#its called kings TIDE for a reason | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

revrover · 1 year

Text

The Stranger - Pt. 3

Part One | Part Two

Pairing: Namor x Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Language, Violence, Depictions of drowning, Fluff

Summary: Delivered to safety following the battle on the beach, you are left reeling as you grapple with nightmares and questions about an uncertain future. But as you come to know more about the Talokanil people and grow closer to their king, Namor is faced with a question of his own -- what does he do with this stranger from the surface?

A/N: It’s heeeeeere!! As always, thank you so much for your patience, for being here, and for reading! And a BIG thank you just for taking the time to engage with and be a part of this story. You all have been so encouraging to me as new writer, and I love being able to create something around characters that so many hold so dear. Comments and reblogs make my heart happy, so please show some love, share the joy, and be kind!

***I do not give permission to copy, plagiarize, or repost my work as your own in any form!

Bullets fly as bodies hit the ground in front of you. There on the open beach, spears soar high above your head. Your gaze is drawn to the heavens as a chopper falls from the night sky. It crashes onto the shore below, an intense heat flashing against you as you shield your face from the explosion.

Suddenly, the sounds of dying men and burning metal fade as you lower your hand. You look down to find yourself waist-deep in a raging sea, the battle on the sand becoming a distant memory as waves beat harshly against you, unrelenting and unforgiving. A deafening melody accompanies each swell of the tide. It consumes your mind with pain and serenity as you are pulled further out into the ocean’s depths, following its call. The chorus grows louder as the water rises to your chest, building with intensity. Then, suddenly, all is quiet.

And there he is.

Hovering just above the water’s surface, his winged ankles carry him effortlessly. His reflection glistens perfectly against the water, now calm and smooth as glass. Illuminated by the full moon behind him, his body is covered in beautiful armor made of gold, jade, and other metals. A finely crafted serpent headpiece with bright feathers crowns his head, resting just above his brow.

Namor.

Wordlessly, Namor stretches out his hand, beckoning you to come to him. You reach out as if your very being is at his command. But, before you can grasp hold of him, the chorus of voices returns with a vengeance. A violent tide drags you under, swallowing you beneath the waves. Further and further down you are pulled as darkness surrounds you. Looking up toward the fading light, Namor’s silhouette above the surface dissolves from view. Your lungs burn as you begin to drown.

You jolt awake, your body shooting up in a cold sweat.

Chest heaving, your mind desperately claws its way back to reality. You quickly scan your surroundings, clinging to any detail that will anchor your consciousness and keep you from slipping back into that nightmare.

Gripping the stone surface beneath you, you take in every porous curve your fingertips graze over. Looking upward at the high rocky ceiling, you study the patterns of limestone stalactites that hang like icicles. Droplets of water run down a few of them, their melodious drips echoing in small pools below, falling like a gentle, rhythmic rain.

This is the place Namor had spoken of the last time you saw him. The one where he promised you would be safe. And for good reason — here in this cavern, you were well below the ocean’s surface and out of range of any agents who might come searching for you.

By your best guess, you figure you have been down here about two days. It’s hard to be sure without the reference to natural light. The cavern itself is beautiful, though. Illuminated by pockets of glow worms that drape down from the ceiling, their soft luminescence casts gorgeous green and blue hues across each surface their light touches.

As your heart rate begins to even out, you continue to survey the cave. You look over at your belongings, bag laying on the ground, clothes hanging on a line to dry. Your heart drops a bit when you see your little leather-bound book, its pages separated and spread out across the rocks. Ink bleeding. Pages ruined. You had made your best attempt to salvage what you could. Perhaps if you had asked Namora how the two of you would be traveling to this safe haven, you wouldn’t have brought a damn book with you.

The dissonance of the Talokan melody still rings in the back of your mind. You cradle your head between your knees, rubbing your temples with your thumbs when you hear light footsteps approach.

Looking up, you find a familiar face entering the cavern. No longer geared up for battle, Namora dawns a lovely dress that gathers over one shoulder and flows down to the floor. It moves like waves with each step she takes toward you. Instead of a spear in her hand, she now carries a small tray with a medley of food.

“Eat," Namora says, placing the tray on a small end table beside you. She then moves gracefully over to your draped belongings, removing them one by one from the line and folding them into a neat pile.

“Can I ask you a question?” You inquire as you begin to nibble on a piece of food.

Namora shoots a skeptical look over her shoulder but says nothing, so you ask anyway.

“Have you always been a warrior?”

Unresponsive, she keeps her attention on one of your shirts which she has just pulled from the line, tucking it into itself and placing it with the others.

“It's just, I mean the way you fought those agents on the beach, you are — you are very good at, you know—” you should have given more thought to what you were going to say before opening your mouth because as you reach the end of your sentence all that comes out is, “—killing people."

Nice.

You cringe at your comment. It hangs in the air, practically mocking you.

“I’m just saying," you add, trying to recover, "you obviously know what you’re doing. It was impressive. Me on the other hand…” Your voice trails as you raise your bandaged hand, recalling how your first instinct in a fight was to block a fucking knife with your open palm. Next to Namora, your combat skills pale by comparison.

Halting her task, Namora finally turns to face you in one calculated motion. She stares for a moment then her eyes quickly dart toward the side entrance of the cavern where she had come through only minutes ago. The entryway is empty. When her eyes settle back on you, there is resolve in them.

“Up.” She says, walking toward you with purpose.

“What?” You reply in a tone that matches the confused look on your face.

“Up.”

You do as you are told, hastily pushing yourself to your feet. Namora steps in close and then taps your elbows.

“Up.” She orders a third time, only now she seems to be referring specifically to your arms. You follow her instruction, raising them awkwardly out in front of your body. You can almost hear the sigh of hopelessness when Namora, her brow furrowed, grabs your arms and positions each one in a fighting stance. Slipping a hand up to your left wrist, she grips it firmly while tapping your exposed forearm with the palm of her other hand.

“Shield.” She says with emphasis. Her eyebrows raise, looking for any indication that you comprehend what she is trying to explain. When you nod, Namora moves her hand from your wrist up to your fingers, balling them into a fist and tucking your thumb on the outside.

“Weapon.”

Namora then steps back from you, putting her own arms up to mirror your stance.

“Shield, weapon,” she repeats, patting her forearm and waving her closed fist.

“Shield, weapon,” you echo back to her, nodding your head again as you begin to understand more fully.

Just as she begins to step back toward you, a deep voice calls from behind.

“Namora.”

You both look up to see the large man who wears the hammerhead skull standing in the entry of the cavern. Attuma is his name, as you have come to learn. Namora straightens her posture as she turns to face him, her hands behind her back as she squares her shoulders in a commanding stance.

Attuma saunters a few more feet into the cavern, then speaks to her in their native tongue, a language still unfamiliar to you. The two of them converse back and forth for a few moments. You may not know what they are saying, but you can tell they disagree about something — whether with each other or someone else, you are not sure.

Namora swiftly turns back to you, her face serious again and her brows pinched together.

Fighting lessons must be over.

“Come,” she says.

Without any further instruction, she pivots back toward Attuma, who also turns to leave. You quickly grab your belongings which Namora had folded for you, stuffing them into your bag. You sling it around your shoulder as you exit the cavern.

Following the two generals into a tunneled hallway, you find yourself moving through a network of caves, each tunnel connecting to a series of other openings and pools. Soon, Attuma splits off into one of these open caverns, nodding to Namora as he does so. Your eyes trail him as he joins with more Talokan warriors, and just as you stare at them, they stare at you.

You continue walking behind Namora past them, their whispers reverberating through the tunnels.

“When was the last time someone… not Talokanil came here?” You ask. In typical Namora fashion, she remains silent and unresponsive to your question.

“Sorry,” you say apologetically, “back there it just seemed like they hadn’t seen someone new in a while.”

The two of you walk, furthering yourself from the turnoff where Attuma parted ways. Cautiously, you step around the uneven surfaces of the rocky ground. You can feel yourself being led deeper into the maze of caverns. If Namora decided to up and ditch you right now, you are certain you would be lost in this labyrinth forever.

“You are the first,” Namora says rather abruptly, catching you off guard. Not only does her response come well after your question was asked, but it is also the most she has ever said to you at one given time.

“The first?” You ask, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“To come here,” Namora answers. “The first surface dweller to receive Talokan’s aid. The first the king has ever…” she pauses a moment, searching for the right word, “tolerated.”

The influx of her voice is not lost on you.

“And you don’t approve?”

“It is not my place to approve, " Namora clarifies as she leads you around a bend and past several open pools of water. "I am… concerned. When it comes to you, I fear he is blind.”

Silence befalls you both again as you enter another cavern, this one much larger and more spacious than any others you have seen. Within it are several large pools, glistening with light reflected from more glow worms above. Their tendrils hang from the high vaulted ceiling like sparkling chandeliers.

In the center of it all stands a large hut enclosed by beautifully woven fabrics. You follow Namora shoulder to shoulder up the stone-carved steps to it until you nearly reach the side.

“We’re here,” Namora says, coming to a dead stop. She then takes a step back from you.

Still unsure of where “here” is exactly, you glance over your shoulder, looking to her for further instruction or explanation. But Namora gives you nothing. The moment you begin to take a step backward as well, her hand shoots out, holding the back of your shoulder in position with a firm grip.

Ah. Don't move. Got it.

Subconsciously you begin to hold your breath, bracing yourself for the unknown.

Then, there he is.

From around the corner of the hut comes Namor. Immediately you are taken aback by his appearance. Up to this point, you have only seen him suited for battle. Now he stands before you dawning a beautifully woven cape plated with gold and draped across his broad shoulders. His hair is slicked back and his arms are adorned with various metal cuffs. Truly a wardrobe fit for a king.

A single nod of his head and Namora is dismissed. You hear her small footsteps fade as she leaves the two of you alone.

“How is your hand?”

Namor’s question snaps you out of your daze.

“Oh,” you raise your hand, glancing at the worn bandage. "It’s fine, thank you.”

Staring at the gauze, you can almost hear the lullaby Namor hummed as he gently tended to your wounded palm the night of the battle. Something flutters inside you as you touch the corner of the fabric. Realizing your mind has drifted again, you bring yourself back to reality by following up with your own question.

"Are we in..." you stop to rephrase, shifting your weight from side to side as you look around the cavern, “Is this… Talokan?"

If it is, it's very different from what you pictured.

Your question brings a smile to Namor’s face.

"No," he answers with a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Talokan is far beyond this place. I assure you, your body would not survive the journey to its depths. But these caverns are safe, I promise you.”

Namor then shifts the topic of conversation.

“I am told some of your belongings were ruined on your traveling here, including your book. I apologize. I had hoped to make up for it.”

With one arm, Namor ushers you around the corner to the entrance of his quarters, inviting you inside.

Intrigued and eager to see what awaits, you accept his invitation. As you enter, you find yourself in a study of sorts. Lit by several lanterns, the room is warm and bright. Within it sits a small table, a prominent desk full of scrolls and artifacts, and a cozy hammock hung in the corner. But what catches your eye most of all are the walls.

All around you hang gorgeous tapestry walls with breathtaking murals that stretch from floor to ceiling.

“Did you do all of these?” You ask in disbelief as you move to one at the far end of the room. Your eyes widen as you gaze in admiration at the beautiful artistry.

“Yes,” Namor answers humbly, following behind you. “I think you will find a more accurate depiction of my history here.”

“I don’t know,” you say with playful skepticism in your voice as you inspect the artwork closer, “always be weary of your authors, right?” You smirk as you shift your glance sideways to Namor, echoing his words back to him in jest. His face is serious at first but quickly turns to amusement.

“You remembered,” he says nodding his head, an impressed grin now stretching at the corners of his mouth, “that is good.”

You return your attention to the paintings. What a gift it is to be standing here in front of them. Full of stories, full of history. And to be accompanied by the man who created them himself — who lived them himself. It is all a far cry from the vague glyphs you tried so hard to decipher in your book.

"They're amazing." You say in awe, following along the panels as you trace the line work delicately with your fingertip.

Immersed in the murals, you are too busy to notice Namor's softening gaze as he watches you study his work so intently. Here you are, an outsider who he has welcomed into his space. It is not like him to be so open, especially not with a stranger from the surface — never someone from the surface — yet, something about you causes a stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is your enthusiasm and wonders for his culture or your refreshing dose of humanity towards his people that compels his desire to be close to you.

As you follow the artwork from panel to panel across the walls, you arrive at a scene that suddenly makes you freeze. Your wrist snaps your finger back as if repelled by the paint itself. In front of you is a large image of Namor dawning a serpent headpiece as he hovers above the water. You are immediately back in your nightmare, your mind flashing to Namor’s outstretched hand then the darkness that closes in around you as you start to drown. You can almost feel the fire in your lungs as they grow desperate for air.

“What troubles you?” Namor asks with genuine traces of concern in his voice. Your sudden silence has not gone unnoticed. He moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with you now, looking up to analyze the same part of the mural.

"Nothing," you lie, shaking your head while your hand drops to your side. You withdraw from the painting, taking a few steps back from it and Namor.

“Your people," you say to change the subject, pointing your thumb to the rest of the artwork in the room, "they honor you. It's admirable, what you've done for them. To keep them safe all this time."

“But?” He senses there is more on your mind.

You stare at him, then turn your focus back to the tapestries surrounding you. Scanning them from wall to wall, you notice a pattern in the stories shown.

“It’s just,” you begin with uncertainty in your voice “for someone who has spent his whole life bringing peace to his people, I wonder how much of it you have experienced for yourself?”

Namor is quiet for a moment.

"And why do you wonder this?" He finally replies, turning to face you fully.

“I guess I look at these and I’m curious… how? How can you do that without completely breaking under the weight of it all? Even with—” you begin gesturing to his body and suddenly become desperate to come up with the right words in time, “superhuman strength.” Thank god.

“Hmmm,” Namor exhales, thoughtfully nodding as his gaze drops to the floor. He folds his arms over his chest, the golden band around his exposed bicep reflecting the light that softly glows from a nearby lantern. Taking a few steps toward you, he lifts his eyes to yours.

“It is true,” he says, “the burden I carry for the sake of my people does not always permit me the personal luxury of peace. It… can be difficult.” His tone shifts from diplomatic to vulnerable. “And who is to say I have not broken under it? It is that brokenness that has made me the leader I am.”

Turning his head toward the mural, he looks at it carefully before speaking again. His chiseled jawline accentuates the exposed veins protruding from his neck.

"To your question,” he continues, “I believe how is never as important as why. Why would someone fight to bring others peace when they themselves cannot have it?” Namor takes another step closer and lifts his hand to your chin, delicately angling your face upward toward his own. "Because we sacrifice to protect what we love.”

His eyes search yours earnestly. After a moment, Namor quickly drops his hand from your chin and you watch as he moves towards his desk, shuffling a few scrolls around before looking back up at you again.

“I love my people,” he says, planting his hand firmly on the desk, “and I have seen evil, what it is capable of. I watch as the rest of the world grows desperate in their greed and ambition, their desire for power. They are becoming more dangerous by the day."

"You mean — surface dwellers?" You ask.

Namor raises his brow at you knowingly.

"Yes,” he answers cooly.

"I'm a surface dweller. Am I...dangerous?"

Namor sighs with a small smile.

“Yes. Though not in the way you may think.”

He moves from out behind his desk and back over in your direction.

“Now I have a question for you,” he says in a low voice, approaching you with a dark look looming over his face. “Please consider your answer carefully.”

The silence is intense. Your heart feels like it is going to jump out of your throat as you anticipate what damning question the king of Talokan has in store for you.

Namor’s expression changes on a dime, and he suddenly asks in a lighthearted tone,

“Are you up for a swim?”

—

You follow Namor out of his quarters and into the large open cavern. As you pass by several beautiful pools of water, you are enchanted by how the light dances across the rich tones of Namor's skin. The same light casts dazzling hues of aquamarine and cerulean across the surface of the pools, reflected onto the rocks surrounding them.

Namor approaches one of the bigger pools and removes the cape from his shoulder, exposing his bare chest underneath. Here is the Namor you recognize - prominent necklace, bare chest, emerald green shorts. Before dropping his cape to the ground, however, he pulls out a Talokan mask from the fabric like the ones Namora and the other warriors wear.

“Take a deep breath,” Namor says as he turns to you. He pushes your hair back from your cheek delicately as he applies the apparatus to your face. Doing as you are told, you inhale deeply as the mask fastens over your nose and mouth.

“Stay close,” he instructs. You nod, and Namor steps to the edge of the closest pool. He looks back at you with a hint of a smile on his face. Then, with all the strength and grace of a god, he dives perfectly into the water and disappears under the surface.

You step closer to the pool. The faint rhythm of droplets falling from the ceiling rings throughout the cavern. You glance behind you toward the entrance, but there isn't a soul in sight. Namora’s words echo through your mind.

When it comes to you, he is blind.

You dive in, following Namor.

Once in the water, you quickly orient yourself. Looking around, you see the outline of Namor, his silhouette waiting for you in the distance. As you swim closer, he gestures for you to follow him. You kick your feet to propel yourself further downward, ears popping as you equalize to the increasing pressure.

You swim until you are clear of the caves. Though your muscles ache, there is something serene about being beneath the water; the quiet, the weightlessness, everything drifting harmoniously in rhythm with the current. For the first time since you can remember, your mind feels still. Free from the chaos. Somehow, the vast open sea does not frighten you with its deep blue void as it did in your dream. Not even a little. Instead, you feel a calmness in your soul as you lose track of time entirely, trailing Namor as you move through the ocean’s depths.

Quite literally in his element, you watch in awe as Namor swims so effortlessly. To him, it must be as easy as breathing. He looks more relaxed than you have seen him. Perhaps even enjoying himself?

You continue to swim, the water getting lighter as the visibility becomes clearer. A school of fish rushes past, their scales glimmering with each flick of a fin or contour of their bodies. Countless numbers weave around you in sync as if part of the same carefully choreographed ballet. You can’t help but smile as you watch them move so freely, and Namor can't help but smile as he watches you.

Suddenly the fish rapidly disperse and within seconds a huge mass flashes past you with incredible speed and agility. Your eyes widen and adrenaline rushes through you as you witness a killer whale chase the school, its size completely dwarfing your mere human frame. Involuntarily, you begin hyperventilating as you watch the giant creature swim off into the distance. When you feel a touch against your arm, you turn to find Namor next to you. His hand rises and falls in front of his torso, gesturing for you to take deep breaths. In, out. In, out.

The two of you remain suspended in the endless ocean blue as you your breath slows and your muscles recover. Namor looks upward, and as you savor the moment of rest you follow his gaze. You can tell by the light above that you are getting close to the surface, which must mean you are nearing your destination. When he nods, you know it is time to move. Slowly the two of you start your ascent and the ocean becomes warmer as you gradually near the top.

When you arise from the water, the sound of the rushing wind, the rolling waves, and birds flying overhead rush into your ears. Less than a hundred meters from you stretches a beautiful coastline covered in soft white sand and lined by rich green foliage.

You make your way towards it. Soon you are walking knee-deep in the waves, the tide splashing against the back of your legs as you near the shore. Removing the mask from your face, the sweet breeze of the island races by, rustling your wet hair and filling your nostrils with the earthy aroma of some nearby palm trees.

