fabulous, and goofy characters, or whumpy villains, or a mix of the two. I finally settled on making a version for Sheldon from MLaaTR and one for Murray from Sly Cooper. I’ll put the character descriptions under the cut.

So, here’s what the two versions have in common. Pretty much their entire personalities: they’re creepy goths who like blood red lipstick, dark poetry, horror stories, and Shakespeare. They never smile, even when they’re happy they still frown. They’re sensible, tolerant, and generally kind despite their appearance. Very likely to buy that pink balloon for the crying child. Very supportive of their friends. Ride or die, will not back down from a fight or from defending those they care about. Like, to the point where they might have a broken leg but will still limp towards the opposition with that creepy frown on their face and murderous intentions. However, if an enemy says sorry and means it, they are very quick to forgive. Basically a scary, goth sweetheart.

LXS was made by a scientist who copied Wakeman’s blueprint for Jenny with some changes. Jenny was made for practicality with her appearance designed later, which is why she doesn’t resemble a human that much. LXS was made for looks with features added in afterwards. Her hair is weatherproof steel wool, her skin is bronze, and since she’s not as tough as Jenny, she’s not really interested in fighting crime. She’s in college when she meets Sheldon at their mandatory English class. She’s a Literature major and pretty much Sheldon’s opposite with his Engineering major. He’s totally enamored with her, a robot who is kind towards him, and his classmates think he’s nuts for hanging out with the scary robot girl. She thinks he’s a cute nerd and writes gruesome poetry for him, which he adores. After his trauma with Jenny, they’re a match made in Heaven. She lets him do maintenance on her while she recites Macbeth.

Alexis is a ferret who works at a bookshop and has a knack for making connections and finding the right people no matter the situation. She meets Murray during Sly 3 and like Sheldon, he goes “wow you’re so pretty” and plops down at the café to talk with her. Like LXS, Alexis is pleased someone wants to talk to her since most avoid her, and starts a discussion about Stephen King. Murray has no idea who that is but makes some very poignant remarks that he just thinks are common sense. She is intrigued, and he decides she’s his new bestie. He begs Sly and Bentley to let him recruit her; they’re creeped out by her but trust Murray’s judgement and let her prove herself by getting them into the precinct to talk to Dimitri. She does, of course, with the power of Talk to People and Intimidate Them with Natural Aura, and they let her join. Murray takes a while to realize that it’s a romantic relationship, but she’s patient. He frequently picks her up, spins her around or sets her on his shoulder while they work on plans. She never reacts with any sort of surprise, only has a general air of being pleased.

#OC #furry #robot #ferret #My Life as a Teenage Robot #mlaatr #sly cooper #murray #sheldon #you're so creepy #ghost town #goth #creepy girl

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sailorshadzter · 4 years

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im back to drop more jonsa on your timelines 👀 👀

yes i know ive written this scene ten thousand times before, dont @ me lmao

Winterfell looms ahead, daunting with it's sharp stone peaks, the storm clad skies giving it an eerie sort of backdrop. And yet, he presses on, spurring his horse forward, well aware of the quick pace in which his heart is racing. He knows what lays ahead of him might be the worst he's faced, and yet, there's even the smallest of chances it will be the best he's faced. Though he longs for the latter, he's prepared for the first.

When he reaches the gate, darkness has begun to fall and the soldiers peer down at him from the watchtower above. "Who goes there?" One shouts, though he and the man standing beside him have already exchanged a strange, but knowing look. There wasn't a man alive in Winterfell that would not recognize him, even now.

"Jon Snow." He calls back and it takes only a moment more for the gate to creak open.

"Lord Snow," another soldier says, not kindly, but Jon can't help but to smile at the sight of his Stark livery. "I can't imagine our queen would like to see you." The man goes on, crossing his arms across his chest as Jon slides down from his horse. Another smile twitches on his lips; her men are loyal, quite certainly, and for that he is thankful. "Something funny, Snow?"

"That's enough, Quinn."

The soldier turns, seeing not just Lord Royce approaching, but Davos Seaworth, who looks far less stony faced than the ever loyal Yohn Royce. "I'll take it from here," Royce continues, gesturing for the soldier to move along, who does only after he shoots Jon a final scowl. "Jon Snow." He says evenly, though he pins sharp, angry eyes upon him. At his side, Davos shifts, clearly torn between greeting the young man with fondness and adding fuel to the fire that so surely has already begun to brew. In the end, fondness wins and before he can react, he's wrapped in the older man's warm embrace; it's something he's not felt in so long, for a moment, he can't even breathe. But soon Davos steps back and gives him a single, silent nod, but meeting his eyes, Jon understands exactly what he wished to convey. "I'm surprised to find you here at our gate."

Jon is, too, in truth.

"I was summoned." He replies, shrugging slightly.

"Summoned?" Lord Royce stammers, shaking his head, clearly surprised to hear of this. "By whom?"

"The queen herself."

After a little more back and forth, Jon is taken from the gate and swept inside, sent to the kitchens to warm himself by the ovens and eat some leftovers from that evening's meal. He's eaten no more than three spoonfuls of soup before the door to the kitchen opens and it's Davos standing there. "You might have come when she first sent for you," he says as he comes inside, the door falling closed behind him.

Jon looks away, knowing that to be true, but he hadn't been ready back then. How could he face her, how could he stood at her side, knowing what he'd done? It was true, he had done it for her, for their family, for the realm... But still yet... All he had done to get to that moment where he'd stood before Daenerys in the throne room of the Red Keep... No, he was not a man worthy of standing beside someone like her.

But perhaps now, perhaps now if she forgave him... Perhaps he will be the man to stand at her side.

"Aye..." He finally says, turning back to look up at Davos, who offers a smile. "Is she terribly angry with me?" He decides to ask, not certain he's ready to know the answer.

Davos can't help but to laugh in spite of the young man before him. "She was." He admits, sobering then, thinking back to those early days. Back to the days of a stone faced queen with eyes sharper than steel, colder than ice. Days of a queen who took to her rooms, rather than live in the lively court that most expected of Sansa Stark. But then... After so long, she began to smile again. Arya returned from her travels and it lightened her heart, softened her icy exterior. "But she was sad, too." Jon bows his head again, spoon left abandoned as his hand curls into a fist atop the table. "Your queen is a forgiving one, though, tough, but forgiving. She is soft inside yet." Jon can't help but to smile, thinking of her as she was when they reunited in King's Landing. With war braids tied into her vibrant red hair, she had rode south with an army at her back to lay claim to what was hers. "She even forgave Lord Glover, now he is one of her most loyal of men." Jon raises his eyes at this news, for he thought that would be a relationship never to be mended.

Before he can speak, the door opens again, and this time it is Lord Royce. "The queen says she will see you now," he doesn't look eager to do so, but he gestures for Jon to follow after him. Scrambling to his feet, Jon pauses only a moment to put a hand to Davos' shoulder, giving the man a nod, who smiles in response before he turns to watch Jon disappear out the door after Royce. "It's about time," he grumbles to himself before settling down in the chair Jon had vacated, helping himself to a mug of ale, hoping the young queen he's come to love will finally find true happiness.

Upstairs, Sansa is pacing.

"My lady, please," it's Shae, desperate to get her queen to cease her walking just so she might straighten her skirts and brush her hair. Here, in the privacy of Sansa's own rooms, she dares speak to her as she once did in King's Landing, though Sansa has always insisted she call her whatever she pleases. "You needn't worry," she says, catching her young queen by the hand then, forcing her to finally come to a rest at the center of the room. "He loves you still, I am certain, he will return to you without fail."

Sansa dares not believe her beloved handmaiden, but she nods like an obedient child anyways.

It's been a long two years since the day she and Jon parted ways on the docks of King's Landing, so very long that sometimes it only feels like a dream. No, not a dream, but a nightmare. Once she dreamed of violence and shadow, now she dreams of golden sunlight and a different kind of pain. "My gown, I should change my gown." She suddenly sputters, thinking that there's absolutely no way she can meet with Jon wearing the one she wears. But before she can say another word, there comes a knock to her door and she swears she might faint there on the spot.

Shae smiles, patting her cheek tenderly before she slips by, crossing the room to open the door. Sansa can see it is Lord Royce there and her heart has begun to race, faster than ever before. Shae dips a quick bow and then is stepping aside, allowing Lord Royce to step inside and at once, he's there, standing in her rooms.

Her world suddenly ceases to spin.

"Leave us." She hears herself say aloud and both her loyal Hand and handmaiden slip from the room, leaving them alone. He is as she remembers him to be, though with more beard and more curls tucked into the bun at the back of his head. Despite it all, her fingers twitch, for she longs to run her hands through his wild hair. "... Jon..." His name is a whisper upon her lips, something like a plea, something that is enough to send chills racing the length of his spine. "I can't believe you came." After all the summons, after all the months, the years, she cannot believe he's standing there in front of her.

Jon cannot take his eyes off of her; she's beautiful there in what looks to be a well worn blue wool gown, with draping sleeves and a slim fit bodice, a gown made for a queen. Her red hair is loosened from its braids and rather tumbles down her back in soft waves, enticing him all the more. "My queen." He finally speaks, saying words that for the very first time don't feel hollow, that don't feel empty. Without another word, Jon comes forward, dropping to his knees before her. She opens her mouth as if she means to interrupt, but he gives the smallest shakes of his head, silencing her before anything else is said. "I don't deserve to stand before you, I don't deserve to ask forgiveness of you, but I..." He trails off, gazing up into her steady blue gaze, emotion choking him as he fights to find the words to say. The words that might make her understand. "I want to stand at your side, if you'll have me." He wasn't ready back then, he wasn't the man she needed him to be back then when he'd left for the Night's Watch, but now... Now.... He thinks himself ready to be the man she's always needed him to be.

As she stares down at him, all the anger that she ever held within flees. It dissipates as she sinks to the floor, ignoring his protest as she levels herself with him. Everything she's ever thought, ever felt, fades away as she takes his face between her palms, tears misting in her eyes as a smile curves on her lips. "What took you so long?" Is all she asks instead, her words eliciting something like a chuckle from him. There in the moment, all that remains is the love she's always kept in her heart for him, all that still yet remains in her heart is the warmth of him, the strength of him. Everything about him that makes her happy, that makes her whole.

Before she can say another word, before he thinks to speak again, he draws her into his arms. Two long, cold, lonely years he's spent without her, without knowing the warmth of her skin against his. This moment he's imagined hundreds, if not thousands of times, but no dream could ever compare to what he felt right then with her so truly in his arms. "I was lost," he breathes against her head, the familiar scent of rosewater still clings to her hair. The realization brings a soft smile to his face. "But you guided me home." She's drawing back, blue eyes finding gray, her rosy lips curving with the most beautiful of smiles. In the golden firelight, she is radiant.

It takes only a moment more for his lips to find hers and in that moment, her world begins to spin again.

