Re-listened to TAZ Balance recently and I’m still in awe that Griffin McElroy somehow managed to introduce a “long-lost twin of protagonist who had selective amnesia about them” character so late in the story, so successfully that she not only featured in some of the most thrilling and emotional moments of the series, but immediately became wildly popular and caused most of the fanbase to spontaneously develop crushes on her

In Praise of This Lovely Romance

I’m late to this Zawe and Tom party. These two seized my imagination only recently, and I’ve quickly become familiar with background sources supplied here and elsewhere. They seem both to reflect and put their own spin on that old Katherine Hepburn quip about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—“He gave her class and she gave him sex appeal.” In Tom and Zawe’s case, “He gives her class and she gives him joy.”

It’s so touching that two people with high foreheads and fully formed personalities have found each other. As a Black woman, it’s awesome to see a Black woman get the queenly treatment she deserves. For his part, Tom seems both knocked off his gray suede shoes and humbled. She upends that tightly wound, professorial reserve with her openness, wit, and freshness.

D

Dr. Delilah Dandelion decides divinely delicious dinners, despite diligently doing dozens different disciplines.

H

Hideous Hedjhotep Hazel historically head held high held horrific hegemony, he had hiding heretics harrowingly hunted.

Q

Quincy Quicksilver quickly quit quoting queenly quips, quarterly quarrelling quite quietly.

This is part 6 of a series of letter themed characters! Can you spot all the hidden letters?

Femslash Feb Day 9 - Rose - Courtly/Apple

gulp. first post in the new editor

im going to try it even though i hate change

anyways this is SUCH a great ship

so underrated

Brief Summary: Courtly shops for flowers.

Word Count: 263

I’m still accepting ships for femslash feb!!! Send me your fave fem pairs and I’ll write you a fic sometime this month!! (3 spots left)

Did all queens like roses? Courtly wasn’t sure if it was just a Wonderland thing or like… an every queen thing. Everything had been much more confusing since she came to Ever After High. All of the customs were so different, and it was hard to know how she even fit in. All of the other Wonderland girls seemed so confident, but she didn’t understand how. 

Some people had been kind to her though, most notably Apple White. And Courtly couldn’t deny feeling a sort of… attraction to her. She supposed that was part of her destiny. To feel the lure to perform for a Queen. Apple was different from any queens in Wonderland though. She was much kinder, and less prone to yelling. She introduced Courtly to her classes and showed her around the school. A true leader. But she had her own friends, and slowly Courtly felt her pulling away.

It was probably wrong to clutch onto her. Not what she was supposed to be doing in her reform. But being around Apple felt so purposeful… so right. Courtly felt as though she could make quips all day. She wanted to perform… to give herself over to someone else. That was why she’d decided to buy her some flowers. As a sign of her commitment. 

Roses seemed very queenly. But there were so many different colors. She wouldn’t want to offend. But nothing else quite said devotion. Maybe a mixed bunch. Then Apple could choose her favorite, and take pity on the jester who was trying her hardest to appease her.

What's 2 similarities & 2 differences U have noticed between Ozpin & Oscar?

Aaahh I was wondering if you were going to ask me! I’ve been seeing you around asking this question and the answers have all been interesting! So I’ll take on a response that people aren’t taking on then, yes? This will be a long post, so if anyone is interested in reading past the first analysis just click the ‘read more’!

Their Origins

Ozpin is at the core based off of two characters. One of those characters, Oscar is also connected to. There are obviously more characters and whatnot they reference, but for the sake of simplicity, I will only be addressing their clear initial inspiration. Ozpin is based off of The Wizard of Oz, also known as Professor Oz primarily in the Oz Book Series; but his full name is Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, which he abbreviated to Ozpin Head. (Thank you @immortal-green-snom for this tidbit!!!) In the book series, after he had left in the air balloon in an attempt to help Dorothy get home, Professor Oz was revealed to have done a lot of slimy and heinous things to keep the throne of the Emerald City, and by extension, the Land of Oz itself. While he does get better in the latter books he reappears in, he was portrayed as being manipulative, a bit pathetic, but extremely intelligent and a master of illusions. I wouldn't be surprised if the writers of RWBY were trying to get that across in Ozpin's traits, but to be quite honest, they kinda failed at making him even a morally grey character, as a lot (not all, he isn't guitless, but again, a lot) of the arguments used in-show, and the FNDM itself, are all about things that were either not in his control, or something that was painted as being his fault/harmful, but was actually the opposite of the situation. The biggest example of this is Raven trying to trick Yang and Weiss into believing Ozpin had forced her and Qrow to become birds/have the ability to do so. In a lot of ways, Ozpin and Professor Oz are actually opposites of one another in terms of personalities, which may have in actuality been the overall intention CRWBY had, but we can only speculate. Professor Oz is extremely selfish, while Ozpin is selfless, even to a point where it actually becomes harmful to others. Professor Oz would have done anything to be in power, while Ozpin has done everything to relinquish himself of a position of power, which I find very interesting. This may be due to him even trying to somehow relinquish the burden the God of Light has placed on Oz as a whole, but is ultimately unable to give up that specific task. Even though, truthfully, he needed to relinquish that particular stronghold all along. Professor Oz is clearly a leader, and despite his negative traits, is actually a very good one. Ozpin...as much as I love him as a character, is not the greatest leader. He is, however, an excellent advisor/second-in-command. Professor Oz is only a mere mortal man pretending to be something more, while Ozpin is something bigger than a mortal man, but is pretending to be nothing but a man. Expanding upon this, they also are desperate to be the opposite of what they are. Professor Oz wants to be what he portrayed himself as, and for Ozpin, it's very much the same situation. There is a lot more I could say, but let's move on to Oscar!

Oscar Pine, like Ozpin, is based off of two characters at the core. Again, it is likely that he represents more than two, but for the sake of simplicity, let's discuss only the two. From the moment I saw Oscar, I knew right away that he was based off of my favorite character from the Oz Book Series...Tip. Tip, short for Tippetarius, was too a farmboy who longed for much more, who knew that there was more out there, despite being notably content in their lifestyle. The only difference was that Tip was a slave to an evil witch, but he escapes her in the second chapter with a companion. He is described as being just like any boy; rugged, mischievous, playful, and a lover of all things fun while still being quite shrewd. Unlike Ozpin and Professor Oz, Tip and Oscar are, in fact, extremely alike. Even down to their colors and appearance. Despite how Tip is colored, he actually has light brown skin (though considering the time period, we all know why this fact was dismissed), and black hair. And his treasured beanie cap was green and orange. His clothes also had a primary color scheme of brown, and were dirty due to the work he had done on the farm. Oscar and Tip have the exact same personalities, which was what affirmed to me that Oscar was meant to be his primary parallel. What got me the most was their sarcasm. Tip is still the most sarcastic and genuinely street-smart protagonists in the Oz Books. Not to say there were no other protags like that, but there was something to be said about how Tip was one of the few protagonists to actually act as a leader in the traveling group. Just like Oscar, Tip is also quite emotional, and they both have a sharp temper that they express not in loud outbursts, but by quips that you know could be quite hurtful if they wanted them to be. However, between the two, Tip is the loudest, should you put them in the same room. However, I suspect that as time goes on, Oscar might start becoming quite vocal when he doesn't like something, as I've noticed that the more he develops, the more he acts like Tip. Their behaviors are similar as well; when something personal is going on between two parties who clearly knew each other before him, both Oscar and Tip have a tendency to hang back and simply let the moment play out. They both start out as being sort of bystanders, just going with the flow while occassionally giving very good advice/strategies, but they start to become more of a leader as time goes on. In fact, leadership seems to be in their blood. There is actually a reason for this.

Ozma of Oz

There is a single thread that connects both Oscar and Ozpin, and that is the second primary character they represent. That character is the infamous Princess/Queen Ozma of Oz. Ozma, in many ways, is a lot like both Ozpin and Oscar; and may be the kind of person they become once the merging is complete. She is shrewd, but gentle. Sarcastic and blunt, but very elegant and fun-loving. They have a particular grace in how they handle their politics, but she admittedly gets into more trouble than rulers of kingdoms should. She is, ultimately, the perfect archetype of a ruler. And had completely reformed The Emerald City to be an environment that is very much like Vale's open-mindedness, with the advanced technology and efficiency of Atlas. Ozma, in the books, was actually revealed to be Tip; or rather, Tip was Ozma. After being transformed into a boy as a baby by a witch under Professor Oz's command, they were whisked away by said witch, and had been working under that witch until they had escaped as a young boy. Many speculate that Ozma was meant to represent the transgender community, and I know many transgenders see Ozma as an icon. Frank Baum was the type of guy that wrote things that were ahead of his time, and seen as very controversial by the few who could actually read the metaphors planned out. It was even implied in the later books that Ozma and Dorothy get married, and there were many illustrations made from the original novel illustrators of Ozma and Dorothy looking like a couple. What's even greater is that despite the change of gender from Tip to Ozma, she still very much contains her boyish traits despite the frills and queenly garb. As stated in one of the last lines in the second Oz Book;

"I hope none of you will care for me less than you did before. I am still the same Tip you know..."

When I realized Oscar was Tip, I knew Ozma was going to be put into the equation. I just,,,, wasn't expecting..... t h a t.

Oscar and Ozpin

Time to actually answer the question I was asked JSDJFDKDFKFK--

Oscar and Ozpin are different in one particular way: Trust. Ozpin trusts nobody. Truthfully, he doesn't even trust himself, I don't think, and that is likely why he didn't have much of a plan these days. He doesn't trust himself to be competent enough to complete the task assigned to him, he doesn't trust humanity to pass, hell, I don't think he even trusts the Gods to be capable of taking care of humanity considering the shit job they did in the past, and how poorly they have handled Ozma and Salem. In simple terms, Ozpin trusts too little. Oscar, on the other hand, trusts...a little too much. There, I said it. And I'm willing to say it again. Oscar trusts too much. Whether or not that will change after the end of V7 and what happened in V8 is left for debate. Oscar seems almost incapable of seeing the downside in some situations, like, for example, confronting a General who has completely gone off the deep end, unarmed and alone. And he trusted a man who needlessly beat the shit out of him for something that nobody, not even Salem, were truly at fault for. And while that trust paid off, unlike how it did in the past, it is a bit of an alarming trait that I genuinely think will simmer down either after all that happened in V8, or it will eventually when that trust truly bites him in the ass.

Another polarization between Oscar and Ozpin: faith. This ties in a little bit with the trust theme, but there is enough to talk about on its own. While Ozpin does believe that humanity is overall good, I think he has lost faith in their capability to work together long enough for there to be any sort of permanent peace. And, admittedly, he isn't wrong to think that. I think you would have to be very foolish if you genuinely think there will ever be a point where humanity will stop fighting amongst themselves; in other words, Ozpin is fully aware that the God of Light's task is genuinely impossible. And honestly? I think the GoL knows it is, too. Oscar has faith as well, but he views the dire circumstance in a different way that may be the key to solve the seemingly unending puzzle of Salem and their task. He gets faith in humanity not through the overall picture, but in the smallest things. Oscar likely believes that it doesn't matter if all of humanity is united, because he too knows that will never happen. But, he is certain that there is a lot more power in the smallest of unions and actions; a racist woman reforming and helping to comfort a faunaus child. A woman who helped a group of people tear down a kingdom realize the fault of their actions, and try to save another kingdom's people. A man who, while being genuinely wise, was so blinded by rage that he could not see past his own nose, change in order to save what little good has sprouted from something so terrible that he helped sow. The little things matter so much more, and unlike Ozpin, he doesn't think that they need to grow any further than that.

So, what makes them similar? Two distinct things. They both are very personal. Even if it is in different forms of expressing, Oscar and Ozpin are quite personal, especially when it comes to their advice. But they also really feel for the person they are talking to. And while Ozpin felt Hazel was too far gone, he felt for him and understood and even agreed with his anger. Their empathy is truly something else; and it is also their weakest point. Not to say that having empathy is bad, but their empathy leads into another trait that they have in common... They let people walk all over them. All. The. Time. To a point where it is actually very frustrating, and it even hinders their development as characters. Ozpin let Ironwood walk all over him, and never spoke in defense for himself. Ozpin let the council walk all over him, and never defended himself. Ozpin allowed for so much of the blame to be placed on his own shoulders, that it is extremely unhealthy, and something I wish the show would address, but have come to accept that it won't. Especially when this trait is reflected in Oscar as well. He blamed himself for failing to convince Ironwood, he allowed for Jaune to verbally and physically attack him, and outright refused to let Jaune apologize. They both brush off their wellbeing so often, that watching Oscar do the same only confirms to me the suspicions I had as to why everyone was genuinely so blind to figure out what was going on in their heads and when they were struggling. Because both Oscar and Ozpin refuse to acknowledge their own struggles and shortcomings.

But, to be frank, that is more of a writing issue than a character reflection, in my personal opinion. And I'll continue to see it that way until the show actively acknowledges that unhealthy behavior.

There ya go! My very very long analysis of Oscar and Ozpin; I hope I brought something unique among the batch of this question!

Drawn In - A Witsnah Fic

IT’S TIME FOR NEW CONTENT. 

Title: Drawn In

Summary:  Pre Rhythm of War: Jasnah and Wit's first kiss. Canon compliant. It's soft and it's fluffy and a little dramatic in places (bc Wit) but it's what they deserved!!!

Teaser:   'Counter to the vicious rumours and harsh jibes, Jasnah was still human. She did not experience lust the same as others that she knew. But she was also not a frozen husk of a woman, devoid of need, or want for companionship and comfort.

A part of her longed for this connection with another person, this intimacy, this want that she increasingly found only with him.