Namor has already reached the sand. He stands tall, water still running down his body. Staring out at the horizon, he runs his hand over his face and pushes his hair back, inadvertently flexing his bicep as he does so. The sun slowly begins its descent toward the Earth, its warm rays casting brilliant tones of red and orange across Namor’s exposed skin. It contrasts the deep blues and greens that illuminated him in the caverns, and at this point, you are confident he looks devastatingly beautiful in any light.

As you reach the shore, you take your place next to him and stare out at the skyline.

“Hard to beat a view like that,” you say breathlessly.

“My mother would always describe to me the beauty of the setting sun,” Namor responds. “I have no love for the surface world, but from time to time I visit this island. See what she saw.”

“Is this—?” You begin to ask.

“Where she is buried.” Namor answers before you finish your question. His eyes drop as he reflects, “I am not sure what I expected to see the day I came to lay her body to rest. I suppose the beauty of an island she spoke of so fondly. Instead, I found my brothers and sisters enslaved by men who took life without a second thought.” His jaw clenches as he recalls the bitter memory. “But I saw to it the favor was returned.”

His meaning is clear. You are not sure which makes you more nervous — the calm and cool way he says it, or the menacing smile that accompanies his statement. Either way, his smile disappears as quickly as it comes. You have seen Namor’s ferocity firsthand and know what he is capable of, especially when it comes to protecting his people. A nervous feeling grows in the pit of your stomach as you begin questioning his purpose in bringing you here.

You consider the facts:

You are a surface dweller.

He did call you dangerous.

Oh shit.

Anxiously you glance at him, then redirect your gaze back to the horizon to maintain your composure. The soft waves break along the shore, racing up to your ankles. As the sand beneath your feet gets pulled out by the tide, you wish with all your might you could be pulled away with it. Instead, you sink deeper into the ground, more immovable than before.

“Are you going to kill me?” The words come out blunter than you intend, but you stand by them despite the quiver in your voice.

The question pulls Namor out of his thoughts as he turns to you, eyebrows raised. He studies your face carefully before answering.

“I probably should," he says. There is no malice in his words, only honesty. “The knowledge you have of me and my people... it puts me in a difficult position.” His eyes are solemn. "But I have lived a long time, and in that time I have witnessed many in their final moments before death when one truly reveals themself. That night on the beach, in what you believed were your final moments, you kept your word to me and my people. You said nothing to those men, even with your life on the line. There is no truer test of loyalty.”

Without a word, he reaches his hand out for the mask you still carry. You cautiously hand it over.

"There is a village eastward,” Namor continues, “you will find everything you need there, and the means to leave this place."

You feel his palm slip under your fingers to receive the mask. He takes a deep breath, then purses his lips in the direction behind you.

“Or, just up the way beyond those trees is a house. It is not much, but comfortable. It is yours to use... if you wish. You would be safe here.”

The offer catches you off guard.

“I… I don't understand." You mutter in slight confusion.

With a deep inhale, Namor squints back at the setting sun to collect his thoughts. Then, taking another step closer, he eliminates virtually any remaining space between you. His eyes are deep and mesmerizing as ever. Your heart races from his sudden proximity and you find yourself holding your breath as you wait for him to speak again. He peers down at you, so impossibly close that you can sense the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

"You are no enemy of mine," he says with authority, "and no prisoner of Talokan. You have my trust. And because of that trust, I will not order you to stay." Namor then drops the mask into the sand like it is worthless and gently slides his hands underneath your jawline, cradling your face in both of his palms. “But I am asking you to.”

You are speechless. The way he is holding your gaze, the tenderness of his thumb brushing against the apple of your cheek, the fluttering of his lashes as his eyes flick down to your mouth.

"Stay," Namor says fervently in one final clarifying word. It is not a command, but an invitation. Perhaps even a plea. But most importantly, it is a choice. Your choice.

His eyes quickly dart back up to yours as he awaits an answer, but even Namor is not strong enough to keep his attention from dropping back down to your lips. He is clearly focused on more than just the words he hopes to hear come out of them.

In an overwhelming wave of boldness, you allow instinct to take over. No lives at stake, no siren’s song — it is only the burning desire within your very soul for him that compels you. You close your eyes and melt into Namor’s touch, pressing your lips to his.

The moment you do so, it is as if a surge of energy courses through your veins, electrifying your entire body. Namor immediately welcomes your advance, molding his lips to your own. The smooth piece of jade that pierces his septum presses cooly above your lip, contrasting the heat of his skin to ignite your senses. As he slides a hand around to the back of your neck, his fingers curl into your hair to bring you in even closer.

A small moan escapes you as the tip of his tongue traces along your bottom lip. You can feel his smile against your mouth, then a tug at the same lip with his teeth. Another invitation, to which you gladly accept. You part your mouth open to let Namor inside. Both of your tongues dance together as your kisses become deeper and more indulgent.

Consumed by his taste and his touch, you slide your hands up his bare chest, desperate for more of him. Without missing a beat, Namor responds by running his arms down your body and hoisting you up off the sand with ease. You wrap your legs around him tightly and take full advantage of this new, higher angle. Moving your mouth in tandem with his, you savor the richness of his lips and entangling your fingers in his dark locks of hair.

The two of you ebb and flow just like the rolling ocean waves, losing yourselves in each other. It’s not until you feel a faint burning in your lungs that you face the harsh reality of having to break away for air. Everything inside you fights it. If Namor were the sea, you would gladly let yourself drown in this moment.

But Namor, also sensing your need for oxygen, begins to slow down. He lowers you gently to the ground, though he is careful not to let you slip too far away from him. The two of you breathe heavily as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. Namor gives you another passionate kiss, this one slow and deep. His lips then move to the corner of your mouth and trail up to your ear, the heat of his breath spreading like wildfire across your skin. You can feel your heart beating out of your chest. Holding you close, Namor leans his forehead against your temple and presses his lips against your ear.

“Please," he whispers. "Stay with me.”

--------

Tag List! (I think I got everyone who requested to be included!) @looneylikesbooks @omgsuperstarg @chixkencxrry @vainillasmil157 @demoiseller @sodonuthideout @shoutaaizawas @stany0url0calwh0res111 @hjjks @duckwithsunglasses @jamesbarnesbestgirl @nellycanwrite @namorlover @queenofthekill @uhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm @cosmic-lavender @fckwritersblock @doimakeyounervous-blog @viktoryn @bontensbabygirl @lokidbadguy @sammi-doll483 @violet-19999 @artaxerxesthegreat @zeeader @star-dusst @hawkins-2000 @madsothree @takeheartyall @slytherheign @agustdboyoongie @nightingal3-tales @psamathegoesrawr @myotakureprieve @spideyworldsposts @ginger-swag-rapunzel @jurneesjourney @kpopgirlbtssvt @commondazy @vicky-8426 @05-redacted @boredoutofmydamnmind @h34rtsformilli @adoiescents @ari-fay @daddyslittlevillain @namorswhore @loversjoy

#namor x reader #namor #namor x you #namor x gen!reader #mcu namor #Namor x y/n #namor imagine #namor fanfic #k'uk'ulkan #namora #attuma #black panther wakanda forever #namor of talokan #k'uk'ulkan of talokan #namor fluff #namor fanfiction #wakanda forever

690 notes · View notes

revisitingfandoms · 1 month

Text

Idea 14- Bride of shadow Milk

“I bet no one would ever love a monster such as him.”

“I bet he wouldn’t even treat his partner well.”

He would feel his annoyance and distaste and perhaps even anger grow at those comments before it came to him with a wild grin, “A bride”

Elder Faerie’s face went ghastly as a number of others in the area paled, White Lily only half aware replied, “A bride?”

Shadow Milk grinned, almost looming, “A bride, they neither have to be a woman or just anyone of the female spectrum, I say Bride because it is the best word to describe what I want, and that is a willing bride to marry me.” The escaping giggles only dimming the atmosphere more, “And note I say willing, not interfering with the choice of who makes the decision. Oh, and I won’t take any of that sacrificing bullshit.” He lets out a little whistle, “Toodle~!”

Before disappearing.

In the remaining chaos with numbers of fairies willing to volunteer to act as a sacrifice for the greater good- all against what the beast had spoken, one blonde contemplates and makes a silent decision.

He doesn’t speak to any of the others of his decision, he knows what they speak, they would seek to dissuade him in his choice- but..

(He was the former holder of truth and its greatest liar, and he is oh-so familiar with the light of truth- with shadow milk.)

(Whether or not the beast remembers or recalls or buries in the back of his mind- Pure Vanilla knows things- secrets that the beast had whispered in moments of silence and solitude.)

(This is not an act of sacrifice- not an act of giving up everything to be a protector as everyone else would have called it- nor was it an act of redemption as some would have you believe.)

(No this was act of truth- of pure vanilla instead of burying himself with hurt and pain and deceiving others, he sought his other half to speak in whispers of truth.)

(He sought for the truth of actions- to find out what they were to each other- if they are enemies, replacement and replaced, hero and villain, Jester and king, healer and destroyer.)

(He wishes to seek if he can break these roles.)

Of all things, shadow milk had considered, for some reason he’d never thought- never consider Pure vanilla would be before him in his newly reclaimed territory.

He’d specifically put a barrier around the area- trapping those damned faeries who thought they would be a sacrificial bride- yet of all people, its the one who he damn well knows would give his life in the first choice.

Oh pure vanilla, just how much more interesting you have become.

He grins as slanters down from his throne to the waiting blonde.

(He didn’t come dressed in that king attire of his- no pointed cone crown-hat, no long white robes or waffle shoulder bearings, Pure vanilla doesn’t even bring that staff of his- No the flower is curled around the man's wrist as he walks in.)

(The outfit he bares- the tattered brown robes tided with rope, blonde hair halfway messy, stumbling and tripping and-)

(Something shifts instead him as the realization comes over him- no lies, no hidden agendas.)

(Pure vanilla came for the truth- no shields, no barriers and no differences.)

He less vicious as he comes down the stairs, “I see now, I’ll admit, I was caught off guard when you of all people arrived here first.” He touches pure vanilla check as the other tenses at the sudden touch.

He leans over and whispers into others ear, “Now then, my dear, my bride, my pure vanilla.” He interlocks a hand forcefully with the other, “May we bound to the flames of the oven. I do my dear.”

The bell rings its toll, whether it be in celebration to union or the mourning of the actions taken this night is unknown.

But the whisper of Pure Vanilla is all the more damning.

“I do.”

Is the whisper. And the beast grin only widens.

(Sorry for the late post! I've had exams, being sick and a bunch of other bullshit to deal with :p)

(But anyways- your bride of shadow milk.)

#pure vanilla cookie #cookie run kingdom #cookie run au #shadow milk cookie #idea prompt #beast yeast #shadowvanilla #pureshadow #Shadow milk x pure vanilla #pure vanilla x shadow milk #Elder faerie #Oh boy toxic Yaoi

64 notes · View notes

regular-gnome · 3 months

Note

Through many AUs I've been through, yours are the one I like the most, because it's a more realistic one.

I can see that the "cruelty" of other Collectors are not like that they are evil.

For a being that is older than universe, they are like the Gardeners of Stars, as a gardener you have to cut it out what is dead, you have to treat the soil, prepare it for a new tree, now with planets it's kind the same, they visit, they watch, and so they decide if some species is worth to keep and if they are not worth for keeping.

And so, this process of leaving a juvenile collector in a planet till the dominant species dies is kinda a hardening process, in order for them to grow mature and to not let feelings intervene in the decision process, like being a doctor, you must put aside the fear of hurting the patient in order to heal the patient.

But in TOH things got different, they found a species that represented danger to themselves, so they used another species to kill the titans and the little collector paid the piper.

Im very glad you enjoy the AU:D

The concept is rooted in the idea that generally, people or characters don't choose evil simply for the sake of being evil. But nobody is omnicent, they react to whats happening, trying to figure out what might be "best" as they go without really a way to know for sure if its a right call. Having power to destroy a planet with swipe of finger rises the stakes for literally everyone. When the Collector was releashed during King's Tide the game changed. If Belos had managed to control them - nobody would have been able to challenge him. Even Odalia tried to suggest totally reshaping the isles. Seeing anyone as mostly/ only dangerous power sources creates power imbalance, something that can evolve into very shaky and actually dangerous relation when the other side realises they were never really considered a equal person and having the ability to revange. There is a lot of implications and possibilities when someone possesses such power with no oversight and unlimited time but also is a person that doesnt want to be alone:D

If involvement with mortals ends in some kind of complications the collectors will be around to see the consequences, even if they don't directly experience them so sort of desensitization toward the very life they are trying to preserve is bound to happen. "They live for so short and can cause so much change in their own system, its best to control the situation" type of mindset. Also thinking of ecosystem like gardens that need work on makes it easier to deal with, especially since with the scale of galaxy they cant just spend unlimited amout of time in one place full of creatures that do not want to be preserved. Their actions come from a place of care but there is inherent cruelty in their concern

Sooo yeah, its the perspective that might develop in that kind of situation and might end up with leaving one of their own alone for eons. But who knows, this AU is a lot of theories in a trenchcoat and i dont want to defend their actions. Killing all titans? yeah thats bad. It's more about theorizing why anyone would consider that a reasonable option while also not being evil just cuz

#wow i hope its comprehensible #also speaking of gardens #So sorry to every slug that “lived” in my pumpkin patch #your sacriface was an vital element for this au to be created #...and it serves you right for killing 26 pumpkins #my poor pumpkins #i couldnt save you #the owl house #toh #toh fanart #owl house #toh collector #the collector #the collector toh #collector toh #the archivists #toh archivists #toh collectors #ask

64 notes · View notes

himboskywalker · 5 months

Note

Heyy boo, do you have a book that is not star wars related that you wish you could read for the first time or reread all the time?

I am searching for books recommendations and I am pretty open about every genre, maybe not horror but everything else is totally fine.

My number one book recommendation that I will always obnoxiously shove in everyone’s faces is Lord of the Rings. It is my heart and soul and favorite thing in the world and if you’ve never read the trilogy I highly recommend it. But I also have quite a few other recs!

Anything written by Andy Weir. “The Martian” is his best known work,which they made the Matt Damon movie of,and while I do love it “Project Hail Mary” is my favorite of his and one of my favorite sci-fi books of all time.

I loved “To Sleep in a Sea of Stars” which was Christopher Paolini’s sci-fi debut a couple years ago but he just came out with its prequel “Fractal Noise” and I liked it even more.

For some good old fashioned space opera brilliance I recommend the “Final Architecture” trilogy by Adrian Tchaikovsky. The last book of the series just came out and I DEVOURED it. Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time,Ruin,and Memory are also phenomenal, you really just can’t go wrong with him.

For more space opera and politics I highly recommend Arkady Martine,she DEBUTED with “Memory Called Empire” which won all sorts of awards. The sequel also recently came out but I haven’t gotten the chance to read it.

I’m in the middle of reading Pierce Brown’s “Red Rising” saga,which I would describe as adult Hunger Games,and have thoroughly enjoying it as well!

For fantasy I love Samantha Shannon’s “Priory of the Orange Tree” and “A Day of Fallen Night”. You’ll get varying opinions of what to read first,I read Priory when it first came out so that’s my biased opinion.

I’m a massive fan of “She Who Became the Sun” by Shelly Parker-Chan and their sequel “He Who Drowned the World” and I want it to go on record I read SWBS when it first came out and before it blew up *flips hair*

R.J. Barker’s “Tide Child” trilogy is awesome,first book of that series is “The Bone Ships.” It’s high seas fantasy with dragon bone ships and epic war and amazing world building.

I always highly recommend “Gideon the Ninth” by Tamsyn Muir and now also the rest of the books in the series. I think the usual pitch is lesbian necromancers in space.

I cannot cannot recommend “The Shadow of the Gods” by John Gwynne enough! It’s quintessential epic fantasy told as a Norse epic and it’s in my top five of modern fantasy books.

While I have serious beef with Song of Achilles just like our fellow obikin Will,I did love and devour Madeline Miller’s “Circe.” In every way I think it’s her superior work.

I can’t recommend fantasy without recommending “The Grace of Kings” by Ken Liu. His entire series will blow your socks off,but the first book won nearly every award for fantasy books that have ever existed.

I’m a huge fan of R.F Kuang’s “The Poppy War” series although I’ve heard this one is a contentious recommendation. I think this series is hate or love it but if for whatever reason you don’t vibe with this series I also highly recommend Kuang’s “Babel.”

If you want something a little less well known I could chew through drywall over Simon Jimenez’s “The Spear Cuts Through Water.” It was in my top five of 2023 release books.

I can also make a separate rec list of less new books and overall classics I always recommend or gift to people,both fiction and nonfiction!

#book recs #book recommendations #science fiction #fantasy #anons

35 notes · View notes

cutieininferno · 7 months

Text

UNDISCLOSED DESIRE

The transformation in Zoro was undeniable. Nami observed the change in him with keen interest – the smile that now graced his lips, the warmth that emanated from his eye, the way his shoulders seemed at ease. Even his interactions with children spoke of a newfound tenderness. The perpetual scowl that had once defined him was conspicuously absent, making him appear more youthful and approachable. But his physique, well, it had matured.

Her mind involuntarily drifted to the memory of the hug he had enveloped her in upon her arrival in the country he now called home. A rush of sensations flooded her, and she held her breath unconsciously.

His strong arms had encircled her shoulders and waist, drawing her close. The firmness of his chest pressed against her face, and she could feel his breath against her head.

Intimate. It had felt so intimate.

Such an embrace was uncharacteristic of their dynamic. Never before had he held her so closely. The memory played over and over in her mind, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the picture she had painted of their relationship.

Sitting at the banquet table within Kozuki Castle, her eyes remained fixed on him as he engaged in animated conversation with Bartolomeo. Their topic ranged from her village to Luffy's triumph over Arlong, and Nami watched Zoro in contemplation. She analyzed his gestures, his expressions – the subtleties that made up the enigma of the Greatest Swordsman. At times, he glanced in her direction, and she responded with smiles of confirmation, validating the details of their shared history without the need for words.

Amusement tugged at Nami as she noted the distinct redness that colored Bartolomeo's face. His casual conversation with one of his idols was evidently affecting him more than he could conceal.

Nami's arrival in Wano hadn't been long ago, accompanied by the fanboy's antics. He had made the journey from Cocoyashi, expressing a desire to visit "Zoro-senpai" in Wano. Her curiosity had been piqued, and though she'd never admit it, a longing to catch up with her fellow crewmate had drawn her to the same path. After all, she missed him, even if such sentiment would remain locked in the vault of her heart.

Three years had passed since their triumphant arrival at Laugh Tale, a journey that culminated in Luffy being crowned the King of the Pirates. A year had slipped by without a reunion with her fellow crew members. The tides of life had changed, sweeping them all into new currents, and Nami hadn't quite processed the whirlwind of events that had unfolded since then.

One thing was now abundantly clear: Zoro had undergone a transformation of his own.

And that transformation hadn't gone unnoticed by Nami. Her muscles tensed involuntarily as thoughts raced through her mind, traversing uncharted territories for a very sensible reason.

Dinner had come and gone, eventually segueing into a conversation about sake that had taken on a life of its own. Naturally, the two of them had drifted into their own realm of discussion.

She had shared with him the recipe Sanji had left her—a recipe for Mikan liquor. The mere mention had brightened Zoro's eye, a spark of excitement igniting within him. His gaze on her held an unmistakable fondness that sent her heart into a sudden dance.