#jonsa #actuallyjonsa #jon x sansa #my writing #i wrote this #tbh i found this in my drafts #i only wrote the last like 2.5 paragraphs lol

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mrsunderhill678 · 3 years

Text

Hehe, more writing

“Not all darkness equates to tragedy, just look at the night sky. Despite it's darkness, it's still beautiful, and isn't it the same with us?" - Romena Sunfritz

“That's all war is. A twisted blood sport for the powerful to watch, is that all we fucking are, huh? A God damn spectacle? There's thousands dead on either side, soil so stained with blood it ain't ever washing clean of that crimson, but you claim this is for a good cause? To hell with that, to hell with the country, to hell with you, and to hell with me. Damn, us, all.” - William Phoenix

“The world is quiet but even violence goes by softly spoken.” - William Phoenix

“I was eluded by the dark, wrought with passion and addiction, I danced within the illusion of love, lost within a resplendent delusion. And oh, now, here I stand, my heart aggrandized by the dark, swindled into the illusion that this is my purpose, my destiny.” - Alden Delafontaine

“Am I sick, or am I twisted? For I am starting to believe there is no cure, and I am simply twisted in nature.” - Alden Delafontaine

“This world isn't fucking cold, dude, we're just turning our backs to the flame.” -- Rocky Bellot

“I used to say, I'd light a match, just to feel the fucking flame, that I was Pinocchio, rotting in the shop, but perhaps, now, I'm Jipedo, and I can breathe life into me, and fix this rotting boy of wood.” - Brad Collins

“I've tried so desperately to scrub myself clean, I've spent hours at the stream, rubbing at my hands yet still they remain stained. With tragedy, with pain.... With me. Perhaps I am the stain.” - Turner Kordell

“The scariest thing of all isn't being scared of other people, it's being so terribly frightened by yourself that even if the mirror isn't broken, you are.” - Turner Kordell

“If my past were tangible, it would bleed me dry the moment I ran my hand across it, so wickedly sharp that I never stood a chance, really. I can forgive myself all I like, but at the end of the day, it isn't about me, it never was.” - Turner Kordell

“I have been destroyed down to my very atoms, nothing but the molecular level of what I once was, but here I am, still standing, cause I ain't in this life to back down, I'm here to rise up, and stay strong in the face of my damn fear.” - Kirby Bellot

“When I'm done, I can look the devil in her pretty blue eyes and say, I did good nuff, and she'll embrace me with open arms, cause these days, the devil leans back, admires my work, and bites her damn lip, cause I've sinned so deeply ain't even the most forgiving of beings can forgive me. I am a testament to the fact that even good men, can go rotten, just ask the devil, cause all she ever did, was tell the truth. And I'm proof of that.” - Zafavri Holts

“We're all playin' a game 'a chess with our demons, mate, we're all in a back and forth battle against our darker fuckin' side, difference between me, and the average man, is my demons said checkmate the day I was bloody born.” - Alfonso O’Sullivan

“I am beauty in the ugliest of ways.” - Micah Romiro

“They say killing a man fundamentally changes a man, and that's true so long as it's yourself you're killing.” - Micah Romiro

“It's me who made this mess, the genocide of my own self, the slaughter of my own sense of being.” - Max Shaya

“I often wonder if God keeps me alive only because she fears what I would do to her.” - Howl Matthews

“I have danced with such sin that I am the crawling of God's skin.” - Howl Matthews

“I do not fear death, I do not fear life, or the punishment I shall receive for mine.” - Howl Matthews

“My whole damn life around me burned and now I can just hear the fucking silence of my regret.” - Milos Fellwitz

“I have found peace in who I am, I am prepared to burn for what I've done, for everything I love already fucking did.” - Milos Fellwitz

“So come on world, come at me, I'll break you down to my level, cause you already broke me.” - Milos Fellwitz

“Stand up to me, we'll see where it gets ya, cause buddy, you can start this fight, but you sure as FUCK, ain't gonna be the one to God damn finish it. You want a grave? Good. Stand up to me and I'll grant your wish.” - Milos Fellwitz

“I am no longer tethered to me, I am nothing more than a conscience in another body, a reflection of someone else. In these many lives I've lived I've forgotten who I was, Preston Wilkins, the walking grave.” - Preston Wilkins

“I have made grand discoveries in this life, beasts do indeed roam this world, and you'll be surprised to learn we aren't the worst of them. There are things darker than the shadows in this world. Things more tenebrous than the pitch black of the nebula.” - Preston Wilkins

“I am dead to me, a grave now to even myself.” - Mikaelson Graves

“The only time I feel truly alive is when I can dance under the torchlight... The flame flickering on my skin, the moonlight dancing on me, it's as if Heilgravold is spinning only for me on those nights... The stars shine, the moon gleams, the world spins, I can't just stand still.” - Jemalina Night

“I have lived a life I fear will end in damnation, but I cannot truthfully look God in the eye and say I had no justification for what I've done.” - Adam Borwick

“We are inclined to believe that everything beautiful is good, but even the damned can look of salvation. The scariest thing about a liar, is they're often indistinguishable from the truth tellers, and often I've found they pretend to be prophets. They speak lies as others breathe, lies fall off their tongue like truth, and just like that, a thousand fools are lured into lies. Great minds think alike, my friend, but fools' minds rarely differ.” - Adam Borwick

“My hands are a fretwork of white laced scars, healed remnants of the pain I've felt, reminders that I've survived, that I'm alive.” - Juliet Borwick

“My brother often thinks himself a hopeless case, afraid of the blood he's spilled... But despite everything he's done, he's still my hero, and I know that if the wolves surrounded me, with their gnashing teeth and claws, he'd come to my rescue, frightening the beasts with poetry singing of clashing steel and red.” - Juliet Borwick

“The sun ain't gon' rise... At least, heh, not for you.” - Defforest Van Patten

“I have watched bullets soar through the air, droppin' soldiers and bloomin' flowers 'a red misery.” - Defforest Van Patten

“I will face this Goliath in my future as if I was David, slinging the fucking stone.” - Lockman Pierce

“ I will drag this dark into the dawn and make it Icarus, only difference is, it burns for a cause more grand than itself.” - Percy Pierce

“I'd rather go up in flames then down the wrong side of history.” - Percy Pierce

“My hands are stained with blood, and truthfully, I don't know if it's my own or my conscience's... In this dark place my mind rattles, constantly ricocheting between myself and another... My mind speaks from the tongue of my abuser.” - Dylan Robertson

“I'm just another man riddled with bullets, watching as all the King's horses and all the King's men simply step over me. This was war, but it became tragedy, as all wars do. Bullets flew, prophets spoke, but the blood was never prose, just red.” - Dylan Robertson

“All it takes to be a good man is to love and be loved, to give what you can and help those less fortunate than you. Even a smile can save a life. I reckon our hearts are suns waitin' to rise, and all it takes is a spark, really. Of love, of joy, even of curiosity. I've found when times are hard, ya don't got to look forward to what life may bring, just curious enough to explore the path God has given you.” - Thornton May

“I am silk, woven from the finest of horrors.” - Dr. Tobias Emory

“I have watched humanity build themselves a grave over these many years, from the days of the lawless West to the stabbing of Julius Caesar, funny, how knives find backs and ours found the world's.” - Dr. Tobias Emory

“I am poetry, a dark entity captured in the paintings of Van Gogh and the prose of Allen Poe.” - Dr. Tobias Emory

“You hold a secret for long enough, you become one.” - Changreta Alderbright

“My regret is so softly whispered that I imagine I am simply the who shouting only for Horton to hear.” - Changreta Alderbright

“I am lost, my eyelids heavy and bloodshot, projecting the horrors I can't scratch out, and despite how much I've torn, there's no key behind those fuckers.” - Arnaldus Alswith

“In a kingdom where the gifts the gods bestowed upon us is outlawed, punishable by death, what else are we supposed to do but rebel?” - Faylen Osophine

“I'm a shadow, wearing a crown as if it would save me, but instead I am crushed under it's weight, a stain on my engraved tile floor.” - Jalandar Osophine

“This battle, this revolution of me, was never meant to be easy, I've fought against myself for decades, and I'm proud to say, not a single corpse of me fell, and flowers bloomed from the bullets fired.” - Georgia Graves

“I am a heartless beast washed in the blood of the lamb by force. God spares me, because I've pulled the wool over his eyes. I am Jacob, pulling a coat over my barren arms and telling Issac I am Easu if only to receive a blessing a doth not fucking deserve.” - Abdalla Calico

“This war against myself is too much to bear, how did I manage to become the hunter, the deer, and the bullet piercing my own damn skull?” - Abdalla Calico

“So oh lord, I am washed in the blood of the lamb, but be weary, for that's only because I slit it's throat.” - Abdalla Calico

“I say, it's time the outcasts wrote the fucking history books. The victors write their own version of history, so I say it's time someone told the damn truth.” - Sluzmink Jones

“I ain't askin' to be forgiven, just spared.” - Regan Locke

“On the inside, I am dyin', bullet holes and old wounds etched on the inside, and yet, on the outside, I ain't even bleedin. It's funny how that works, huh? We all die before we ever reach the damn casket, all it takes is a single bad day, so imagine a life of em.” - Regan Locke

“Bleeding from one's soul is the truest form of self.” - Azophine Bane

“My heart sings a battered melody, but even a lute of few strings can play a chord.” - Brilista Shante

“I often damn myself for others have damned me.” - Brilista Shante

“I fear I am the judgment of others, I fear I am every person I've ever met and every crime I've ever committed. But maybe, that's because in a world that hates you for your birth, I'm scared to exist, when my existence is damned.” - Brilista Shante

“Who said gluttony came in the form of food? We can wolf down sins just as we would a meal on a silver platter, and I'm just as greedy as the rest of ya if not more.” - Harold Stout

“I have fed myself so full that I can hardly walk without the crushin' weight 'a my sacrilege buryin' me six foot undah.” - Harold Stout

“I am starved yet gorged with sin.” - Harold Stout

“Am I really to stumble through the dark, finding cliff-sides rather than solid ground?” - Gothel Hendricks

“My tongue is scarred and bleeding from the lies of affection, my lips are burned with the taste of abusive love.” - Gothel Hendricks

“Life can be tough as all hell, it can shove us in the dirt and then some, but all you gotta do to survive, is get back up. The worst thing a man can do, is stay down.” - Salary Holmes

“Mercy, my dearest of friends, is torture after you are broken, so I wouldn't go praising a man for sparing you. He's spared you of death, not the pain he wishes to cause you.” - Cyrus Hollow

#Writing #OneLiners #Writer

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missbrightsky · 4 years

Text

I didn’t know where else to go

Fics Masterlist

Chapter 4: Feyre

Prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick

Only by chanting that word over and over again in my head did I manage to make it home to change and then to the precinct without grinding my teeth too hard. I was late to work, beat to hell, and oh, had just slept with the guy I was trying to arrest and am now secretly working with him. Lucien is going to have a fucking field day.

But he can’t know anything about the past 24 hours, I reminded myself, resolving to lie my ass off. My jaw instinctively tightened, pulling the sore muscles which caused me to wince and make it hurt even more. Stupid thugs.

I spared a minute back in Rhysand’s home to look over my injuries from the night before. Dark bruises covered most of my torso but no broken ribs, at least. My face was a mottled canvas of greens and blues and blacks with a laceration on my hairline. How the hell I had managed to have the best sex of my life while this injured… blame it on the alcohol. Along with all my other decisions, I guess. The hangover didn’t help my state either, but Rhys’s packed breakfast of bacon and toast soaked up some of the acid in my stomach.

Prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick prick

Finally, the precinct came into view. Simple black letters on white background indicated the entrance.

Velaris City Police Precinct No. 12

The towering brick building housed my coworkers and I, along with countless generations before us.

Let’s get this over with. I pushed in the glass doors, shooting a small wave to the front desk, hoping they were too busy to notice my bruised face.

The rickety ride up the elevator to the third floor was a comforting familiarity, the tang of sweat and metal stinging my nose. Too soon, the door opened to the bustling room, officer buzzing about on their daily grind. A flash of red caught the sunlight from the far end. Lucien was spinning around in his chair.

Someone is bored without me.

Pushing through the gate, I avoided casting my usual hellos in a vain attempt to slip by unnoticed. It almost worked until a booming voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Detective Archeron, why are you almost two hours late?”

Shit

I slowly turned towards the source, keeping my head low. “Sorry, Captain Cartana,” I said, “I had a rough night. I’ll stay late today to make up for it.” Please let me go, please let me go, please let me—

“What happened to you face?” the words were soft, compassionate, worried. Helion Cartana could be a harsh captain but he genuinely cared for the well-being of his staff.

I braved a look up into his face, gaging the emotions there. Frustration at my tardiness was fading into a quiet rage. Not at me, but for who presumably did this to me. His amber eyes turned molten, making my fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush and capture their unholy violence.

“Ah...,” my mind scrambling. Truth or lie, lie or truth. Both. “I was on my way home from grabbing a drink and three men got the jump on me. Bunch of jackasses who got off on beating someone up. Didn’t even make it worth my while by trying to steal my phone or wallet.” The shallow attempt at humor fell flat when it failed to dispel Helion’s rage.

Most of the floor had fallen silent at this point, monitoring the captain, ready to jump into action if he ordered it.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” his voice was still soft, his finger hovering near my shoulder.

I straightened my spine and met his eyes with quiet steel of my own. “No, it looks worse than it actually is,” only a tiny lie, I was stiffer than I wanted to admit.

“I want the report on my desk in an hour,” and that was it. He strode back to his office, barking orders to get back to work.

I didn’t meet any of the eyes that were still staring at me, I didn’t want to see the pity that might be there. I didn’t deserve it.

“I rescind my texts about the hot date,” Lucien appeared at my right, taking in my appearance. “Why didn’t you call me?”