He was dangerous, yes, but he made her feel safe. He made mock of everyone around him, but for her he made sense, and certainty, of things she’d never thought to understand. He was a roamer, a drifter, a wanderer, untethered and bound. But he was hers.'

Link: ao3

Commission Link: Have me write other cosmere characters

“So Investiture will be found on planets with one Shard or more?” Jasnah said, speaking the words aloud as she wrote them shorthand in her notebook. 

Conversing with Wit was always a stimulating process. He seemed to view each conversation as something of a duel. The chance to spar, to test his opponent, feel them out, offer them new challenges, new quips that required responses, new information that needed to be processed, new barbs to return in kind. It was invigorating. 

Lately, they had been spending more and more time together. He was the Queen’s Wit, and as such he accompanied her to most public gatherings she attended, as was proper. 

Something that was decidedly less proper, by Alethi standards, was the amount of time they were now spending together alone behind closed doors. 

Nothing untoward had happened between them. Not yet. At times she wondered if she had fabricated the impression that it could. Then she would catch a glint in his eye, the edge of a smile curving across his clever mouth, the way his eyes sometimes darted to her lips as they spoke. 

There was flirtation, too. Gentle, for the most part. He was not from this world, but he knew the Alethi well enough never to push too hard or too far. Even if she was not, strictly speaking, Vorin, the society they played within was, and there were rules that had to be abided to. 

Outside of that, she had never been one for flowery compliments, or overt, blunt attempts at seduction. They felt hollow and insincere to her, not to mention distastefully brusque. It reminded her of Amaram’s entitled insistence in his pursuit of her. She did not like being made to feel she was a hog bound at the end of a rope to lure the waiting chasmfiend. 

She preferred something altogether more subtle and cerebral than the usual Alethi courting methods. Someone who would dare to draw close to her, to tease at implications of what might, to pique her mental curiosity, stimulate her mind, who worked to connect with her, truly, on the most important levels. 

Wit...Wit was dangerously skilled at that. And he seemed to know it was what she wanted, seemed to read the eagerness, and the intent, in her responses. 

Indeed, she had considered courting him. Truly courting him, and allowing him to court her. 

So much so that she had discussed it with Ivory. He was the only person whose view on the matter she considered worth taking. Had he protested, she would have heeded him, and regardless of how invigorating she found Wit, it would have gone no further. 

However, Ivory, like her, was intrigued. He felt it would be a ‘good new avenue to explore for her personal growth’. She didn’t view it quite as logically as that. There was some feeling behind her own interest. More than some, if she was honest. 

It was late, now. They were tucked away together, deep in her chambers of Urithiru. If anyone heard of it there would be a great scandal. She was, as far as Vorin society was concerned, a single woman. She would be expected to be chaperoned, to ensure Wit didn’t try anything inappropriate with her.  

Wit seemed to consider the very definition of what each people he visited ‘inappropriate’ to be his own personal playground. He liked to establish himself within the boundaries of propriety, then slowly test, and push, and pry at them. And occasionally set them on fire and watch them burn with barely restrained glee. 

He had revealed much to her in the time he’d spent as her Wit. She’d met him before, of course, and guessed at his nature and origins, but she had coaxed more concrete answers from him now. 

He was an ancient creature, unlike anything she, or anyone else upon Roshar, had met before. He had visited other worlds, had witnessed their destruction, as well as the birth of the Shards that now held sway in the Cosmere at large.

The knowledge he held within his mind was incredible, incomparable.

The Heralds had been a revelation to her, as a dedicated historian. They were history come alive, walking, talking, sharing their truth with her. 

Wit was the same. Yet so much more. For he was the living history of not only her planet, but many more besides. 

Jasnah relished this time they spent alone together. Speaking with him, learning the secrets he carried, the keys to understanding her powers, and the powers of Roshar and beyond. 

He seemed to thrive upon her questions, as much as she thrived upon asking them. He was a showman, she knew, a performer. He liked to have an audience to play to. He had stories in his soul, and his purpose was to give them to others, as he felt was appropriate. 

“Quite correct,” he replied, absently, not looking at her but making some note on the papers he had propped on his legs. 

He was lounging back in his chair, boots up on her desk, which she permitted when they were alone together. If that was his comfort, she would not complain. She was not Dalinar, with military discipline drilled into her. She would not chide a man for sitting as he would in a moment of private companionship. 

There was a stack of parchment balanced on his raised thighs. She suspected he was taking his own notes on their conversation. He had done so before, after she had made some observation he’d actually found original and interesting enough to write down. 

She hadn’t thought, after all his years of life, that she would be able to provide him with anything he had not already experienced from someone else. It seemed that she had been wrong, and that he found her as intoxicating and stimulating as she found him.

She didn’t object to him writing, either. She found the tradition of forbidding a person from their potential passions or interests based upon some arbitrary concept like gender a foolish prohibition.

Although, not having to deal with men in the hallowed spaces of her research had been refreshing, at times. Excluding a rough half of a population's minds from any topic was ridiculous, she felt. 

Besides, Wit had learned to read and write long before Rosharans had even thought it unseemly. He was beyond such things. Indeed, some days he’d confessed to her he was beyond such things as gender.  

“And it can exist in multiple states?” she continued, pushing her thoughts back to the topic of Investiture, stopping them wandering down avenues far darker, and more mysterious, in regards to her and her Wit, “As a gas, such as the mists you described upon Scadriel,” she had to glance at another notebook to check the name of the planet. Wit nodded vaguely, “As a metal,” she said, “Like our Shardblades,” another nod, “Or as a liquid, like that gathered at the Well of Ascension.” 

“Indeed,” he said, making another few marks with his pen, still not looking at her. 

She didn’t mind that, either, but she did lean over to peer at his paper to see just what he was so engrossed in. 

She was surprised to see that he wasn’t writing at all. Instead, he was sketching, with delicate movements of a charcoal pencil he must have filched from her desk drawers while she’d been occupied. It was a rather impressive, and rather detailed, rendition of her.  

Jasnah as he saw her. Her eyes alive, focused on her work, hair unbound, cascading around her shoulders and down her back. Fingers deftly making some notation. Her face beautifully sculpted by sweeping lines of black against the tan parchment.

It was a very different style from Shallan’s, reminiscent of the drawings he had given her to help identify the Heralds. It was less focused on realism, imprinting every aspect of a moment captured in time, and more stylistic. Obviously his work.

There was...A care to his movements, and such an intimacy to his creation that, absurdly, she found herself having to fight down a blush. 

“That’s beautiful,” he murmured, glancing up at her, making swifter, surer strokes with his pencil, “If you’d just hold that pose for a moment more, my dear,” he said, as if this was the purpose of their meetings together. 

“I’m not supposed to be posing, Wit,” she said, composing herself, forcing herself to sound queenly and proper. And perhaps overcompensating, by the flicker of the smirk that he gave her. “I’m supposed to be learning. From you, I might add.” 

“We’re both old enough and ugly enough to do more than one thing at once, I think,” he replied blandly. 

Then he stopped and looked up at her, a faint glint in his eyes. 

“I do apologise,” he said, putting a hand to his chest and giving her a slight bow, without removing his feet from her desk, “I forgot to whom I was speaking for a moment.” 

He reached out and deftly slid a knuckle under her chin, angling her face more towards the pool of light that shone from the goblet of spheres on her desk.

“You’re not quite what I should define ‘old’ just yet,” he said, the smile pulling apparently irresistibly at his lips. 

“Wit,” she said, rolling her eyes, using the motion of turning back to her notes to cover the slight shiver that had pulsed through her at the intensity of his attention upon her a moment before. 

“No, please,” he said, cupping her chin gently between his fingers and turning her back to face him once more. “I’m almost finished,” he said, almost breathless, intent, “You can spare me a moment, surely? For the sake of art, Jasnah.” 

“You know I don’t care over much for art, Wit,” she said, though she did not pull away from him this time, drawn in to the faint glimmer in his eyes, the plea in his tone. 

His touch was strangely electrifying. As if there was Stormlight in his fingertips, sparking between them where his body met hers. The smallest of connections, yet the broadest of implications contained within such a simple gesture. 

“I know,” he said, with a dramatic sigh, “One of your very few failings, Brightness. We all must have at least one, I’m told. Except me of course.” 

“Of course,” she returned, rolling her eyes again, even as she found herself suddenly, dangerously, drawn in to those bright, sharp blue eyes of his.

“There’s just...Something wrong,” he said, cocking his head to one side, studying every line of her face. 

“Oh?” she said, feeling a spike of alertness breaking through the fog of her intoxication. 

“Yes,” he said, frowning, “Something not quite right. I think it’s your mouth.” 

“My mouth?” she repeated, confused, until she followed his gaze down to his sketch of her. 

“Mm,” he agreed vaguely, nodding, “Your lips have such a precise, sculpted quality to them,” he murmured, his thumb rising from her chin and tracing ever so tenderly over them. 

She had to restrain herself from closing her eyes and leaning in to him. It had been a long time since she had allowed anyone to touch her as intimately as this. It had been a long time since she had wanted anyone to touch her as intimately as this.

“I don’t think I’ve managed to capture it correctly,” he said, mirroring the motions he was making against her skin on the parchment, shaping her mouth more precisely. 

Lines of flesh and lines of charcoal, and breathless daring held together in the stillness between his words, neither of them moving, neither so much as breathing through them. Held. Captivated. Connected.

“That is a shame,” she said, finally, forcing herself to get some words out. 

She should draw away. She should put a stop to this. Should direct them back to their studies. This was more than he had ever dared with her before, further than he had ever pushed his teasing flirtation and gentle courting. She should not allow it. He was dangerous. The pull she felt to him was dangerous. The smart, the logical, thing to do was to walk away. To halt this before it began. 

She didn’t.

She didn’t want to, Storm it. Her world had ended, and she now struggled in the muck, and blood, and ash that remained to see what she could salvage. It was cold, hard, lonely work. As it had been for all those years she’d worked alone, in shadows, unseen, unwanted, untouched. 

Counter to the vicious rumours and harsh jibes, Jasnah was still human. She did not experience lust the same as others that she knew. But she was also not a frozen husk of a woman, devoid of need, or want for companionship and comfort.

A part of her longed for this connection with another person, this intimacy, this want that she increasingly found only with him. 

He was dangerous, yes, but he made her feel safe. He made mock of everyone around him, but for her he made sense, and certainty, of things she’d never thought to understand. He was a roamer, a drifter, a wanderer, untethered and bound. But he was hers. 

“Perhaps,” he said, then paused, licking his lips, almost as though he was nervous. Do it a part of her willed him, say it. Please. “Perhaps a closer look?” he murmured. 

She nodded, expectant. But when he slid from his chair and cradled her face in his hands, kneeling in front of her, he only traced the shape of her mouth with a tip of his finger, leaving her disappointed.

Yet she could see the want in his deep eyes, the gentle intrigue, the spark of daring that had led him to reach out and put his hands on her as he had tonight. With far more intimacy and familiarity than he’d ever risked before. 

“Wit,” she said quietly, dislodging one of his fingers. 

His eyes flicked to hers, and she felt her heart fluttering in her chest, as if she were an awkward teenager, fumbling into her first exploration of romance. 

She forced herself under control, and made sure her voice was level when she said, “Do you want to kiss me?” 

He blinked once, startled, then a smile spread across his lips, tentative, still, as if a part of him wondered she might be asking so she could put an end to those thoughts. 

But he nodded, “I do, Your Majesty. Most improper thoughts for a Wit to harbour for his queen, I admit.” 

“More improper still if they are reciprocated,” she said very quietly, watching his smile flare in his eyes at that. 

“Indeed,” he said, now sounding almost breathless, as if he could not quite believe what was happening. 

This feeling was likewise mutual. 

“If you want to kiss me, Wit,” she said, “Perhaps you should stop dancing around it, and just do it.” 

He held himself, suspended by shock, for a single heartbeat. Then he moved, surging towards her like a highstorm’s flood. One hand cupping her cheek, guiding her, the other sliding deft fingers deep into her thick hair. 

Then his mouth was on hers, finally, and she was closing her eyes and sinking into him, and he was moving gently against her. Drawing away for a beat, heavy lidded eyes meeting hers, seeking approval, which she gave. Then again, his lips against hers, heat pulsing between them like a freshly infused gemstone. 

“Ah. Yes. That helped,” he said, smiling softly at her, making to turn back to his sketch, as if that had been the only purpose of their embrace. 

“Yes,” she agreed quietly, “I think that it did.” 

Her tone held him in place and he bit his lip, giving her a small half-smile, no longer keeping up the joke of his sketch. Indeed, he let it slip from his lap, the pencil dropped from uncaring fingers, his attention focused entirely on her now.

“I’ve been wondering if you were ever going to allow me to do that,” he said, still sounding a little breathless, though Stormlight should have dealt with any purely physical exertion.

“I’ve been wondering if you were ever going to try,” she admitted, her fingers stroking absently at an out of place curl of black hair at his forehead. 

Wit smiled more broadly at that, taking her hand and gently brushing the knuckles against his lips, “I did promise you that I would never leave your questions answered.” 

He leaned in for a second kiss but she pulled back, frowning, “You leave my questions unanswered all the time, Wit.” 

“I do not!” he said, affronted, placing a hand over his chest. 

She gave him a flat look, “You disappeared for three weeks last month. Upon your return I asked you where you had been and you told me that you had ‘gone fishin’,” she said, badly mimicking the accent he’d used. 

He smiled and rubbed noses with her, which was the last thing she’d expected, and startled her so much she almost missed his reply.

“Technically, my dear, that was an answer," he said, smiling innocently up at her.

She just stared at him, unimpressed. 

Wit raised a finger, “I promised you I would give you answers. I said absolutely nothing about those answers being of any use to you.” 