A beat skipped, a fraction of time that held immeasurable significance.

The hug from earlier resurfaced in her mind, a trigger for a sensation she knew all too well.

Suppressing it was a skill she had mastered—the heat that surged through her loins whenever she caught glimpses of the shirtless swordsman training on the Sunny's deck. His form was a living sculpture of masculinity, exuding a potent blend of ferocity and power. Danger radiated from him, and she often wondered if she would lose herself entirely if she dared to explore the depths of her desires. It was a secret she had guarded, kept hidden under lock and key.

"Care for another round?" His deep voice, gentle and inviting, reached her ears as he poked her playfully.

Nami's smile widened. "Sure! More sake sounds perfect right now."

"Then come with me." Zoro rose from his seat, and she willingly followed suit.

Leaving the lively banquet hall, they stepped out into the embracing embrace of the Flower Capital's spring night. The air was scented with blossoms, and the vibrant colors painted a picturesque scene. Wano had always held its allure, but since the culmination of the Onigashima War and the triumphant return of the Kozuki Clan, it had blossomed into a country of unparalleled beauty and prosperity.

Nami walked beside Zoro, their footsteps in sync as they strolled. Her curiosity got the better of her. "Where are we headed?"

"To my dojo," he replied, his tone a blend of pride and familiarity.

Nami's playful demeanor couldn't mask the respect and admiration she held for him. "Ah, I've heard about your dojo, Zoro-sensei." Her words carried a hint of teasing, her warmth for him transparent. His smile, in response, was both affectionate and prideful, a gesture that didn't attempt to hide his own feelings.

"The other day, one of my pupils gifted me with a fine sake," he revealed. "I thought we could enjoy it there. It's quieter..." His words trailed off, and Nami, heart racing, was relieved that he didn't see the telltale blush that painted her cheeks. Why would he suggest spending time alone with her in a secluded setting?

"Getting too old for the festivities?" She ventured playfully.

Zoro sighed softly, as if he'd considered this often. "It can be tiresome. The parties here are different from the ones we had with the crew. People give me too much attention for the aid we offered years ago." His words bore a hint of frustration. "And…" He hesitated, his gaze momentarily distant. "...I'm glad you're here. I'd rather share a drink with you alone, like the old times."

The rhythm of Nami's heart changed, pounding a little faster within her chest. The implication was clear. Alone. The word might have held no deeper meaning than a recollection of their shared adventures at sea, but her mind seized the opportunity to entertain more provocative thoughts.

She had often reasoned with herself, convincing her desires that pursuing anything with Zoro, even a physical connection, would be an exercise in futility. He was relentlessly focused, dedicating countless hours to his training regimen. She couldn't justify diverting his attention just to quench her fiery yearnings. Above all, he was her nakama, and she valued his dream as much as her own.

Yet, the current reality diverged from that logic.

Zoro was no longer just a Straw Hat crewmate. He was The Greatest Swordsman, a man of unparalleled strength and power. He held his own legacy, a renowned dojo, a prestigious title. The pride in his eyes was a reflection of the milestones he'd achieved.

No longer chasing a distant goal, he stood firm in his achievements.

The same held true for her.

As his gaze met hers, her thoughts wavered. His single steel-colored eye, which had been both a source of exasperation and amazement, now held an expectant gleam. Could he sense her uncertainty? Her curiosity?

Was she reading these signals correctly?

Could there be any truth to these unspoken cues?

Nami had to probe, to navigate this unfamiliar terrain.

"Hyiory won't mind?" she asked with a feigned nonchalance, her intention to bring humor to a topic that made her feel uneasy.

"Why would she?" Zoro's surprise mirrored her own, and she found herself relishing his reaction.

Nami seized the chance to interject humor into the dialogue, her voice laced with a touch of mock irritation. "Well, everyone knows she's head over heels for you. Our boozy bond might be a bit puzzling for her." A strained attempt to maintain levity masked the uncertainty of the conversation's trajectory.

"Yeah, she was quite a handful," Zoro admitted with a hint of amusement. "Took some time for her to realize I wasn't interested."

Warmth unfurled within Nami's chest, a sensation she couldn't entirely decipher. What was this peculiar feeling that had found its way into her heart?

The conversation shifted to Hyiory's captivating beauty, a topic Nami couldn't help but be honest about. "Must've been tough on her. A woman as stunning as her likely has men wrapped around her finger."

Zoro's reaction was a frustrated click of his tongue. "I'm not like that idiotic love-cook. I can appreciate beauty, but it's not what captivates me."

Curiosity tugged at her, urging her to delve deeper into his sentiments. She longed to know the kind of beauty that held his attention, what qualities resonated with him on a deeper level.

As appealing as his response was, an unsettling undercurrent rippled through her thoughts. Perhaps he was uttering these words with someone else in mind. After all, he had spent a year in Wano. In all likelihood, he had encountered someone who had stirred his interest.

Amidst this internal turmoil, Nami's voice emerged, a murmur of acknowledgment. "I know."

"We're here," Zoro declared as they stood before the entrance to his Dojo.

A simple yet inviting Wano-style dark green bungalow welcomed them, exuding an air of calm in its simplicity.

Crossing the threshold, they stepped into an empty room, a spacious expanse adorned with a large mat that stretched across the floor. Nami's curious gaze swept the surroundings, her eyes absorbing the colorful ornaments that adorned the walls.

Curiosity nudged her to ask, "So, how are your pupils? Are they keeping up?"

Zoro's response was accompanied by a shrug, his familiar air of cockiness unabated. "They're doing well. After all, their sensei is the best swordsman in the world."

A well-practiced eye-roll punctuated her disbelief, Zoro's characteristic bravado remaining as steadfast as ever.

Leading her into another room, they entered what seemed like a cozy kitchen—a harmonious blend of functionality and minimalism. With a pantry, a table, and two chairs, it radiated an atmosphere of intimacy.

Zoro reached for a golden bottle and placed it delicately on the table, alongside two small glasses.

"Do the honors, witch," he quipped, his eyes alight with amusement as he employed the playful moniker for the first time that evening.

A challenge glinted in her gaze as she retorted, "Keep that sassy mouth up, and you might find yourself knee-deep in debt again." With a practiced hand, she poured the sake into the waiting glasses.

"Bring it on, woman," he countered, his grin oozing with confidence as he seized his glass. "Now I can handle whatever unfair debts you throw my way."

"Good to know, musclehead." She clinked her glass against his, a nostalgic echo of camaraderie that she had missed.

The potent liquid flowed into their glasses, and in unison, they raised them to their lips, emptying the contents with practiced ease.

"Ahh, fine booze," Zoro's smile widened, the liquid clearly pleasing his discerning palate.

Nami's gaze lingered on him as he savored the flavor, his lips parting slightly to taste the remnants. Her heart thudded within her chest, her imagination playing with the idea of those lips against her own, exploring her contours.

An involuntary warmth radiated through her, and she pressed her legs together unconsciously, the thought of his tongue evoking sensations she dared not voice aloud.

"Amazing stuff," she mumbled, her nerves transmitting a tremor through her fingers as she seized the bottle, bypassing the glass and taking a swig straight from its source.

As her gaze flickered back to him, she discerned a transformation in his expression. His eye emanated a certain wickedness, a dangerous edge that had crept into the atmosphere. The subtle shift in the air was undeniable, and she was certain he could sense it too.

He reached for the bottle, his fingers brushing against hers in an almost incidental touch. His smile—a smile that seemed to hold an uncanny awareness of her heartbeat—pulled at the corner of his lips.

The tension was palpable, a weight that settled upon them as they locked eyes.

A shiver traced a well-known path down her spine, igniting a sensation that she recognized all too well. Her gaze momentarily abandoned his, drawn instead to the window behind him.

A flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the darkened sky.

"It's going to rain," she murmured, her voice almost lost in the charged air that cocooned them. Her attention refocused on him, that undercurrent of tension still lingering.

"Guess we won't be heading back to the castle, then," he murmured back in a voice as rough as gravel, the sound like a whisper sent directly into her ear.

He downed more sake in one steady gulp, his focus still fixed on her, as though he were studying the depths of her soul through her eyes. The empty bottle found its place on the table with a soft thud.

Nami's heart pounded like a relentless drumbeat as the tension between her and Zoro escalated, the air heavy with unspoken longing. His eyes, a potent mixture of playful mischief and raw desire, held her captive. The intensity of the moment was palpable, a magnetic force pulling them closer, drawing her thoughts to a standstill.

The room felt small, the walls pressing in on her as the silence stretched between them. Her mouth opened, ready to break the stillness, but the words remained trapped, as if they were prisoners of the unspoken tension.

And then, without warning, Zoro's voice broke the stillness, his words like a lightning bolt in the charged atmosphere. "You know, Nami," he began, his voice low and husky, "I've noticed something for a long time now."

Nami's breath caught as her eyes locked onto his, her heart pounding in anticipation. What was he about to say? Her mind raced, imagining all the possibilities, her body tingling with both anxiety and excitement.

His gaze bore into her, intense and unyielding. "I've always been attracted to you," he confessed, his words a shockwave that reverberated through her.

Nami's heart thudded against her chest, her senses reeling from his admission. Was this real? Could it be that the fantasies she'd suppressed were about to become a reality?

Zoro's eye was smoldering now, a fire burning deep within it. His lips curved into a half-smile. "I've kept it hidden for too long," he continued, his voice like a caress against her skin. "But seeing you here, after all this time...Fuck Nami, I can't hold back anymore," Zoro finished with a groan, his words hanging in the charged air between them.

Unable to resist any longer, Nami closed the gap between them.

Her lips met Zoro's with an urgency that had been building for years. Zoro's lips were warm and demanding against hers, his hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer as if he couldn't get enough.

Nami's fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed against his, every inch of her aware of his presence, his touch, his taste. She felt the intensity of his desire, his pent-up emotions unleashed in this electrifying moment.

Their mouths moved in a heated dance, lips and tongues exploring each other with an urgency that defied restraint. She couldn't believe this was happening, that the man she had secretly yearned for was now in her arms, reciprocating her desires with a fervor that matched her own.

Breaking the kiss, Zoro's lips traced a path down her jawline, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Nami's pulse quickened with every touch, her body responding to his every caress.

She tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, a silent invitation that he eagerly accepted. His lips pressed against her skin, igniting a trail of kisses along her neck, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through her veins. Nami's fingers explored the contours of his back, tracing the hard muscles she had always admired from a distance.

"I've wanted this," she admitted, her voice a husky whisper. "More than I can say."

Zoro's hot breath brushed against her ear as he murmured, "Show me." His hands traced a path from her waist to her ass, his touch sending shivers of anticipation through her.

His words were a challenge, a plea, an invitation that set her desire ablaze. With a boldness she didn't know she possessed, Nami pulled back slightly, her eyes locked onto his.

Without breaking eye contact, her fingers moved to the front of Zoro's yukata, deftly undoing the fastenings. The fabric fell open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the chiseled muscles that bespoke of years of training and dedication. Nami's breath hitched as she took in the sight before her, her desire for him more evident than ever.

Leaning in, Nami's lips pressed against his skin, each kiss a declaration of the longing she had kept hidden for so long. She tasted the salt of his skin, the heat of his body searing her senses. Her kisses trailed a path down his chest, tracing the contours of his muscles, a mixture of reverence and desire in every touch.

Nami's lips pressed against the defined ridges of his abdomen, her tongue tracing patterns that left his skin tingling. She felt the tension in his body, the way his muscles clenched beneath her touch. It was exhilarating to know that she had this effect on him, that he was just as consumed by desire as she was.

Nami's fingers toyed with the waistband of Zoro's pants, her touch teasing and deliberate. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, the anticipation that mirrored her own. With a daring smile, she slowly began to undo the fastenings, her gaze locked onto his as she revealed more of his powerful physique.

Nami's lips pressed against his abdomen, leaving a trail of kisses that made his senses reel. She explored every inch of his exposed skin, her breath hot against him. Zoro's fingers threaded through her hair, his touch both guiding and encouraging as he lost himself in the sensation of her lips on his body.

Nami's fingers traced a path from his hips to his thighs, her touch sending shivers of pleasure through him. She leaned in, her lips brushing against the skin just below his navel. Zoro's fingers clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to maintain control.

"Nami," he rasped, his voice a blend of need and urgency.

Nami looked up at him through hooded eyes, her gaze filled with a hunger that matched his own. Without a word, she pressed her lips against his skin, leaving a trail of kisses along his hipbone. Her touch was both gentle and demanding, her lips tracing a path that sent a surge of pleasure straight to his core.

Nami's lips continued their journey, her kisses growing bolder as she moved closer to his center. His manhood was long and thick, just like she expected.

She put the tip in her mouth, slowly tracing circles with her tongue and to her delight, he moaned loudly.

With each languid swirl of her tongue, Nami could feel the tension in Zoro's body building, his hips gently bucking in rhythm with her movements. It was an intoxicating dance of desire, an unspoken communication of need and satisfaction.

As she continued to explore every inch of his cock with her mouth, Nami was amazed at how she could affect a man like Zoro. She could feel his arousal throbbing beneath her touch, his need for release becoming increasingly evident.

Zoro's fingers tightened in her hair, his grip a silent encouragement that urged her to continue. His voice, deep and primal, filled the room as he gasped her name, a plea for more, for everything she had to offer.

But just as the intensity of their passion reached a fever pitch, Zoro took charge once more.

With a primal need burning in his eyes, Zoro pulled Nami up from her kneeling position, their lips meeting in a fiery kiss that left them both breathless. The urgency of their desire was palpable as their hands moved with a frantic need to rid her of the remaining barriers between them.

Nami's kimono fell to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric, leaving her exposed and vulnerable before Zoro's hungry gaze. She could feel the heat of his desire radiating from him, matching her own need to be claimed by him.

Zoro's hands roamed her body, his touch both possessive and reverent as he explored her skin. His fingers traced the curves of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from her. The intensity of his touch sent shivers of delight coursing through her body.

As their lips met in another searing kiss, Zoro's hands moved lower, his fingers trailing a path down her abdomen, teasingly close to where she ached for his touch. Nami's nails dug into his shoulders, a silent plea for more.

With a firm grip, he lifted Nami and effortlessly placed her on the sturdy wooden table, their lips never breaking contact.

Nami's back arched in response to the electrifying sensation of being at his mercy, her fingers grasping at the edges of the table.

Nami couldn't help but surrender to the overwhelming desire that had consumed them both. Zoro's hands were no longer teasing; they were possessive, exploring every inch of her body with a voracious hunger that left her breathless.

Their kisses were a wild clash of tongues and lips, a heated battle for dominance. Nami's nails raked down Zoro's back, leaving marks on his skin. His growls of pleasure were like music to her ears, spurring her on to even greater heights of ecstasy.

His fingers digged into her hips as he guided her movements. Nami's gasps of pleasure mingled with Zoro's primal groans as he entered her soaking wet insides.

The table beneath them creaked and groaned in protest as their bodies moved in perfect harmony, each thrust a symphony of pleasure. Nami's hips rocked against his with an urgency that matched his own, a primal need that left no room for restraint.

Zoro's mouth trailed hot, possessive kisses down her neck and chest, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, sending shivers of delight coursing through her.

With every thrust, their passion intensified, their bodies colliding like two magnets that can't be apart.

As the intensity of their lovemaking built, Zoro's lips found her ear, and he whispered words that sent shivers down her spine. "I wanna make you mine, Nami," he breathed, his voice a possessive growl. "All mine."

Nami's response was a cry of ecstasy, her body trembling with a intense orgasm. Zoro followed closely behind, their climax a shared explosion of pleasure that left them both panting.

With their bodies intertwined, Zoro and Nami shared a moment of tenderness. Zoro's fingers continued to caress Nami's skin, a gentle reminder of the intimacy they had just experienced. With a tender smile, he traced gentle patterns on Nami's skin, his touch soothing and affectionate.

Zoro leaned in to steal soft kisses from Nami's lips, each one filled with the promise of deeper connection. Their gazes remained locked, conveying a shared understanding of the profound bond they had just solidified.

Gently, Zoro lifted Nami into his arms, his strength both protective and caring. He carried her to the room with the mat, a place where they could continue their intimate exploration. As he laid her down on the mat, his eyes sparkled with a playful glint.

"I have a feeling we're going to keep each other up all night." His words were filled with a playful promise, a reminder that their passion was far from extinguished.

Nami's laughter filled the room, a melodic sound that echoed their shared joy and desire.

A/N: Hi!

Hope you guys enjoy this one. I'll be adding another chapter...maybe...what do you think?

#one piece #nami x zoro #one piece fanfiction #zona #zonami #zoro and nami #zoro x nami fanfiction #zonami fanfiction #nami and zoro

43 notes · View notes

bronzefuryfic · 7 months

Text

Bronze Fury

When the only child of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce is brought to King's Landing to meet with the rest of her family, she finds herself caught in a crisis of succession. The Greens battle for her support... and her affections.

Chapter Eleven: The Funeral / Previous Chapter / Directory

The Targaryens arrive in Driftmark for the funeral of Laena Velaryon. Aegon proposes a plan to save his relationship. Rhae at last sees her father.

"You reckon this is what it's like on Dragonstone?"

Aemond shrugged, his eyes transfixed on the sky. He and Rhae stood at the edge of the deck, listening to the dockhands clamor to prepare a ramp for the ship's passengers to exit on. Waiting for them below was Aegon and Helaena, their hair whipped and wild from their flight.

Driftmark's harbor was at the base of the island, the castle looming large on the rocky hills above. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre were roosting about halfway up, their long scaly necks pointed upwards, watching wearily as more dragons circled overhead.

Rhae recognized the sleek yellow frame of Syrax , soaring lazily amongst the clouds, as she was prone to. She kept a lofty distance, her cries faint and sorrowful, almost lost to the winds. Nearby was Seasmoke , sinking lower and lower towards the ocean in a spiraling silent stupor. They seemed to keep their distance from the sky's only other inhabitant—a crimson beast that streaked the ether in agitated fury.

"Meleys," Aemond whispered.

The Dragonkeepers had told Rhae once that the bond between riders and their mounts was unbreakable, so much so that they could feel each other's emotions. She hadn't believed them then, but now...

The Red Queen roared, her call a bitter agony.

Rhae thought of Ser Harwin, and of Laena Velaryon, and wondered whether the dragons were mourning too.

"I don't see Caraxes," she shivered, watching the clouds, fearfully wondering when he might slither into view. Viserys had once told her how Daemon's dragon came to be known as the Blood Wyrm, for his scarlet scales and deformities.

"More of a winged viper than a dragon," The King had chuckled. "Though, pray, don't tell Daemon I've said so, tis' his pride and joy, Caraxes..."

"No Vhagar either," Aemond grumbled—the boy also seemed to scan the horizon in anticipation. "You don't think they've left her in Essos, do you?"

"I doubt any could coax the Queen of All Dragons overseas if she did not wish it," Rhae reasoned. Aemond's brow furrowed, but before they could discuss any further, Ser Criston's voice cut through the commotion.

"Rhae! Aemond!"

The ramp secured, the passengers filed down to the dock. The King went first, aided by his attendants so that he would not topple into the sea.

"See him to his quarters," the Queen called after them. "His Grace should rest before the funeral."

One by one, the rest followed. Rhae scanned the skies once more, wondering where Daemon might be, before hurrying down the ramp after Aemond.

