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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 months

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Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

#könig x reader #könig x you #mythology au #arthurian au #historical au

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cowyolks · 1 year

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FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Chapter One. Midsummers Masterlist

Pairing: God! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader

Prompt: A prophecy written long ago stated of a human that would become the God’s wife and live in his domain for the rest of eternity.

A/n: This series is heavily influenced by Hades and Persephone, while I will not exactly state if this is Greek Mythology, I want to add lots of folklore and myths into this series! So let me know if you like it so far!

“Daughter!” The chilling voice of your mother startled you from your book, the passage had managed to suck you in and away from your current reality. Oh how you wished you could stay there.

It was Midsummer, a time of the year that you truly despised.

It met you had to be under the watching eye of your mother, who searched far and low for a suitor for you.

She was the chieftess of your clan, something she made sure to remind you of every waking hour. To put it simply, you were a trainee, a soldier, in her quest of power.

You were not her daughter, but a pawn.

“I’m coming, Mother.” You announced as you carefully put the bookmark down against the paper, hoping you’d return to the pages sooner rather than later.

You left your room reluctantly, taking a glance at the setting sun outside of the window. It was nearly nightfall already, which meant it was time to leave.

“Oh Gods, look at you! Did you fall asleep?” Your mother bounced around you, yanking the uncomfortable corset tighter around your waist and pulling your hair away from your ears to make you look more sophisticated and older.

“I was just reading.” You mumbled, hands gripping the flowing train of your dress, specifically tailored for the Midsummer feast. The color was a crimson red, fading into a soft blush as it reached your ankles– it was the color of your clan.

“You should have been cleaning up, I’ve got three potential suitors coming to visit tonight. You need to be on your best behavior.”

“Yes ma’am.” You sighed, eyes watering at the thought of losing your freedom to a man twice your age. Clans around you didn’t have suitors your age, so it was likely you were to be married off to a man full grown, who would force you to have heirs. It was enough to make you shudder.

A loud caw shook you from your thoughts. Your eyes travelled to the window, where a large crow sat perched upon the sill, it’s beady eyes glancing at you as it always had. It was common to find the bird near you. Something your mother detested, which made it much more interestingto have the crow return to you. You’d read that offering the bird trinkets or food was a way to build trust. So in the springtime at dusk you’d set coins and seeds out for the crow.

It would return with its own gifts, so much more extravagant than the ones you’d given. Golden brooches, silver earrings, and necklaces of stunning ruby; one that you wore on your neck now.

“Shoo!” Your mother cried, as she attempted to smack the bird out of the sill and into the night, and reluctantly the bird left, not without bringing its beady eyes to you first. With a flap, it flew into the night.

“Damn that bird, it’s a wonder people don’t think of you as a witch.”

Sometimes you wished you were one.

It was later in the evening when you saw the bird again. He didn’t make a loud caw as he usually did, instead he perched on the rafters of the pavilion, beady eyes flashing against the gold goblets and lanterns being paraded around.

“Madam-”

You jumped, not noticing the looming presence behind you until he spoke. You wheeled around with a hand upon your chest, startled.

“I did not mean to startle you…” he started.

“No sir, it’s quite alright. It seems I was only lost in my mind.” You brushed off, instead searching over his features. He was old, at least older than you, with a clean shaven face and head, and violent eyes that swirled in the light. It seemed to come as a great effort to keep his rage at bay.

“Hershel Shepherd.” He introduced, holding a large hand out to you. Hesitantly you placed your palm in his hand, his grip tight and uncomfortable. You bit back a wince, faintly hearing the crow caw indifferently.

You turned to the bird slightly, instead catching your mother’s stern stare, she vaguely made a gesture to the man that had spoke to you.

A suitor.

He was so old.

With a gulp, you turned back to the man known as Shepherd, plastering a fake smile upon your lips. With careful words you introduced yourself, watching as his eyes fired again at the greeting. Was that flames?

“Care to dance?”

As if your mother would allow you to say no.

You looped your hand in his, settling the other gracefully on his shoulder, just as you were taught.

“I’m surprised someone hasn’t swooped to marry you yet.” His tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand. There was something off about this man, and it made your throat tighten in wary.

“All the suitors say I’m too strong-minded.”

“An easy fix. You just need some discipline.”

You stopped dancing, feeling how tight his grip was upon your waist and hand. It hurt, but you didn’t want to let him know that.

“Excuse me?” You asked incredulously, now actually seeing the flames burn in his irises.

“I think you’ve heard perfectly clear, little bird. I plan to propose to you this fortnight. I already have your mother’s blessing.”

The crow cawed loudly.

You felt like puking.

“If you’ll excuse me.” You squeaked, hating how shaky your legs felt as you forcibly ripped his hands from your body. Your heels clicked upon the marble, your dress whisking in the nightly summer breeze. Dodging through people, you made your way to the opposite side of the pavilion, trying to calm your nerves as much as you could.

“What the hell was that?” The irritated voice of your mother made you shrink down in stance, even though you were several inches taller.

“He disrespected me, I wasn’t going to stand by and let him insult me.” Your voice was uncharacteristically small– you blamed it on Shepherd.

“You will let him do as he pleases.” She snapped through gritted teeth. Your mouth opened slightly in shock, never before had she been so bluntly angered. It made frustrated tears well into your eyes.

“I won’t marry him.”

“That’s not your decision. It’s the clan’s, and they’ve already concluded their vote. You’re to be married at dawn. Betrothed.”

“No…” you whimpered, now wishing more than anything that you could run far away. Possibly sailing the seas by your lonesome, or climbing trees in the jungles, or hiking mountains larger than the skyline.

“Yes. Now go catch some air, gather yourself and come back a woman. Not some whimpering child.” With a small shove, she pushed you out of the pavilion and into the dark night.

With a cloudy brain, you began to walk down the stone path to the gardens, far from any lingering people. Here, the only sound was the croaking of frogs, scent of flowers, and singing of crickets.

As if a string was cut, your eyes began to water, tears falling freely down your cheeks in hot trails. Hastily, you wiped the droplets, approaching the briar of winter roses. The petals bloomed full year, having the resilience you only yearned of having.

Your fingertips brushed over the soft petals, hardly taking note to the small fluttering of wings upon the top of the briar, until the bird cooed as it fluttered down to your eye-line.

“At least I’ll have you, huh?”

You felt ridiculous talking to a crow, but the bird was the only one that did not shun you. It gave you time to be yourself, without protesting and interference.

With a hesitant hand, you reached for the bird, gently enough for it to know you didn’t mean any harm. When it made no move to fly away you brushed a hand to its feathers, watching with amusement as it cawed softly, before playfully nipping your finger.

“I wish I could fly away with you.” You whispered into the night air. Not noticing the man hidden in the shadows, watching on with a curious spark in his eye.

Finally. You were here.

“Then why don’t you.” His deep voice cut through the balmy night.

Chapter Two

#cod #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #mythology au #god!ghost #simon riley x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #Simon riley x you

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