Jasnah sighed, then kissed him again. That seemed to take him by surprise, which was pleasing. She found herself smiling against his mouth, and he against hers, and they broke apart, both laughing softly, unable to maintain the kiss. 

“So” Wit said quietly, his eyes flickering up from her lips to meet her gaze, “This is something we do now, is it?”

“I assumed when you said that you wanted to kiss me, that implied more than once,” she replied with a small sniff. 

Wit smirked at her, “Rather presumptuous of you, isn’t that, Your Majesty?” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her in a way only he could get away with doing. 

“Not if I’m right,” she said evenly, “And I am, aren’t I?” 

Wit grinned at her, “This is one of things about you I’m so inordinately fond of, Jasnah.”  

“My ‘unfettered, unyielding, and quite boundless arrogance’?” she asked, smirking slightly at the memory. 

Wit paused, then cocked his head and said, “Ruthar?” 

She inclined her head, confirming that suspicion. His grin broadened. 

“If you’re right, I don’t think that’s arrogance. I think it’s justified confidence in oneself in that circumstance,” he said, musing.

“So I am right, then?” she said, feeling a ridiculous flutter of nervousness as she asked the question, as if he might now turn around and reject her, after everything. 

Wit stroked her cheek with his knuckles and said quietly, “Given that I’ve been thinking about nothing but kissing you again since last we stopped I’d say that yes, your hypothesis has some merit.” 

“I thought I already told you what you should do if you want to kiss me,” she replied, “I am not fond of repeating myself, Wit, you know this.”

“I do apologise, my Queen,” Wit breathed, already leaning in, the words pressed against her lips a moment before his mouth met hers again.

When he drew back again, Wit cupped her face between both hands, gazing up at her, intent, and said quietly, “This is what you want? I am what you want?” 

“Yes, I believe so,” she replied composedly, “I have already come to the conclusion that this is a mostly appropriate course of action to pursue.” 

Wit raised an eyebrow at her and she actually blushed, turning away from him, feeling ridiculous. She had taken charge earlier, had all but commanded him to kiss her, but now she was stumbling around him like a teenager who had never so much as had another person hold her safehand?

“I am not accustomed to this kind of conversation,” she admitted, trying to reassert herself, though feeling horribly awkward at the same time, “It has never been my forte.”

He just shuffled in a little closer, and she realised that he was still kneeling on the floor in front of her while she sat primly at her desk. Storms. What a ridiculous man. 

She stood up then said, “Come, let’s sit somewhere more comfortable, if we’re to have this talk now.” 

Wit stood up as well, but put a gentle hand on her arm, “We don’t have to talk about anything right now,” he said, “It was a kiss. Which may turn into more kisses. Or it may not. We don’t have to define anything just yet, if you aren’t ready for that.” 

She stared at him incredulously.

“Did you hit your head on something as you were standing?” she demanded. 

He blinked, confused. 

“Have you forgotten entirely who I am?" She went on, "I can’t think why else you would say something so ridiculous to me.” 

He snorted with laughter at that. 

“Of course, of course,” he said, waving a hand, “How foolish of me, to attempt to put a woman at ease and remind her she’s under no obligation to me because of a single kiss we shared in the heat of a moment.” 

Jasnah sighed again and rubbed her forehead, wincing. 

It had been some time since she’d had to navigate a romantic relationship and she...Well she hadn’t been exactly good at this to begin with. 

She opened her mouth, but Wit just put a finger to her lips and spared her the trouble of making an even larger storming fool of herself.

“It’s quite alright, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling in a way that she found, frustratingly, both irritating and enticing all at once, “In fact it’s rather refreshing. It’s the apocalypse, after all, we haven’t time to waste with pointless pleasantries and empty reassurances. Lead on, your Majesty.”

Still grinning, he slid his hand into hers and allowed her to draw him over to the reclining couch she had set up on the opposite side of the room to her study desk. A place for more relaxed reading or meditation. 

They both settled themselves, Wit still smirking at her, and she withdrew her hand from his and clasped it in her lap, not looking at him.

 “So,” Wit said, leaning in, and raising his eyebrows suggestively, “You’ve, let me make sure I get this correct,” he cleared his throat, and his already deep voice lowered even further as he said in a breathy, exaggerated, voice, “‘Come to the conclusion that I am a mostly appropriate course of action to pursue’ have you?” 

She stared at him flatly, and in direct counter to his hyperbolic seduction, which had intensified to the point that he was now fluttering his eyelashes at her, replied as matter-of-factly as she could, “Indeed. Ivory and I have already discussed it together at some length.” 

That made him sit up, suddenly dropping the act, which surprised her, as she’d expected him to drag at least a few more minutes of torment out of it. 

“You spoke to Ivory about us?” he said, in normal tones again. 

“Of course,” she said, frowning slightly, unsure why he thought this so worthy of remarking upon, “Any relationship I am involved in will directly impact upon him. It was only right that he be allowed a say in it.” 

“You wish to embark upon a relationship with me?” Wit repeated, a little dazed, as though she’d just swung a heavy weight into the side of his head. 

“Yes, Wit,” she said, then narrowed her eyes and drew away from him, “Unless you are only interested in a physical distraction with me,” she added, feeling suddenly cold at the prospect, “In which case this ends here, with no further conversation required on the matter.” 

“No,” Wit said, quickly, his voice gentle and reassuring. 

He reached out and took her hand to stop her retreating from him. When she hesitantly allowed this, he squeezed it and scooted closer, bumping his shoulder against hers in a manner that he apparently saw as affectionate.

"Not at all, Jasnah,” he said, shaking his head. Then he paused and added, “The kissing was very pleasant, I must admit. But there is more here, Jasnah, much more.”

 He met her eyes, and there was a depth to him he had rarely allowed her to see there. Knowledge, and history, and life and all of it focusing entirely upon her and this moment. It was almost overwhelming. 

She nodded slowly, running her thumb absently back and forth on the top of his hand, “It has been some time since I have connected with someone the way I have with you these past months,” she confessed quietly. 

Despite the fact that she had kissed him mere minutes before, despite admitting she had spoken with Ivory about him, despite the fact she’d all but told him that she wished to embark on a relationship with him...That revelation made her feel suddenly vulnerable. Almost to the point that she instinctively withdrew, before he saw, before he could use it as a weak point to hurt her. 

But something in him held her there. Like a Windrunner balanced on a surge, suspended above a chasm, unable to fall, to retreat to the ground where it was safe, and familiar, while the thrill of the flight kept them airborne, free, unwillingly to remember what life had felt like before this intensity, this rush of feeling and joy.

Wit nodded to her, squeezing her hand again, stopping her from falling, as she had so many times before, “I feel the same way,” he admitted, “You are a truly extraordinary woman, Jasnah Kholin,” he breathed, huffing a soft laugh and shaking his head. “And I would be lying if I tried to claim that I had seen this coming. I doubt even Cultivation-” he broke off, shaking his head. 

Taking a breath he composed himself, and met her eyes once more, tenderly cupping her cheek in his hand. She allowed him, once again feeling as though something in his touch was electrified, as though something sparked between them at the merest brush of his skin against hers. 

“You took me utterly by surprise, Jasnah,” he said, his voice now soft and sincere, “I knew you were a woman of uncommon beauty, of unsurpassing intelligence, and wit, even before I joined your court,” he added, seemingly unable to stop himself. Then he sobered, his voice gentler, more serious, “But I could never have predicted the effect that you would have on me. How stimulating your companionship could be, how addictive spending time with you could become.” 

She nodded, barely conscious of the gesture, then she cleared her throat and said, “Is this your long winded, Wit way of telling me that you want to be in a relationship with me as well?” 

Wit laughed at that, but it was a fond laugh, not meant to mock or hurt. He stroked his fingers through her hair and said, “Would it be more direct and obvious if I just kissed you again?” he asked. 

“I certainly don’t think it could hurt,” she replied flatly, even as something in her chest fluttered in excitement at the prospect. 

He did just that, but broke away before she was ready for it to end and said, “Jasnah Kholin.” She didn’t have a chance to reply before he was kissing her again. “I am telling you now,” Another kiss. “In no uncertain terms whatsoever,” He kissed her once more. “That I absolutely,” Another kiss. “Without a doubt,” She was smiling now. “Or a shred of hesitation,” he kissed her once more. “That I, your Wit,” he leaned in for another kiss but met only her finger, pressed against his lips and blocking him. 

He raised his eyes to meet hers without drawing back from and said, the words mangled by the press of her finger against him, “Am asking you if you would-” 

“Wit,” she groaned, shaking her head, even if she was still smiling at his antics. 

He straightened up, also grinning, and said, “I want to be in a relationship with you, Jasnah. A romantic relationship. With you as my partner. If that is something you think would please you?” 

In answer, to be quite sure he understood her completely, she kissed him again. 

***

‘  i’ve never been completely satisfied.  i most likely will still be unsatisfied long after my death.  ’

light and dark starters . accepting

One thing Melissa had learned during the years was how people affected the environment around you. The Don had been one of the first to exercise that sort of power – at one time, particularly when she was still fresh from Sector 5, he had been known to turn any room into something much more intimidating and dangerous than it really was.

With time, she understood that was no supernatural gift – it was a skill, and it could be learned. And that was the reason behind her queenly fashion and poise, the luxurious wardrobe and the jewelry collection – to be seen (and felt) by others as more powerful, admirable and alluring than the woman she was outside work hours.

And yet, somehow Rufus could pull that effect off even in her small office, without any particular attire or even an audience. Whenever she was in the same room with the president, it was as if she experienced every emotion with more acuity – a sensation akin to have one own’s life at risk. And maybe it was all owed to the way he had been brought up, as someone who had always surrounded by money, power and ambition; or perhaps it was the direct effect of everything that been uncovered so far in their joint efforts.

The more they progressed with the tiny puzzle pieces they put together from the old days of Winston at the inn, the more the self-styled queen of the bees felt they were treading unknown and dangerous territory. It had started as a shot in the dark, but with each testimony they had recovered from a dusty notebook, from each witness that they managed to track somewhere below the plate… Things became more tangible and grimmer.

How far could an obsession go? …And just how much of it could be carried through blood?

Melissa had been lost in these thoughts while Rufus perused the documents on her desk – and it wasn’t until he spoke that her eyes focused on the president, now realizing he had been staring at her, his expression locked on her features and with guarded interest.

Oh well, fitting words for a Shinra.

With a small smile, she inhaled deeply and then folded her arms over her chest, the silk sleeves of her robe making her gestures more dramatic and they really were. She picked one of the empty chairs for herself then, making herself comfortable across the president before replying.

“I would be surprised if you had claimed otherwise, Mr. President,” she quipped in a good-humored tone, despite her earlier thoughts. “I fancy myself capable of offering everything anyone could possibly want under the plate, and yet there are cravings I am unable to satisfy,” she motioned with her head towards the myriad of documents now, and sighed before resting against the back of her chair.

Well, Shiva be damned – she was in too deep now. Too late to retire and to pretend she was an innocent, pure woman. Melissa knew she was no such martyr – she was a survivor.

“Care to compare notes with me? If I’m right… Perhaps it’s time for me to make another visit topside.”

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 21: Answers

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan awoke that morning feeling fresh and clear and light, so much so that it surprised him. Unnerved him. He still felt weightless, but he was no longer falling, no longer lost. He could almost still feel Aelin’s hand in his, a phantom limb. Guiding him onwards.

The day passed normally, only Aelin was banned from the kitchens so they made their trek up to the temple ruins in the early morning rather than at noon. They were both quiet for most of the day, adjusting to this new thing – this new dynamic between them. Or at least Rowan was.

He didn’t know what to do with her, didn’t know where to place her in his life.

Yes, she was temporary, and would soon be gone back into the west, but right now she felt frighteningly permanent. And though she was young, she felt old. Very old. Her experiences in life had aged her immensely, and though she was very similar in temperament to Fenrys, Rowan felt far more akin to her than he’d ever felt to the reckless male.

But she wasn’t a friend, wasn’t a sister, wasn’t a companion. She was still his student, still under his command. And he did not take that lightly, nor could he forget it. She was his responsibility until they knelt at Maeve’s feet in Doranelle, and no earlier.

And yet, last night something had passed between them. Something had shifted, and would not easily shift back.

Yet it was far from easy between them. The day Aelin didn’t provoke him at least once, would be the day the world fell apart at the seams. What was strange was Rowan was almost starting to enjoy the teasing, and how it morphed into a comfortable banter between the two of them.

Mostly, however, he felt a ravenous, aching curiosity. The girl was a mystery, one he was now determined to solve. One that he would solve. Last night, Rowan had broken down the door, and handed her his past on a silver platter. And she had taken it, had listened to his every word. Without judgement, and without reproach.

It had felt…good. To open those floodgates, to let go of his truth. To share it with her. And he had no intention of going back to the icy silence. All the questions had built up within him over the past weeks and were now resting on the tip of his tongue, begging to be asked. He just had to find the right opportunity.

That evening, Rowan ate in the kitchens with everyone else, then retired to his rooms early to begin repairing the damage done to his tattoos. He used a mirror to ink in the mangled sections on his face, but soon realized it would be impossible for him to fix the marks on his right arm without help.

Rowan sighed deeply, and went to go ask Aelin a favor.

···

“Tell me about how you learned to tattoo.”

“No.” An automatic response.

Aelin looked up, her eyes narrowed. “If you don’t answer my questions, I might very well make a mistake, and…” She lowered the tattooing needle closer to his arm for emphasis.

Rowan almost laughed. As it was, he let out a huff of air through his nose and his lips tightened, preventing a smile.