I blew out a breath, “Because I’m a proud bitch and didn’t want to bother you. Like I said, it looks worse than it is,” I made the brush past him, but his hand lashed out and gripped my elbow. I winced at the force and then inwardly cursed at the show of pain.

“Liar,” he hissed, pissed that I would try to pull the wool over his eyes. He was always too good at telling when someone was lying. Great for being a detective but shit when you needed to hide things from your friend.

I shot a glare at him and he let my elbow go. I hadn’t fooled him, but we had other matters to attend to right now. His answering glare meant that I was going to get hell from him later.

I settled into my chair and started pulling up files. On top of the Veritas Crime Syndicate, I had my usual cases of homicide, burglaries, hit and runs, and other assorted goodies. I put the file on Veritas to the side, not even wanting to think about them at the moment, even with more information to chew on now.

Might as well fill out my attack report for the captain now. The basic form was an easy way to settle into the workday and allowed me to get my story straight before any more pressing questions came my way.

I went to a bar that was a few blocks from my house, got a drink, and when I exited, there were three men that I wasn’t able to make out that jumped me and beat me. The lie was believable enough because my apartment was in a seedier part of town, the best I could afford on a detective’s salary while also feeding my painting habit.

I could feel Lucien’s eyes burning a hole in my forehead, but I diligently ignored him, focusing on the screen in front of me.

When it was done and believably passable, I printed it off and knocked on Helion’s doorframe.

“Captain?”

He motioned for me to come in and place the paper on his desk. I remained standing, waiting for his dismissal.

He looked over the form, frowning at what was probably my lack of caution and inability to identify the men. Cases like these were becoming more common. Darkness made men bold, making it easy for them to cower behind its cover. Gang and criminal activity seemed to be on the rise, frustrating precincts all over the city and forcing the police to start pulling more overtime shifts to compensate.

Maybe this is because of Amarantha setting her eyes on my city. Icy rage began to sluice through my body at the thought. I would have to ask Rhys if her presence also encouraged more criminal activity.

The captain looked up, again taking in my injuries and how I held myself. One sleek eyebrow raised, starting to not believe my lie about not needing the hospital.

“And you’re sure you didn’t see their faces?” he asked.

“No, sir. It was too dark, and they were too quick. I…,” shit, might as well, “I may have had more than one drink, sir,” wincing at the words.

He only nodded, maybe a slight amount of judgment peeking through. “Very well, investigate as you see necessary.” He looked down at the reports on his desk, a clear dismissal.

Now to pass the next hurdle. Lucien will not be as easy to convince.

Once at my desk again, I started sifting through the new cases on my desk, sorting them by importance, and marking any that might be a lead into Veritas by pure habit. Lucien was doing the same at his desk across from me, making a point to ignore me.

“Sorry I couldn’t grab you a white mocha,” I tested out, looking for a way to break the tension. His amber eyes met mine. Cool anger regarded me for a moment, as if he was deciding to either let it go or press on.

I guess my bruised state gave him an inch of pity and a small smile slipped through his mask. “It’s tragic but I think I’ll live.” I returned his smile, glad that he wasn’t completely upset with my lie.

My phone buzzed, drawing my attention away from Lucien’s forgiveness.

Prick: Should I assume your bloody shirt is forfeit and throw it away or do you want it back?

My jaw tightened at the message that flashed on my screen, causing more pain to ripple through my face. I just wasn’t learning my lesson about that, was I?

Darling: What. The fuck.

Prick: Personally, I would like to keep it as a reminder of the time you showed up on my doorstep begging for my help.

Darling: First of all, I wasn’t begging. Second of all, how the fuck did your number end up in my phone.

Prick: I put it in when you were passed out on my couch. Thought it might be useful for instances like this.

Prick: I guess you’re right that you weren’t begging, that came later ;)

I am going to kill him the next time I see him, the thought burned through my mind. I schooled my features into forced neutrality. I was already up shit creek and didn’t need Lucien asking about who I was texting that was making me see red.

I decided to ignore his flirting, already resolved to never make that mistake again.

Darling: Burn it, I don’t need any reminders from last night.

A bit harsh but I needed to get it through his thick handsome skull that last night was never going to happen again.

Prick: I think I’ll keep it then, if you care so little for it.

Darling: Fine.

I thought that was the end of the conversation, about to toss my phone in my bag and try to salvage the rest of my workday. Another text came through just before I tucked it away.

Prick: The actual reason I’m texting is that I wanted to invite you to dinner. If you’re going to help me stop Amarantha, I need you to meet the rest of my family.

The message caused me to pause, a war igniting in my mind. He was right about me needing to meet the others, they could be useful assets. But I also didn’t want to have any contact that was more than necessary.

Prick: Feel free to say no, but I think you’ll hurt Mor’s feelings.

I typed out several messages, each longer than the last and filled with questions before settling for short and simple. The time for questions would be later.

Darling: When and where? Not public.

Prick: My place, tomorrow night, 7:30

Darling: I’ll be there.

And just because I couldn’t resist, damn him.

Darling: I’m not changing your name in my phone.

Prick: I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For a minute after that text, his bubbles popped up and down, like he was debating if he wanted to send a follow-up. I inwardly smirked at his indecision; it was nice to know that he wasn’t completely infallible.

Prick: Do you want to know what your name is in mine?

This was getting dangerously close to flirting territory, damn him twice.

Darling: Detective? Bitch? Feyre?

His response wasn’t immediate, and I had almost given up and gone back to work when it popped up.

Prick: Darling

I stifled a groan and finally tossed my phone away, done with hearing his midnight voice in my head. He can interpret my lack of response any way he wants to, I have actual work to do.

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #feyre #rhysand #rhys #feyre x rhysand #sarah j maas #sjm #fanfic

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iced-coffee-and-imagines · 5 years

Text

Randolph von Bergliez/f!Reader - Empire’s Call

"When the day shall come that we do part," he said softly, and turned to look at me, "if my last words are not 'I love you'-ye'll ken it was because I didna have time." ~Diana Gabaldon, Outlander

~---~---~---~---~

Buckles clinked softly as you adjusted the leather straps on your husband’s pauldron, securing it to his harness and over his cloak. The polished, ruddy steel glinted against the early morning sunlight streaming through the large windows. You toyed with the tassels adorning his right shoulder once you finished, your gaze remaining fixed on his chest. The weight of your heart crushed against your lungs, the lump of emotion in your throat nearly suffocating. Biting it back, your other hand dropped to his forearm, idly tracing the edge of his vambrace. You knew he had to leave, to answer his country’s call, Her Majesty’s order. The summons had arrived yesterday morning: he was to ride to Enbarr on the morrow for an undisclosed amount of time. You dreaded the thought of what lay ahead; surely, the Empire was not preparing for war. But, as long as your hands lingered, he was there, alive and well and unscathed.

Randolph studied you silently, soft red eyes taking in whatever he could, while he could. Your expression broke his heart, features forced into neutrality, but unmet gaze betraying; a vain attempt, beloved. It was more for his sake than yours, he knew, and for that reason he never questioned. The letter had surprised you both; the Emperor’s plans were not foreign to him, but for her to act so quickly...

He did not miss the movement of your throat as you swallowed whatever sorrow crept, nor did the small motions of your fingers against his armor escape him. He shifted slowly, gauntlet-covered hands hovering just over the curve of your hips. Gaze lowering in attempt to find yours, Randolph stepped closer, the side of one sabaton brushing against your bare foot. His cuirass skimmed your chest with each breath.

Your hands had long since stilled, right hand resting in the crook of his elbow, left against his shoulder. His hands settled on your waist, grounding, real. He stooped, his nose brushing against yours, russet eyes a silent plea. You tipped your head forward, your brow meeting his as your gaze fell to the floor beneath you. Your hands sought purchase in the sleeves of his tunic, the chocolate wool of Adrestia’s winter uniforms soft and sturdy. Like porcelain, your resolve started to crack, breath shallowing, eyes warm with the beginnings of tears; looking your husband in the eye so close to his departure—for what purpose you had no clue—was dangerous. You had been through his deployments before, yes, each harder than the one previous; but this one felt different, off.

Randolph gently pulled your shorter frame flush to his, keeping his forehead pressed against yours. His armor chilled you through your chemise and peignoir, a sharp inhale escaping as a shiver coursed through you. He rubbed your waist in apology, ghosting his hands up your sides, over your arms and shoulders, before cradling either side of your face. The dark leather was warm against your skin as he tenderly tilted your head up.

He breathed your name like a prayer, unadulterated reverence effortlessly falling from him. You hitched, breath and heart faltering as your hands moved to clutch his wrists, anything to keep him close. Tears blurred your vision, barely clinging to your lashes. He stroked your cheeks, his tone adoring, elegiac, a command wrapped in silk, “Look at me.”

Whether it was out of obedience or simply because it was him, you would never know. Slowly, you brought your gaze to his, those intense redwood eyes that were always so gentle, so loving toward you. You choked back a soft sob, the tang of dolour thick in your mouth. You felt the leather grip brush under your eyes, taking with it the slightest hint of moisture; tears, it hit you, you were crying.

Randolph’s movements were careful in an effort to avoid cutting you on the edge of his gauntlet. This. This was the hardest part of leaving. To see his darling, his wife, so shattered broke parts of his soul he never knew existed until he found love. He needed to leave soon, if he was to make it to Enbarr before evening. But to leave you like this, he could not; goddess damn his heart if he did.

He pressed closer still, the bridge of his nose meeting your cheek. Your hands moved, settling weakly on his jaw and neck as you pushed back, ignoring the ridges of his breastplate against your front. Your voice sounded foreign in your ears, soft and brittle, “Please don’t leave.”

He brushed his nose against yours, straightening to kiss your brow before meeting your eyes again. His right hand trailed over your shoulder and back, resting firmly in the small of it; the other remained on your cheek, cradling it. The ash blond’s smile was sad, forced, “If I had the choice, beloved, I wouldn’t.”

Your thumbs dragged languidly over his broad jawline. You craned your neck as you leaned into him, his hold on your waist tightening. Your gaze softened, exhaustion seeping in. Swallowing the thickness in your throat, you spoke, “How long will you be gone?”

Letting his other hand fall to your back, Randolph sighed. He averted his gaze, leather-covered fingertips tracing along your spine. “I don’t know, unfortunately.” Noting your crestfallen expression out of the corner of his eye, he continued, “But, I shouldn’t be away long; a moon and a half at most, I’d wager.”

Your shoulders dropped. Wrapping your arms around his back, you leaned your cheek against his cuirass, the steady thrum of his heart hidden behind plate. His embrace—safe, secure—had always been a place of respite once you began your relationship in earnest. You felt his left arm envelop your shoulders, the other staying snugly around your waist, holding you fast against the general.

Randolph let his gaze wander over your head to the large windows on the opposite side of the chamber. Bergliez was truly a beautiful territory, nothing but expanses of fields and pastures for miles, a few villages scattered here and there. It smelled of fresh grains and flours, always; the people were kind, happy, grateful to the ruling family. Though not the house of his birth, it was home. If the war were to find it, to find his loved ones, well... He preferred not to dwell on such thoughts.

His eyes fell to you, tucked against him as though he were a lifeline. At some point, the hand at your shoulder had begun to trace patterns, leather sliding easily over the silk that covered you. The lives of those on the home front was not easy, that he knew well; countless nights had been spent discussing “what if’s” and easing the other’s worries, oft through tears. That won’t happen; I’ll come back to you; I promise—all common phrases that only the stars bore witness to. Silver weighed heavy on his finger, the band a constant reminder of oaths he did not know if he could keep. This deployment was not like the others; in three day’s time, he would be marching to Garreg Mach at the Emperor’s whim, her hope to topple the church in a blitzkrieg. Should they fail, the continent would be plunged into conflict, fire, and bloodshed. War was cruel, vicious, heedless of the lives it took in its rampage; he had no idea if he would return at all. The thought gripped his heart and throat like a vice, a sickening chill left in its wake.

His left hand found your face again, tilting your chin up to meet his ruddy eyes. Though your tears had stopped, the melancholy of acceptance in your gaze did not seem much better. The gentle smile that crossed your face was sad, but nothing short of adoring. You would wait for him, counting the hours until he held you again. You trusted him fully, knowing he would do everything in his power to return home. His chest ached. Goddess, what did he do to deserve you?