"Gods Rhae," Aegon said, as he and Helaena joined them. He surveyed her closely, his brow knitting together in concern. "You look like shit."

"Aegon!" Aemond glowered.

"What?" Aegon argued. "She does!"

"You do," Helaena whispered, taking Rhae by her right arm as her brothers bickered.

"That obvious, huh?" Rhae offered a half smile despite herself. Her hand curled around Helaena's forearm, soothing her nerves as she gently rubbed the sleeve's fabric beneath her fingers. She allowed her friend to pull her along, following the crowd up the stony steps to High Tide.

As they drew nearer, Rhae's breath caught. The pale stone that made its walls reminded Rhae of those belonging to her liege lady's, Jeyne Arryn of the Eerie. The memories were old, but by Rhae's estimation, the newly constructed High Tide was even bigger, and better yet, much easier to climb. She'd heard how the Sea Snake erected his own castle, abandoning the small, salt-stained Castle Driftmark in its favor. Ser Gerold had scoffed at the news, aghast that any might abandon their ancestral seat. But as Rhae passed the threshold, she couldn't help but think the Lord of the Tides had made the right decision, marvelling at the spoils of his famed nine voyages.

She, Aegon, Aemond and Helaena huddled together as the Queen paced past them to meet with their host, the King already being escorted towards the apartments. Rhae scoured the room for faces that ought to be familiar.

Can you find yourself in family you've never met? Rhae wondered. She didn't need half as much to recognize Lord Corlys Velaryon—still proud in his grief, stern and immovable as a mast, his sea-salted white dreads striking against his dark skin and sable, lavish mourning attire. Nor his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, her features visibly taut with sorrow, even from a distance, even beneath her veil of black.

But where is my father? What has become of my sisters?

As more guests and attendants piled through the doors, their footfall echoing the vaulted ceilings, Alicent's voice became lost in the cacophony.

"Gods, she's relentless," Aegon grumbled, as his mother gestured back towards them. He looked to Rhae's worried face, before straightening his back and taking a high tone. "Sincerest apologies for the death of your daughter. May the Sevens bless her and blah blah blah... Would you like to hear about my son?"

"Aegon..." Aemond began exhaustedly.

But it was as successful as ever, Aegon already blathering on. "No, not the short one there. Behind him. Yes, yes... the handsome one... he's got a cock and all!"

Aemond rolled his eyes, nodding towards an ornate spyglass on display nearby. When he spoke, he mimicked Aegon's sickly sweet impersonation of their mother.

"If you use the telescope, you might even see it."

Rhae snapped from her daze, clapping a hand over her mouth, barely able to suppress a snicker. It didn't matter—Helaena guffawed beside her, drawing scowls from those nearby. Color rose in Aegon's cheeks, but he made no retort. His face flickered between anger and amusement, but beneath it all, Rhae could've sworn he looked proud.

The children sobered instantly as the Queen returned to them, save Helaena, who was still giggling to herself. Alicent surveyed them wearily, turning to Rhae. "Is something funny?"

Do tell me if the children are a bother... I trust you'll be honest with me, she'd once said.

"No, Your Grace."

Alicent nodded, apt to believe her.

"Upstairs." She commanded. "You're to stay in your chambers until you are called for the funeral." She gave Aegon a hard look, adding with a hiss. " And you're to stay on your best behavior!"

"Yes, Your Grace." They all chorused.

Rhae spent the rest of the morning fussing over her appearance, straightening non-existent creases in her dress, fiddling with her hair, polishing her jewelry. She hated every second, but every time she tore herself from the mirror, she'd lap the room and come right back.

She longed for her bow, so that she might calm her nerves with thoughtless, long-practiced motions. As she paced the length of the room once more, she wished next for a dagger of her own, to flip and toss as she had with Aemond on the boat.

Perhaps if I were to ask Ser Criston... She thought, turning on her heel and stalking back towards the mirror.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAARTCH!

The cry cut through Rhae's heart, her hand instinctively flying to her chest. She glimpsed her own horrified expression in the mirror before rushing towards the window. Her eyes and ears strained—she thought she could sense the beating of wings above, but it was hard to separate from the beating of the waves below. The sky revealed nothing.

Caraxes. It has to be.

Another shrill screech confirmed her theory, sending goose-pimples across all but her left arm.

He's here.

A knock sounded at the door, and a yelp loosed her lips.

"It's just me."

"Come in." Rhae managed weakly, pulling herself away from the window as Aegon entered the room.

"Gods Rhae," He muttered, reaching for her, placing his hand on the small of her back before the door even shut. "You really do look terrible."

"Thanks."

"Stunning," He corrected, placing a second hand on the nape of her neck. We shouldn't do this here, Rhae thought, but the worry dissipated as his thumb brushed along the corner of her jaw. "But also terrible."

Rhae hadn't realized she'd been clenching her teeth. Her mouth slackened, her bottom lip quivering. Her arms wrapped around his mid-section as Aegon pulled her head towards his chest, and for a moment, she felt safe.

"I wanted to talk to you about... us," Aegon said after a while, shifting his hands to her waist. "If you're up for it."

"What is there to discuss?" She lamented. "Nothing has changed."

"It could. We could make it change."

Rhae sighed, pulling her head back to look at him properly. He appeared nervous, as he had last they spoke, ever afraid of her rejection. His fingers gripped her tighter, his hope in his hands, desperate to keep it from slipping away.

"How?"

"If the court... discovered our secret," Aegon began, Rhae's eyes already widening in fear. He pressed onwards desperately. "It would cause a scandal. Mother would have to make new arrangements to counter. We'd be wed instead!" Rhae shook her head. "Please. Please don't do that. She'd have to, Rhae. For our reputations—"

" Your reputation!" Rhae interjected. Her hold on him loosened, but she did not let go. "You're the son of the King, and I'm merely a daughter of the Vale. It's just as likely I'm removed from my station and sent to the Silent Sisters!"

"Mother wouldn't let that happen! She couldn't. You're too important."

"For the dragon I don't have?"

"For the dragon you will have!" Aegon flared, his voice rising. "I thought you also wanted this! I thought... I thought —"

"I do," Rhae hushed. "I do."

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAARTCH!

They stood in despondent silence, Caraxes' call echoing over the sea.

".. . I'm scared, Aegon."

"We can't stop what's coming," He said quietly. "I've feared the throne for as long as mother has sworn it to me. But I..." He gulped. "I love you. I need you. And I think if you were to be there by my side..."

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

Things might be a little less frightening.

Time seemed to hold still. It seemed to Rhae that the only sign it passed at all was the heavy thump of her heart in her chest. Her whole head seemed to hum, savoring his words, their clarity...

Helaena was right.

"When?" she breathed, her cheeks burning. It was so foolish, so crass . Gods, what would Ser Gerold say? What will Alicent? And yet... there was a surge of exhilaration. Had they not risked this very outcome every time they snuck from the prying eyes of the Red Keep? Had they not danced around the possibility for weeks? Months?

He blinked in surprise, taking a moment to process her agreement. But as the realization hit him, his grip tightened, pulling at her hips.

"I'd have you now," Aegon muttered fervently. His head snaked to the side, pressing a kiss to the corner of her jaw, just below the ear. "Why wait?"

Rhae put her right hand firmly to his chest, pushing away his advances. Not all her senses had left her. Aegon's brow furrowed in confusion.

"What?"

Rhae let out an involuntary jolt of laughter.

"We're at a funeral!"

"All the better," he insisted. "Less opportunity for them to do anything to stop us."

"You're mad. This is mad."

"So be it."

He leaned in again, slower this time, testing her resolve.

"Aegon," Rhae's hand stayed firmly on his chest. "I want this, I do."

"But?"

"It can't be now. Not here. Not..." She grimaced. "Not with everything else that's going on."

Aegon jerked his head in a stiff nod, the creases of worry returning to his brow.

"Okay," he muttered, dropping his hands to his side. "You're right." He was already moving for the door. "We'll talk about it later. I'll see downstairs for the..." He couldn't even finish the sentence, or if he had, it was spoken so softly that Rhae could not hear it.

He doesn't believe me.

"Aegon?"

Her feet carried her a few hurried steps forward, but her mouth struggling to match their willfulness. Aegon's hand hovered over the door's handle. His head just barely turned in her direction, his distrustful eyes obscured by a sheet of silver hair. Somehow Rhae knew—if she couldn't convince him now, she'd never have the chance again.

"What?"

It was now or never. Rhae swallowed her fear.

"I love you too."

His gaze softened.

"We'll talk later," he said again, gentler this time.

And before doubt could reclaim him, he was gone.

Everything felt heavy. Rhae's feet were leaden, shuffling across the ground beneath her dress as though her shoes were full of rocks. A mounting pressure built in her head, and her heart seemed to sink through her chest and puddle into her stomach. She feared she might retch again—Aemond did too, by the nervous looks he kept casting in her direction.

Her friends formed a sort of guard around her—Helaena leading from the front, with Aegon and Aemond on her left and right side, respectively. Rhae remembered a time when she was afraid to be so surrounded , but she was grateful now... Even if they made it difficult to search the crowd herself. Mourners lined the rocky terrain nearby, not important enough to join the inner-most circle of family and royals at the bottom. Rhae wondered how many had known Laena personally, and felt guilty as she passed.

They came to a stop beside Laenor Velaryon, though he did not seem to notice. He wept silently, unable to tear his eyes from the stone coffin before them, transfixed on his sister's silent, carved face. Beside him stood Princess Rhaenyra, her arms wrapped around Jace and Luke. Only Jace glanced their way.

They were joined shortly by a man in Hightower garb, who kissed Alicent's cheek before moving to stand just behind the King. Rhae peered—the lapel pin signifying the position of Hand gleamed at her from his chest. Ser Otto, she realized. She inclined her head towards Aemond for an explaination, but he merely shrugged.

"Father called for him when we arrived," Helaena whispered. Aemond and Rhae exchanged a look of surprise.

"How'd you know that?"

"Grandfather came to visit me next," Helaena smiled, reaching into the sleeve of her dress and pulling out a dead silverfish. "He found it on the boat from Oldtown!" She nudged Aegon, adding his head to the fold. "He says Daeron is well."

They'd caused too much commotion, however quiet. Alicent was staring at them pointedly, shushing them with her eyes. The children pulled back from their huddle.

A moment later, they were joined by Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys . Squeezed between them were two young girls. The taller of the two had an arm wrapped protectively around the shorter—or, perhaps, she was leaning on her for support.

My sisters, Rhae realized.

"Where is father?" She could hear the shorter ask, scanning the mourners anxiously. "They'll be starting soon!"

"He'll be here, Rhaena," said the taller— Baela. She seemed sure of her answer, though Rhaena did not look convinced.

Rhaena continued to scan the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on Rhae. Her eyes narrowed, and she rose on her toes to whisper something to Baela.

Rhae's cheeks burned.

So they do know about me.

But she didn't have long with her discomfort before it deepened into distress. Daemon's presence preceded him—dozens of heads were already turning before he reached the bottom step. For all the reactions he garnered, Daemon did not indulge any bids for his attention. Not the King's outstretched hand, nor Ser Otto's smug adjustment of his lapel pin as the Rogue Prince passed. He did not so much as glance in the direction of his daughters. It wasn't until he came to a stop beside the coffin, standing by no one, that he surveyed the sea of stunned faces with a slight smirk, revelling in the unease.

"Shall we begin?"

He turned to the Velaryon man closest to him—Vaemond, Lady Laena's uncle—who in turn nodded to the guards nearby. They unfurled a length of rope, weaving it through iron rungs attached to the coffin, creating a sort of pulley.

When Vaemond Velaryon spoke, he adopted the Valyrian tongue. Rhae strained her ears against the pounding blood rush to her head—struggling to hear or to understand.

"Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti."

Today we... we commit Lady Laena to the water.

The ropes snapped as the guards pulled, dragging the coffin a few inches backward along a long stretch of smoothed rock—a conduit with which they would deliver the body to the sea. Rhae supposed her translation must've been close, though she was certain she missed some. Another pull, and another few inches... Rhae gave an involuntary shudder.

She found herself looking to Jacaerys, and was surprised to catch his eye. Rhae offered what she hoped came across as a nod of solidarity, to seeming success. Jace nodded back, before casting a sideways glance towards Vaemond, as if to ask, are you getting any of this? Rhae smiled slightly, promising herself she'd find him later, and returned her attention to Vaemond.

"Solion tolijor zijosy pradarose, Ābrāzma Laena rāeniot hen eglio ilvot lanto taloti hembis. Pōja muña hen zȳho solio āmāzīlus daor, yn ānogrosa gierī ozletaksi humbilza."

Rhae understood very little now. She recognized "taloti", daughters, and "ānogrosa gierī ozletaksi", bound horribly? No... that can't be right... bound forever in blood...

Rhae looked to her sisters. All strength seemed to have left Baela, who was crying into her grandmother's chest. Rhaena's back was straight, her chin high, but she did nothing to clear the tears trailing down her cheeks.

Rhae couldn't remember the funeral of her own mother, having been a babe at the time. Would I have been as brave? She wondered . She longed to join them. She may not have known Laena, nor did she have memories of her own mother to mourn, and yet... watching Rhaena and Baela, Rhae felt a little less lonely.

They don't need me, Rhae reminded herself, her eyes drifting down to see their hands still clenched together. They have each other.

"Velario ānogro rȳ lopor ojāris. Īlvon qumblī iāris. Īlvon drējī iāris."

Vaemond's voice seemed to harden now. He was still speaking of blood, Velaryon blood, thick and true.

Unwittingly, Rhae found her gaze shift back to Jace. From the way Rhaenyra pulled her sons closer, her face poorly guarded, Rhae suspected she was not the only one. Laenor seemed to choke back a sob and Jacaerys' head drooped, hiding his pale face beneath his brown hair. Only Lucerys remained unperturbed. Rhae thought it unlikely he understood much of the speech at all, never mind the implications about his birth.

And there it was. The ever-unwelcome taste of conflict which made Rhae want to gag— Vaemond will not stand for Luke to ascend the Driftwood Throne. How many of the Velaryons feel the same? The boy bears their name, yet none of their blood.

Luke had a greater worry—the boy reached for his supposed father's trembling hand... an attempt at comfort.

But Vaemond did not relent, glaring at the child.

"Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvon bēvilis."

And ours must never thin.

A gale of laughter erupted from the speaker's side. Every head turned towards Daemon, who seemed unable to contain himself. Rhae gaped, bewildered. He didn't so much as have the grace to look embarrassed, snickering still as everyone stared.

Laughter? As the truth of it hit her, all other thoughts were erased from Rhae's mind. Her fists clenched, fury tearing at her stomach, her vision turned red. She was faintly aware of Aegon's hand seizing the back of her dress, and Aemond treading on her toe. Every reckless thought rattling through her head must've shown on her face, but she didn't care. She could not placate the tremor of injustice that iced her veins.

Rhae urged her feet forward, wishing nothing more than to strike her father, to knock him into the sea, to split his skull on stone... Let them mount my head and call me traitor, she thought savagely. It would be worth it.

But she remained where she stood, staring at him, burning him in her mind, hating him.

Won't he at least look at me?

It was as though he heard her. A flicker of the eye, so quick and so subtle, Rhae might've blinked and missed it. But she hadn't, and she was certain—Daemon met her gaze. He smirked.

A chill ran the length of her spine.

Dammit.

Rhae was not as brave as she had hoped—angry, hot tears leaked down her face. But what was there to do? She wiped them hurriedly, ashamed.

I could never hurt him as he hurts me.

Rhae tore her gaze from Daemon, fixating instead on the coffin of his second wife. Another woman dead. More daughters devastated. The father and the husband still unaffected. Where is justice? Ser Gerold was made the fool for asking the same, once. But he'd done it all the same.

I'm sorry, Mother.

"Talus mandus ñuhus," Vaemond continued, unfaltering. "Inkoso kostōbāpis aōhis jelmīs sagon gīso lykāpas aōhas embis se prūmȳsa lēdāpas aōhas manengīs."

Spirit. Heart. Rhae understood little else. The soldiers tugged at the ropes with each word, dragging the coffin closer and closer to the brink.

"Hen embār masti. Va embrot āmāzīli."

And with one final heave, Laena Velaryon was sent to sea. Gone forever.

Next Chapter: Driftmark

Rhae struggles through encounters with old friends, lost family, and new supposed allies at the funeral reception on Driftmark.

AO3 | Chapter Discussion

Thanks for reading!

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond x oc #aegon ii x oc

51 notes · View notes

strawbs-screaming · 6 months

Text

punch out random headcanons (again)

i should sleep

- Aran is a unironic radiohead listener, he got caught listening to it at least 3 times but is trying to gaslight everyone into thinking it was a collective fever dream

- one of the main reasons the wvba doesnt go on holiday together is due to the fact most of the boxers suffer from insomnia & other stuff that stops them from sleeping normally and generally having shit sleeping schedules

- the wvba sometimes has movie nights, everyone takes turns picking movies, aran takes advantage of this and picks the worst movies possible on his turn just to piss everyone off

- King Hippo used to have the habit of eating anything handed to him as a child, thanks to this you can ask him what (insert random object) tastes like and he'll answer it honestly, tide pods? Refreshing and a very good texture, wood? Too dry. A loofa? Disgusting. Shoelaces? if cleaned before eating: unique. You name it, he's eaten it.

- bald bull usually drinks coffee without thinking about the fact hes not gonna be able to sleep properly, this causes him to not be able to stand still for more than a few seconds

- don actually has a lot of wounds on his hand from picking roses with thorns, being the reason he cant use hand sanitizer most times

- Mac has this one weezer shirt thats in horrible condition he wears as pjs, hes had it before he started boxing and still has it, it smells like death and doc hates it but cant bear to tell Mac to throw it out because he feels like it would come off as rude

- bull HATES physical touch, he absolutely cannot tolerate it, the most contact he'll make with someone is either a punch, a highfive or an awkward side hug, it just agitates him

- super macho man breaks down doors without knocking, literally just breaking a door because he thinks it makes him look "totally tough"

- Glass Joe is really good at ice-skating and has won a few competitions, hes considering doing it profesionally but is just doing it for fun now

- Disco kid has shitty hearing thanks to blasting his ears out with music 99% of the time, he has tinnitus + a ruptured eardrum but ignores it

- gabby jay is a very good baker, he sometimes makes bread in the shape of little animals when sad, baking is basically his therapy

- narcis is scared of the dark but will not admit it, he just comes up with excuses like "what if i trip on something and break my nose?" or "i dont wanna bump into stuff it pisses me off" And it somehow works

- pizza pasta will scold you if you break spaghetti into 2 around him, hes a huge pasta gourmet and will bully your cooking skills, fix those rigatoni making skills or go back to buying craft mac and cheese, bitch

- bear hugger drinks raw eggs from mugs like its coffee, he has offered it to everyone and only aran has accepted it once, after that incident aran got food poisoning and had to stop eating omelettes for a while

- there are only 4 boxers not allowed to cook in the wvba: bald bull, bear hugger, aran and soda popinski, bald bull keeps accidentally burning stuff, aran keeps intentionally burning stuff, bear hugger eats everything raw and soda keeps trying to add soda & other fizzy drinks to the food and ending up making some dubious mixtures, none of them are allowed into the kitchen under any circumstances unless its watching milk boil to make sure it doesnt spill

- someone once tried to cut heike's hair as a joke, 10 injured 975 dead

- hoy will call anyone son/child/daughter unless theyre older than him, hes basically adopted everyone and no one minds it

41 notes · View notes

fullfiresiren · 1 year

Text

unconquered // 9

[9; courage]

house of the dragon aemond targaryen x last valyrian!reader

[read on ao3]

The silence remains unbearable when it returns.