He was sitting on his worktable, facing away from the idly burning fire and towards the closed door. Aelin was sitting in the rickety wooden chair and hunched over his wrist, baring the tattoo needle with a wicked glint in her eyes, her neck arched towards him, her golden hair falling over her shoulders and masking the beautiful curve where her neck met her torso –

“Did you learn from someone? Master and apprentice and all that?” Aelin’s question jerked Rowan from his thoughts.

“Yes, master and apprentice and all that,” Rowan answered, silently cursing himself. “In the war camps, we had a commander who used to tattoo the number of enemies he’d killed on his flesh – sometimes he’d write the whole story of a battle. All the young soldiers were enamored of it, and I convinced him to teach me.”

“With that legendary charm of yours, I suppose.” This time, he couldn’t completely hold in the smile curving his lips. He cursed inwardly again, and mentally shook himself.

“Just fill in the spots where I – ” Rowan hissed in pain as Aelin took the needle and punched another mark into the thin skin on his wrist. “Good. That’s the right depth.”

Rowan couldn’t help but be impressed. Before they’d begun, he’d instructed her on how to properly use the tools, and she’d taken to the lessons quickly, her skill with blades translating fairly well into the subtle dexterity necessary to make the delicate markings. Usually he asked Gavriel to assist him, and it’d become a regular ritual in their easy friendship. Once, he’d asked Fenrys, and then immediately regretted it. The male had no patience for the fine, slow work.

Aelin made several more marks, her hands steady, while Rowan focused on locking his jaw and evening his breaths.

“Tell me about your family.” Another casual question.

“Tell me about yours and I’ll tell you about mine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Fine.” Her hard voice revealed nothing. “Are your parents alive?”

Rowan shook his head. “My parents were very old when they conceived me. I was their only child in the millennia they’d been mated. They faded into the Afterworld before I reached my second decade.”

Aelin was quiet, so Rowan paused for a moment, deliberating. There was so much he wanted to ask her – about the years he knew nothing of, about her family, her friends, about whoever had died and left her to cross the ocean alone, desperate enough to bargain with a Fae queen. But he knew he had to ease into it.

“You had no siblings.” The statement was flat, the question implied. And even though Rowan had thought it innocuous enough, Aelin still hesitated, her embers curling around her as she steeled herself.

“My mother, thanks to her Fae heritage, had a difficult time with the pregnancy. She stopped breathing during labor. They said it was my father’s will that kept her tethered to this world. I don’t know if she even could have conceived again after that. So, no siblings. But – ” A pause, and a deep breath. “But I had a cousin. He was five years older than me, and we fought and loved each other like siblings.” Her voice was hollow and cold. Rowan searched, trying to remember, but the name slipped his mind. Her cousin…

“I don’t know what happened, but they started saying his name – as a skilled general in the king’s army.” And then it clicked. Aedion, Aedion Ashryver. The name he had heard her whisper in her sleep that night they camped in the wilderness together, the male she had apologized to in her dreams. The Wolf of the North, and general to the King of Adarlan.

Rowan didn’t know much about him, only the scant rumors that had made their way across the sea. Before the fall of Terrasen, not much was said about the boy – especially when so much attention was laid on his much more powerful cousin – but Rowan could remember hearing of vague machinations to marry Aelin and Aedion, strengthening Terrasen’s ties to the Ashryvers and Wendlyn, and therefore to Doranelle.

After its fall, Rowan had heard nothing at all until Aedion swore fealty to Adarlan and was placed in charge of Terrasen, only now under the thumb of the evil king. He had become Adarlan’s whore, and a menace to his own people. But still, he had survived. A feat in itself.

Aelin’s voice was quiet as she admitted, “I think facing my cousin after everything would be the worst of it – worse than facing the king.”

Understanding twisted in Rowan. She had left Aedion to deal with everything completely alone – with the fall of their kingdom and the slaughter of their family, with the murder and enslavement of their people, with the shame of having to kneel to the southern king. Aelin’s hands trembled, shame and hatred dousing her golden flames.

So Rowan gave her all he could – the calming meditation that came with the repetitive action of using the tattoo needle. “Keep working,” Rowan said, jerking his head towards the tools currently sitting in her lap.

After a few more taps of the mallet, Rowan chanced another question. “Do you think your cousin would kill you or help you? An army like his could change the tide of any war.”

Aelin’s lips pursed. “I don’t know what he would think of me, or where his loyalties lie. And I’d rather not know. Ever.”

Rowan kept silent, waiting for Aelin decide to continue the conversation. He knew what it was to be unable to talk, and though his curiosity burned, he didn’t want to push her into giving anything she didn’t want to give him.

But after only a few moments of silence, she offered up another question. “Do you have cousins?”

“Too many. Mora’s line was always the most widespread, and my meddlesome, gossiping cousins make my visits to Doranelle … irksome.” Aelin gave him a small smile, and though it didn’t touch her eyes it urged him onwards. “You’d probably get along with my cousins. Especially with the snooping.”

Aelin squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt. “You’re one to talk, Prince. I’ve never been asked so many questions in my life.”

The light teasing had him baring his teeth in response, though the pressure of her hand was a surprisingly welcome warmth. Rowan stiffened, forcing those thoughts back, and glanced meaningfully at his bleeding wrist. “Hurry up, Princess. I want to go to bed at some point before dawn.”

But instead, Aelin used her free hand to make a particularly vulgar gesture. Before she could drive the point home with some quip or insult, Rowan caught her hand with his own, baring his teeth again. “That is not very queenly.”

“Then it’s good I’m not a queen, isn’t it?” She tried to keep the words light, but they burned with the weight of her self-hatred. And Rowan could no longer hold in his curiosity.

“You have sworn to free your friend’s kingdom and save the world – but will not even consider your own lands. What scares you about seizing your birthright? The king? Facing what remains of your court?”

Their faces were now inches from each other, close enough that he could see the flecks of brown hidden in the indistinct border between her turquoise pupils and their golden core, their hands still clasped together between their chests. “Give me one good reason why you won’t take back your throne. One good reason, and I’ll keep my mouth shut about it.”

Aelin paused, seeming to weigh the intentness of his gaze against her desire to keep her answers locked up deep in her chest. Then she finally said, “Because if I free Eyllwe and destroy the king as Celaena, I can go anywhere after that. The crown … my crown is just another set of shackles.”

He leaned back slightly, the information clicking into place. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, another set of shackles?” Rowan loosened his grip on her hand to reveal the two thin bands of silver that encircled her wrists – the marks of heavy chains, embedded in her bones.

Aelin yanked her hands out of his grip. “Nothing,” she said. “Arobynn, my master, liked to use them for training every now and then.”

Rowan’s mouth tightened. Something was off in her scent, and it almost smelled like the anxiety that came with a lie. Not that Rowan blamed her if she was keeping anything back from him – she didn’t own him anything.

Aelin went back to her work, and Rowan kept his body very still through the sting of the tattoo needle. But his mind was far away from the small, damp room. It was across the sea, in the capital of Adarlan and deep in the bowels of the Assassin’s Keep, where he could see a small golden figure curled up in the dark, her limbs held in chains. A perfect reflection of the cage she still labored within, the mental shackles containing her power. But in this image, Aelin had a child’s face.

Fury rippled through him, and the question leaped to his lips. “Why did you stay with Arobynn?”

A pause. “I knew I wanted two things: First, to disappear from the world and from my enemies, but … ah.” Aelin avoided his gaze. “I wanted to hide from myself, mostly. I convinced myself I should disappear, because the second thing I wanted, even then, was to be able to someday…hurt people the way I had been hurt. And it turned out that I was very, very good at it.”

That quick flash of fury gave way to a much deeper, writhing rage as the image of that chained girl shifted, her face becoming twisted with a suffering and anger and violence that no child should be faced with. There was much about the princess that eluded him, but this didn’t. He too had been put in chains, he too had a master.

But he had chosen his chains, had walked into this slavery. She had been forced into it, and the difference there was massive. Infuriatingly so. The difference between jumping off the ledge, and being pushed.

Aelin continued. “If he had tossed me away, I would either have died or wound up with the rebels. If I had grown up with them, I probably would have been found by the king and slaughtered. Or I would have grown up so hateful that I would have been killing Adarlanian soldiers from a young age.”

Rowan’s brows rose at all the questions she was purposefully leaving unanswered, but Aelin only clicked her tongue, saying, “You thought I was just going to spread my whole history at your feet the moment I met you? I’m sure you have even more stories than I do, so stop looking so surprised. Maybe we should just go back to beating each other into a pulp.”

“Oh, not a chance, Princess. You can tell me what you want, when you want, but there’s no going back now.”

She lifted the needle and mallet once more, another tease on her lips. “I’m sure your other friends just adore having you around.”

Rowan grabbed her by the chin, lifting her face to look up at him. “First thing,” he breathed, “We’re not friends. I’m still training you, and that means you’re still under my command.”

A thin shield, one Rowan could only hope would stay intact under the weight of Aelin’s relentless teasing. If she started making any other kind of advance, he had no idea what he would do. Rowan didn’t know what Aelin wanted with him, but he did know that he wanted her. And that he couldn’t ever have her. For many, many reasons.

So he also said, “Second – whatever we are, whatever this is? I’m still figuring it out, too. So if I’m going to give you the space you deserve to sort yourself out, then you can damn well give it to me.”

She studied him for a moment, their breath mingling.

“Deal,” she said.

···

The next few weeks passed more quickly and easily than any Rowan could remember in the past century. He still woke up almost every morning gasping for air, still occasionally heard Lyria’s faint screams in his head, and felt the cold numbness dragging at the corners of his mind. But time no longer pressed in on him like bags of sand, and passing through each day no longer felt like fording through river rapids.

Emrys grudgingly let Aelin return to the kitchens the next day, and she spent each morning and evening playing scullery maid. Rowan had decided to continue the pattern, even if he now knew that the work wouldn’t teach her the lessons he’d originally intended it too.

Aelin didn’t need to be taught the value of hard work, didn’t need her arrogance curbed by manual labor. She already understood these things. But she seemed to enjoy her time working with Emrys and Luca, so Rowan had no intention on depriving her of meaningful, productive work in which she found purpose and camaraderie. Particularly as it freed up his mornings to continue his pursuit of the dark creature.

To both his and Malakai’s relief, no more dead demi-Fae appeared. And though each morning Rowan flew into the wild, carrying out systematic searches for the creature, he found nothing at all. As usual.

By now, the flights were almost solely out of habit, or perhaps some sense of obligation. Though he remained vigilant, Rowan didn’t truly expect to discover anything on these trips, and he ended up spending most of the time thinking about the princess.

Not that he really wanted to be doing that either.

But he couldn’t help it, she was an enigma. The more he tried to unravel her, the more tangled up she seemed to be. And she was very adept at dodging his questions; much of the time they spent together, it was he who was speaking, telling her his many stories, his long history.

Now that he had finally let go of some of his truth, the rest of it followed suit, flowing out of him more painlessly than he would have ever thought possible. But it was more than that – Rowan wanted to tell her. Wanted her to know him, just as he wanted to know her.

Rowan told Aelin about his various campaigns in the south and east of Doranelle, the wars fought and won, the courts that rose and fell with the tide, the Fae he’d led through battle and who died at his hand and under his command. Told of sieges in bloody sand that lasted for years, of the destruction of towns and villages, the massacre of evil and good men alike, of spying, lying, cheating, and killing.

And she listened to it all, unwittingly giving him the greatest gift she could give.

Fenrys, Connall, Lorcan, Vaughan and Gavriel were frequent visitors in his tales, though it was rare that all of them were ever in one place. Aelin didn’t ask many questions about them, and Rowan only rarely provided names or details. There were stories that weren’t his to tell, truths that didn’t belong to him.

As he talked, Aelin worked with her magic, painstakingly drawing out small tendrils of flame and trying not to burn up the mountainside. She only sometimes failed. The small things were still the hardest, and Rowan had her practicing lighting candles, putting out hearth fires, weaving ribbons of flame through her fingers. Slowly, she improved.

A week or so after the incident beneath Bald Mountain, Namonora finally sent notice to the fortress.

Prince Whitethorn –

We have completed our examination of the body, though I would prefer to explain our conclusions in person. And also, I think there is someone here you would benefit from meeting.

Please come at your earliest convenience.

– Namonora, Head Healer

Western Compound, Doranelle

So the next morning, Rowan flew out to meet with Namonora at the Healer’s compound.

This time, he found her sitting at a worn desk in a small room deep in the stone castle, pouring over a piece of paper, her brow furrowed. Rowan greeted the old female respectfully, his head slightly bowed. Namonora jerked from her reverie, then greeted him in return.

“As you asked, so I have come.” Rowan said.

“Indeed you have, Prince Whitethorn.”

“And?”

“And there is no doubt that the demi-Fae are being murdered. None whatsoever.”

Rowan’s lips pursed, and he nodded, gesturing for the old healer to continue.

“The body arrived approximately two weeks ago. Both I, and two other experienced healers conducted the examination. We couldn’t determine an exact time of death, due to the strange nature of the decay, and the damage done to the body in transport. The demi-Fae could have died as few as two or three days before he was discovered, or as much as three weeks.”

“Is that normal? To have such a wide gap?” Rowan interrupted.

“Far from it. Normally, we can determine the age of any corpse by the degree to which various species of insect have matured on the body, in combination with how physically decomposed it is. But this body has not decomposed naturally, and has been avoided by all kinds of scavengers – including insects.”

“Do you know of anything that could cause such a thing?”

Namonora clenched her teeth, and shook her head jerkily, frowning. “No. I have never heard of bodies being avoided by insects – such a thing is completely unnatural. A disruption of the biological cycle, the order of things. It all but confirms that whatever killed the demi-Fae is just as unnatural.”