Randolph held you steady by your waist as he guided you onto your toes, stooping to meet you halfway. He kissed you softly, sweetly, one of your hands raising to cup his cheek, the other finding purchase on the junction of his neck and shoulder. It was meant to be a chaste farewell between a husband and wife; but as contact mutually deepened, it became far more: “I’ll be home soon” changed to “I may not return”; tenderness fell to desperation; hope shattered to fear. Masks crumbled, leaving two haunted lovers in their wake.

Both of you were breathless as you pulled apart, a slight saltiness lingering on your mouths; though whose tears they were neither of you could tell. You felt every divot and rise of his armor against your chest, his belt pushing against your stomach. However uncomfortable, it was proof that he was alive.

He pressed his forehead to yours, thumb stroking your cheek. He would fight a thousand wars if it meant keeping you safe. “I love you.”

Your eyes opened to find his, soft but piercing and all too unsure for so confident a man. Losing him would kill you. “I love you too.”

A sharp rap on the chamber door startled you both, heads turning. Upon hearing Randolph’s confirmation, an older servant opened the door halfway. “Forgive my intrusion, my lord and lady. Lord Bergliez, your horse is prepared. Shall there be anything else before you depart?”

The general, cheerful demeanor rebounding, simply smiled, “No, my friend. That would be all. Thank you.” Upon hearing the click of the door shutting, he sighed, expression faltering as his head turned to the large battle axe against the rack. He walked over and attached the sheath to his harness before picking the silver weapon up, brandishing it before holstering it behind him. He ran a gauntleted hand through his sandy blond hair, his attention falling to you. “Well,” he chuckled dryly, “it appears it’s time for us to part, my darling.”

You clasped your hands in front of you, bare feet padding softly against the floor as you moved to stand in front of your husband again. Grasping the collar of his cloak, you stood on your toes and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. As you returned weight to your heels, he caught your left hand, kissing the inside of your ring finger, and with it your wedding band, softly, reassuringly.

You smiled, right hand grazing his cheek, “Stay safe, my love.”

The undercurrent of worry in your tone was not lost to him, no matter how well you tried to hide it. He smiled in return, baritone airy, “I’ll try my best.” A laugh rose in him at your furrowed brow, Honestly, Randolph? “I will. I swear it. When have you ever known me not to be careful?”

You did laugh at that. “Many times, if Fleche’s stories and patching you up myself are anything to go by.” Your voice softened, “Write to me.”

He hummed, “As soon as I may, as often as I can.” He kissed your forehead once more before releasing you, stepping away and toward the door. “I love you, with everything I am.” Goddess, did he cherish you.

“I love you too.” Goddess, protect him.

The easy smile not leaving his face, he opened the door and departed, unsure of the future but swearing to return.

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sassycompanions · 4 years

Video

youtube

When dreams ooze out of Reality When the moon phase changes I come out of the shadow on the wall, Cheerful and wicked When my eyes light up with green And mirrors exude poison I put ten streets in a row Following you

Your soul is in my hands Freezes like a mouse in cat paws Among the fog you won't recognize me And for years and centuries You'll forget the taste and colors and smells Of everything that is in the interweaving of days

You are sleeping and watching me in your dream I'm just a shadow on the wall for you It's so unwise for you and me To not believe in the power of paths When I was dead you were so glad You thought I won't ever come back But I sneaked out of a crack between the lines I picked this world like a rusty lock I never loved to bewitch, but I couldn’t do otherwise

When a rolled wool will become a stone Then vengeance will thicken in my blood And you’ll get bad news From winds and birds But you are a Master of Water and Grass You won't touch my head And I’ll fly in the plumage of an owl Not seeing any limits

Leaving you to remember How you burned and hung me Child of Anem* was dying laughing And I'll come back to you just to say: "You're so sinful to me So let's redeem at least a little part"

You are sleeping and watching me in your dream I'm just a shadow on the wall for you I hide in the air and moonlight Flying like a thin leaf And I don't feel sorry for you Steel is boiling in my blood Passion and vice are grinning in my soul And pain is dancing like a flock of motley magpies I never loved to resurrect, but I couldn’t do otherwise

When we stay together Not believing in me is your salvation But we'll sing a duet Funeral prayer for you Recognize me by these shining eyes 'Cause you killed me more than once But time will make us meet again In my witchcraft

A carnival of fallen leaves A sword is smiling carelessly Child of Anem forgives no offenses You're in my trap Your retribution is inevitable You know that, so you'll be killed

You are sleeping and watching me in your dream I'm just a shadow on the wall for you It's time to go outside So come out on the threshold Killing me hundreds of times You won't escape your death now 'Cause you're tired of anger and you're cold of fright So I'll give you one last lesson: I never loved killing, but I couldn’t do otherwise

I never loved to bewitch I never loved to resurrect I never loved to kill I never loved But I couldn’t do otherwise ___________________

*Anem — a character from series of fantasy novels "Reflections of Eterna" by Vera Kamsha, God of Wind, one of four divine brothers who created a world Kertiana

#music #канцлер ги #the vibes

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lywinis · 5 years

Note

12 for Apprentice/Julian 👀

Prompt Me | AO3

"Pasha's invited us to ring in the new year," Julian said, carefully. Oswin grunted, making Julian's head shift where it was pillowed against the solid muscle that was his stomach. It was a grunt Julian had come to recognize as 'I've heard you say something, but I need to finish this before I can address it.'

Reasonable, since he was currently engrossed in a text on esoteric sigils, one that looked more like it was written by spiders that had dipped their webs in ink and strewn them across the page rather than any language Julian knew.

They both had those cues, and spending as much time together as they did, it was easy and almost natural to pick up on them.

Julian sometimes had to wonder if that habit was something they'd done before. With the knowledge that they'd been acquainted before, had perhaps even been involved...it was slow going sometimes, digging up a sudden, painful memory like sea glass that hadn't quite been worn down by the press of the waves.

Oswin, on the outside, had always seemed a cheerful, if quiet sort. Knowing him better, Julian had seen the fire beneath, and the steel of his will made manifest. It wasn't every day one's sweetheart went up against the Devil for you.

Oswin lowered his hand to Julian's hair, making him hum in appreciation as the other carded it through thick, red strands. The apprentice's hands were large, topping even Julian's long fingers by almost a knuckle, but they were deft, and so clever. Julian's eyes slipped closed, and were he a cat, he'd be purring. There was something entirely thrilling about having a person whose hands could likely wrap around the back of your skull and crush it, but he was unfailingly gentle.

It was a dichotomy that Julian could appreciate.

"We have the engagement at the palace," Oswin said, marking the page with one large finger. "Nadia requested our presence, and Portia's."

He knew, of course, but Oswin was their record-keeper, their appointment setter, their coordinator. He knew to the date what they were doing for the next three months, and running two shops together and making sure deliveries ran on time for Julian's clinic as well as for his own practices made Oswin a walking calendar. Perfectly practical, in every way.

Julian didn't envy that kind of mental dexterity; his talents lay elsewhere.

Such as giving a frown and watching Oswin's grey eyes soften, the dark circles beneath them more genetics than lack of sleep these days. Their nightmares were fewer and farther between now; the Devil's ensnarement had cleared up a good portion of their night terrors.

Oswin tugged a little of Julian's hair, winding the red around his finger and then releasing it to watch it curl against the doctor's cheek.

"When does she want to do this?" he asked. A compromise, a meeting of the minds. Hardly steel unbending, because even steel had its breaking point. Julian felt affection warm in his chest.

"The actual night," Julian said. "Nadia's party is in the evening, but I have no doubt we can slip away and make our apologies."

"Or we could just talk to Nadia," Oswin said, with a raise of his dark brows, as though the thought had just occurred to him. The sarcasm, thick and heavy in his voice, belied that illusion, though. "Remember how we've had this conversation, about talking to people? Communicating our needs?"

"You're no fun," Julian said, pressing his face into Oswin's stomach, hiding his smile. "You get your hands on one psychology book and you're a terror."

"Someone has to counteract your bouts of emotional constipation," Oswin countered, fetching his bookmark from the side table as Julian gaped at him, offended. "Besides, you just want to ask forgiveness rather than permission."

"Well, yes, I have a reputation to maintain," Julian sniffed. He hadn't moved from his place, smooshed against Oswin's side, warm and tangled, but now it seemed like Oswin was restless, and he made a noise of censure when the apprentice shifted.

"You can't be a rake and in a committed relationship, Julian. That's not how that works." Oswin gave a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound melting Julian further into his partner's side. "Mysterious Doctor Julian Devorak, who returned and proved his own innocence, beat the Devil at his own game, and no one can really agree on how he did it. That should be enough to keep you going for at least the next decade."

Julian snorted. "You could always set the record straight."

"No one would believe me. I'm just an apprentice to the Magician Asra." Oswin grinned at him, a crooked thing full of mischief. "Most of them wonder what I possess to keep you beside me."

"What?" Julian asked, thoroughly distracted from his original topic now.

"Well, yes," Oswin said. "I've been remembering more, lately. My parents."

"When was this?" Julian asked, wriggling until he was pillowed on the apprentice's shoulder rather than his stomach, now that the book was away.

"About three or four days ago. I finally remembered what my mother and father did. Sheep. We had a flock, outside Vesuvia, in the hills. We sold the wool in market at the ends of the month. We weren't wealthy but we weren't destitute."

"I never knew," Julian said. His brows pinched, as he sifted through his own admittedly spotty memory. "Or at least, I don't think I did. Are they...?"

"No," Oswin said, picking up on Julian's unfinished question.

"Oh," he said. He felt heavier now, as though something had settled on his chest. "How--"

"Plague," Oswin said. He cast a sharp look at Julian. "And just like me, this was not your fault, Julian. Lucio is the one to blame here. He brought the plague to Vesuvia. You didn't."

Julian sucked a breath between his teeth. "If I'd just--"

"Julian," Oswin said. It wasn't unkind, his tone, and it broke Julian from the circle his thoughts had begun. "They died long before we realized the plague was such a problem. They were a part of the first deaths, where we thought it was just a one-off sickness. Their deaths aren't your fault. None of them are."

"Are you sure?" Julian asked, and Oswin's hand rose to the back of his neck, cradling him.

"My parents fell sick at market," Oswin said. "They'd wanted to avoid the city because of rumors of people falling sick, but the Count demanded a new outfit for the masquerade. So they brought their finer cloths to the palace for him to see. Lucio didn't give a damn about the people that produced the fancy clothes he wore, so long as they kept coming in."

He took a shuddering breath, and Julian pressed his lips to Oswin's forehead.

"Do you miss them?" he asked, hesitant.

"It's still fuzzy." The apprentice rolled the word around in his mouth, as though deciding it were the right one. "My mother cried, I remember, when we discovered I had a talent for magic. She knew that I would leave home."

"And you did?" he asked.

"Shortly before Lucio was made Count." He exhaled, looking up at the ceiling, his thumb drawing a circle on the back of Julian's neck. "I spoke with them whenever they were at the market, and then...they were gone. Some people remembered them, and treated me accordingly, if they held the same apocryphal notions of class."

"That doesn't mean you're unworthy of me, or some-such nonsense," Julian said, after a long moment. "You saved me. You saved all of us."

"We saved each other," Oswin murmured, and Julian felt his chest clench.

"Then we should ring in the new year with Pasha," he said. "I'll talk to Nadia. This is something we need to do. As a family."

Oswin blinked, and Julian realized the apprentice's eyes were wet.

"Oh." It was all the apprentice could muster, and he pulled Julian closer, burying his face against the doctor's hair.

"I can't bring them back," Julian said, against Oswin's neck. "But I can keep their memory alive, with you."

"I'd like that," Oswin said.

Julian found that he would, too.

#lywinis writes #The Arcana #Julian Devorak #The Apprentice #bearfeathers

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alj4890 · 5 years

Text

And Then I Met You

Part 18

What happens when the one you thought you were meant for turns out to be meant for someone else?

A\N Choices Fan Fiction with characters from The Royal Romance, Red Carpet Diaries, and Perfect Match

@alleksa16 @penguininapinktuxedo @blackcoffee85 @stopforamoment @fullbeaumonty @cocomaxley @darley1101 @hopefulmoonobject @krsnlove @littleblossom357 @annekebbphotography @gibbles82 @cora-nova @bella-ca @hopelessromantic1352. @sunflowergirl05 @desiree-0816 @greywitchyshots @lilyofchoices

Masterlist

Part 18

Drake opened his door and was surprised to see Amanda standing there. "Hey. What are you doing here this early?"