You would have thought by now, settling into life here at the Keep, forming bonds and relationships whilst finding some kind of happiness, that it would abide. It does not; claws already so deep into your flesh that you fear the wounds may never heal. It is like binding chains thick around your neck, that allow you some sense of freedom as long as you don’t wander too far. As long as you don’t stare directly at it, or question yourself too fiercely, they remain loose.

You dread the day the chains pull tight.

Some nights, like tonight, when it is particularly bad, you sneak out of the Keep to sleep beside Archeon.

Ser Erryk is easy to evade if you exercise your power to send him away, and using the passage he showed you, it is relatively simple to escape undetected. You’ve managed to learn which route to take, and as long as you wear an old cloak, blending in is not an issue. You fear for what may happen if you trek through the city. King’s Landing is seen by many of the smallfolk as lawless, and terrifying, and as a woman alone, it is ultimately far more dangerous. Although it takes considerably longer, sticking to the outskirts of the city and following it along to the beaches is best. If you do that, you reach them with little to no problem.

On nights like tonight, when the moon is high and the skies are clear, you are able to look out across the sand beaches, and see the tide break onto the shores. You are entirely alone here, and there are none who dare approach this section of King’s Landing -- with good reason. It’s like a portion of the Earth has been forgotten during its creation; left a blank space of nothingness, where all light and color fails to reach.

Archeon sprawls out in a mass of black.

He knows it is you when you approach, and lifts his head sleepily -- just enough for you to curl up with him in the same place you always have -- even when you hid from the doom. In the crook of his shoulder, against his chest, tucked away from the world. When he was younger, all those years ago, he would fall asleep with his head in your lap. Now, he sleeps with his font limbs crossed, head tucked around you tightly, protectively. He’s warm, the sand is soft, and the grumbles of his chest are loud, thick with tiredness.

Something akin to a soft warble gets stuck in his throat, and you know he’s falling back asleep. Your head moves with the rise and fall of his great body, and everything, in that moment, is quiet.

It is the most comfort you can find in this life.

Only when the sun breaks over the waves, do you wake, and return to the Keep. To aid you on your journey, Archeon helps you scale the cliffs, balancing you easily on his head, and lifting himself up, resting his chin on the grass atop the precipice. You slide off, and find footing on the edge.

He coos a few times at you, and then lowers back down.

“You will be receiving a saddle soon,” you call out when he shakes sleep from his body.

He gives you an incredulous look. Say you jest.

“You are still growing, are you not, my heart?” you say. “You are older than 200 and your size shows it. Please do not fight me on this. And do not fight those who come to fit you with it, either.”

He grumbles, but says nothing more, stalking out into the sea and sulking. You sigh. He’s like an impudent child at times.

Before dawn breaks fully, you are within the Keep once more. The warmth of your room welcomes you, and when you remove the cloak from your shoulders, Elen knocks once at your door. You panic, dishevelled state an obvious giveaway to your nighttime excursions, but there is little time to hide or change when she is already giving herself entrance.

She carries a plate of food -- your fresh breakfast, and gives you a startled look. It melts softly into a knowing expression.

“Good morning, your grace,” she greets warmly.

“Good morning, Elen,” you reply.

She sets the plates on the small table between your sofas, and immediately moves towards the standing bath.

“Although I am concerned about your nightly disappearances,” she begins, and you cringe at being caught, sitting to eat. “I am reassured that they are spent within the protective company of your dragon. You are far too precious for me to allow anything to happen to you.”

You smile between mouthfuls of oats. Mothering.

“I understand, Elen,” you hum, “I will be careful.”

“However,” she continues, swishing the water to check the temperature, “If I must beat pursuers off with a stick, your grace, rest assured I will. I am just an old lady, and no more than a servant, but... if you could ask Ser Erryk to accompany you in the future, it would help me sleep a little better. And at my age, your grace, it is something I desperately need.”

You look at her, and she's giving you a soft, pleading expression. You sigh.

“I do not wish to bother him,” you say. “He deserves his rest at night, as we all do.”

She huffs, “It is his duty, your grace.”

You shrug, the word becoming a nuisance. It sounds more like an excuse to you.

“You could always ask the prince?” she suggests.

You cough forcefully. “Is my bath ready?”

She smiles at your reaction. “Yes, your grace.”

You undress quickly, and sink into the depths of the water, restless with both your thoughts and your feelings. Elen fills a jug with water, pouring it over your head, your body, lathering soap into your skin, scrubbing your scalp.

“I will never understand the depth of the bond between dragon and rider,” she muses softly, speaking her thoughts aloud more than initiating conversation, and you are happy to listen. “Existing separate and yet, one entity. A ferocious and untameable beast -- why do they allow you to control them? To ride them? I do not think I will ever understand. I fear I would be a terrible Targaryen.” She laughs at her joke, rinsing your hair gently. “But if it is anything like the bond between a mother and a child, the ache when you are apart must be unbearable.”

You look down at your reflection. She stares back up at you, rippling in the water.

“Do you have children, Elen?”

She doesn’t pause in her work, but does not reply, either. You do not press her for an answer, feeling a bridge build itself between the topic and the answer. Her reflection looks sad.

Todays plans had come in the form of another note from the prince delivered last night. He offered for you to join him on a horseback ride through the Kingswood, expressing for the first time in written form, his pleasant hope that you would join him. You gave Ser Erryk a note to pass on this morning, conveying a happy acceptance of his offer.

“I am to meet this Prince this morning,” you voice, wishing to fill the silence with something, rather than keep it suspended in nothing at all. “At the stables.”

“To ride?” Elen asks.

You nod. “I have never ridden a horse before.”

“If you can ride a dragon, I am sure the two are not so different, your grace,” she laughs, “You will be fine.”

Elen dresses you in an outfit far less extravagant and noble than she would wish to; dark sturdy trousers tucked into calf-length boots and a loose blouse, and although she expresses her wish for you to live only in fine gowns, you remind her it must be suitable in some way for riding, at least. You would hate to ruin the beautiful garments you’ve been given all for the sake of appearance. She ties your hair up out of your face in a way that is all practicability, but allows a subtle beauty to take hold of your features. She foregoes jewellery, but makes you look all the size and notoriety of a royal regardless. You never fail to be impressed by her skills.

With a wave, and a reminder to have fun, she sends you off, Ser Erryk hot at your heels.

“I have never been to the stables of the Keep before,” you admit, looking up at your sworn sword as you walk through the long stone halls of the castle. “Have you?”

He nods. “I have, my lady. I think you will enjoy them.”

He holds various doors open for you as he walks ahead, and escorts you through the grounds, towards where noise and bustle becomes more prominent. You hear clopping hooves, braying, shovels scraping on stone, and the light smell of straw and hay that carries on the breeze.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you nod, once you feel you are close enough, and he stops. “Please spend the rest of the day doing as you wish. I will continue onwards from here alone.”

He bows to you formally, offering an “As you wish, my lady,” and with that, turns on his heels, and returns to the castle.

You watch him go for a moment, staring back up at the towering form of the Keep as it looms ever present, always watching. With the multitude of windows, you wonder if you are ever as truly alone as you feel. You turn away and continue onwards. The thought is one that does not comfort you.

You take your time inspecting the detailed work of the royal stables. Dark wood and black metal make up the prominent architecture, but the overall design is open and flowing. It’s inviting, and calming on the eye. Horses of every color snort and whinny at their leisure, soft fur and calm eyes, all exuding the air of being well tended to. Workers are busy tending to them, cleaning out stalls, preparing tack or food, and each of them move in a way that speaks to their professionalism and training. No less is expected from those in service to the crown.

But, you notice, the gentle sound of sobbing carries underneath it all.

You frown, heart thumping at the noise. For a moment, you thought you had simply imagined it. Retracing your steps towards the more secluded stalls in the outer buildings, however, tells you it is not from your mind as you had originally suspected. You are quiet when you creep forward, towards an empty stable from which the noise emanates. The bottom half of the stable door is shut, but the top half remains open, and you rise on your toes to glance inside.

At once, your hand flies over your mouth, and you stumble back quickly, quietly, taking care not to make a sound as you leave with haste, your presence remaining unseen.

Prince Aegon lay curled up on the straw floor of the stable, half asleep, crying quietly to himself. He was dressed in dirty rags, torn and unwashed, face flushed red with hot tears. If not for the unmistakable snowy head of white Targaryen hair, you would think he were just a poor stable boy, or one of the smallfolk.

Something twists in your gut at his lonely state, seeing him so desperately sad, and your ardent dislike of him wobbles on its track. Although you are gripped with curiosity about his situation, there is no one you can openly ask about it -- and even if there was, who is to say they would know? What has caused the sorrow? Is he simply drunk, or is there something deeply upsetting that troubles the oldest Targaryen son? What reason is there, for a prince of the realm to sleep in the cold stables, cry quietly to himself, and muffle his sobs so no one hears?

But, then again, what reason is there for you to escape the castle and choose to sleep beside your dragon on wet sand, rather than seek comfort in a warm bed?

Everyone has their wars to fight.

You are less determined in your steps, mind elsewhere as you continue onwards, towards where the stables open into a wide yard. Despite the multitude of workers going about their tasks, here, there is a sense of calm. Like the eye of a storm.

Two horses stand, already fully tacked up, and who else beside them, but your silver-haired prince. He is standing with his back to you, clad in black riding trousers, knee high boots, and a billowing white shirt tucked neatly into his pants. Stable attendants hold the reins to the two horses, as Prince Aemond coos softly to a beautiful dappled stallion, stroking its neck as he waits for you. Beside him, a chestnut colt, black mane and shiny coat. The horses are clearly well cared for, poised and alert, and their beauty almost leaves you breathless.

He seems to sense your approach, turning when you draw close. Is that mirth in his eye? You cannot be sure -- it leaves as soon as it appears. His arms clasp behind his back, and he nods to you. The change in his usual attire is startling, and suits him fervently; strong chest narrowing into a lithe waist, shirt tucked into his pants only accentuating the length of his legs. How he is without admirers is surely beyond you.

“Good morning, my lady,” Prince Aemond greets, silver hair slipping behind his shoulders. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you look up at him when you speak, holding his gaze, “I did. I trust you slept well, too, my prince?”

He nods -- the dream he had of you last night invades his mind before he can conjure enough willpower to stop it. Desires kept at bay during his waking moments are let loose when he sleeps. His signature hum escapes him.

“I took the liberty of having the horses prepared before you arrived,” he begins, gesturing to the chestnut colt. “This one will be yours for the day.”

The horse shakes its head, snorting playfully when you approach.

“My goodness,” you hush, and it steps forward slightly into your touch. You stroke its soft muzzle, cooing, “You are handsome, are you not?”

Your voice is gentle and encouraging, Aemond thinks -- like a warm embrace. Is this how you would talk to a child, he wonders? His child?

He coughs, and your house jerks a little at the noise.

“Oh,” you voice, and he looks at your face. “My saddle is different from yours.”

You glance between them and he does the same.

“Yours is a side saddle,” he explains, nodding to the two pommels sicking out from the leather of your seat. “It is what ladies use to ride.”

Before you can conceal your disbelief, you scrunch your nose up in bewilderment, and laugh at the puzzling logic. He watches you with curiosity.

“Is that necessary?” you ask. “It looks uncomfortable...”

He takes a moment to answer, smiling with uncertainty. “I am not sure, my lady. Most noblewomen ride this way.”

“Will the saddle on my dragon also be made similarly?”

He shakes his head no, understanding your reluctance. “If you would prefer it, I am happy to order the attendants to change it to a regular one?”

“If you use a regular saddle, my prince, then I would like to use the same,” you nod, stroking your horses neck. “I’d like to be equal with you, if I can."

He gestures towards the attendants and explains his wishes, taking the reins of his dappled stallion so the workers may focus on leading your horse away. The air settles around you, but the hustle and bustle continues.

You glance up at Prince Aemond, watching him mutter soft words to his horse, the animal blinks slowly, as if comforted by the tone of his voice. His lips quirk upwards when he notices you staring, and, with a gentle voice, he speaks.

“This horse has been mine since I was a child,” he explains, stroking its neck softly, fixing stray wisps of the stallions mane. “A gift from my father.”

“He’s beautiful,” you whisper, stepping closer.

It makes a short, high-pitched noise at your approach, snorting a little, and Prince Aemond hushes him softly, pulling gently at the reins to redirect his attention.

“Calm, calm,” he hushes in Valyrian, rubbing the horses muzzle with a finger. It abides, settling quickly. “He is a little nervous with those he has never met before.”

The Prince returns to the common tongue, and opens his palm towards you; a silent invitation. You step closer slowly, until your shoulder brushes against his, but neither of you move to create space.

Your hand lifts, and your fingers thread through the stallions coat; dappled fur sliding against your palm. It’s soft, calming, and you relax in the movement, the horse nickering at your affectionate gesture. It nudges Prince Aemond gently, as if asking him to join you. He abides, hand coming up to stroke his horses neck, and you are content standing in the quiet beside him.

Your cannot help but allow your eyes to trace the details of his pale hand as it moves alongside your own.

Compared to yours, there is a sizeable difference. He has prominent veins, and long, elegant fingers that comb through the fur of his regal stallion. His nails are soft pink, clean, and well kept. From the size of his hands, there is a sense of power that lies dormant; an unspoken strength that palpitates in waves. Despite years and years of swordsmanship, however, they remain elegant. You think they would treat you with reverence.

Your pinkies brush accidentally, and you both pull away.

Notwithstanding the familiarity that grows, each of you continue to exist in awkwardness every now and them. Nowadays, though, its endearing, more than uncomfortable.

“Have you ever ridden before, my lady?” he asks, hands brushing either side of his horses face.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so, my prince. Perhaps I may have in Valyria, but I cannot be certain.”

“That is no problem,” he reassures. “Riding a dragon is far more difficult, so you will be fine. There is no need to be afraid or nervous.”

He goes on to point out the various important aspects of tack -- stirrups, bridle, reins, and how to use them efficiently. He teaches you how to ask your horse to move through the different gaits, how to slow, how to manoeuvre. There is a lot of information to take in, and Prince Aemond must notice your apprehensive expression.

“Don’t worry,” he hums, gentle. “If you are unsure at any point, just remember I will be by your side throughout.”

At the approaching sound of slow hooves, you turn, your chestnut colt arriving; re-tacked with a regular saddle upon the Princes request. Lead by an older stable worker with grey hair, when the horse stops before you, the man gives you an expectant look, holding up the reins for you to grasp.

“Here, High Lady,” he starts, voice rough with age but not without politeness. “Your horse.”

You look between the man and the reins in his outstretched hands a few times, before awkwardly reaching up to take them. You’re not sure what to do now, and so, you look back over your shoulder at your Prince.

“You may mount him, my lady,” he says with encouragement.

“How...” you look back to the worker, uncertainty threaded through your voice, “How do I get... on...?”

You feel a presence shift closer to your back, and turn to see the Prince move to take the reins from your hand, eye looking over your head towards the older stable attendant.

“Bring my lady a mounting block,” he orders, lips pursed as if annoyed.

The man nods, and hurries off quickly in search for the item. You watch him go, and then, peer up behind you.

Prince Aemond observes the worker closely, following him in his task, and then, feeling your gaze, he shifts his own. His eye softens considerably when he looks down at you, and he smiles shyly under your acute focus. Realising the space between you has grown almost non existent, however, he steps back a little, turning towards your horse instead. Moments later, the worker reappears with a short set of wooden steps -- what you can only assume is the mounting block.

He places it on the floor, and steps back, bowing to you both, before continuing on with his duties, leaving you in peace.

It is clear that you are supposed to climb up, and with a mix of nervous confidence that settles in the pit of your stomach, you ascend.

The block judders sharply, and you panic.

Hands fly out to steady yourself, and you’re not really sure what it is you’re reaching for. Is it the saddle? The horse? All you know is instinct takes over; the airs and graces of your position that keep you stoic disappear, replaced instead by the plummeting feeling of falling.

Prince Aemond’s hand grasps yours with a steady strength, offering a balance and stability nothing else could. He is without riding gloves, skin touching yours without interference or restriction, and it is a startling sensation.

You settle immediately, looking to him with a grateful expression.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he asks quickly, expressing concern.

His hand holds yours a little tighter when your legs wobble, the mounting block juddering with every movement you take. Your horse is the least fazed out of all of you, and blinks slowly as if bored.

“Yes, yes,” you voice, heart hammering at the shock. “I’m fine. I just-- I wasn’t expecting that. Thank you, my prince.”

Nerves bubble up and spill forth from your lips in the form of awkward laughter, and you see his shoulders drop, relaxing with the knowledge that all is well.

“You frightened me,” he says quietly, bowing his head a little.

It is said with such tenderness, that a part of you wonders if you are hearing things. You want to say something in return, but before you can, he steals the moment, as if worried about what your response will be. Denying you the chance to speak, regardless of what your words would be. Is he truly so afraid of your opinion?

You wonder if you are thinking too much into it.

“Place your left foot here, my lady,” he instructs, avoiding your eyes, pointing to the stirrup closest to you, “and then hoist yourself up, and swing your other leg over.”

You follow his direction, mounting your horse swiftly, making sure your feet are placed well into the stirrups, sitting deep in the saddle. He holds your hand throughout to make sure you are steady and comfortable, and only when you are secure, and your horse stays calm, does he remove himself to mount his own.

His touch lingers long after it leaves, and Prince Aemond flexes the hand that was holding yours in a way that you cannot be sure even he is aware of. It speaks volumes of his inner thoughts, and you tear your gaze away before he notices, focusing instead on the space between your horses ears. This is the first time, you realize, that the two of you have touched one another, skin-on-skin, without the obstruction of clothing. He must realize it, too. He must.

His lips purse, his eyes are wide, and he mounts his own stallion, focusing instead on the path in front of him.

“Ask your horse to walk, my lady,” he says, squeezing his thighs to urge his own onwards.

You glance down at the animal, and with a soft voice, you ask, “Will you walk on?”

The horse lifts its neck a few times, but does as you ask, and sets a steady gait, moving side by side with the princes own stallion.

You leave the stables together, on a path out of the city, towards the Kingswood. The weather today is bright -- clear skies and shining sun, with a soft breeze that keeps the temperature bearable. You take the Kingsroad through the city; cobbled streets and tightly packed buildings on either side of you, until you reach a bridge that crosses the Blackwater Rush. The path ahead turns to a wide dirt path, small farm houses are few and far between, and then, ahead of you, there is nothing but an expanse; acres and acres of land covered by thick forest.

The horses themselves seem to know where to go, and your own needs little encouragement to stay true. Prince Aemond walks his ahead of you, taking the lead as he rides over the large wooden bridge, but has not said anything to you since you left the stables. The atmosphere is a little awkward. He is too far ahead of you to comfortably hold a conversation without raising your voice, and so, once the both of you have crossed the bridge, you squeeze your thighs, urging your horse to catch up to his left.