“You mean, the creature…marked them, somehow?”

“Perhaps, I don’t know.” Namonora shook her head again, this time in discomfort. “It could be the scent that keeps them at bay, but we couldn’t prove such a thing. It could also be as simple as the fact that the corpse was so withered and empty of sustenance that scavengers were deterred from feeding.”

“What about a cause of death?” Rowan was intent, his eyes narrowed.

Namonora pursed her lips. “Another mystery. You were right, there were no marks on the body, nor could we find any internal damage to any organs, vital or otherwise. The lungs, heart, liver, intestines, brain – all intact.”

“So death was magical.” Rowan asserted.

“Yes.” Namonora sighed. “I can’t think of any other reasonable explanation, though I don’t know of any power that could inflict this kind of damage.”

“It has to be something new.”

Namonora pursed her lips. “One of the first lessons you get taught as a healer, is that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. I do not like asserting something so outlandish, no matter how it stares us in the face. It was why it took me so long to summon you. I kept re-examining our notes, turning the facts over and over in my mind. I even consulted with my former instructor, but he knew nothing that could be helpful.” The healer sighed, a huff of air out of her nose. “But once Paynor arrived, I knew I could wait no longer.”

Rowan frowned, asking a silent question.

Namonora just shook her head, standing from her chair and moving to depart. “I will let him tell his own story.”

The healer led him back through the compound, and towards the wing of the camp where long-term patients stayed while being treated for non-life threatening injuries. Namonora knocked on an obscure dark wooden door, her expression expectant. A soft, “Come in,” could be heard from within, and she entered, revealing a small, dry room with a well-made bed and a tall, lean man sitting upright, though his left leg was encased in plaster.

“Head Healer,” the man greeted her, nodding respectfully. He was completely human, his scent bland and uninteresting – a mixture of wool and hay and oats. His clothing was simple, but clearly marked him as a soldier from Wendlyn, possibly naval.

“Paynor.” Namonora inclined her head in return, her face tight, “This is Prince Rowan Whitethorn.”

Rowan nodded his greeting, while the man’s scent filled up with that all-too-familiar fear, his eyes widening, muscles stiffening. Rowan shifted slightly. It had been a while since someone had reacted to his presence so violently, and it discomforted him.

The soldiers of Mistward had no love for him, but they no longer flinched whenever he entered a room. Rowan could even eat in the kitchens now without attracting too much undue attention. And spending so much time with Aelin, who had not feared him even once since that first encounter, was really shifting his expectations for how others reacted to his presence, and not helpfully.

Namonora’s voice cut through the tension rapidly filling the small space. “The Prince is investigating a series of deaths, and I think your story is relevant to his search.”

The soldier looked confused, but with a gesture of encouragement from Namonora, he began to speak. “Until very recently, I was a soldier serving in Wendlyn, in the King’s navy, beneath Prince Galan Ashryver.” The young soldier shifted in his seat on the bed, settling in to tell his tale.

“The first couple of years were simple, not easy, but expected, you know? I fought when I was told, did whatever work was asked of me, kept silent when I was told to. But then a few months ago, we got a strange assignment. A foray into enemy territory, but not to strike – to spy.” At this, the soldier’s eyes flicked uncomfortably over to Rowan’s and then back again.

“It was strictly against the King’s directive, but the orders came straight from the lips of Prince Galan, and my commander wasn’t one to question princes.”

“So you went.” Rowan said, his face inscrutable.

“So we went.” Paynor agreed dispiritedly. “Galan wanted us to make a sweep of Adarlan’s coast, to scout the locations and dispersal of enemy ships, and to determine whether the bastard king was really intending on invading us anytime soon. We were to disguise ourselves as merchants, but instructed to keep our distance from foreign ships as much as possible.”

Paynor signed. “It worked at first. We shot across the sea, heading for the southern half of the western continent, around Fenharrow. After about a month, we reached land, and began to skirt our way up the coast. We knew we would have a sketchy bit of sailing around the Dead Islands, but we had no idea what we were in for. A storm caught us at exactly the wrong time, and we were marooned just off the coast. Only twenty-three of us survived the sinking. But that was only the beginning of it.”

The soldier’s face darkened, and he shook his head slowly. “Now, I have to think I’d gone insane. But I would have sworn I could hear…roaring. Fell noises at night. And then people began to disappear.” The soldier shuddered. “For all I know, they were only wandering off and then succumbing to dehydration, or exposure. But with that roaring…it was hard not to think that the islands were haunted. That a creature was coming at night and killing us off – one by one.”

Paynor took a steadying breath. “I soon lost track of the days, but we had to have been stranded for nearly a week. And then, the night before we were rescued, I think I caught a glimpse of…something. A…darkness. That reeked of death. But then it was gone, and in the morning the twelve of us remaining were found by a passing vessel and taken to the nearest port, where we bartered transport onto a ship heading for Varese, and didn’t look back.”

The soldier’s voice regained some of its former strength. “Another month passed in travel, and we regained some our health. But this leg – ” Paynor gestured to the limb currently bound in plaster “ – was broken in the sinking, and it didn’t set right. So once we returned to Wendlyn, I was sent to the Fae healers, so I might recover its use. And now here I am.”

Namonora nodded, her pleasant expression doing little to disguise the anger and fear and disgust that colored her scent. “Thank you Paynor, I know that was hard for you to relive.”

The soldier nodded, his brow furrowed in anxiety and confusion. “I only hope I could be of service, ma’am. But I don’t really understand how I could much help.”

Namonora only nodded once again, giving the soldier a polite farewell and turning to leave the small room. Rowan followed her back up to her small office, thoughts swirling.

“So.” Rowan said, once the door was shut behind them.

“So. Last time you visited, you asked after anyone who bore a similar story to yours. So once I heard Paynor’s, I sent for you.”

“He is not exactly a trustworthy source – he admitted himself that he must have been going mad.”

“Quite to the contrary. Before you came last time, we had already treated another from Paynor’s company and discharged her. There is another to corroborate his story, who also spoke of a strange darkness stirring in the Dead Islands.”

“That does not mean it has come here.”

“No, it does not. But you must be able to see the similarities between them.”

Rowan sighed. “Paynor did not lie, but I am loath to take such vague assertions at face value. As you said with healing, so is true with most things: the easiest explanation is usually the correct one. And a connection between two events, thousands of miles apart and separated by an ocean, is far from the easiest explanation.”

Namonora’s jaw tightened, and she sighed as well. “Still. I thought you should hear his story.”

Rowan nodded, and thanked her.

Namonora shifted in her seat, her eyes once again finding his. “And as for your other problem, how has that been going?”

Rowan blinked. “She has progressed well since we last spoke.”

“And is Aelin Galathynius’ mental block gone?”

Rowan couldn’t contain a flinch of surprise.

Namonora gave him a small smile, her eyes warm. “I did not know until I saw her in person. I knew her mother, many years ago. A good woman, the Ashryver Princess. Her daughter seems to have inherited her strength, and her compassion.”

“So it seems.” The words were tight, even if Rowan should have anticipated this after Emrys’ revelation the previous week. Namonora had been here just as long as the old male, if not longer, and her memory was infallible. No matter her penchant for bedside tales and impractical notions.

“The Heir of Terrasen has walked a hard road. I can only hope that it has been less dark of late.” The healer’s eyes glinted.

Rowan’s mouth tightened, but before he could reply, Namonora interrupted once again. “I stand by what I said before, Prince. There is still hope. And it gladdens me that after all these years, you seem to have found it again.”

Rowan just nodded curtly, his face an icy mask as he strode from the room. It wasn’t that he was angry with the female, more that he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. No matter all that had happened, how much had changed, it didn’t mean that there was any hope for him.

Rowan had been entrusted a spark, and he would ensure its survival unto his own death – but that meant nothing for his own future. He had tied himself to Maeve, and though it had been at the lowest, most desperate point in his life, he had still done it. And it could not be undone.

Not for anything, let alone feeble hope.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rinse and Repeat

Pairing: Dimileth and Sylvelix (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)  Tags: Post-game, married fluff, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy, miscarriage, overprotective Dimitri Summary: The first time Byleth conceives a child, she miscarries. Then it happens again. And again. And again. And again. Despite these challenges, Dimitri remains the world’s most supportive husband who only wants the best for his beloved. 

Pregnancy, for Byleth, was unexpectedly difficult and her lack of a child increasingly began to weigh on her.

Byleth and Dimitri were completely blindsided by her first pregnancy, only finding out about the child after Byleth had fainted in the gardens while on a walk with a visiting Flayn. Dimitri had been completely beside himself when he’d heard the news, storming out of a meeting with some of the Dukes from the former Leicester Alliance. (Luckily, Dedue was able to smooth over the remainder of the meeting using the very detailed notes Dimitri had left behind in his haste.) He made a beeline for the infirmary, breaking three doors and a bannister in the process, only to find Byleth awake and well. She was sitting up in bed, laughing at a story Mercedes had been telling her, when Dimitri barged into the room.

“Oh Dimitri! We were wondering when you’d show up!” Mercedes greeted cheerfully.

Dimitri paid Mercedes no mind as he went directly to Byleth’s bed and knelt at her side. His face was lined with deep concern. “My beloved, are you well? I was just informed of your fainting spell in the gardens. Have you eaten today? Did you drink enough water? Was the sun too much for you?”

Byleth beamed, unworried about Dimitri’s numerous concerns. Showing her emotions was still not something that came naturally to her, but it was easy to share her feelings with Dimitri. “No, nothing of the sort, darling. We are fine,” Byleth said, taking Dimitri’s hands into hers. “Just a dizzy spell.”

“We?” Dimitri repeated, confused.

Mercedes clapped her hands together. “Yes! Congratulations on expecting your first child!”

“A child?” Dimitri repeated again, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “Our child?”

“Yes, darling, I am with child.” Byleth squeezed Dimitri’s hands. 

Dimitri raised Byleth’s hands to his lips, laying a soft kiss on the back of each hand. “You are with our child! Our heir! The product of our love! How far along are you?”

“Three moons. It would seem that the stomach flu I had last moon was not a stomach flu after all.” Byleth released one of Dimitri’s hands so that she could bury her fingers in his hair and pull him in closer.

Mercedes quietly stepped out of the room then, knowing Byleth and Dimitri needed some time to relish in their joy. Mercedes would just return later to give them instructions on how to proceed and with more information of what to expect from pregnancy. In the meantime, she closed the broken door as best she could to give Byleth and Dimitri their privacy.

~~~

A moon later, Byleth was back in the infirmary. 

Instead of tears of joy, Dimitri cried tears of sorrow as he watched Byleth curl up on the infirmary bed. Her arms wrapped around her midsection where her dead child was slowly and painfully expelling itself from her body. He could do nothing but watch and hold Byleth as she endured painful cramp after cramp for two days. He could do nothing but watch as Mercedes periodically removed cloth stained with blood clots and fetal tissue from Byleth, grimacing as he was watching Mercedes literally taking away the remnants of their baby.

Throughout her miscarriage, Byleth shed nearly no tears until the very end as a particularly painful cramp caused her to cry out and she only openly grieved her lost child for a day. 

That day, Dimitri would bury the bloody remains of their child in the garden as Byleth watched from her chair. She had lost too much blood during the miscarriage and wasn’t quite strong enough to help Dimitri yet. Later, she and Dedue did plant new flowers around the little stone that read “Baby Blaiddyd”.

~~~

As they soon discovered, becoming pregnant was not an issue. Within the next year, Byleth had conceived four more times. With each subsequent pregnancy, she had grown increasingly desperate and increasingly cautious about her actions so as to avoid the pain of her first pregnancy. But at the end of the year, after her meticulous planning and careful contemplation over her each and every action, she still had no child to show for it.

The second miscarriage had happened very early on, just three weeks into her pregnancy. Neither Byleth nor Dimitri cried over this child as they hadn’t known about this child’s presence until it was gone. Yet, Dimitri could see how the loss of another child weighed on Byleth as she spoke, ate, and trained less afterwards. But again, he could do little but hold her and love her as he promised they would try again.

The second child had no remains, but Dimitri still placed another small stone in their garden a short distance from the first. This stone read “Baby Blaiddyd #2”. Dedue and Byleth planted yet more flowers.

~~~

The third pregnancy wasn’t a miscarriage, exactly, but Mercedes was forced to remove the child to preserve Byleth’s life as it was an ectopic pregnancy. At first, Byleth and Dimitri were cautiously optimistic and saw Byleth’s lack of morning sickness as a good omen. But, in the third moon of the pregnancy, Mercedes called for both Byleth and Dimitri. Byleth didn’t shed any tears as Mercedes explained how there was no choice but to terminate the pregnancy, but there was no hiding the wateriness of Byleth’s gaze as she stared blankly at the wall behind Mercedes. Dimitri had insisted on staying in the room for the entire procedure so that Byleth would not be alone. Byleth said nothing, but her numbing grip on Dimitri’s hands told him how grateful she was for his presence.

Once again, there were no remains so Dimitri set up another small stone for “Baby Blaiddyd #3”.

Byleth didn’t help Dedue plant the flowers for this child, but she did select the seeds for Dedue to use.

~~~

The fourth pregnancy was the worst. It began with extreme morning sickness. In the early moons, Byleth lost so much weight that her already lean physique was beginning to appear emaciated. Even as her child expanded her abdomen, Byleth was losing weight alarmingly quickly. Without knowing otherwise, it would not appear as if Byleth was with child at all and this persisted well into the fifth moon. Byleth was unable to leave her room much, lacking both the energy and willpower to do so, nevermind attend to her duties as Archbishop or Queen. Fortunately, having already heard of her earlier pregnancy struggles, Seteth took on most of the Archbishop’s duties from Garreg Mach so as to lessen the burden on Byleth.