"May I come in?" She was almost wringing her hands.

He stepped back, checked the hall for gossipers, and shut the door behind her. "What's wrong?"

She sat down at his desk and motioned toward the decanters that lined a shelf on the wall. "I was wondering if you would mix me a drink. A strong one, please."

"Amanda, it's eight thirty in the morning." Drake sat down across from her and leaned forward. "Talk to me."

She avoided eye contact and began to explain. "I have to face the press this morning and there's a chance Lauren Benefield will be there. I'm quite certain she will show up at the derby. I...I need something to keep me from shaking."

"You never drink the hard stuff."

She bit her lip. "I know. I guess that is why I hope it’s effective."

He reached over and placed his hand on hers. "You aren't going to start drinking in the morning to avoid facing the press."

"I'm not trying to avoid them. I'm trying to get that liquid courage you're always talking about." She looked up at him with a mixture of hurt and anger. "I thought of all people, you would understand and help me."

"Amanda...don't do that!" He quickly grabbed a box of tissues and placed it on her lap when stray tears fell from her eyes. Drake had never been able to handle seeing people cry. He ran his hand down his face. "Does Thomas know you're here?"

"No, I waited until he got into the shower." She delicately blew her nose. "I don't want to upset him."

"But you are more than willing to upset me." He muttered.

"Yes. No! You're not really upset, are you?"

"Me? Upset over one of my friends coming over early in the morning, in secret, for booze like a raging alcoholic? Why would you think that?" Drake finished bitterly.

"I'm sorry. I should have fixed it myself. I couldn't remember what goes well with what and which liquors to avoid this time of day."

"All should be avoided this time of day!" He exclaimed.

She cringed and handed him his tissues. "I'll go. I'm sorry to have disturbed you." Amanda walked over to his door and stopped when he called out her name.

"Are you really going to sneak around and drink something?" With her nod, he reluctantly motioned for her to sit back down. "Let me see what I can come up with."

She plopped down into a cushioned chair and smiled at him. "Thank you. I knew you would help me."

"Yeah, yeah. I doubt this will endear me to your husband. Don't be surprised if he asks you to leave me off guest lists." He began to mix various alcohols and Coco-Cola together, hoping it wouldn't be too strong for her.

"Thomas won’t blame you." She took the glass from him and sniffed it. "Here's to getting through the next couple of hours." She toasted him before tilting her head back to drink.

"Whoa! Small sips!" With eyes wide, he watched her gulp it down in three big swallows.

She grimaced and handed him the glass with nothing but ice cubes left over. "Wooo! That was something." Her voice sounded like her vocal chords had been grated with steel wool. "Thank you." She gave him a quick hug and slipped out of his room.

She opened the door to her room and breathed a sigh of relief when she did not see Thomas. She sat down at the vanity and checked her appearance. She applied some powder to her nose and looked up when he stepped out of the bathroom.

"There you are. I was wondering where you went." He said while tucking in his shirt.

"I had a question for Drake." She tried to keep her leg from shaking.

He leaned down and kissed her. "Have...have you been drinking?"

She should have had vodka and then dodged his kiss. "I might have had a little something."

He narrowed his eyes in concern. "Why? You hardly finish a glass of wine, much less ask for one at sunrise."

"I'm nervous Thomas." She admitted, her cheeks turning a dark red in embarrassment and possibly from the effects of the drink.

Thomas tugged her over to a small couch and sat down beside her. He took her hands and pressed his lips to them. "You have nothing to worry about. I'm not going to let the reporters hound you."

She looked into his eyes and sighed. "I'm nervous about seeing Lauren."

"She might not come." He said, trying to be optimistic for her sake.

"Thomas."

"She most likely will make an appearance for the attention." He stood up and gently tugged her into his arms. His lips tenderly traveled over hers for a few moments. "Everyone will see that they jumped to the wrong conclusions."

Amanda slowly nodded. "I know and I know it won't happen overnight. I didn't want the cameras honing in on my nerves."

"Have you had anything to eat?" He asked.

"No."

His frown deepened. "You can't drink whatever alcoholic concoction Drake fixed for you on an empty stomach and then be outside in the sun."

Amanda raised a trembling hand to her forehead. "I honestly didn't think of that." Now it would be all for nothing. She knew he would not let her get away with winging it. "I'm sure the staff have the dining room ready by now for breakfast."

His frown eased when he saw she wasn't going to fight him on this. Thomas wrapped his arm around her and took her downstairs. “We are going to enjoy the rest of our day once we get past the press."

She forced a smile for his benefit. "Sounds lovely."

After grabbing a plate, Amanda absentmindedly placed a few items on it. She turned and scanned the tables for one of her friends and stiffened when Neville stopped beside her. "Well, well Lady Amanda. I see that you made sure to steal the attention from the true ladies with your little marriage stunt."

"And I see you still pretend you and his majesty are friends." Her plate shook with how tightly she was gripping it.

He turned his icy glare on her. "You have sunk to a new low. I can't believe you had the nerve to show your face this social season after marrying some flash in the pan Hollywood mogul. Did you seriously need that much attention or were you trying to save face if Liam didn't choose you?" He leaned closer, watching her struggle to remain impassive to his insults. "We all know he wouldn't be that foolish. As it has been proven time and time again, no nobleman found you desirable."

Her hazel eyes flashed in anger. "I thank God every single day that I refused your offer for a courtship."

His lip curled in disgust as he looked at her. "I'm eternally grateful there is no chance of you becoming queen." He looked over his shoulder and checked to make sure no one was approaching. "I could never stomach bowing to you." His voice squeaked and he turned wide eyes to Thomas.

From all appearances, it looked like Thomas had a friendly hand on his shoulder. Neville winced when the pressure on the side of his neck became excruciating.

"Apologize and stay away from my wife." Thomas whispered while giving an extra squeeze.

Neville's golden brown eyes glowed with hatred for her while the words burst out. "Forgive me, your grace."

Thomas stepped closer and increased the pressure. "Now, bow respectively."

Neville quickly bowed to her and left the dining room. Amanda stared in shock at Thomas as he gently placed his hand on the small of her back and motioned down the room. "Maxwell and Nadia are over there."

She noticed the huge smiles on their faces at having witnessed Thomas and Neville's encounter. They took the seats across from the couple and began to eat quietly, listening to the excited chatter of their friends.

Maxwell stood up to get another muffin and clapped Thomas affectionately on the back. "Remind me to buy you a drink at the track."

Nadia poured coffee for Thomas, beaming the entire time at him. She looked at Amanda and exclaimed over her dress. "You're wearing red! I just knew you would wear blue for St Orella." Nadia looked down at her own bright blue dress and furrowed her brow.

Amanda smiled at her observation. "Olivia and I switch colors on derby day. She wears a color of blue and I choose something in the red family. It is just a silly superstition of ours. When we switched dresses a few years ago, we won big on a horse we chose. So far, it hasn't failed us yet."

At that moment, Olivia walked in. Her dress was a stunning number of aqua blue. Her eyes found Amanda and she smiled in approval. She walked over and greeted them before going to the buffet. Liam and Riley shortly entered after her with Drake. The latter glanced at Thomas and Amanda and seemed to relax when he saw her eating.

Liam stopped by their table and reminded them to come to his tent for the race. When he noticed the time, he said his goodbyes. "I have to go on ahead of everyone and give a short speech before the Breeder's Association."

Nadia watched him leave, a concerned frown forming on her face. "He really doesn't have a moment to enjoy any of this, does he?"

Maxwell shook his head. "Not at all. The Derby will be his only reprieve before an afternoon of croquet and tea with the suitors." He glanced at his watch. "We should probably get Riley and make our way out. Bertrand wanted to give her some pointers before facing the press." He stood and took Nadia's hand, leaving with promises to see Amanda and Thomas soon.

With the mention of the press, Amanda pushed her plate away. Thomas rested his arm along the back of her chair and rubbed a soothing circle on her back. "Anticipation is always worse."

"I know." She mumbled. Her eyes met his and she kissed his cheek. "We better be on our way too."

When they arrived, reporters were lined up along the entrance speaking to each suitor. Addison and Holly were waiting a few feet away and observed the interviews going on. Their faces were tense when they greeted Thomas and Amanda.

"They're here." Holly warned. "Lauren has already given a brief interview and hinted that she was waiting on you."

Amanda began to laugh. She wiped her eyes while trying to stifle it but shook her head when asked what was so funny. "Life. Mine to be more precise." A few more giggles escaped before she threaded her arm through Thomas' and led him over toward the waiting press.

She smiled happily at the cameras and fielded questions with Thomas. Ana De Luca’s interview led toward more invasive questions. "Lady Amanda? Do you have a statement for the current rumors swirling about Lauren Benefield and your husband."

Thomas stiffened next to her and opened his mouth to only shut it when Amanda calmly spoke. "Like most rumors, only pieces of the truth are used." A light laugh escaped her lips while she shrugged her shoulders. "I find it quite humorous that people believe he has been unfaithful. Nothing could be further from the truth."

Murmurs surrounded them as cameras flashed. Ana narrowed her eyes at Thomas. "Do you have anything to add, my lord?"

"Only that I also find it funny that anyone would think I would ever choose Ms. Benefield over my wife. I understand that given the way some news stories have gone that it could be viewed that way, but..." He looked down at Amanda and smiled adoringly at her. "I'm afraid I couldn't even tell you what color eyes Ms. Benefield has."

Lauren chose that moment to join them. Her gaze hardened at the couple before she flashed her smile at the reporters. "Can anyone honestly believe that this man would choose me over his wife? I would like to state that I have no idea how such a conclusion could come about. Mr. Hunt and I spend a great deal of time together for the film's sake. All our late nights have been strictly...professional." She linked her arm with Thomas' free one and smiled up at him.

Amanda was at a loss of how to react. She forced herself to smile as the questions moved form Liam’s suitors and began about the upcoming movie. Once she saw that attention was no longer on her, she edged away from Thomas and Lauren. Before he could reach out and stop her, Thomas watched her disappear in the crowd. He excused himself and promised interviews once filming began in the midst of walking off. He searched the crowd and spotted her red dress heading further away from the crowd and going behind one of the stables.

He finally caught up and stopped her. "You left me alone back there."

"You weren't alone." She reminded him.

His eyes narrowed. "Don't do that again. It gives the appearance that you can't take being around Lauren."

Amanda glared at him. "Really? And here I thought I wasn't as open in my hatred."

"The questions won't stop until they see that it isn't true. That it doesn't affect us."

"I know this. I'm doing my best." She folded her arms and looked away from him.

"Are you? Because I don't think trying to get drunk early in the morning and then leaving me during an interview is your best."

Amanda started to walk away from him. He grabbed her arm and stopped her. She shook his hand off . "The press had finished their questions about us. I didn't walk off an interview."

His eyebrow raised in disbelief, making her more angry. "Amanda, I know this is hard--"

"Do you? Do you honestly know how hard this is? Not only am I stuck around people I can't stand at court, giving interviews, pretending all is well with one of my closest friends having to suddenly choose a wife in order to be king...I have to also be put directly into the fire for your mistakes. I have to show that I think it is impossible that my very handsome husband could spend endless nights alone with a beautiful, sultry actress and come away as pure as the driven snow."

Thomas stepped back from her ire. "You know nothing happened. If she had remotely tried or insinuated any desire for me, I would have left and never returned."

Amanda looked down at the ground to gather her thoughts. "What if it was reversed?" She pushed her hair back over her shoulder and forced herself to meet his eyes. "What if I was accused of having an affair with a handsome noble, one I spent long hours with every single night? One that continued to twist words to hint at our relationship possibly dipping into sexual terrority. Would you be able to smile and calmly play the part of the happy and contented spouse, knowing that people pitied you for being such a naive fool?"

"I..." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I would struggle." He admitted. "Not with my faith in you, but with my own insecurities."

Amanda's tense muscles began to relax. "Exactly."

"So what do we do now? Are you wanting to forget about the press and trying to right this image they have of us?" Thomas asked.

"No. Of course not. I promised I would fight with you and I will, but there will be times I struggle facing her." She bit her lip and her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I don't know why she has the ability to make me feel like I don't belong with you."