You manoeuvre your colt into his stallion purposefully, the horses bumping sideways into one another gently -- not enough to spook them, but enough to steal his attention. He looks at you with a quizzical expression, and you smirk wordlessly at him. He breathes a laugh through his nose, and just like that, the atmosphere becomes light.

The dull thud of the horses soft hooves on the dirt sets a rhythm for the both of you to relax into, and with that, conversation begins easily.

“My sister speaks fondly of you,” he begins. “I think she is very taken with your friendship.”

“I did not expect to grow as close with her as I have,” you admit, “but your sister is someone I now deeply treasure. She is unlike anyone I know.”

“She is the best of the Targaryen's,” he hums.

“You each have your qualities,” you express, adding, “I feel you are too hard on your family.”

He looks at you now. “In what ways?”

“Your father is kind -- and I think you are, too. You are a good man.”

You look up across the expanse of land when you speak. Various farm workers toil in the fields, those nearer to you stop to bow, or dip their heads in greeting. Prince Aemond continues looking at you, however. Far more interested in what you have to say than anything else.

You make a noise, something between a laugh and a derisive snort. “Your brother is yet to be judged by me, however.”

It is supposed to be light-hearted, but Prince Aemond sharply changes the subject. You feel there is perhaps a bridge burned between them that can never be rebuilt.

“The Kingswood is usually reserved for hunting,” he explains, nodding towards the looming forest. “My brother has spent a few namedays here, though my sister and myself have not.”

The path you are riding on is quickly reaching the mouth of the woods, beyond which, a trail through the thick trees and undergrowth is laid out. The scent of earth and foliage is strong, but not unpleasant.

“Do you often visit the Kingswood?” you ask, entering the forest with the prince by your side.

Birds of all varieties sing and vocalise above you, high up into the canopies of the trees. Some stretch so far up into the heavens that you must crane your neck to see the top of them. Although you cannot see it, you are certain that the forest around you is teeming with life.

“Not as often as I would wish,” he admits.

“Duty permits you little time to yourself, I suppose.”

It’s a rhetorical statement, and Prince Aemond says nothing further. Duty does permit him little time to relish in what he enjoys doing -- if there were anything at all that he enjoyed in the first place.

The two of you move deeper into the woods on horseback, through twists and turns that the path lays out. Some parts of the woodland floors are covered in delicate flowers, pale yellow and white, whilst others are filled with the remnants of branches that lived once high above. You are able to peer through the spaces of trees deeper into the forest, but all that exists is more of the same. For some reason, when you realise the gaps have been created from those that have fallen naturally or been chopped down, you are filled with a sense of sorrow.

If a tree falls where no one is to hear it, does it truly make a sound?

Prince Aemond watches you discreetly whilst you take in your surroundings. To him, there is something wholly captivating about you. Even though traversing conversations with you or being in your presence feels like a great obstacle to overcome. He is shy by nature, and learned painfully in his youth that meekness is an open invitation for pain. Those who are gentle and kind are easily exploited. When his eye was forcefully taken, he made a deep promise to his soul that no one will ever hurt him again. He would never allow anyone to see him small or fearful. Not once. Never.

Being with you is asking him to be open, when he has been nothing but shut tight since 10. It takes courage to be kind. It takes strength to be soft, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough yet. He will not voice it, nor look it directly in the eye, but at night, when he is most alone, he realises he is afraid.

Courage is not the absence of fear, however. It is the ability to push onwards to overcome it. Sometimes, he thinks that is your voice telling him to be brave. That only if he is brave enough to overcome his fears will he gain your hand... your respect... your love. It is only the brave who conquer.

He pushes onwards in pursuit of you.

You smile at him then, and he smiles back. The sun shines brightly against his skin, he thinks. Warm -- like a home he doesn't understand yet. If he is brave though, he will.

“I do not smile near half as much as I do when I am with you,” he speaks softly.

“Nor I,” you reply, voice like a song. “I am happiest with you, too.”

He feels like he is a child of ten again, giddy at innocent things.

The both of you reach a wide clearing atop a hill, and you can see the great expanse of forest from up here, stretching far beyond the Kings land. Your horses stand in tandem, overlooking the huge plain, and you have a great urge for freedom, a sudden desire to gallop.

You glance only once at Prince Aemond, grin growing wide, before you spur your horse with fervour, commanding it to launch into a sprinting gait, and you are away. The prince yells out after you, but his words are lost in the whipping winds that rush past your ears, and then, thundering hooves from behind signal his chase. He catches up easily, dappled stallion keeping pace beside yours with little effort, his white hair whipping out behind him. There is an elated emotion coursing through his veins that bubbles up and leaves his lips in a cry of happiness.

He’s grinning at you, and you are yelling out with joy.

From the skies above, a thunderous roar, deafening, and it shakes the very earth beneath you.

Archeon appears in great glory, soaring above the two of you, low enough that you can see the markings of his underbelly. With each beat of his gargantuan wings, the air wooshes past you from the force, and your body jostles with it. Prince Aemond doesn’t look afraid, but pure surprise and shock are etched deep into his handsome features. Your horses whinny at the colossal presence, and you both bring them to a juddering halt, least they bolt.

Your dragon circles the clearing as you watch, his flight over trees startles nesting birds who scatter when he passes, and he settles on landing where there is enough space. He descends legs first, as always, and his weight on the ground makes a deafening noise. His front limbs join, and when he is steady, he coos, loudly rumbling at you. There is something different about his appearance, you think, and when he lowers himself to the grass, you notice he has been fitted with a saddle; black, with silver details. He looks incredibly royal.

This is the first time Prince Aemond has seen Archeon.

His grip on the reins tightens considerably, and his stallion snorts at the tension.

His first thought recognises the strength and power from your dragon is sharply unlike his own. Where Vhagar is larger only slightly, she is sluggish, and old, wearing all 200 years of her life openly. Yours remains older than his -- if his knowledge of historical timelines is accurate -- and yet, is lithe with youth. He frowns, confused. Is there a reason? Your dragon shows no signs of old age. No lethargy, no muscle loss, no foul temper. Only raw power like he is in the prime of his life, and ready to throw his weight around.

“Would you like to meet him?”

Your voice pulls Prince Aemond from his thoughts, and when he turns to meet your gaze, you have already dismounted your horse, keen to approach your dragon.

Prince Aemond would be lying if he said he was not intimidated.

He approaches with you, but lingers slightly behind, your horses left to graze. The closer he gets, the more unsettled he feels. Your dragon is watching him intently; not focused at all on you, but fervent in his unblinking stare, holding his gaze. He even turns his head slightly to follow Prince Aemond’s movements.

It is an obvious warning -- as if one were even needed in the first place.

Your dragon is highly intelligent, that much is clear. He’s sitting stagnant right now because you are calm and relaxed, but Prince Aemond is sure if he made one wrong move, his death would be imminent.

He expects you to stop a few meters shy of your dragons snout, but to his amazement, you continue onwards, until you are physically leaning against it, arms stretching out to stroke him with tender affection. He hears Archeon click soft and high -- not unlike Vhagar when he talks to her, and when you laugh at his soft nudges, he warbles low.

“My heart,” you begin, and Aemond recognises the tone you use immediately. It’s the same one you spoke to his horse with -- the same one he hopes you use for his child. “This is Prince Aemond.”

There is a derisive snort from your monstrous beast, and he’s pulling away from you only slightly, attempting to show his obvious distain.

“Come, come,” you coo, lowering your voice so only your dragon can hear, “He is to be my husband, as you know. Son of the king, and rider of the great Vhagar.”

Archeon blows air out from his mouth, hot smoke wisping up. It does not impress me.

“Oh dear, my poor heart,” you sigh in mock dejection, and turn to walk away.

Prince Aemond watches your dragon turn sharply back, and release a sad noise at your apparent dismissal.

You flash the prince a smirk, before saying loudly over your shoulder, “And here I was thinking the two things most precious to me would be able to get along. Ah, I am so sad. This hurts me terribly. What am I to do...?”

Archeon wails loud and long, as if begging you to turn and come back, painfully wounded by your own apparent rejection of him. You turn swiftly and flit towards him once again.

Your wording, however, is not lost to the prince, and he repeats it like a mantra in his mind.

Most precious to me.

“Shall I try again, my heart?” you ask, and his chest grumbles softly. “This is Prince Aemond.”

You turn to open your palm towards him -- much like he did with his own horse earlier -- in a silent invitation to approach. Prince Aemond moves closer, legs unsteady under the weight of your dragons stare, and his shoulder brushes yours when he stops. Neither of you move to create space.

“He is as you described,” the prince says, taking in the detail of your dragon.

Thick black scales, black horns, black wings, and startling golden eyes. He is undeniably beautiful. Youthful, but with a stoic composure gained only from age -- wise beyond his years.

“You speak to him as if he were human,” Prince Aemond begins. “Why?”

You rest against Archeon’s muzzle when the dragon lowers his head to the grass.

“Because he can understand me as if he were. He converses with me but not with words -- in his own way. The bond is strong and unmarred. Sometimes it is as if I understand his thoughts better than my own.”

Prince Aemond understands to a certain extent. Vhagar knows his wishes unspoken, but she has enough free will to sometimes disobey. Perhaps it is because she had already bonded with three others before him, so the link isn't as strong as Archeons is with you. Maybe it is something more. Maybe a pure blood Valyrian royal knows the bond like no Targaryen ever will.

“Do you ever speak with Vhagar?”

He shakes his head. “Not like you do.”

“Maybe you should try,” you suggest. “You’ll be surprised at how much she’ll understand.”

He ponders on it for a moment, looking at the details of your face. Would it really be so different than talking to a person? Instead of the usual flat commands, perhaps he should speak to Vhagar like he would with any other?

“Would you like to feel him?” you ask.

Your dragon huffs, annoyed.

“Perhaps another time, my lady,” Prince Aemond answers, stepping back with a shy expression. “I have a feeling your dragon does not think too highly of me.”

The two of you relinquish the situation in favour of moving to sit higher up on the hill together, sharing food you brought with you. The breeze rushes up to greet you softly, in a tender way, parting the long grass like it does the waves of the sea, brushing the princes long white hair behind his shoulders gently, like the touch of a lover. Archeon lounges at the base of the hill, content to relax anywhere so long as he is near you, and your horses continue grazing at their leisure.

You speak openly about things, comfortable in one another's presence that your posture dissolves into laying down in the soft grass to stare up at the passing clouds, while the prince leans back on his palms, legs stretched out in front of him.

“What is your dream, my lady?” he asks, staring up at the sky. From this angle, he looks like an innocent boy, untouched by the heavy weight of his position. “If you were not who you were, what would you want from life?”

He glances down at you from over his shoulder, and you blink up at him slowly.

“I’m not sure,” you answer honestly. “Would I still have Archeon?”

He hums, lips quirking up. “Yes, you would.”

“Then I’d want to travel all over the seven kingdoms. See the Riverlands, the Eyrie, the Reach. Even up to the far North. I’d want to visit everywhere. Essos and beyond. I’d want to be free.”

He looks up at the clouds, imagining your happiness at soaring through them, onwards in your never-ending journey.

“What about you, my prince?”

He doesn’t really have an answer. He was only interested in your own.

“I’d want the same, I think.”

“We could travel together,” you say, sitting up, and creating a wonderous fantasy. “To anywhere and everywhere. Seeing all the world holds side by side. At breakfast each day, we could toss a coin and the winner would decide where to fly to next. Or we could spar, and the victor of our battles would choose,” you laugh at that, then, and he does, too. “I have a feeling, though, that you would always be in charge of our next destination.”

“You would win sometimes,” he teases, “only because I’d let you.”

“Very gentlemanly of you, kind prince.”

You plop back down onto the grass, and this time, he joins you. You stare at the passing clouds together, imaging a future of only freedom.

“In our journeys, lunch could be determined by the shapes we see in the clouds,” he suggests, pointing upwards. “An animal means you win. A plant means I win.”

“What if it’s just a shapeless form?”

“Then you win, too.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” you laugh.

“I don’t mind.”

“What if there are no clouds? Or what if the day is overcast?”

“Then I win.”

“Ah, I see,” you narrow your eyes good-naturedly at him. “So our chances are equal again?”

“Exactly,” he hums, smirking. “It’s balanced.”

You laugh, closing your eyes in quiet content, happy to be in nature with your dragon and your future husband. The day has turned out far better than you could ever have hoped, and not once have you feared the silence.

“My lady,” Prince Aemond begins, and his voice wavers slightly when he speaks. You open your eyes to look at him beside you. “I enjoy spending time with you. I am not used to being in the company of women, and when I spoke to you in the past about my difficulties conversing with those I am unfamiliar with, it was the truth. I was... and sometimes even still... feel unsure of how to speak with you.” He feels terribly vulnerable, out in the open, unguarded, and buckles under the weight of your stare. Perhaps it was not the best time to admit his shortcomings. “I just— I hope I do not bore you. I feel perhaps that my company is not so greatly sought after, and I can understand why.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” you murmur, eyes soft. He wants you to look at only him like that. “Your company is most preferred by me. Perhaps if you could see yourself as I do, you would understand the weight of my affections. If I could spend every second beside you, I would.”

The last bit slips out accidentally, and you burn a furious red at the admission. You turn away. Prince Aemond does the same. Only the sky sees his elated reaction.

The sun creeps gently into the afternoon, skimming the canopies of the trees on its descent towards the horizon. Prince Aemond chances a glance at you. You are still staring up at the skies, taking in the shifting colors painted freely across the heavens; soft peach giving way to brilliant rouge, and in the golden light, you capture his breath. You are perfect. You look like the rest of his life.

“My lady, should we return to the Keep?” he asks, forcing himself to look away.

“Yes,” you sigh, and then, with a brighter tone, you add, “Would you like to fly back? Archeon will seat you with no issue, my prince.”

He gives you a look, uncertainty in his eyes. Your dragon is with saddle, of course, and could easily carry two, but there is something in the pit of his stomach that warns against it. Perhaps it is because he knows of the apparent dislike held by your beast towards him. He wonders mildly if Archeon would try to shrug him off mid-flight. With you there, however, the odds of that happening are slim to none.

It is only the brave who conquer.

“I would,” he says, but something in his voice betrays his lack of confidence.

“Archeon is gentle and kind,” you reassure. “He won’t harm you.”

Prince Aemond is by your side when you descend the slope of the hill towards your lounging dragon, who lifts his head only slightly at your approach. He locks eyes with the prince, and then immediately looks away, as if understanding what will soon be asked of him. His expression is neither here nor there; feelings on your betrothed are as of yet undecided.

Archeon senses your wish to mount, and lowers his shoulder to the ground without quarrel. He is vocal, Prince Aemond notices -- very much so. Your dragon often clicks and coos at you in a warm way that speaks volumes of his affection. His size makes it a jarring noise to hear -- something so tender rising up from the pit of a colossal beast.

You climb up onto his front foot, hoisting yourself up his shoulder, and scaling the sheer size of his body with practised ease. Where Prince Aemond uses ropes to mount Vhagar, you use Archeon’s horns. The dragons helps you out when he feels you lose momentum, nudging you upwards softly with his head, and when you make it to the saddle, you seat yourself with ease. Then, you glance down at him expectantly. You’re so high up, he can barely make out the details of your face.

He’s having second thoughts, and chances a sideways look to Archeon. The dragon blinks at him expressionless, as if he wishes to tell him to hurry up and get on with it. With caution and nerves suppressed, he makes towards your dragons foot.

To his surprise, there is no derisive snort, nor warning growl when Prince Aemond climbs up onto your beast. There is no move made to shake him off, nor fiery breath tunnelled towards him. In fact, Archeon seems pacified, content in the happenings around him, and soon, the prince is cresting his back, and making towards the saddle.

He feels awkward, hesitating slightly, but when you shuffle forwards to give him more space, he settles quickly behind you, chest tight against your back.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says, voice unsteady and full of embarrassment.

You grasp the silver handles of the saddle, glancing back at Prince Aemond as Archeon begins to rise.

“You may hold onto me if you wish, my prince,” you offer, “The situation is one that demands it for your own safety, so I do not mind.”

Archeon roars loud, spreading his wings, and Prince Aemond grasps onto you swiftly with understandable fright when your dragon launches himself upwards. The force pushes you deep into the saddle, and you slide backwards into the princes chest. The clearing beneath you grows smaller the further and higher Archeon climbs, until your horses are no longer visible, the hill disappears behind clouds, and even the forest itself seems like a forgotten memory.

Wind whips at your cheeks, rushes through your hair, and the feeling of being held tightly by the prince sets your soul ablaze. Archeon climbs higher, and higher still, vocalising loudly, beating his wings with a force that sounds like thunder, and then, as if in a fit of ill temper, snaps his jaws. He dips his head, body following suit, and plummets to the earth below.

Your dragon dives sharply, free falling, tucking his wings in close to his body to speed up his descent, and Prince Aemond releases a worrying cry, arms hugging you tighter out of sheer reflex. Archeon is falling at a terrifying speed, the forest reappears as he exits the clouds, and rushes up to greet you quickly.

“Don’t be afraid!” You place a hand over the princes iron-clad grip on your waist. “Don’t be afraid!”

And then, you let go.

Here, you have no chains, no expectations, no duty. Here you are not the last daughter, nor sole hope of your people. Here, in this moment, you are free. All that matters is your dragon, your prince, and you.

Archeon levels immediately, and spreads his wings like you do your arms. As if you, yourself are flying. He roars, and you cry out with joy, soaring over the Kingswood. The feeling is like nothing on earth. Archeon flies steady, gliding through the skies, taking you higher, keeping his balance, and you yell out, unable to contain the bubbling exhilaration within you. You look over your shoulder at Prince Aemond, and the man seems as delighted to be here as you are; wide grin that reaches all the way to his eye spreads across his face, and he looks full of youth and happiness.

He finds the courage to let go of your waist, and spreads his arms out to his side, following your lead, and everything is impossibly more staggering, more breath-taking, more incredible. Archeon himself responds to the princes bravery; chittering at the trust shown in himself, in you, in the bond.

In that moment, Prince Aemond forgets everything. Here, there is no crown, no succession, no trauma, no injury, no pain. There is only you, and the way you’re looking at him. It's like he’s the most important person in the world to you. The most precious.

You reach down to pet the scales beside your saddle, praising your dragon for his wonder, and then, you actively lean back against Prince Aemond. You’re laughing, settling into his chest like it’s your homeland. You are truly unlike any woman he’s ever met. He could travel the world, live a thousand lifetimes, and never know anyone quite like you.

Despite his efforts, he cannot deny the truth.

He is falling in love with you with no way to stop.

The thought both terrifies him, and sets him free.

——————

Night has fallen by the time Prince Aemond decides to visit Vhagar.

She is already fast asleep by the time he arrives, but rouses slowly upon his approach. He climbs the ropes by her neck, hoisting himself upwards to his saddle, and commands her to fly. She is irritable in her old age, but follows his order with little to no quarrel, and soon, he is flying her over the Kingsland to clear his mind.

Since he parted with you earlier, he has thought about nothing else.

You make him feel a way no one ever has.

He is like a dog, he thinks, in the way he yearns for your approval. Where he avoided your eyes before, now, he cannot look away. He is always searching for your gaze, and when you meet it, he ignites.

He had no weaknesses before you. None. He did not care at all for the feelings of others, and did not concern himself with their opinions. He took pride in speaking and acting however he pleased. The vicious one-eyed, the bringer of fire and fury, the monster of house Targaryen.