Dimitri took on as many of Byleth’s queenly duties as he could, and Ingrid filled in as a proxy for Byleth wherever and whenever her presence was required. Meanwhile, Byleth spent the majority of her fourth pregnancy on bed rest. 

The timing of the fourth pregnancy coincided with Sylvain and Felix’s visit to Fhirdiad. Officially, they were in Fhirdiad to discuss more advanced education for commoner children but Sylvain, Felix, and Dimitri all knew they were really just here to see Byleth. 

“How many rules do you think we’re breaking, entering the private bedchamber of the Holy Queen of Faerghus and the Archbishop of Seiros?” Sylvain joked, though a tightness in his eyes gave away his true concern for Byleth. 

“Well the Boar King has already broken tradition by technically marrying a commoner and keeping a shared bedchamber with his queen,” Felix smirked at Dimitri. Like Sylvain, Felix’s quips were only a cover for his genuine concern.

“I wish I could share my bedchamber,” Sylvain mused. “I didn’t think Dimitri had it in him! Too bad my lover lives all the way in Fraldarius, though. Must be great to wake up to your lover every morning.” Sylvain wriggled his eyebrows suggestively at Felix. 

“Ugh. You crass beast,” Felix responded by smacking the back of Sylvain’s head just hard enough to make his point. “If you thought with your big head instead of your little head for once you would know exactly why I can’t just move to Gautier.”

“Hey! You didn’t think it was that little last night!”

Albeit strained, Dimitri still smiled as he watched his childhood friends, former classmates, and invaluable wartime allies squabble beside him. “I see your relationship is as strong as ever,” Dimitri quipped dryly.

“Shut up,” Felix muttered, though his words were muffled by Sylvain’s shoulder. 

Sylvain had pulled Felix into a tight embrace, further mussing up his hair. “Don’t mind Feli-Feli,” Sylvain cooed as he half dragged Felix down the hall, “He just missed his morning sugar. You know, me,” Sylvain clarified, as though he had not been obvious enough. Dimitri laughed as Sylvain emphasized his point with a wink.

Felix swore as Sylvain placed a very loud and very wet kiss on his forehead, though Felix made no move to wipe his face afterwards.

For Dimitri, Sylvain and Felix’s banter was a welcome distraction from the seriousness of Byleth’s predicament. As soon as Dimitri opened the door to his bedchamber, Sylvain and Felix both froze at how weak Byleth appeared. Her skin was pallid and, other than her protruding midsection, she was little more than skin and bones. 

“Hello, Beloved,” Dimitri said with a gentle smile, having gone immediately to sit at the foot of their shared bed. He gathered Byleth’s feet in his lap and began to massage them. “Sylvain and Felix are here.”

“How lovely,” Byleth smiled weakly. She pushed herself up from the bed as best she could so she could greet Sylvain and Felix. Dimitri reached over to support her back as she sat up. “Hello Sylvain, Felix, “Byleth greet softly. “It is good to see you both. I apologize for the circumstances. This really isn’t a very proper setting for a Queen of Faerghus to be entertaining guests now, is it?” She chuckled self-deprecatingly. 

“No,” Felix recovered first and spoke quickly before Sylvain could stuff his foot in his mouth. “But anything that would drive those old nobles who refuse to accept common sense is usually the right thing to do.”

Byleth laughed in response and Dimitri brightened up at finally seeing his wife so happy.

Upon reaching the sixth moon of her fourth pregnancy, Dimitri and Byleth finally began discussing names.

“If we have a boy, I think it would be nice to name him after Rodrigue,” Dimitri said pensively. He was reclined in bed, back against the headboard, while Byleth rested between his legs. Her back pressed up against Dimitri’s chest and he gently massaged her shoulders, loosening her muscles to help her relax. “I did not ever truly thank him for all he did for me,” Dimitri continued, “For acting as a surrogate father, for his loyalty, and I took advantage of his dedication until he died for me. There is much I am indebted to him for, and it is a debt I will never be able to repay. He helped pull me away from the ghosts of my past and I wish to honour him.”

Byleth agreed, “That is a lovely thing to do. But I would like to honour Dedue as well. Is Rodrigue Molinaro an agreeable name to you, Dimitri?”

“Rodrigue Molinaro Blaiddyd,” Dimitri murmured appreciatively. His hands stopped massaging Byleth’s shoulders, instead running down her arms until they intertwined with her hands. He reached around, resting both his and Byleth’s hands on her bump. “Rodrigue Molinaro Blaiddyd,” Dimitri said again, “I love it. It will be an excellent name for a son. But what of a daughter?”

“Hmm,” Byleth hummed. She tilted her head back so that it was resting against Dimitri’s shoulder. “I have no preferences. Though I would like to honour Mercedes for all she’s done for us, especially in recent moons.”

“I quite like the name Leanna. My father once told me old fairy tales of Faerghus when I was young and I quite liked the character Leanna. She was the sneaky counterpart in the adventures of Loog. Would Leanna Mercedes Blaiddyd be agreeable to you, my beloved?” With their hands still connected, Dimitri gently stroked Byleth’s belly. He grinned when he felt the baby kick in response to his ministrations.

Byleth shifted her body and turned slightly so that Dimitri could see the smile on her face. “Very much so, my King.” She tilted her head up and laid a kiss against Dimitri’s jawline. “Very much so.”

But, just mere days after Felix and Sylvain’s visit, mere days after they had chosen a name for their child, Byleth went into premature labour. 

Having wanted to account for any possible event, Mercedes had sent for Manuela and even Rhea herself as soon as Byleth’s pregnancy had been confirmed. Yet, even with all their preparation and Byleth’s care, there was nothing to be done for the child.

Once again, Dimitri was adamant that he remain at Byleth’s side. He held her hand all throughout the thirteen hours of labour. He raised a glass of water to her lips periodically, wiped her face and her tears with a damp cloth, held Byleth’s nightgown out of the way when Mercedes or Manuela or Rhea so requested, and he murmured reassuring words but there was nothing he could do as he watched his wife give birth to a dead daughter after thirteen hours of pain and suffering.

Byleth was bedridden for another two weeks after the delivery as she had hemorrhaged during labour and Mercedes wanted to be overly cautious. As such, she wasn’t able to join Dimitri when he buried their stillborn daughter and set up the little stone engraved with “Leanna Mercedes Blaiddyd”. 

Nor did she accompany Dedue in planting flowers for her dead daughter. This time, too deep in her own grief, Byleth did not even select the flowers and she could not bring herself to visit her dead daughter’s grave.

She remained in bed, trapped in the very room where she had lost her daughter. Leanna Mercedes Blaiddyd was not Byleth’s first failed pregnancy, but Leanna Mercedes Blaiddyd was the first of her dead children whom Byleth shed tears for. Dimitri shared Byleth’s grief but there was nothing he could do.

(And Byleth knew better than to use the divine pulse when it wouldn’t erase the hurt she was feeling from losing her daughter, and when she knew that her daughter could just die again and she did not have the strength to feel her child die inside her a second time.)

~~~

The fifth pregnancy was comparatively uneventful. Byleth conceived her fifth child out of a growing desperation to carry a child to term despite Mercedes’ and Dimitri’s concerns over Byleth’s declining health. Yet, Byleth still conceived. Not entirely unsurprisingly, Byleth then miscarried the baby two moons later. 

Still melancholic from the stillborn Leanna several moons earlier, Byleth was fairly numb to her most recent miscarriage. However, her succession of failed pregnancies was beginning to give rise to malicious rumours.

Byleth first learned of such rumours when she overheard the conversation between a maid and a serving boy around the corner.

“Really,” the serving boy said snottily, “his majesty should get himself a new wife by now. It’s not like he’d be throwing the Queen to the wolves. She’s the Archbishop of Seiros, for the Goddess’ sake. She doesn’t need to also be the queen. Shouldn’t she be at Garreg Mach anyway? Especially since she’s useless at providing heirs.”

“I hate that his majesty needs to suffer with such a useless wife. What good at noblewomen other than having children? It’s not like they know how to work,” the maid said.

A second maid piped up then. “But Her Grace isn’t a noble. She was a mercenary. I don’t think she should get to be the Queen and Archbishop. The Goddess deserves an Archbishop who is truly devoted to her.”

“At the very least,” the first servant boy spoke again, “his majesty should take a mistress who can actually provide an heir.”

Stung, Byleth didn’t hear what was said afterwards. She headed straight for Dimitri’s office, accidentally alerting the maids and servant boy to her presence. Though the look on their faces at having been caught gossiping by the Queen of Faerghus and Archbishop of Seiros herself was priceless, Byleth did not get the opportunity to enjoy it. 

Before Dimitri’s office door, Byleth took a deep breath. Steadying her nerves, she knocked.

“Come in!” called Dimitri’s voice through the heavy oak door. 

Seeing Byleth enter the room, Dimitri immediately brightened. He stood from his desk, abandoning his mining reports, to greet Byleth. 

His face fell immediately after seeing Byleth’s expression, his joy replaced by concern. “My beloved, what is wrong? Are you unwell?”

“Dimitri,” Byleth’s voice broke as she stumbled in Dimitri’s arms. Despite her emotional turmoil, the weight of Dimitri’s thick fur cloak wrapping around her was as calming as ever. 

With her face buried in Dimitri’s cloak, Byleth couldn’t see Dedue. But, she heard Dedue say “I will take my leave, your majesty. I shall be in the garden.”

Although she didn’t hear Dimitri’s response, Byleth let out a sob at the mention of the garden. She had yet to visit her last two children and couldn’t bring herself to face her failure. 

Once the door had closed behind Dedue, Dimitri gently guided Byleth towards the couch. The fire had been lit by Dedue earlier so the sparks crackled in the background as Byleth fought to regain control over herself. Dimitri said nothing. He simply held her in his arms and gave her a reassuring smile as he waited for Byleth to speak first.

“I…” Byleth spoke so softly that it was almost a whisper. “I love you, Dimitri.”

“And I love you too, Byleth,” Dimitri responded without hesitation. Byleth didn’t immediately continue, but Dimitri patiently waited for her to continue.

“I love you,” Byleth said again, voice stronger now, “but I know I am not the best queen for you.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows rose in shock. “Why would you say that, my love?”

“I…” Byleth dropped her gaze as her eyes began to fill with tears. “I failed to give you an heir. But you need an heir. And I would understand if you wanted an annulment or if you wished to take a mistress so you could have an heir.”

“Byleth, what brought this on?” Dimitri knew Byleth’s question and current vulnerability was not due to a lack of love on her part, but was a consequence of her string of consecutive miscarriages in such close succession. Despite her best attempts to appear otherwise, Dimitri knew that the loss of each subsequent child was taking its toll on Byleth both physically and emotionally. But, Dimitri also knew that Byleth would not consider such extreme measures, even in such a vulnerable state, without someone else having said something. 

Byleth sniffed, burrowing herself even deeper in Dimitri’s cloak. “I overheard some of the servants and maids speaking. They think I am a failure as a queen. Nearly three years of marriage but still no heir.”

“Byleth…” Dimitri reached over to tilt Byleth’s face so she was looking at him. “I don’t care about an heir.” He could see the mixture of uncertainty and disbelief spelled out on Byleth’s face so he continued, “Byleth, you are my love, my beloved queen, and I need you to listen carefully, alright? For you, I speak nothing but my honest truth. Will you listen to me? Believe me?”

“But…” Byleth’s protest drifted off when she saw the look Dimitri was giving her. Instead, she nodded. 

“My love, you know that I would do almost anything for Faerghus -- for my people.” Dimitri paused to gently cup Byleth’s face in both his bare hands. “But there is no question that you will always come first. Byleth, there would be no Kingdom of Faerghus without you by my side. My Queen, I have lost so much already. My father, stepmother, Glenn, Rodrigue, and even Dedue for those few long years. You saved me from myself then, saved me from my ghosts, and I am forever in your debt for that. But Byleth, “Dimitri’s eyes began to water, “I do not believe I would be able to ever recover from losing you. Without you, I fear I would lose myself to my ghosts permanently. I would lose myself to someplace so far that I would truly be beyond saving.

“I would love to have a house full of children. Children with my hair and your eyes, children with my nose and your strength, all running around the palace causing trouble for their tutors and maids and wreaking havoc upon the training grounds. But I would never, could never, choose them over you. I want no child, unless it is yours, and I would not protest if you wanted to give up on having children. My beloved, it is hard enough for me to watch you suffer with each child and I cannot imagine how much more difficult it must be for you to feel each child dying inside you.

“In the end, no matter how much I wish for children of my own, I wish to have you by my side for as long as I can. It is selfish of me, but I will choose you first. Byleth, I do not know what I would do if you were to pass while giving birth to my child but I know that I will never stop blaming myself for causing your death. Watching you destroy your health for me, for the hope of a child, I cannot bear to watch it for much longer.” Dimitri paused, tears leaking from his eyes. With her own tear tracks mirrored on her face, Byleth reached out and wiped Dimitri’s tears from his cheeks. 

Dimitri took a deep breath before continuing. “I want a child but I need you, Byleth. Please, I will give you all the children I possibly can if that is what you so desire. But please stop pushing yourself for me. We are young and healthy, and this is peacetime. Please, my love, I will beg of you to recover your health fully first. Please, do not join the ranks of the ghosts of those whom I failed. I love you, with or without a child, and I want nothing more than to see you happy and healthy once more.

“You are not a failure as queen.” Dimitri said, wiping Byleth’s tears from her cheeks. “You are a wonderful queen and your job is not solely to provide an heir. You have done much in rebuilding Fodlan and renegotiating treaties. None of the peace and wealth Fodlan enjoys today would be here without you. You have reinspired faith in the Church, you are a wonderful teacher and exemplary leader, and the best wife and life partner I could have asked for. You are a wonderful Queen and Archbishop for the people of Fodlan and those who cannot recognize that are fools.”