He grabbed her and brought her flush to his body. "We belong together. Lauren has no say or power over our relationship. Each time that thought comes to mind, you look down at your hand. I never asked anyone else to marry me. I could have tried for any actress out there, but I didn't want them. I wanted you. I pursued you. I belong with you and only you."

She wrapped her arms around him and softly kissed his lips. Amanda remained in his embrace for an extra moment before pulling away. "We need to go before you we miss the race." She grinned when he yanked her back for a searing kiss.

Once the race was over, they all returned to the palace. Liam attempted to have a pleasant expression on his face as he left them to play croquet with the queen. Drake, Maxwell, and Nadia watched him along with Thomas and Amanda.

"Liam and Riley really seem to have a connection." Amanda whispered.

Nadia was doing her best to keep her voice down. "I know! After hearing her talk nonstop about Liam, I knew she had to be our suitor."

"I can't get over how much this looks like a reality show." Thomas muttered.

Drake snorted in agreement. "All that is missing is a vase filled with roses to give out to the lucky girls."

"Look at Liam. He hates this." Amanda whispered. They all watched the prince force a smile as the ladies surrounded him. Each complimented him on his amazing croquet prowess.

Thomas shook his head in pity. "I can't imagine what he must be thinking. He does not come across as the type of person who enjoys being the center of attention."

"He isn’t." Maxwell explained. "He would rather remain in the background helping our country, instead of surrounded by gorgeous women."

"Gorgeous women?" Nadia narrowed her eyes at his chosen adjective.

Maxwell quickly reassured her that none compared to her level of beauty. She hmphed but allowed his arms to wrap around her.

"Incoming." Drake muttered.

The Queen and one of the suitors was approaching their group.

"Why is Madeleine coming over?" Amanda hissed.

"Good afternoon." Regina cooly greeted once they had bowed and curtsied. She focused on Thomas. "I was told by His Majesty that the new Duke of St Orella had arrived. Welcome to Cordonia, your grace."

Thomas bowed his head. "Thank you mam."

She took his arm and began to lead him away. "Lady Amanda, excuse us a moment." Her expressionless face turned back to Thomas. "Walk with me, Lord Thomas."

He glanced back at Amanda and received her encouraging smile. "Of course."

Madeleine zeroed in on Amanda. “I need to have a word with you, privately.” She walked off toward an area of the lawn where no one was standing. Amanda followed her, wondering why on earth she was being summoned.

Once they were alone, Madeleine spoke. “You have to change your approach with the press.”

“I beg your pardon.” Amanda muttered in surprise.

“You were too flippant. You must take the questions seriously yet remain steadfast in your belief that nothing happened between that husband of yours and the actress.” Madeleine’s emerald eyes examined Amanda’s face. “That is your goal, right?”

“Yes it is.” Amanda replied. She cocked her head to the side. “Why are you helping me?”

Madeleine rolled her eyes. “It isn’t for you. I merely do not wish any negative publicity for Liam and Cordonia. With his close friendship with you, they are bound to drag him into this scandal. So please, fix this quickly.”

“I will.” Amanda said softly. “Thank you for the advice.”

Madeleine's posture eased. She gave a brief nod and walked away.

Regina began her reasons for walking with Thomas once she saw Madeleine and Amanda talking. “Lord Thomas, I will get right down to the point. Are the rumors true?”

“Not in the slightest.” Thomas responded firmly.

Regina studied him silently. “Good.” She saw Madeleine walking away from Amanda and motioned toward her guards. “Make sure it never becomes so.” She patted his arm and left him standing on his own.

Thomas looked around and saw his wife by herself, frowning at her cell phone. He quickly made his way over to her. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Hmm? No. Nothing I didn’t expect.” She put it away and looked up at him. Her expression softened as she smoothed his collar. “How would you like to get out of here?”

“We are free to go?”

She nodded. “Once the queen departs, we are finished with our noble duties for the day.”

“Good. I was completely out of energy to continue feigning I enjoy croquet.” He smiled when she laughed easily at his teasing. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek. “Shall we make our escape now and find a place to relax, just the two of us?”

“I would love to.” She pressed a quick kiss on his lips before leading him back to the palace.

#choices rcd #choices trr #choices thomas hunt #thomas hunt rcd #thomas hunt x oc #thomas hunt x amanda #trr maxwell #trr drake #trr liam

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fanfoolishness · 5 years

Text

and the steel gleaming

(Hawke almost died dueling the Arishok. Maybe a part of Varric really did.)

***

Funny, for a dwarf with an eye for scene and detail, there was sure a fucking lot he missed that day.

He didn’t hear the cheers, raggedly drawn from the throats of the terrified nobles. He didn’t hear the Qunari terms of peace, laid down in slow methodical words over the Arishok’s corpse. He didn’t hear the footsteps of the people, Qunari and Kirkwaller alike, leaving the chamber.

Instead a ring of words pounded in his head, a steady droning rhythm. Someone had said them forever ago, but Varric still hadn’t managed to parse the meaning. Wasn’t he supposed to be good at wordplay? He couldn’t figure these out, though.

She’ll be all right. She’ll be all right. She’ll be all right.

But how the shit could he believe that when he’d seen the Arishok’s blade run her through?

Varric shuddered, a vicious, whole-body roil that almost ended with him getting sick on the floor. He swallowed his gorge back, sucking in deep gulps of air -- but the air itself seared with the metallic tang of blood, and he gagged again, barely keeping it together.

Think of something else. He glanced back at the Arishok’s crumpled body, forgotten in the far corner where he’d fallen. Someone had covered him with a tapestry, some half-assed attempt at decorum. Varric could still see the old bastard’s horns sticking out from under the woven wool. It made him smirk for a second. That helped.

He looked away from that mess and caught Anders’ eyes. He’d been afraid to look after -- But Blondie crouched on the floor with Hawke’s dog beside him, Min cradled tenderly in his arms. She looked calmed, her cheeks a warm brown once again instead of that drained, terrible paleness they’d worn a few minutes ago. She was still covered in blood and swollen-eyed, but she looked alive again.

Definitely better than the alternative.

“She’ll be all right,” Anders said again, and this time Varric realized it wasn’t his own thoughts repeating the phrase, but the real man. Anders was white-faced, dazed, looking as shaken as Varric. “But we need to get her home. She needs rest.”

“Let me help,” Fenris said, his face settling into a grim, tense mask. “Healing her has nearly killed you as well.”

“You suggested the bloody duel --” Anders began, fire glinting suddenly in his eyes. At his side Molossus whined, sensing danger.

Varric stepped between them, waving arms that felt improbably heavy. He was exhausted, even though he hadn’t been the one dueling. He supposed the events of the past twenty-four hours had finally caught up to him.

The effort it took to speak was surprising. He managed anyway. “And she chose to fight it,” said Varric. “You got a problem? Take it up with her.”

“The dwarf is right, as usual,” Hawke murmured, stirring in Anders’ arms. “It was the only way.” She coughed, blood flecking her lips, and Anders’ focus immediately returned to her and her alone. She blinked owlishly when Anders kissed her on the forehead. “Why do I feel so fucking awful?”

“Come,” said Fenris, his voice softening. “You need to rest, Hawke. As do you, mage.”

“I’ve got her,” said Anders roughly. “Just help me up.”

Varric followed after them, his head swimming, weird patches of detail piercing his fog intermittently. There was Molossus, nosing Hawke’s cheek and woofing gently. Fenris and Anders, each gripping the other’s hand, the shorter elf hauling the gangling mage to his feet. The way Hawke’s arm slung over Anders’ neck with a practiced familiarity. Fenris stopping, bending, carefully collecting Hawke’s daggers from the floor.

The floor. Varric stared at the carpet where Hawke had lain: stared at the wine-dark pool of blood on its surface, redolent of rust and copper. There was so much blood that its sheen reflected flickers of torchlight like an oil slick; so much he could see the heavy curve of it resting atop the carpet, too thick and clotted to soak in.

So much blood, and all of it hers.

***

He tried to sleep. Honestly, he did.

He knew rest would be good for him after the madness of the attack on the city, the horror of what had happened to Hawke. He and Fenris had both retreated from Hawke’s estate to go recover once Hawke and Anders had gotten safely inside. It had sounded good on paper.

But it wasn’t in the cards tonight. Not with snatches of memory jostling in his mind’s eye every time he tried to drift off, flashes crowding out the darkness. Images like blood vessels burst in the whites of Hawke’s eyes, the rattle as she’d tried to breathe before Anders’ magic saved her; images like her mouth open in a wordless scream, the wicked blade running through, and the steel gleaming, gleaming red --

So here he was in Hightown in the gray pre-dawn light, cold and cursing himself and his stupid vivid imagination. She’s fine. Blondie said she’d be fine. It was just that he couldn’t believe it, tossing and turning in the wide bed at the Hanged Man.

Gallingly, the bar had been looted so he couldn’t even drink himself to sleep with Corff’s worst whiskey. The stuff could take down a bronto, it was said, though all Varric had wanted was to knock out one uneasy dwarf.

He shook his head, cursing his luck, then rapped his knuckles against the door of Hawke’s estate. After a few moments the door opened to reveal Bodahn with a lamp in hand. “Well, good night to you, Messere Tethras! Or is it good morning?” He peered outside. “Hard to tell right about now, isn’t it?”

“It’s both way too late to be staying up, and way too early to get out of bed,” said Varric, shrugging. “I hate to bother you right now, Bodahn --”

“But you’re worried about Messere Hawke. Of course, of course. Come on in.” He ushered Varric inside and gave him a sympathetic smile. “We were all so worried about her when we saw the state she was in. Orana wept, and I don’t mind saying I was frightened myself. My boy Sandal was inconsolable until we knew she would be all right. He’s always looked up to her so.”

Varric knew there was a joke in there to be made about dwarves and heights and humans, but he wasn’t in the mood. He simply nodded. “How’s she doing?”

“She did ask for you earlier, now that I recall,” supplied Bodahn. “Perhaps she’s still awake. Messere Anders is with her now. It’s been very hard on him, of course. Why, I couldn’t believe it when he said she fought the Arishok. In single combat? You’ll have to forgive me, I wasn’t expecting Kirkwall to be so -- well, violent! Never thought I’d have to worry about keeping my boy safe from Qunari. And here I thought Ferelden during the Blight was a challenging place to live.”

“Ah, come on, Bodahn. You and I both know Kirkwall’s a shithole,” said Varric mildly. It was simple inescapable fact.

“Now, though, it has its charms,” Bodahn began. He paused for a moment, deep in thought. “It’s got very interesting architecture, for one!”

Varric chuckled, a dry, papery sound that hurt his throat. “You’ve got me there. Interesting’s definitely one word for it.” He considered. “You said she asked for me? Hopefully she’s awake again. I’ll just go on up and say hello, if she’s doing better.”

He took the stairs quickly, hardly noticing his surroundings. He’d only been up here once before, after Leandra, but he knew the way.

“Hello?” he called, heading to the room with the candlelight spilling through the cracked door. He poked his head in to see Anders, bent over the fine four-poster bed, deep in concentration. A faint aura of golden light surrounded him, but it was much dimmer than that of his usual healing state.

“Hallo, Varric,” said Anders, not taking his gaze from the bed. Varric edged inside, noting that Hawke was bundled up in the covers, the only visible part of her a mop of dark tangled hair against a pile of pillows.

Words erupted from his mouth. He tried to temper them, to tamp the sudden rising panic down. “She’s still okay, right?”

“She’s doing better. Though I’m afraid she’s fallen asleep again,” said Anders, straightening up. He looked exhausted, a smear of Hawke’s dried blood on his cheek, his hair at odd angles, rips in his robes. Blondie’d taken a beating in the fight up to the Viscount’s Way, but Varric suspected it was the strain of healing Hawke that had hit him the hardest.

“I thought she was just asking for me,” said Varric, trying to hide his disappointment. She’s all right. Isn’t that enough? He knew the answer, though.

Anders huffed ruefully. “She was, earlier. Something about how you owed her a pint for doing something incredibly stupid.” He gave her a fond, if almost teary, look. “Don’t worry. It’s normal, you see, after healing of this magnitude. She’ll be in and out of a deep sleep for a few days, I predict. I’m sorry if Bodahn got your hopes up.” He sat down heavily in one of the chairs by Hawke’s desk, then nodded at Varric.

Varric settled into the other chair, his feet failing to reach the floor. “Mind if I wait around for a bit? Just in case she comes to again?”