Now, his biggest weakness walks outside his body, and takes your form. You look at him like he is worth something, like he is only yours. Like you care about him.

If you forsake him, there would be no coming back from that place. He would be utterly destroyed. There is still time, he thinks, to drag himself back from the point of no return.

Vhagar voices the pain he cannot bring himself to utter in a hollow wail.

He settles on it then.

He will devote himself to his grandfathers plan. He will side with his mother. He will be the one to inflict the first wound, striking fast before you get a chance to do the same to him. You will, of course. There is no if. People like him will never obtain true happiness.

He'll find your dragons -- every last one.

And he’ll kill them.

[part 10]

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon

73 notes · View notes

lollytea · 1 year

Note

Favorite huntlow moment (if you ship it)

Listen....listen....listen....

Probably finger touch but that's the basic answer. All the basic answers would also be my answer honestly. So let's go for one that has been making me insane for months but is a little underrated

"Willow, you okay? Here, I'll help you up."

What if I said this might have been the first time he ever called her by name and that's the reason for her little smile? Like he was too overcome with worry for her to filter himself and it just slipped out. What if I said this was foreshadowing for FTF? That this shows that he's always viewed her as a person with realistic limitations and vulnerabilities, rather than "the reliable one"? That she was so focused on putting on an impenetrable front for the safety and comfort of everyone around her but he's completely unaffected, instead continuing to check on her and ask her if she's hurt and helping her to stand if she needs it? This scene isn't AS insanity inducing when you have the FTF scenes that demonstrate the same thing but more explicitly, but it was driving me to my fucking limit when King's Tide aired so it deserves its moment in the sun.

107 notes · View notes

mdhwrites · 6 months

Note

whats your opinion on caleb and evelyn (at least from what very little we know of them-)

imo the whole caleb clawthorne thing is like. one of the most pointless things in the show ever

I have called them and their connection to Belos "TOH's final trick". TOH has a single trick up its sleeve that is great for fanfic writers and TERRIBLE for a narrative. They introduce really compelling relationships and ideas and then they never do anything with them. It happens with Amity and Luz, Amity and Willow, the Hexide Squad and the Coven System, Hunter and Belos, etc. etc. All of these concepts present tantalizing issues that one could really delve in deep to and find a lot of meaning... But TOH isn't interested. It is more interested in a blog about how deep Amity's character is implied to be rather than doing anything with that depth, hence why so many people hooked onto how awful the confrontation with her parents would eventually be and then the show itself just... Has her in like three minutes of that episode and her confrontation doesn't feel like the main point of it even if it's the climax. And then it's effectively over and any issue between Lumity is never brought up again.

Caleb and Evelyn are the same but with a bit of FNAF storytelling thrown in. The pictures are vague after all so people can interpret them in different ways for what they mean. The cast has been coy as to the actual events. It's a multiple choice backstory for your villain that ranges from irredeemable monster to sympathetic villain. That way the show can claim to have a complex villain that doesn't technically invalidate the fact that they have no interest in writing a complex villain, nor do they want to need to.

But it was also one straw too many. Lumity getting together paid off in some way that old narrative baggage of Amity's, even if less powerfully than it could have. Hunter being possessed and fighting off Belos doesn't have the weight it should and I have problems with how selfish the reasoning is rather than ideological but it is a payoff to that relationship. However, a genuinely real amount of time is spent in S3, and S2, building up that Belos is something more than a genocidal, egotistical asshole. Caleb and Evelyn are a LOT of this. So what's the payoff?

There is none. Beating him isn't an ideological victory. They don't come up like Lief did for beating Andrias to pay that off. In fact, they come up less in the final fight than they do during the fight in King's Tide where the heroes LOSE. So they spent some of the very limited time they had to wrap up their story on a subplot about Belos' backstory that doesn't actually inform us of anything, doesn't affect anything and has no payoff except the most obvious one.

It's literally Willow's story except for your PRIMARY ANTAGONIST'S BACKSTORY.

The fact that the majority of the meat of it is done in a really just AWFULLY animated set piece who's literal writing is boilerplate at best does not help it at all. The best parts of this mechanically are the portraits in Hollow Mind and they're vague and that's IT. Otherwise, it's clunky for the most part. I'll give the moment when monster Belos sees Caleb as he tries to take on a new form is neat but it tells us nothing and feels out of character in the end that he'd give enough of a shit to be haunted by his brother, especially after he's killed his brother so many times. Honestly, the Golden Guards looking like Caleb even NOW just makes me think the Collector is right: He likes hurting his brother. Why else would he not finally stop after the hundredth betrayal? Unless he gets off on the moment of their betrayal I guess.

It's just not good and a casual fan is going to like it even less because they won't really absorb and think the portraits so to them, it's just one really awkward sequence in the first special, an eerie sequence that doesn't add to anything in the second and then is sir not appearing in the third. That's not engaging.

Since little of it is engaging, it fails to function as a trick. After all, any magician will tell you that everything is about misdirection in their craft. Without it, a trick becomes nothing but smoke and mirrors instead of magic.

======+++++======

Btw, mentioned FNAF so may as well say here: Saw it and really liked it. I keep considering making a blog about it and then just... not.

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#the owl house criticism #toh critical #philip wittebane #caleb wittebane #evelyn clawthorne #belos toh

38 notes · View notes

reddamselette · 25 days

Text

1.6k words

THE BLADE traveled through each realm. Broken skin that leaked ichor of palms separating the skies, the winds, the seas, death and the afterlife coated silver. Golden drops of ink dripped through their fingers and onto the floors of their abode.

No one had known the reasons they were called. No one dared to ask for a single word wasn’t spoken. Only glances of the Unseen and the Underworld’s witches and deities were stolen. Very few thought it wasn’t possible to feel the mortal emotion of anxious fear. Yet they had. Anxious fear slipping into indestructible bones and flesh that willed to shapeshift and change.

The uncomfortability increased as the king of the gods began to speak, his words carried by the clouds and echoed like thunder across the waves. Such as the subjects in royalty, one by one, they bowed their heads shutting the blinds of their thoughts to grant privacy. Privacy that was given as mockery for the king gazed at the horizon from his balcony on countless occasions like the skies that see and know all. “I have summoned each one of you here at my request.” He turned as the blade made its way towards the twelve thrones. The blade sliced the hands of grapes stolen, love that was forged by man, and twin chariots in orbit. Lightning rose in the atmosphere, within each syllable like a spell casted. “By the Fates, an oath will be created. An oath that will last for centuries as your presence binds you to these grounds until the end of time.”

Hearts of the divinity ceased to beat as if time rose the depths of hell and froze over. Many had the urge to call out yet none did. Their voices were stolen just as their choice of say had—a choice that was to haunt them for eternity.

The king and queen dipped the point of the blade into their skin, gold poured from their wounds like the rivers that were ruled and was given to the Sun and the Moon. Their fingers of light and darkness enveloped the handle and met in between dawn and dusk, threads of gold and silver tied their bodies and stabilized their feet to the ground.

The Moon pursed her lips, glancing at her brother in concern yet the Sun only remained forward, sparing no look. But she knew. And she understood. Eyes of the stars glowed white as the kingdoms of Olympus, the Seas, and the Underworld fell into a dark ocean of the night sky with winds as cold as ice blowing through in tides. Her voice echoed in the minds of every god and goddess present. “For millennia to come, the creation of the Divine Laws by Fate shall be known and learned, acknowledged and embedded. Listen and listen well: from this day forward, you shall be the subjects to the Moirai…and for that, interference in the lives of your children–demigod and divinity alike, is forbidden. The balance of the realms shall remain untouched until our ashes have been spread throughout chaos. Heartbreak and melancholy seen by the moon will follow if it is broken.”

Vibrant vines of green and the seeds of spring decayed, burned by a burst of heat and flames of a crashed chariot that carried the cries of a familial vow broken apart and tossed away.

By the Sun, his eyes began to glow gold in contrast. Rays of light lessened the darkness of night as colors melted into one another and sun seeped from his body to coat the kingdoms of Olympus, the Sea, and the Underworld in endless heat waves. The palm of his free hand was spread towards the sun as he spoke, his words reverberated and echoed aloud. “Bound by ichor and the cycles of the sun, forbid this oath to never be forgotten. Heed my words and my words alone, no power of three realms in reality shall break it. For if it is broken, tragedy and death seen by the sun will follow. In the name of the Moirai–”

“The oath is sealed.” The Moon dissolved the blade into her palms, one that marked many now coursed through her veins as the ungiven words of agreement were now locked with a key. The threads of gold and silver were released and outrage began.

Many were unfazed. Little was drawn of the blank expressions etched onto their shifting features and returned home. Yet so many mothers failed to move and didn’t dare to shed a tear as threatening glares were shot in the way of those heartless. And so many fathers screamed in distraught. They hadn’t known it then for the phrase had not been invented yet. But the rage of a man was nothing compared to the rage of a woman.

And like it, the gods were unable to abandon their duties.

Days passed agonizingly slow as times changed and less hours were given in the daytime. Time was nothing in the face of grief and the reflection of sadness.

As the sun was to rise in the mortal realm, Light asked in question, "What am I to do if I am no longer able to aid my children as they pray for help?" The Light dimmed as clouds covered the sun, submerging the terrain into casted shadows. He couldn't bear it. The void of warmth he worked so hard to spread among his worshippers and those he favored. Even he hadn't foreseen such a thing happening. Had they purposely hid his eyes beneath a blindfold? To take his sight away as leverage to ensure his obedience?

The Sun shook his head, offering a soft hand on the shoulder of his student and the clouds soon drifted away into blue skies. Yet the light remained dark, its heat scorched the grounds and gravel, dried the plants and threatened to set fire. "You must remain calm, Apollo. It is to prevent your presence in their lives, never to prevent your blessings."

"What does it matter? It is all the same." Apollo sighed deeply, the light brightened overwhelmingly so as the seas glimmered and the winds whistled throughout the mountains. "I envy my sister for never bearing children. But a blind man can tell she grieves just as they do. Just as I do."

Down under in a land disliked and disgusted by many to touch, the Underworld groaned, cracks splitting the grounds apart as tears of lava soaked through. Darkness seemed to have engulfed the lands, all falling silent with no nerve to move as the Underworld trembled in the wake of bound words of ichor. Ichor that burned in his veins like its fiery counterpart. Ichor he would have removed without a second thought.

However, the rage of Death calmed. Embraces of a familiar garden slipped into his skin like liquor, echoes of pomegranate and whispers of promises made late at night. Life held Death in her arms and kissed his cheek with a soft smile. “Do not despair, my love.”

“Damn it all. Damn it all for the forsaken oath only binds us. Never the others. They are too heartless to understand.” In the far distance, Cerberus whined and howled. The three-headed dog laid to rest in the garden of his mother, weeping floods for his father.

Eventually as time passed and none had left the lands where death and its cherished roamed, sleep floated through like a lullaby and the spells of a witch locked herself away, neither never to be seen again. And like an unspoken agreement between those who called it home, Life and Death locked its gates for centuries to come. Only the spirits of passing were allowed to enter with Life, allowed to leave for spring.

Somewhere in the mountains—far, far away from the kingdom known to rip free will from those above it, laid two of its deities.

Words spoken out of admiration and adoration for others, lips were laced with alcohol but the intention was there. "Your daughters must protect those who cannot protect themselves. I ask of you, aware that it is beneath me but please, your daughters must protect ours as well." The vines of grapes and leaves wilted and rotted with wine spilled on stained floors in mourning. A door closed in the heart of his soul, one connected to well-known friends he had made in the time alive. He had little to blame for he would've done the same. It was a shame Wine was unable to become as intoxicated as his followers. He had nothing left but his own sanity to give to embrace what he inflicts.

Fire met fire. Pleading flames and uncomfortable, searing hot flames like the light of the sun that shone. Flames itched for a spear, a dagger coated in the iron of his enemies, of the abusers and ill of his daughters. He could no longer travel or teach his warriors all they could know. War had never wanted to leave their lives alone like mortals because they would have eternity as he did. Yet he was forbidden to grant everlasting life. War clenched his fists, blazing eyes set on marble. "I will do what I am able to, friend. Had it been on my own terms with choice, I'd subject the lands in endless bloodshed."

Over time, writers gifted with artistic ability and those lucky enough to experience these events wrote of the oath. Legends painted in quill and ink onto coffee brown paper. None had ever gotten close to the truth.

Lost in thousands of years of mystery and text, none had ever discovered what led to the truth. It begged the question.

What harmed the balance of all mortal and divine to drive the Sun and Moon to oversee an oath and create the laws known as Fate?

#percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #pjo #hoo #the greek gods and goddesses #olympus #the underworld #fic #my writing #MAN u guys have NO IDEA how much i love where this snippet came from #what is it? who knows #its a surprise #long post

17 notes · View notes

dazeddoodles · 7 months

Note

I always wondered how terra found out the plan during Kings tide? I remember her saying something like ( hmm its seems like my hunch is correct)

I have a small Head cannon that the Guard that heard luz yelling at eda to call Raine back in oh titan Where art thou reported what they heard to terra and maybe that's When she grew suspicious or maybe she always was?

Oh that's actually a really good theory!

Yeah I wondered how she figured it out because there wasn't really anything hinting at that.

The closest thing was her getting mad at Raine talking to a seemingly random female gaurd. But I felt that was more her mad at Raine communicating with someone else (ex: Terra stopped Raine from talking to Hunter when there was no reason to) than her knowing it was Eda.

Maybe your right that the gaurd reported to her, and then she would have put two and two together about who Raine was talking to.

#asks #terra snapdragon

42 notes · View notes

sasaranomiya · 8 months

Text

Koukyuu no Karasu Volume 4 Chapter 1 - The Silkworm God (Part 1)

hey guys im back~~~ this chapter was supposed to come out way earlier but i got sidetracked

Previous || Index || Next

The moon sank into the sea and became two gods:

One the god of shadow, one the god of light

Eight thousand nights they spent at the sea.

The first god secluding in the black palace

The second god cavorting in the palace of the moon

And thus, one became Kakurenomiya

And the other became Sasaranomiya

Another god became the port of Kakurenomiya

This was the Great Sea Turtle God

The god had sinned, and was thus rent into eight parts

The flowing water carried them away from the palace

Its head was Jie, its arms were Bahuang, its legs were Gulu

Its carapace became canyons, its blood transformed into rivers

Its eyes became swamps, its breath became a maelstrom that called the tide

Ears of rice ripened in its rotting flesh and degenerated into seeds

The mulberry tree grows, the silkworm grows, and mankind grows

Its bones were made one once again, and the white turtle god was formed

His name was Gou-no-Kami

This god calmed the violent seas to protect ships

The descendants of these gods began

The bloodline of the white king, the emperor—

――From a ritual song of wubangs

There were bundles of raw silk packed in a wooden box in front of Banka. The milk-colored raw silk, resembling morning mist, had a moist luster. Her father, Chouyou, had sent her some of the finest raw silk from Ga Province.

Ga Province’s raw silk was considered to be of the highest quality in the nation of Shou. The province’s sericulture industry began with the silkworms brought by the Saname clan when they migrated here from Kakami, and it had the reputation it developed today after Chouyou devoted himself to selectively breeding the silkworms. Banka had been taking care of the silkworms since childhood under his orders. Spring silkworms, summer silkworms, autumn silkworms, late-autumn silkworms…everyday, she picked mulberry leaves, fed them to the silkworms, cleaned, moved the place where they made their cocoons during their maturing period, sorted them based on their shells after they became cocoons, and repeated that year after year.

Banka liked listening to the sound of the silkworms eating mulberry leaves. When she sat in a corner of the cocoonery and listened closely to the sound of silkworms feasting on the leaves, she felt calm as if being enveloped in gentle rain. It was the sound of life itself.

That was why, when she watched the sorted cocoons being boiled in hot water and their threads taken out, she felt a cold shadow in her heart. The sound of boiling water was the sound of life being torn away. However, the threads spun in this way shined coldly and was above all beautiful.

Whenever the silk slid over her skin, there was always a blue-black chill, like a winter shade.

Banka picked up a bundle of raw silk from the box.

The bundle was tied with paper. Banka stuck her finger in there. Unscrupulous merchants would cheat the weight by rolling in lead or scrap iron into the bundles. Of course, there were no such tricks in packages from her father, but there were other tricks. Banka’s finger felt for the paper string pasted to the back of the paper. Unlike ordinary letters, letters he didn’t want other people seeing were always delivered in this way. She removed the paper string and opened it carefully. A short sentence written in her father’s handwriting was on the thin strip of paper.

“Don’t get involved with the Raven Consort.”

Banka’s breath caught.

Why?

Her father’s written orders never contained reasons. Banka simply obeyed his words. That was why she informed him about everything that happened in the inner palace, and let him know how the emperor looked whenever she was near him. She could do these things only because she thought it was for the best interests of her father, and by extension, the Saname clan.

That was why she wrote about Jusetsu’s secret in her letter. The fact that she hid the color of her hair.

She told him the secret of Jusetsu, who saved her life, who she even wanted to be friends with.

After much hesitation, she weighed Jusetsu and her father, and in the end, Banka chose her father.

She didn’t know why her father, who knew Jusetsu’s secret, ordered her “not to get involved with her.”

However, she didn’t need to be ordered to do that. She didn’t know what kind of face she should make when she saw Jusetsu from now on. They could no longer be friends.

Banka stroked the raw silk. It was cool, but she felt a heat that bounced off her hand as she stroked it. It was the heat of life. Of harvested life.

I’m sure I don’t hold a heat like this.

Banka recalled the sorting of cocoons. It was the work of sorting the good cocoons from the bad ones. Among the bad ones, there was the so-called dead cocoons. The moth had died inside the cocoon and it rotted. A rotten, mushy cocoon.

I’m the same as them.

Unbeknownst to anyone, I rotted on the inside, and now I’m dead on the inside…

“I heard that there’s a ghost in the cocoonery.”

Jiujiu didn’t talk about that rumor until nightfall. As the weather got cooler day by day, the sun set earlier. As usual, Yamei Palace was quietly plunged into darkness without any of the lanterns lit. The sound of insects could be heard in the distance. The only people in the room were Jusetsu and her attendant, Jiujiu. Even though Jusetsu told her it was fine, Jiujiu stayed up with her until late at night. This was because of the guests who visited the Raven Consort at night. They relied on the black-clad consort would accept any request from searching for lost items to curse killings, so the people of the inner palace hid away from prying eyes in the darkness of the night and came here.

“Where?” Jusetsu asked back at the unfamiliar words.

“The cocoonery. It’s the place where the silkworms are raised.”

“There was something like that in the inner palace?”

“Apparently, there is a mulberry grove north of Hakkaku Palace. It’s located there. It was also there during the previous dynasty and the reign of the emperor before the last. The previous emperor’s wife disliked silkworms, so the cocoonery was demolished, but His Majesty built a new one. You see, the Crane Consort’s family runs a thriving sericulture business.”

“Banka’s family…the Saname clan?”

“Yes. The cocoonery was built for the Crane Consort. Apparently, she also helped raise silkworms back home. It’s the palace ladies of the Hakkaku Palace who work in this cocoonery, though.”

This is where we come to the main topic, Jiujiu said.

“People are saying that it’s haunted.”

“Oh? Is it a silkworm ghost?”