~~~

Byleth didn’t conceive again for another year. By no means was her sixth pregnancy easy, but it was nothing compared to the nightmare that was her fourth. She suffering morning sickness and fainting spells her first trimester which gave way to odd food cravings in her second trimester, all of which finally gave way to swollen feet and a chronic ache in her neck and back for the last months of her pregnancy. 

But, Byleth carried this child to term and all of Fodlan was shivering with anticipation for the latest news from the Royal Palace.

~~~

“To the good people of Faerghus and of all Fodlan,” Dedue and Ingrid stood on the palace balcony that was used for important announcements. “On behalf of his majesty, King Dimitri, and her grace, Queen and Archbishop Byleth, I would like to announce this joyous occasion of the birth of the Crown Prince, his highness Prince Rodrigue Molinaro Blaiddyd, first in line to the throne of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.” 

Ingrid continued, “The Goddess has blessed us for both mother and son are alive and in good health. We welcome all to join the Lady Mercedes von Martritz in the Royal Garden this evening in prayer for the continued good health of mother and son, as well as his majesty King Dimitri.”

~~~

Later, when baby Rodrigue finally settled for a nap, Byleth looked at Dimitri who was sprawled out next to her. Despite her clear exhaustion, Byleth was still relishing in the glow that only a new mother has. Dried tear tracks still stained her cheeks. They were remnants of tears of both pain and joy.

“Hey,” Byleth said softly so as to catch the attention of Dimitri without waking her newborn son, “we did pretty good, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Dimitri smiled, cradling baby Rodrigue’s tiny foot between his fingers. He pushed himself up to support his weight on his elbows and kissed baby Rodrigue’s nose before leaning up to place a chaste kiss on Byleth’s lips. 

“You did perfect.”

Dante x Lady Week 2020 prompts

Compiled these prompts together with a singular concept in mind because THIS 👏 IS 👏 ALL 👏 I 👏 EVER 👏 WANT 👏 FROM 👏 MY 👏 OTP.

 These are written as snippets of the prompts, some new and some as continuations with a rather common theme. They’re all not suppose to be interconnect and act as one-shots of their own except for two. I didn’t have much time during the week to write every idea down but damn was I thriving thinking about these concepts and AUs. Please let me know which ones are your favorite!

Royalty:

Lady chokes back her tears when she finally sees the bluest eyes stare right back at her. A second ago, they were closed and she honestly believed they would never open again. If they did, they would have been a different color, not something this beautiful.

“The curse is finally broken,” he croaks from the weight of her body on top of his, gently moving her and the tears with his hands. His human hands. Despite finally being able to sit up, he has to catch her in his arms and fall back down. He doesn’t really mind, it doesn’t matter how sore he is. It’s just… it feels so awkward to be so human after years of being a devil, he used to treat her with careful touches due to his strength but now it feels like he needs to be the one treated gently.

“I thought you died” she says after her calms down, they’re lying down in the midst of fire and destruction from their fight with the evil wizard (her father) who cursed him to begin with. The Lady Knight traces over his features, admiring how different he looks now. How princely he seems to be, fitting for the fate of ruling his kingdom… with someone more queenly. Someone not her…

Steeling her heart from their possible future of separation, Lady moves her hand away from his face but he takes hold of it. Placing her palm above his heart, she realizes where he’s going with this. He can’t be doing this now, she doesn’t have the heart to say no if he does. So she speaks up first, before he can break her resolve.

“Dante I can’t, we talked about this. I’m not cut out for this, never been educated to rule a Kingdom. Being a queen is not the life for me.” There, she said all she can with her resolve still strong despite the quake in her voice.

“I wasn’t raised to rule either, younger twin remember? Besides this kingdom has been without the royal family for a long time.” As he spoke, he uses his free hand to guide her to look up at him, his thumb tracing the fresh scar by her jaw.

“Dante… what are you trying to say?” She’s not trying to be hopeful, to be so selfish when all she’s been through was for the sake of the kingdom and the people that cried for help. But oh, it feels so good to feel this loved and safe.

“I’m saying forget Dante the Prince, everyone else has and let me just be Dante. Your Dante.”

Chase:

They were walking hand in hand, the sand between their toes under the twilight of the night sky. Both are recounting the game earlier that Lady instigated, she laughs when Dante brings up the smoke grenade she threw at him earlier.

“Speaking of, I think I see it. Hold up” he says while letting go to move back. She clasps both of her hands together at his release, still feeling and already missing the warmth of his. She admires the moon reflected on the sea while waiting for Dante to come back to her side, but she doesn’t want to admire the moon in silence so she quips up.

“You can’t seriously be mad about that, the grenade was harmless and I needed to get the upper hand if you’re going to be chasing me.”

“Not mad, just wanted another memento of how crazy I am to always go after someone like you.”

“Hey now- son of a bitch,” Lady is completely speechless when she turns around to admonish her lover. He’s down on one knee, the pin of the grenade is held between his fingers like a ring.

“I’ve been chasing you since we first met and I ain’t ever gonna stop. Will you let me chase you forever?”

Western:

“Still mad sweetheart?” Dante has to raise both hands up now, trying to diffuse the situation he landed himself in. Despite his life being in danger, he still has time to appreciate how much of a beauty she’s become, wild back hair cropped above her shoulders. Angry bi-colored eyes accompanied by the scar across her nose. He would wax poetry if he knew how, but he’s been an outlaw for a long time with all his manners beaten out from the wild west. He thinks she should at least know how pretty she is, so he lets out a low whistle that only earns him another bullet grazing his cheek. Same spot from the shot she made earlier, well damn she’s got aim.

“You stole from my father and made me an orphan on our weddin’ day.”

“He was a bad man, Mary. Bastard had it comin’ and you know it.”

“Didn’t let me finish cowboy and don’t ever call me Mary again… Ain’t my name no more.” He has to bite his tongue or lose his head for real when she gets up real close and puts that barrel right against his forehead. There’s honest to god real anger in those eyes, hurt too if he looks any closer than he’s doing so already. He keeps himself real quiet by finding some of his lost manners and waits for her to finish.

“You left me at the altar, didn’t take me with you. You know I would’ve… I could’ve, still can you know… but you ran off and I was alone. Only had your Ma’ to keep me company when I lost everything. Even name, but that was choice. Think about it, still think you got the right to come back after all this time, Dante?”

“I…believe I did, still do but Law didn’t agree so much, would’ve hanged me for killin’ yer old man… I tried to ya know… to get you that day but they already were expectin’ me. Settin’ you up like bait… I still want to… if you do… It ain’t right what I did, but that don’t mean I still can’t now. ” He’s careful to remove the barrel when her gaze softens and her strength against him relents. It’s awkward now, when Dante’s been gone for so long but feelings are coming back like a water breaking down dam. He’s glad she’s still so understanding after all these years. Maybe still loves him even…

“What do I call ya then if not… well…” He asks tentatively, taking off his hat to groom himself a bit more presentable. She shrugs, lowering her rifle in silence. Nervously, he tests out her patience and forgiveness.

“Then… how about Missus Dante Alighieri?”

Bodyguard:

“Can you stop pacing like that?”

Mary looks up and past the bars that holds her to see the monster –devil-boy she thinks spitefully- that her father summoned from the depths of hell to keep her imprisoned. He’s so bored that the chair he sits on should be breaking from the precarious angle of him pushing the back legs at. He hasn’t stopped leaning that far back, using only his propped legs as a tether to a table full of empty cups and scattered cards. He may be skillful in the art of lazy guard duty but the chair is old and will give out. When it does, she’ll be there to laugh at his stupid face since it’s just themselves to keep each other company.

“No,” she answers back petulantly, bringing her nose up in disdain and the devil rolls his eyes.

“You going back and forth is giving me a headache, just take a nap or whatever. I can’t believe I accepted this deal.” The last part, he muttered underneath his breath but she heard it anyways. Curiously, she goes up against the bars of her cell and peers out to read his expression. His face is human, but she’s seen what he’s capable of. Knows that his albino appearance cannot fool her from where he’s truly from and that she’s out of her depths if she thinks she can defeat the demon.

“Having a change of heart? Feeling bad that daddy dearest wants to sacrifice his only daughter for power?” She sneers, her lips twisting into a snarl after openly declaring her fate.

“Well… yeah, I don’t really wanna screw the world over… or you even.” His answer took her by surprise, what was that? She has to stare at him, long and hard to find any lies to his admission. His blue eyes staring back now, a look she recognizes as regret and she can feel anger bubbling out from the mockery that is his turnaround.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Why are you even doing this? Following that man’s orders. Just free me and get lost then!” She has half the mind to beat him with the chair right now.

“I can’t… the deal was that I’d keep an eye on you and I get a bride in return, else the contract breaks and I’m dragged back to hell.”

Mary scrunches her nose, her life was on the line and the devil wants a wife. Yeah, she’s definitely justified in the chair beat down. But… she can use this to her advantage, her guard in red is giving her an opening. She just has to get at his level, make a bargain better than her father’s.

“My father said to keep me from running away right?… it’s not really like you’re breaking the contract if I’m willing to go to him… you’ll still be watching over me. Like… a bodyguard of sorts. Did he say anything about me stopping him from ending the world?” She smirks when she sees how much he’s perking up at the word, bodyguard. So she’s got a hero-wannabe devil… she can work with that.

“You have a point there, I won’t be breaking the contract if we… look at it like that, didn’t say anything about stopping you from going to him… but there’s still the bride issue…”

She deflates, still with that bride-bullshit… ok minor setback. “Why does having a bride matter so much, I thought souls were the kind of things you guys prefer.”

He rakes one hand through that silver mop of hair and finally gets up from his position, walking over to her. She definitely has his attention now, she can make him change his mind. “Not my kind of thing really and I just want some sort of love in my life. It’s lonely in the business.”

“Then how about me?”

He’s definitely looking at her now, brows furrowing to an unreadable expression. She can’t stand the silent stare and continues with her sudden proposal.

“I don’t want to die as a sacrifice, you want a wife without going back to hell. If we go by that logic then contract still stands and we all get what we want.”

“You sure you want this?”

She gulps, but she’s not backing out of her proposition and keeps staring him straight in the eyes.

“Just protect me as I stop my father.”

Past/Future:

“You know what? Future looks pretty good.” Nineteen year old Dante declares Forty-whatever Lady, who’s sitting at his desk on his chair like it’s her’s. He knows what’s up and he likes what it might mean. He can’t explain why he’s in the future or how he got there… at least not yet, mind’s still foggy from some sort of magic.

But he’s not so out of it that he can’t recognize the furnishing he bought not too long ago from his timeline. He knows what his business looks like and the years hasn’t changed it one bit. The only new additions he doesn’t recognize are the women who occupy the space. One being Trish, his mom’s clone and the other being Lady… who he has to assume might be his significant other. Like he can’t not be with a woman that gorgeous. At least he hopes that’s what she is to him when she’s looking that damn fine and in control behind his desk, on his chair like that. It’s like twenty-whatever years into his future, sounds like a good time to settle down with someone, he thinks. Especially if that someone is her.

He wants to know how important she is to him, to older him. It’s only been less than a day since they got acquainted after showing up in this timeline, and he likes her. He like likes her when she’s so funny and crass and doesn’t give one damn about things. She’s cool like that.

She also got him pizza, his favorite kind.

Lady quirks a brow to his words and replies with that same crass attitude of her, “because I’m treating you with pizza? Don’t hope too much, I’m not that generous with you.”

He laughs, not too put off by her teasing. Now he really wants to know how much of an item they are. He tries to, but words don’t come out when the alternative pervades his mind and he shuts down. He likes the idea of being with her a little too much that if they’re only just friends and he has to hear that kind of reject from her, it’d hurt like shit. But he’s curious and a tad restless with his anxiety that he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

He knows his way around that he manages to find his room on his way not to the bathroom. It’s not locked and he peers in to see his bed neatly made. Yeah… no, he doubts he’s neat enough to clean his bed even at Forty. Carefully, he enters the room and snoops a bit more. He’s both delighted and disappointed to know Lady sleeps here but only because of the bags that contained her clothes and weapons. It shows how temporary her residence is when the only clothes in his closet are just his, so it doesn’t really say a lot at what they are. There’s not even a picture of them together, if he’s enough of a sap to keep a picture of his mom then it can’t kill him to have a picture of them together.

He solemnly swears to remedy that when he goes back to his timeline and finally meets his Lady. Then it hits him at the revelation to his thoughts, so if there’s nothing that says what they are out in the open, there might be something hidden instead. Dropping on all fours, he looks under his bed to find a hidden compartment. He spots a small familiar latch and reaches deep under to open it, just his luck that something actually does fall into his palm. Something not his usual stash of cash. He gives himself a congratulatory fist pump for buying a bed with a hidden safe and using it for something not money in the future.

“Whatcha got there, kid?”

Dante’s startled to hear Lady in front of him that he doesn’t have time to register what is in his hand. By the time he’s straighten himself up, both he and Lady are staring at a red velvet box that he’s holding out. Oh fuck.

He opens it to see a golden band.

“Oh fuck,” the both of them swear.

Role Reversal:

Through the rubble of the wreckage that is Fortuna, Dante carries Force Edge nonchalantly above his shoulder, he saunters over to the stoic older figure in the middle of it all.