Anders gave him a weak smile. “Of course, Varric.” He leaned over in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “That damned Arishok. Why she thought she could best him in a duel--”

“She did, though.” Got to remember that. Don’t think about what almost happened.

“Watching it was excruciating,” Anders mumbled. “Knowing they would kill her outright if I moved to help her -- I was going mad. It was torture, and I don’t use the word lightly. This was torture.”

“I know,” said Varric, looking down at his boots. The floor between them was clean, pristine, plush carpet with a nice pattern. No blood here. “Scared the shit out of all us.”

“How could I have let her do it?” he choked.

“Come on, now. She’s Hawke. She does what she wants. Think she’d let you get in the way if she thought she was doing the right thing?” Varric reached across, jostled the mage’s arm with his elbow.

A weary chuckle. “Fair enough. But I keep wondering about what might have happened. I did everything I could for her.” His voice dropped. “It nearly wasn’t enough.”

“Don’t say things like that, Blondie,” said Varric warningly. It was one thing for Varric’s imagination to run away with him. It was another thing entirely to hear the healer say it. Because if Anders thought that, Anders, the one who’d held her life in his hands -- Varric thought he might never sleep again.

“But it’s true. I almost lost her, you know,” Anders whispered through his hands. “I could feel her slipping away. I reached for every bit of mana I could muster, but I couldn’t staunch the bleeding, not at first, and I could feel her growing fainter and fainter --” There was a rough, muffled sound, and then Anders’ shoulders shook, seized with sobbing breaths.

Varric quickly averted his eyes, wildly searching for something else in the room to look at, ending back at his boots again. Shit. It made sense -- all that pent-up terror and guilt and worry and care, it had to come out somehow -- but the fact remained, he wasn’t good at dealing with shit like this. Hawke was always so much better at this.

For a moment longer than he liked to admit, he thought of just getting up and leaving. Maybe it’d be better to let Anders figure it out on his own; maybe he’d just be embarrassed to have Varric stick around. If it was him, he wouldn’t want one of the others fussing over him --

But it’s not you, is it?

He sat still for a moment. Smoothed the cloth of his trousers beneath his gloved hands. Stretched the fingers out, watched them still until he could no longer see a tremor.

He reached for Anders and gripped him by the shoulder, his leather glove firm on the feathered accents. “It’s all right, Blondie. She’s gonna be fine.” He took a breath. “She’s got you, doesn’t she?”

****

He sat in his room in the Hanged Man, oblivious to the noise downstairs that meant Corff had discovered a forgotten barrel of his terrible whiskey. The resultant cheers and bellows faded into the background, as did a lot of other things. He’d lit a fire some time ago, he knew that much. How long had it been?

The fire sputtered, guttered, gave itself to soot and ashes. Candles on the table dripped wax on the wood in crimson puddles. He wished they weren’t red. He made a note to purchase white ones tomorrow.

He’d finally slept a little during the day. He’d come back home after Hawke woke up again, insisted on hugging him, and winced from the contact, then tried to punch him in the shoulder and winced again. He could still feel her tap on his shoulder, weak as a kitten’s.

“Not even you can get away with that kind of bullshit, Sparrow. Taking on the Arishok single-handedly? How am I going to make it sound convincing? Nobody’s going to believe it.”

“That’s your greatest concern, is it? The story?”

Ahhh, he could never lie to her. At least, not about that. “Come on, Hawke. Just… try to be a little more careful next time, all right?”

“So you were worried about me? Oh Varric, I’m touched.” A sweet sentiment, followed by a lazy wink and a racking cough.

Blondie had shooed him away, citing Hawke’s need to rest, always the attentive healer. But she’d called out, “Don’t forget, you owe me a pint!” as he left. And Varric had smiled, even while Anders led him further away, even while Anders was the one to stay.

He gazed at the cooling fireplace, then returned his attention to the matter at hand. Ink stained his fingertips, visible even in the dimming light. Clumsy of him. It wasn’t surprising, though; this wasn’t elegant work. It was cheaper than that. More desperate.

He thought of blood clotted on the carpet. He thought of panic, and terror, and the way Hawke looked so peaceful, sleeping in Anders’ arms.

It’s not you.

He sighed, ignoring the ache in his chest, the sudden sting in his eyes. He’d known that for a long time. Knew it where it bit him deep.

The ache grew, a gnawing burn. Still, though, it didn’t matter. He was fine. Well, he was going to be fine eventually. He knew he wasn’t particularly good at feelings.

But he was very good at denial.

He set ink to paper. Dear Bianca, he wrote, nib scratching against the vellum, and the steel gleaming in the candlelight glinted gold.

#hawke x varric #varric x bianca #dragon age 2 #varric tethras #varric #hawke x anders #min hawke #HI THERE ENJOY THE ANGST!

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fontainebleau22 · 6 years

Text

Box of Frogs (Part 3)

From @tramstrams‘ not-at-all-serious prompt, ‘an AU with magic, but something has gone terribly awry and people are being turned into frogs. Only Sam Chisholm can stop this madness’.

Part 1 here. Part 2 here.

---------

Ale stood on the step, raised his hand to knock and swallowed hard. His night had been racked with guilt: what could he say now that would be in any way appropriate? I’m sorry I got your husband turned into a frog?

Goody’s steps approached inside and Ale steeled himself. Maybe they could find some common ground. Maybe Goody would turn to him for valuable advice on what to do when your significant other suddenly becomes amphibian. The door opened and under Goody’s accusing stare all Ale could manage was a mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

Goody held the door open for him. ‘Red’s convinced me that this wasn’t entirely your fault.’

‘How’s Billy?’ asked Ale sheepishly, and Goody beckoned him through to the living room.

On the coffee-table, taking up its whole surface, stood an enormous tank, easily three times the size of Josh’s and so crammed with dark foliage that any creature in it was impossible to spot. A heat lamp hung from the lid, glowing orange, and a tiny stream gurgled into a pool surrounded by mossy rocks; the tank itself was surrounded by humming equipment connected by complex pipes and hoses. It made FrogJosh’s accommodation look positively spartan.

Ale peered into the leafy interior, but there was no sign of FrogBilly. ‘I saw him twenty minutes ago,’ said Goody beside him. ‘He’ll probably come out for the misting spray. He enjoys it.’

As they watched puffs of fine mist burst simultaneously from four separate nozzles at the lid’s corners, and Ale discovered another reason to berate himself for his inadequate frog husbandry. ‘There!’ With a flash of blue Billy broke cover to land on the mossy side of his pool.

Billy as a frog was as striking as he was in human form: a bright blue with black mottling, dark-eyed and delicate. ‘He’s a poison dart frog.’ Goody sounded proud and distraught all at once. ‘I think I’ve got the temperature right for him now, though the humidity’s probably still too low: the vivarium needs to be at least eighty per cent.’

Humidity? Vivarium? How had Goody become such an expert in sixteen hours? A stack of books slid under Ale’s elbow and he reached to rescue them: Poison Dart Frogs: a guide to care and breeding; Reptile Keeper’s Guide: Poison Dart Frogs; Poison Dart Frogs: success with an amphibian pet. Goody must have had all this equipment ‘ported to him last night: Ale winced at the thought of how much it must have cost.

Another knock at the door made Goody look up eagerly. ‘That’ll be Jack: I asked him to come.’

At his shout first Red appeared, then burly greying Jack behind him. It was unusual to see them outside together: though they shared a house in apparent amity, the nature of their relationship was a delicate issue and one their friends choose to leave largely unexamined.

It was odd, even before you took the shapeshifting into account – Jack was decades older than Red and a dyed-in-the-wool Bible-quoting Christian, while Red was a traditionally-inclined native; Jack was given to quiet pursuits like making his own wine and foraging for mushrooms, while Red worked as a mechanic and listened to death metal. What their modus vivendi was, who could say: certainly none of them had ever dared to ask and risk the ire of a man who could turn into a bear.

Jack squatted down by the t – the vivarium. ‘How’s the patient?’ He peered at Billy admiringly. ‘Handsome fellow.’

‘So is Josh,’ said Ale, piqued.

‘He’s a handsome frog,’ lamented Goody, gazing at him in despair. ‘How do we change him back?’

‘Tried kissing him?’ asked Red, deadpan.

‘Of course I have,’ snapped Goody. He turned to Jack pleadingly. ‘You can tell me: is he suffering? A human mind locked in the body of a frog body, tormented and desperate...’

Jack burst into a belly-laugh, sobering again when he realised Goody was serious. ‘Lord, no. What ideas you have - change of body don’t make you suffer. Mite unexpected, no doubt, will have taken him a while to settle to it, but does he look like he’s agonising over it to you?’

Maybe it was just Ale’s bias, but even in amphibian form he thought Billy still managed to look pleased with himself.

‘We have to find a solution,’ declared Goody, ‘I can’t bear to see him like this.’

Jack patted him delicately on the shoulder. ‘Now, don’t take on so: we’ll fix this.’

‘How? Sam’s not back until Saturday, his thing lasts the whole week, and Vasquez’ plan was an unmitigated disaster.’

Ale had to admit that was fair, and the flash of blue as FrogBilly leapt away into the foliage only made him feel worse.

Jack straightened up, regarding him and Red with a paternal air. ‘You young folk, you always go at things too head-on. Probably spooked her.’ He turned to Goody. ‘This needs gentle handling. Red here will take me over to her house, I’ll bring a peace offering and we’ll see if we can’t sit down and discuss it all calmly.’

Ale supposed Ms Cullen might be susceptible to Jack’s avuncular charm, though remembering the simmering rage which he’d sensed radiating from her, would a chat over oak leaf wine and pokeberry preserve really help? He opened his mouth to say so, then thought better of it.

‘Maybe I should come too,’ suggested Goody, ‘explain how important it is.’

Jack patted him delicately on the shoulder. ‘You boys just sit tight here and leave it to me – I’m sure I can persuade her to change her mind. And none of that cacophony you call music,’ he warned over his shoulder to Red as he followed him out.

Two hours later Ale was on Goody’s step again, this time with FrogJosh in his tank carefully cradled against his chest. ‘Any change?’ he asked Goody eagerly when he opened the door.

‘Still a frog,’ said Goody gloomily. He looked askance at the glass tank in Ale’s arms. ‘Why have you brought Josh here?’

Ale marched into the living room and placed the tank next to the vivarium: it looked as sparse and uninviting as he’d feared. ‘I thought-‘ He looked hopefully at Goody. ‘We could put him and Billy in together. There’s room for twenty frogs in there.’

‘In the vivarium?’ Goody choked in outrage. ‘One, Josh is a common frog, it’s not the right habitat for him. Two, Billy is poisonous. And three, Billy would never forgive me if I trapped him in a glass tank with Josh. He finds him irritating.’

Ale was still stuck on his first sentence. ‘Josh is not common.’

Goody sighed in exasperation. ‘It’s a technical term. Billy’s tropical.’

‘And how can he find him irritating if they’re both frogs?’

‘He’s still Billy,’ said Goody, ‘that’s what Jack said. And Josh is still Josh.’

Was he? He hadn’t done much since he was changed apart from laze around and eat, but Ale had to concede that proved nothing. ‘Do you think they still have their abilities too?’ he asked, sidetracked. ‘Could Billy still make Josh do what he wants? Is Josh still lucky?’

Goody spluttered out an unwilling laugh. ‘Being turned into a frog doesn’t strike me as very lucky.’

Ribbit, said Josh; Ale stared at him in consternation.

The sudden pounding of footsteps outside alerted them both before someone scrabbled at the door, then Red burst in, panting for breath and as agitated as Ale had ever seen him. ‘This is all your fault!’

He was clutching something fat and brown in both hands. ‘Why did you have to drag us into this?’

He thrust the frog he was holding towards them accusingly and Goody’s face fell. ‘Oh no!’

The frog was huge, with a wide greenish snout and a brown body, its long muscular legs trailing. Brorp! it protested. The noise was startlingly loud.

‘What happened?’ asked Ale.

Red shook what must be Jack at them. ‘She happened. Everything seemed to be going fine, then …’

Brorp! said Jack again: he did sound angry.

Red looked tearful. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ He stood squeezing Jack unhappily: Ale was sure it couldn’t be good for him being froghandled like that.

‘Take him home,’ advised Goody. ‘At least he should be easy to –‘

Red shook his head, oddly embarrassed ‘I can’t.’ He took a step towards the coffee-table. ‘He’ll have to go in there.’