“No, it’s the ghost of a palace lady.”

According to Jiujiu, this was the story.

During the previous dynasty, there was a palace lady who worked in the cocoonery. One time, she accidentally stepped on a silkworm and killed it. But she kept silent without confessing her crime. After all, she would be punished if she did. That night, however, she suddenly began to suffer in pain and started to vomit silk from her mouth. The raw silk kept coming out without ever ending. Her body wasted away as more silk came out. When one of the palace ladies hurriedly cut the silk with a pair of scissors, she collapsed and died. Her hair had become white like raw silk.

“It’s the silkworm’s curse,” Jiujiu said fearfully and pressed her hand to her cheek. Jusetsu tilted her head to the side.

“Then is that not a story about a palace lady who was cursed and killed? I don’t believe it has to do with the ghost.”

“That’s where the story begins, Niangniang. The ghost of the palace lady who died from this curse is said to haunt the cocoonery. It’s said that she would appear there from time to time and take care of the silkworms while mixed in with the other palace ladies. She blends into the group while no one is paying attention, and once someone realizes that she’s there, she disappears. They say that she also showed up during the reign of the emperor before the last. The cocoonery didn’t exist during the previous reign, so it seemed that she never appeared, but—”

“After the cocoonery was rebuilt, the ghost appeared again.”

“That’s right, Niangniang,” Jiujiu nodded deeply.

“She didn’t seem to have harmed or cursed the other palace ladies, but the Hakkaku Palace palace ladies are terrified.”

“Did you hear that from them?”

“No, from a palace lady at Enou Palace. I heard it when I went there to get scrap paper for Ishiha’s writing practice.”

Yamei Palace’s boy eunuch, Ishiha, was currently learning to read and write, and he needed all the paper that he could get. That was why they asked for scrap paper from many people.

Every palace had chatty palace ladies, and Jiujiu gathered gossip whenever she went on such errands. She got useful information, as well as trivial ghost stories.

“If it didn’t come from the people involved, then there is no way to know how true it is.”

“Shall I ask a palace lady from Hakkaku Palace, then?”

“You need not go that—” Jusetsu stopped and looked at the doors. Xingxing the golden bird was flapping its wings. They had a visitor.

“Niangniang,” the voice that came from the other side of the door belonged to her bodyguard eunuch, Onkei. “I’ve brought a palace lady who got lost in the woods.”

Yamei Palace was surrounded by a lush forest of laurels and rhododendrons. The forest, which was dim even during the day, was even darker at night when the moon was covered with clouds like today. One could lose their way if one wasn’t careful.

When the doors opened, Onkei brought with him a petite palace lady who had an anxious expression on her face. She knelt in front of Jusetsu and bowed. Onkei went back outside after saying, “Tan Kai will slack off immediately if you take your eyes off him.” Tan Kai was her other bodyguard eunuch. Contrary to the taciturn and austere Onkei, he was chatty and often lazy.

“Lady Raven Consort, I have come to ask you for a favor.”

After saying that, the palace lady prostrated herself in front of Jusetsu as kowtowing towards her. Her feeble voice sounded strained. She seemed to have an urgent request.

“I cannot hear you very well from there. Come here and sit down.”

Jusetsu pointed to the chair across from her. The palace lady stood up, looking somewhat puzzled, and hesitantly walked over.

“Your name?” Jusetsu asked bluntly.

“My family name is Nen, and my given name is Shuuji. I belong to Hakkaku Palace, but I mainly work in the cocoonery.”

Jusetsu met eyes with Jiujiu, who was standing next to her. She knew that even without going to Hakkaku Palace, if something really happened, someone would come here. But she never expected them to show up at such a convenient time.

“Is there a ghost haunting the cocoonery?”

“You knew about that, Lady Raven Consort?”

As expected of the Raven Consort, Shuuji said in awe, but Jusetsu corrected her. “No, I merely overheard the rumors.” It would be troublesome if people thought she could read minds.

“I heard that it’s the ghost of a palace lady.”

“Yes. Apparently, it’s the ghost of a palace lady who died from the silkworm’s curse in the previous dynasty.”

Shuuji’s story about the ghost was the same as the rumors Jusetsu heard from Jiujiu.

“Before I knew it, that ghost was in the cocoonery. When I was carrying the mulberry leaves and feeding the silkworms, I was so busy that I barely even glanced at all the palace ladies’ faces. Then, when I suddenly looked up, I saw an unfamiliar palace lady giving mulberry leaves to the silkworms. I cried out in surprise, and she suddenly disappeared. There are others who had seen her besides me.”

Shuuji said that since, the ghost had often appeared in the cocoonery.

“But if that was all, I wouldn’t have come here to consult you, Lady Raven Consort. Taking care of the silkworms is a busy job, so we honestly don’t have time to worry about one or two ghosts. She appears suddenly and disappears just as suddenly, and she’s harmless, so everyone soon got used to her. We were more focused on successfully raising the silkworms and making them into good cocoons.”

But then…Shuuji’s face clouded over.

“Someone has been harmed?”

Shuuji nodded. “Yes. But no one has been sick or injured. No, it’s more worrisome than that.”

With a pale face, she lowered her head.

“Worrisome?”

“Cocoons have gone missing.”

Jusetsu was somewhat disappointed. “That’s worrisome?”

“It’s very important to us. The silkworms raised in that house belong to the Crane Consort, and by extension, His Majesty. We must not let even a single one die in vain, much less letting them go missing.”

“How many are missing?”

“Two as of now.”

“How do you know that only a few have been lost? You must be raising a lot of silkworms in the cocoonery.”

“It would be almost impossible to tell when they are larvae, but when they are matured silkworms, that is, ready to make cocoons, they are moved to a cocoon-making area made of straw called the cocoon holders. We put one silkworm in there each morning, so we would know if the cocoons that have formed there are missing. The missing cocoons were the ones that had been completed and all that remained was to remove the fluff, but yesterday, when we suddenly took our eyes off them, they were gone…”

“Are you saying that’s the work of the ghost?”

“Of course, at first, we thought that maybe they had fallen out of the cocoon holders for some reason, so we searched not only the floor, but also the entire room. We even searched the palace ladies’ clothing. But we couldn’t find them. In the midst of all this, one palace lady mentioned something. She said that the ghost had appeared right before the cocoons went missing. She thought it was the aforementioned ghost, so she let her be, just like everyone else… I have never seen the ghost take a cocoon, but there is no other way. After we entered the house, no one left until the loss was discovered. Even so, the cocoons weren’t found in the room or the clothing. So it cannot be that one of us took them. In the first place, we are the ones who will be punished if a cocoon goes missing, so there is no way one of us would do something like that.”

“Indeed, your logic is sound,” Jusetsu nodded.

“Because the cocoons have yet to be collected, the cocoon numbers haven’t been reported to the Crane Consort yet. So, we all decided to claim that the cocoons died. …Um…”

Shuuji glanced at Jusetsu.

“I won’t tell the Crane Consort.”

After Jusetsu said that, Shuuji looked relieved and continued talking.

“However, if the ghost appears again and takes more cocoons…starting tomorrow, we will have to collect the finished cocoons. After collecting them and sorting them into good cocoons and bad, if some of the good ones disappear, it will all be over. They are counted, so we can’t cover it up.”

Punishment would then await them. That was why Shuuji called it worrisome.

“The ghost of a palace lady who died after being cursed by the silkworms is now taking their cocoons…” Jusetsu murmured.

“Even if you cover up the loss this time, it would difficult to do it again in the future.”

“Yes. In the Crane Consort’s cocoonery, we raise silkworms three times in spring, summer, and autumn. I feel my body wasting away when I think of the possibility of this happening again.”

Shuuji covered her face with her sleeve. Hmm, Jusetsu pondered.

“If it really is the work of ghosts, then we would be one step behind if we take our time investigating the ghost’s circumstances. For the time being, I can create a barrier in the cocoonery to prevent the ghost from appearing…”

“Can you really do that?” Shuuji raised her head.

“I cannot say anything unless I see the ghost.”

“Yes, by all means, please go ahead.”

Shuuji looked overjoyed enough to clasp Jusetsu’s hands, but her expression immediately darkened again.

“Lady Raven Consort, I have another problem.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the missing cocoons. If it’s true that they are completely gone, then it’s fine, but if the ghost took them somewhere else, that would be a problem.”

“Why?”

“The silkworms in that house are Ga Province silkworms. They are not local. In the event that those silkworms emerge and cross-breed with wild or domestic silkworms in this area, that will cause great problems. It will ruin their breed.”

“Ah…I see.”

Problems like that exist? She thought

“Then, do you want me to find the location of the cocoons?”

“The moths emerge from their cocoons after about ten days. We have to find them before that…”

Shuuji covered her face. She seemed overwhelmed by this sudden disaster.

“I think it would be a good idea to explain the situation to Banka—the Crane Consort. I don’t think she would give you a severe punishment.”

“…That may be true for the Crane Consort, but…” Shuuji trailed off and looked down. “Her father…”

“Banka’s father? The head of the Saname clan?”

“Yes…” Shuuji’s gaze wandered. “The Crane Consort’s father is very strict, and she cannot go against him. If he tells her to hand down a strict punishment, she will obey him.”

He’s the man who told Banka to choose between her own life or the life of her adopted sister.

The Saname clan was cursed by a god to have the youngest daughter of the clan head to die at fifteen. In order to circumvent that, a girl younger than Banka was adopted into the clan. Banka begged her father to save her sister, but he told her that she herself should choose to die instead if that was the case. As a result, the adopted daughter died, and Banka lived. Jusetsu wondered what kind of man Saname Chouyou was for forcing his daughter to make such a choice.

Shuuji covered her mouth with her sleeve.

“I’ve said too much. Please forget it.”

Jusetsu promised to go to the cocoonery tomorrow, and then Shuuji left.

“The Crane Consort seems to be an easygoing person, but her father is very strict. Even the palace ladies are afraid of him,” Jiujiu, who had been standing by in silence, opened her mouth like she couldn’t wait to speak. “The behavior of a consort will probably reflect the inclinations of her family to some extent…”

Jusetsu turned her face to the window. She couldn’t see Hakkaku Palace from here.

If Banka—Hakkaku Palace was at the will of Saname Chouyou, that was something to think about.

Koushun probably already knows about it.

The face of the inscrutable young emperor appeared in her mind. Neither his consorts nor their families were something for Jusetsu to worry about. From the start, the Raven Consort had nothing to do with the outside.

“…”

Jusetsu narrowed her eyes at the melting darkness of the night outside the window.

A lush green mulberry grove could be seen on the other side of Hakkaku Palace.

“Is that it?” Jusetsu muttered. “Yes, niangniang,” Onkei answered from behind her. He was accompanying her to the cocoonery this morning.

“The mulberry grove has been around since the previous dynasty, and it was still maintained even when there was no cocoonery.”

“Why are silkworms raised in the inner palace?”

“It’s more the imperial palace rather than the inner palace. There is also a cocoonery in the outer court. They say that breed improvement and research are being conducted there. Originally, raw silk for the emperor and imperial family were produced there.”

“So, the cocoonery in the inner palace is for the consorts?”

“Yes. I heard it used to be quite large.”

Since Onkei said that, Jusetsu imagined a small hut. However, the cocoonery that appeared before her was quite a respectable building. It certainly didn’t have the magnificence of a consort’s palace, but it had three buildings roofed with blue-glazed roof tiles, and it was encircled with mud roof walls. From the front building, they could hear the sounds and voices of the palace ladies busy at work, and in the back building, they could see eunuchs coming and going with bundles of firewood.

“The mulberry storehouse is in the back, and the cocoonery is in the front.”

Onkei explained. He was sent here as a spy on Ei Sei’s orders, so he knew most of the things here, which was helpful. He was a beautiful eunuch with cool eyes and a single scar running across his cheek. He was a skillful guard, but he was also a very capable servant, with his attention to small details, a shadow-like unassumingness in all things, and his efficiency in carrying out tasks.

Jusetsu headed for the building in front. Before she could climb the steps, the doors opened and a palace lady hurried out. It was Shuuji.

“My deepest apologies for not noticing your arrival, Lady Raven Consort. I was watching the outside, but I thought you were a eunuch…”

“That’s fine. It would be unfavorable to me if I were recognized from a distance.”

In order to not be recognized by Hakkaku Palace, Jusetsu came here dressed as a eunuch. It really was convenient. Although Jiujiu, who wanted to dress her up, complained about it.

Jusetsu peered into the cocoonery and saw that the palace ladies seemed to be collecting cocoons. When they heard that the Raven Consort was here, they stopped what they were doing, got onto their knees and bowed.

“Continue your work. Other people will suspect something.”

The palace ladies obediently returned to work. There were rows of shelves and long tables, and on top of the tables, there were bellows-shaped objects woven from straw. When she saw the cocoons hanging from them, she thought that they must be the tools called cocoon holders that Shuuji talked about last night. The palace ladies removed the cocoons and placed them on trays.

“Right now, we’re collecting cocoons. After this, we will remove the fluff stuck to them and separate them into good ones and bad ones. The difference is whether or not they are suitable for turning into thread or not. Double cocoons consisting of two silkworms becoming one cocoon, thin cocoons, cocoons with holes, cocoons with rotting dead moths inside, cocoons soiled with urine and other bodily fluids, cocoons with marks left from the holders…they will all be removed,” Shuuji explained. “Furthermore, the good cocoons are divided into those that will be used to make thread, and those that will be made to emerge to lay eggs. The thread will be offered to the Crane Consort, and after that, she will present them to His Majesty.”

“Once the good cocoons are selected, not a single one of them will be lost, right?”

Yes, Shuuji lowered her eyes. In other words, there could be no deferment. Jusetsu put her hand to her hair and realized that she didn’t have her usual flowers there. Even though she dressed as a eunuch often, she kept forgetting about it.

She held her hand out forward and gathered heat in her palm. A light crimson haze flickered, tangled, and intertwined. The haze transformed into petals, one by one, and formed a peony flower. Jusetsu blew on it.

The flower turned into smoke and scattered. It floated around, swimming between the palace ladies.

The pale red smoke gradually gathered in one place and began to take the form of a person. It was the figure of a woman. A simple hairpin was tucked into her chignon, and her pale, slender face had well-shaped eyebrows that looked as if they were drawn with a brush and thin-lidded eyes. The long robes that enveloped her thin body weren’t in the current fashion, but her modest yet elegant appearance gave her the look of a court servant.

Shuuji let out a small cry and covered her mouth with her sleeve.

“T-That’s the ghost of the palace lady I saw!”

The other palace ladies had also stopped what they were doing and stared wide-eyed at the ghost.

The ghost suddenly moved amidst those stares. She soundlessly went towards the door. Jusetsu leaned back halfway and made way for the ghost. The ghost disappeared as though sucked into the door.

She went outside.

“L-Lady Raven Consort—”

“We’re going after her,” Jusetsu interrupted Shuuji and called out to Onkei. He quickly opened the door.

When they went outside, they saw the ghost from behind about to leave through the gate. Jusetsu followed her. There were no sounds of foodsteps or rustling of clothes, but the ghost’s gait was similar to that of the living. What was different was that the hem of her robes didn’t flutter and her sleeves didn’t sway. If such ghosts were to simply stand still among the palace ladies, even the people next to them wouldn’t realize that they were ghosts. Among the many courtiers in the inner palace, there might be ghosts mingled in with them, pretending to be the living.

The ghost left the cocoonery and headed further north. That was the outskirts of the inner palace. It was a neglected area with unkempt, overgrown trees, and there was no one in sight.

Jusetsu, who had been chasing the ghost, came to a slightly open space and stopped. There was something like a small burial mound covered in dense moss and grass there. The ghost had stopped in front of it. The sun shined down on the mound, and the moss glistened faintly. As they watched, the ghost seemed to melt into the mound and disappeared.

What is this mound?

It couldn’t belong to the ghost. It was difficult to imagine that a mere palace lady’s burial mound would be located inside the inner palace.

“Whose mound is this?”

She turned back to Onkei, but even he had a rare unknowing look on his face.

“I shall look into it.”

“Please do so.”

After that brief exchange, Jusetsu looked around. The area was surrounded by trees. There were old trees with ivy entwined around them, young trees lush with leaves, and trees that had already rotted and fallen. It was quiet. Judging by the trampled undergrowth, it seemed that it wasn’t completely unvisited by people. Did they come here to visit the mound? After checking the surroundings, Jusetsu returned to the cocoonery.

Shuuji was standing alone in front of the room from earlier, looking like she had nothing to do. Apparently, the other palace ladies moved to another room to remove the fuzz from the cocoons.

Jusetsu told her about the ghost disappearing into the mound, but Shuuji didn’t know anything about the mound either. In fact, this was the first time she heard about it.

“The outskirts of the inner palace are frightening, and as a woman, I can’t go there unless I have serious business…”

That did seem to be true.

“It would be easy to keep that ghost out of the cocoonery, but…” Jusetsu cut herself off there and pondered for a bit. That wasn’t enough. The cocoons must be found.

“I ask for your assistance,” Shuuji bowed to her. Jusetsu wasn’t a god, so being begged like this made her extremely uncomfortable.

“…Very well. I’ll create a barrier for now. Then I’ll see what I can find out about the mound.”

She took out a spindle wound with thread from her breast pocket. She went out to the outer corridor and asked Onkei to hold the end of the thread, then ran it along the floor, making a circle around the cocoonery. Finally, the barrier was created once she tied the ends together. It was a spell she used many times before. It wasn’t the Raven Consort’s spell, but a sorcerer’s spell.

She had learned it from Reijou, the previous Raven Consort, but in the previous dynasty, when sorcerers were able to frequent the inner palace, this kind of work was probably their job. They must have been valued.

No, it probably went beyond that.

She recalled the words of Ui, the keeper of the treasure room.

It was for protection against Wulian Niangniang, just in case

He told me that he couldn’t feel safe without the power to fight back…

There was probably a good reason why sorcerers were so highly regarded during the previous dynasty.

“Avoid stepping on the thread as much as possible. Though, as long as it doesn’t break when you step on it, it doesn’t matter.”

After giving Shuuji those warnings, Jusetsu left the room. The palace ladies were waiting outside, and they all knelt upon seeing her. Jusetsu was perplexed.

“Thank you very much, Lady Raven Consort.”

“I didn’t do much. Don’t make it to be more than it is. You were the ones who said that it would be all of you in trouble if outsiders learn about it.”

Even so, the palace ladies didn’t rise until Jusetsu passed through the gate. It seemed that the palace ladies of Hakkaku Palace held the Raven Consort in particular reverence, especially after the incident in which she saved Banka. Despite the fact that she really hadn’t done much.

“And there’s also the cocoons…”

After leaving the cocoonery, Jusetsu stopped once and looked back. The gentle green of the mulberry trees shone in the morning sun. Here and there, there were sections where branches had been cut, probably for feeding the silkworms.

I’m good at looking for lost items, but…

It was different when it came to cocoons. Because they had no owner. Tracing lost items from their owners wasn’t difficult. However, cocoons were…

“Onkei,” Jusetsu called out to him while still looking at the mulberry grove. “In addition to the mound, there is something I want you to investigate.”

Yes, came his short reply.

Previous || Index || Next

#koukyuu no karasu #koukyuu no karasu 4 #shirakawa kouko #translations #raven of the inner palace

34 notes · View notes