‘No.’ Goody took up a defensive stance in front of the vivarium. ‘He’s a bullfrog, anyone can see that. He’d eat Billy.’

‘I thought you said Billy was poisonous,’ said Ale, looking from one to the other.

‘It’s a terrible idea for both of them,’ said Goody firmly. ‘Anyway, what’s the problem with you keeping him? You’re a hawk, he’s a bear: another shape isn’t going to make any difference.’

Red’s awkwardness suddenly let Ale put two and two together. ‘Surely he’s too big for you to swallow by accident – what are you, a condor or something?’

‘Shut. Up.’ hissed Red.

Goody reached for his pile of books. ‘Look, take this. It tells you all about frog care. Bullfrogs need water: you can keep him in the bath.’

Red’s face lightened. ‘I’ll put him in your bath.’

‘I don’t want a bullfrog in our-‘ protested Goody, but Red had already set off down the corridor.

‘What is happening?’ asked Goody, turning to Ale wild-eyed. ‘Why won’t it stop?’ A happy brorp! came clearly from the bathroom along with the sound of running water: the tub seemed to have an amplifying effect on the sound.

Ale felt the grip of the same despair. In the beginning he’d been convinced that the frog effect would be temporary, that sooner or later there’d be another zap! or possibly a flunch! and Josh would be sitting on the floor, looking dazed and wondering why his mouth tasted so strange. But as time had gone by and Josh stayed stubbornly batrachian his faith had begun to waver. What if the red-haired woman wouldn’t agree to change them back? What if she couldn’t change them back. Would he have a frog as a boyfriend forever? No. No. He balled his fists at his sides in determination. This has to be put right.

Brorp! echoed through the apartment, deep and thunderous. Brorp!

#fics #mag7 #the magnificent seven #vasquez #goodnight robicheaux #billy rocks #red harvest #jack horne #joshua faraday #still no Sam #his thing goes on all week #only sam chisolm can stop this madness #box of frogs au

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malyen0retsev · 7 years

Text

“And I will vouch for you also.”

Requested by @booking-glass - a fic of Jaime and Brienne’s first conversation upon Jaime arriving at Winterfell. This accidentally got about 20x longer than I intended so I may turn it into a fully fledged fic at some point...

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

Jaime had known Winter. He had been born in one of the Winters - a two year long Winter, over 30 turns of the year ago.

But Jaime had never known a Winter like this.

As he rode further North, the icy fingers of Winter crept deeper and deeper inside the folds of his clothes, the skin on his bones, and into the core of his bones themselves. It had been many years since he had been this far North - and he had thought it cold then. But this cold… this was a cold unlike anything Jaime had ever felt in his warm southern life.

The further North he rode, the more the question of ‘What in seven hells possessed me to do this?’ entered his thoughts, gnawing away with the same numbing, cold feeling that the Winter winds around him were surrounding him with.

As he lay down to sleep each night, he would give himself the answer.

They called him Kingslayer, Oathbreaker behind his back. He had killed Aerys to save half a million lives, and his reward was to be mocked, his honour lost, all ideals of being a true knight lost to him.

Those words hurt more than Jaime could allow himself to accept. But he knew the truth behind them. He knew why he had done what he had to do. However much the words and hatred hurt, he could justify it.

But this… If he didn’t ride North, he could never justify that.

You’re a knight, Ser Jaime. I know you have honour in you. I’ve seen it myself.

Every night he heard her words. She was the one person who didn’t judge him. She was the one person who knew the full truth. And she was the one person who would utterly, completely, never forgive him if he did not do this.

I pledged to ride North. I intend to honour that pledge.

And so he did.

———

“There’s a sellsword at the gates, m’lady,” one of the guards shouted across the courtyard to Arya. She was practicing with Brienne again, and the words withdrew her attention for long enough that she almost didn’t dodge Brienne’s sword.

“Are you sure they are who they say they are?” Arya said sweetly. “Or shall I check for you?”

The guard had the decency to blush. Clearly, Arya had not yet forgotten their slight to her upon her arrival a few months ago.

“I’ll check for you, my lady,” Brienne said, sheathing Oathkeeper and stepping forward. She tilted her head upwards. “Pod, train with Lady Arya. I believe you could learn a lot from her. And no, Tormund, I haven’t changed my mind about training you,” she added, holding up a hand to silence the eagerly approaching wildling. “You are more than capable by yourself, and I am here to train the youngsters. Step to, Pod!”

“Go on, fucking give it,” Bronn added, speaking up from his position of leaning against one of the castle’s walls. Bronn had travelled up with Pod, deciding if the fighting was up North then he was needed to help train the youngsters alongside Brienne.

Pod awkwardly shuffled forwards, cheeks pink, as Arya raised her eyebrows, Needle at the ready. Brienne rolled her eyes as she turned away, a smile growing on her lips as she saw the dark-haired blacksmith in the forge across the yard glower in their direction before hurriedly grabbing the first sword to his left and turning away.

“Right,” Brienne said, allowing the guard to escort her to the gate, “what does this sellsword say he wants?”

“He says he wishes to fight for the North, my lady,” he replied simply.

“Well, theoretically he is an ally then. But best remain with me until I have ascertained the situation.”

Brienne turned the corner to face the gate, and all her breath was taken from her.

Jaime Lannister was stood in the gateway, his good hand twisted around the horse reins. His golden hand was covered by a black glove, and he himself was dressed in black and burgundy leathers and wool. Snow had dusted the top of his shoulders, and his face was grey from cold, his eyes somehow greener than ever against the grey.

“I’ve brought the -”

“- Lady Brienne of Tarth, to assess whether I am who I say I am,” Jaime finished the guard’s sentence, meeting Brienne’s eyes. “May I come in? Before I freeze to death, preferably?”

Brienne swallowed, and turned to the guard. “I trust this man. But he is not a simple sellsword - he is Ser Jaime of House Lannister. I believe Lord Jon may wish to speak with him upon his return. In the meantime, tell the servants to take his horse, prepare a room, and I want hot food available in the dining hall. I shall escort Ser Jaime there.”

She turned on her heel, Jaime following. The guard promptly half-ran in the opposite direction. “Why do I always question Lords and Ladies at the gate…” he muttered to himself as he hurried off.

———

“So she lied to us,” Brienne said flatly as she sat opposite Jaime in the dining hall. He had told her why he was alone, why there was no army with him, whilst he gobbled down a piping hot bowl of stew like a starving man.

Jaime nodded wearily, pushing his empty bowl to the side. “I should have seen this coming. I should have… guessed… or…”

Brienne shook her head. “Lord Jon and Queen Daenerys are the sorts of leaders who wish to lead by example. They speak the truth, and therefore expect others will speak the truth to them. Unfortunately, this means in this instance they were undermined. But this is not your fault. You didn’t know,” she added.

“What use am I to the North?” Jaime leaned back in his chair. “I’m still weak in my left hand. And there’s only one of me.”

“One more than we had a few hours ago.”

In spite of himself, Jaime smiled and leaned forwards, resting his head on his good arm. “I brought Widow’s Wail with me.”

“Wasn’t that Joffrey’s old sword?”

Jaime nodded. “The very same.” He looked up to meet her eyes. “Reforged from Ned Stark’s old sword. The former Lord Stark’s sword is still going to protect the North,” he gestured to Oathkeeper, leaning against the table next to Brienne.

“In which case, you count for ten men,” Brienne replied. “Not just because of what it represents but… Ice was, and therefore Widow’s Wail is, Valyrian steel.”

“… Yes it is…”

Brienne laughed then, which made Jaime screw his face up in confusion. “Of course, you don’t know, you haven’t listened to Lord Jon go on about little else for over a year… Valyrian steel kills White Walkers.”

“I thought that was just fire and dragonglass?”

“And Valyrian steel. I suspect Jon didn’t mention it at the Dragonpit because there’s so few of them left that it made little sense to bother mentioning.”

“So… our swords… they are worth a hundred of any sword in this war?”

“They won’t shatter against the Walker’s blades. Ser Jaime… You may be one man, but you are going to make a huge difference.”

Jaime smiled sadly, looking down. “I am sorry for how I treated you last time we spoke. Truly.”

“Consider it forgotten,” Brienne said quietly, in a voice Jaime knew meant she had been hurt by it.

“You are always the one who makes me… remember myself,” he continued. “I… I am just sorry it took so long. But I am here now,” he said fiercely, meeting her eyes once more. “I am not going back to Cersei. This is not some double bluff. I am here for the battle against the dead, and gods be good, I will make it to the other side of it.”

“Do you know, Ser Jaime,” Brienne didn’t break the eye contact this time. “I do believe this is the first time I have seen you where… you have not been trying to get back to your sister, or doing deeds on your sister’s behalf. This is… entirely yours.” She swallowed. “And so I believe you. Wholeheartedly.”

“Gods know I have a debt to pay to the Starks. If they execute me as soon as Jon returns, I won’t blame them.”

“I’ll vouch for you,” Brienne said fiercely, blinking. “Lord Jon is currently forgiving almost anyone anything so long as they swear to the old gods and new that they will fight this war. And, as I said,” she added, chuckling, “he and Queen Daenerys take people at their word. They don’t play games.”

Jaime felt his throat constricting, and before he could stop himself, his left hand was reaching across the table, tightly grasping at hers. She paused, and squeezed back.

“Lady Sansa knows I believe you to be honourable. That is why she trusted me to go to King’s Landing. Because I trusted you,” Brienne almost whispered, still holding his hand tightly. “She will vouch for you. Lord Jon will not harm you.”

“And I will vouch for you also,” a voice drifted from the doorway of the dining hall.

Brienne and Jaime jumped up, hastily dropping each other’s hands, to face Bran Stark sat in his wheelchair, Arya protectively grasping at the handles. She wheeled the chair further into the room, where Bran sat and stared up at Jaime, unflinchingly in the eye.

“I am the Three-Eyed-Raven now,” he said. “I can see the past… I can see the present… everything that has ever happened or is happening. I can see it.”

Jaime swallowed. “Then you… you know…”

Bran nodded, and tilted his head, somewhat cryptically. “Yes. I know. And I forgive it.”

Jaime felt himself physically stumble backwards, and Brienne’s hand was there to steady him, grabbing at his shoulder.

“We don’t forget,” Arya added, her eyes cold and steely. “But, ‘In Winter we must protect ourselves.’ You are here, to fight for the living, and to protect us. So we forgive.”

“I… words cannot…”

“I will never walk again,” Bran said bluntly. “I will never become the knight I dreamed of being, or ride horses in fierce battles. That is a weight you must bear on your conscience, as I bear it on mine. But,” he continued, “you began my journey into who I had to become. I have lost many people I care about in order to do so. And I have had to forgive myself for that. So I forgive you.” He took a breath, looking back at Arya. She nodded before he continued. “Will you fight for the North, and be my personal protector, to right the wrongs you have done?”

Jaime was speechless. He plunged to his knees, unsheathing Widow’s Wail and laying it at Bran’s feet.

“My Lord Stark,” he stuttered. “I offer you my service, to repent for the wrongs I have done to both you and your family. I can never undo what I have done… but, if you will allow me, from this day… I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

Bran looked down at him, nodded, and then opened his mouth. “And I vow. That you shall always have a place by my heart, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it, by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

Jaime felt tears welling in his eyes as he stood up. The boy - man - in the chair was smiling up at him before he nodded once more, and allowed Arya to wheel him from the room.

Brienne turned to face Jaime, shock clearly painted across her face. “Somehow, my lord, I don’t think they’re going to have you killed.”

“No,” Jaime realised he was laughing. “No, I do not think they are.”

“Jaime of House Lannister, protecting the Starks,” Brienne said, a hint of pride in her voice.

Jaime shook his head. “No. Just Ser Jaime.” He gestured to the black glove still covering up his golden hand - Lannister gold. “Just Ser Jaime the knight, wishing to fulfil his role of being an honourable knight.”

And he reached for her hand once more.

#apparently my heart was aching for a jaime-bran redemption scene cos that got in here #and who would i be if i didn't have at least one sentence hinting at gendrya lol #anyway i haven't properly written braime for aaaaaages #but i'm actually really proud of this #so let me know what you think <3 #requests #fanfic #my writing #mine #booking-glass #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #bran stark #arya stark #got #game of thrones #jaime x brienne

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