“I guess I should thank you…”

It’s weird to be indebted to the man in the navy dusker when hours before Dante impaled him against the statue of the legendary, Virgil. Nero turns around to face him, showing that stupid smug grin of his that irks and amuses Dante to no end. The old hunter scoffs and waves off Dante’s gratitude, telling the young Knight that he had his reasons to do what he did. Reasons to look after the long lost son of his deceased twin, Sparda. A reason Nero can’t bring himself to reveal to Dante after all that has happened. At least not yet.

Dante is surprised with Nero’s goodbye when he makes his way out, it’s not tenderness behind the Hunter’s word but it’s the lack of persistence of the return of Force Edge that was clearly still in his arms.

“Wait,” he called out “you forgot this.” And he presents the sword out but Nero shakes his head.

“Keep it.”

“What? Thought this meant a lot to you…” The weight of the sword feels so much heavier when Nero shows no sign of wanting it back.

“That’s the kind of gift worth giving. I’m entrusting you with it so what you do from now on? Your call.” Dante’s touched and honored at the answer and watches Nero finally make his exit. The young knight finds himself lost in his thought while drawing Force Edge back into his devil arm, he wonders if they’ll ever meet again. He hopes so, there’s something comforting and familiar about the Devil Hunter.

“So…” A voice calls out behind Dante and he turns to see Mary in her knight’s uniform.

“This the end?” She asks while adjusting the strap of her sword. The splattering of blood that stained her uniform indicates her recent dealings with the monsters that now lurk about in their city. Dante doesn’t have the strength anymore to fight with Mary about putting herself out there when he just saved her from being Sanctus’ living battery. Telling Mary to not risk her life for others has been a lost cause since they were kids and god damn, he loves her more for it.

“Maybe,” he says but the end to what? Despite the city being a wreck, he still sees a better future. From the look in her eyes, she’s thinking the same thing.

“We’re still alive…”

That’s true… they’re still alive but not the same. He’s not the same, not human anymore and the thought shames him to know she might choose to reject him because of his damnation. But he has enough resolve to respect her wishes, he always will. He brings up his devil arm, grasping it with his human arm, trying to find the courage to voice his fears.

“Mary, if I’m a demon and not a human anymore… would you still-” he’s finding it hard to look at her, afraid to see the look of disgust. Mary is strong, proud and above all else, honorable that Dante can’t bring her down when he’s become what she’s sworn to kill.

It’s her hands that takes a hold of him from the fear that could swallow him whole, its firm with a resolve that is reflected in her eyes. He sucks a breath in from her sudden affection, everything right now is giving him the kind of hope that makes him lean in to her touch.

“Dante you’re you…” she’s stepping in close to him, bringing up their joined hands in reassurance. “And it’s you I want to be with and I don’t know anyone who’s as human as you are.” He does everything in his power not to mess up the moment, because he can be an ass and now is not the time. Not when he’s fishing out his pocket to return to Mary her mother’s necklace. She gasps and leans forward to let him clasp the only family heirloom she has left. Someday he’ll give her something more than just a necklace, something to fit her finger and really cement what they really mean to each other.

Homecoming:

The Sparda twins are flooded with a sense of relief upon seeing the neon lights of Devil May Cry, after months of fighting in hell a little bit of peace was a nice change of pace. A little bit of peace being a rundown building in the seedier side of town. Dante’s not complaining about it and Vergil will just have to grudgingly suck it up, because home is home.

Dante perks up to see the women in his life sitting inside, and with Vergil finally by his side the family picture that he never knew he wanted is starting to feel so real. He has to wipe his nose to reign back any tears, he’s not going to freaking cry in front of Vergil.

When he’s certain he still got his bravado, he claps behind the other man’s back and goads him to go further. There’s a look of warning to not pussy out or start a fight with Lady and Trish. His twin is gracious to give him a scoff instead the usual verbal threat of bodily harm. That’s what Dante calls character-fucking-growth.

With everything falling into place in his life, he swears to protect this weird family and keep them together or die trying. He has a nephew, friends to call upon and a brother who’s not dead.

Then there’s Lady…

She’s jovially responding to whatever Trish must have said because the blonde is moving her head back and looks to be laughing now. She’s at such a good place right now, far from the days of Temen-ni-gru and recklessness. Well she’s still reckless but so is he...

Okay, maybe they’re reckless with the lives they lead but that’s the perk of the job not something detrimental to their health, so he thinks… But that’s beside the point. The point is that there’s Lady and he wants something more to make this family picture in his mind more…

More…

More tangible…

“Dante?”

That’s not Vergil speaking to him… He snaps out of his thoughts to see that asshat inside Devil May Cry and talking to Trish while his dear brother was left outside in the cold. He’s out in the cold alone, or not alone because there’s Lady right there in front of him.

Oh.

“Heeeey Lady…” He totally did not lamely greet her like he hope he wouldn’t. She offers him a smile, and he’s still being lame because he’s certain his own is coming off crooked and awkward. In no time, he takes her into an embrace, making up for his lack of charm and she returns his hug by wrapping her own around his shoulders. It feels so good to feel her this close that he lifts her from the ground to pull her closer. She can’t walk away when she can’t touch the ground. Heh heh.

They might as well be like this for eternity, he wants them to. Stay like this and probably die like this too as long it’s something she wants as well. His eternity ends though when she looks up and asks to be put down. He’s reluctant at her request, but the look in her eyes has every wisecrack he could think of die on his lips. He obliges by letting her feet drop to the ground, still holding her but she’s moving out of his grasp and it feels so empty to have her move away like that.

“Lady I-

She stops him by getting on one knee and presents to him a familiar ring he’s kept hidden from her before his venture to hell.

“Son of a bitch!” He swears, he can’t believe she’s beaten him to the punch. He’s not even upset that his careful planning is ruined by her taking the initiative because now his family picture is finally complete.

By Talos he’s done it again

Yay more Jonsa fics! Can you pls write one about Sansa sending Jon ravens every month asking him to come home, with no replies, and only Bran/Tormund sending her messages that tells her Jon received them. One day Sansa gets the flu and is unable to send the letter. Then she gets overwhelmed by her queenly duties and the letter is put off. A few weeks later Jon arrives, ready to protect her

ahhhh! okay so i loved this idea so much but i did tweak it very slightly to fit my idea of a very worried, protective jon.thanks for the request! 

send me prompts

“Another letter, your grace.”

Tormund’s vocals are like music, his laughter floating along after. Things never seem to change, Jon supposes, including Tormund. Though he’s asked the man to stop calling him your grace dozens of times now, it seems likely it’ll never cease. Jon imagines he does it now to annoy him, rather than out of his respect. “Thank you,” he says as he takes the scroll, unrolling it while Tormund warms himself before the roaring fire.

The small, neat script is as familiar as always and Jon sighs.

“You should write her back.” Tormund says without turning back, his hands still yet outstretched towards the fire. Jon raises his gaze to the red head’s back but doesn’t reply, rather he turns his attention back to the words written on the page.

Jon, 

I’ve heard you’ve been chosen as the King Beyond the Wall. I hope it makes you happy. Things are well here at home, aside from the usual winter ailments that plague us every year. It’s especially bad this year, I’ve already lost a maid and a guard, and Lord Royce’s youngest son died just yesterday. I hope no sickness has reached you at Castle Black, nor the wall, where ever you are. I miss you terribly. Please… Write me back. Even just to see my name written on a slip of parchment will do. Please Jon, I miss you. 

Sansa.

Her letters come weekly, as they have since the moment they had separated back at King’s Landing. The first one had been waiting for him at Castle Black the very first day he’d arrived. Jon folds the parchment up and tucks it into his doublet. He recalls the sickness she speaks of from childhood- he himself had nearly died of it and plenty of others had. Fear turns his stomach and he abruptly rises from his chair, its legs scraping against the stone floor in the most awful of ways. This catches Tormund’s attention and the man turns to face him. “I forgot I said I would oversee the building today,” he says, though he’s made no such promise and Tormund knows this.

Jon is gone before he can respond and the man heaves a sigh, shaking his head as he instead sits down at the desk Jon once occupied. And it’s there that he pens his usual note to the Queen in the North, letting her know Jon has read her letter and is still the stupidest man alive, though he’s well and certainly misses her as much as she misses him. It’s the least he could do for the lonely Queen.

[ x x x ]

When the raven comes, it’s Tormund’s handwriting yet again on the scroll.

Sansa sighs as she sits back against her chair, tossing the parchment away among all the others upon her desk. She’s been working tirelessly these last few days- between preparing small funerals for those who had died of illness thus far and ensuring her people were well stocked for the remaining winter… It felt never ending. A cough escapes her and she leans over her desk, sweating beneath her heavy gray gown. When had it become so very hot?

“Your grace?”

It is Lord Royce in her doorway and she tries to smile for him as he enters the room, knowing this is a man that has stood by her all this time. “Lord Royce,” she greets with a tired smile, noticing only then the rawness of her throat, of the tightness in her bones. “It is as I said, you should be with your family… I can manage without you for a few days.”

Lord Royce offers his queen a small smile and shakes his head. “I feel better knowing I am at your service, my queen.” He says as he steps further into the room, squinting as he peers down at her behind her desk. She is pale and drawn, looking quite unwell now that he looks closer. “You must rest,” he says without hesitation, coming to stand before her desk that’s littered with letters from all across Westeros. “With all the sickness around, it is imperative that you remain healthy. Please, allow me to escort you back to your chamber so you may rest.”

“You are kind to worry after me, my lord, but I assure you I am well,” she says, though the cough that suddenly escapes her says otherwise. “But perhaps I will allow you to walk with me back to my rooms. It is late, isn’t it?” It’s as she rises to her feet that Sansa realizes something isn’t right with her. The tightness in her chest is suddenly overwhelming and she stumbles, darkness closing in around her. She can hear Lord Royce’s voice calling out to her as if from beneath water, chanting your grace, over and over again until finally… She hears nothing at all.

[ x x x ]

Jon is surprised when there’s no letter.

He inquires with a few of his men, all of whom shake their heads that no letter had arrived for him from anywhere. Jon can’t shake the feeling inside him as he strides through the courtyard and up the stairs into his chambers, where Ghost is dozing on the floor before a dying fire. The wolf raises his head from his great big paws as he enters, looking at his master as if he’s causing him an inconvenience by waking him. “She always writes me,” Jon says aloud as he paces back and forth, forcing Ghost to sit up with a yawn. “Always.” His mind is racing, wondering if the beautiful queen had finally let him go. He wouldn’t blame her of course, it’s what he wanted her to do… Wasn’t it?

After several more moments of pacing, he stops at his desk and catches sight of her last letter, folded up there on top of all the others. He reaches for it and the moment he begins to read, a cold realization settles in the pit of his stomach. “No…” He mumbles, tossing the letter back down, shaking his head.

“Go to her.”

Jon turns at the sound of a voice, only to find Tormund standing in the door. “Go,” he urges with a nod of his head, knowing Jon would never rest if he didn’t. For no letter to have come from the Queen in the North meant something and it couldn’t be good. “I’ll look after things here… So go.” Jon came up to stand before him and it was a moment later that they were embracing. When Jon pulled back, it was to grab his old fur cloak and flee into the corridor, Ghost trotting along behind him.

It takes him only ten minutes to secure a few provisions for the road and  saddle up his horse. And then he’s off, rushing back to home, back to her.

[ x x x ]

As she drifts back to the world of the living, Sansa realizes she can’t move her legs.

A rush of fear wakens her completely and she forces herself up in bed, though it proves a great feat indeed. She begins coughing a moment after she realizes someone is draped over her lower half; Jon is awake the moment she begins to cough and he’s surging towards the head of her bed, gently pushing her back down against her pillows. “You’re here,” she whispers when she’s finished coughing, her throat dry and aching though she smiles as he leans over her, brushing hair from her forehead.

“You didn’t write me,” he murmurs back and his words elicit a soft chuckle from her trembling lips.

“You never write back,” she quips, sick but still fierce.

“There was too much to say,” he says and she raises her sapphire gaze to meet his. “Besides.. You know I was always poor at letters,” she’s reminded of their childhood, when her mother had punished him and Robb both for their lackluster writing. “Can I stay?” He asks then, gesturing back to the chair he’d once been sleeping in. Sansa regards him for one single moment before she nods, sinking back against her pillows as he drags the chair to where he stood and settles himself into it. And then they begin to talk.

He doesn’t tell her that he’s been there at her side for days, but rather they talk about the family they both miss. They talk about the childhood left behind and the present they have come to know. They talk and talk until she falls asleep, drained from days of illness, and he can’t stop himself from leaning over her to softly kiss her forehead. There at her bedside, he wonders how he ever was able to separate himself from her… For now that he was here he was certain he would never leave her again.

Soft Moments In Time

Aka I want soft queens so y’all have to read soft queens

“So sorry, Jane, but I’m evil now.”

Anna of Cleves can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the statement so proudly announced by the youngest queen, curiosity compelling her to peak out into the hallway. She looks just in time to see Jane raise an eyebrow in an ‘oh really?’ look.

“Oh, is that so? That’s cute, love.”

Jane chuckles at her daughter and Kat can’t help but straighten up in defiance.

Cleves leans against her doorway, watching the spectacle unfold. She nods at Anne as she joins her side after wandering upstairs to see what the commotion was about, then at Aragon and Parr when the latter opened her door to see what was going on.

Katherine looked around, a bit nervous at the sudden audience, but she holds her head up high, ever the queen, and stands firm.

“It’s not cute, it’s the truth, Lady Jane Seymour,” Katherine says. It’s the most regal Kat’s been in private, and it’s clear she’s loving it. She practically skips over to Jane, smiling widely at her. Jane, for her part, is as calm and collected as ever, simply giving her a gentle smile and watching her bounce around excitedly.

“Is it, now?” Jane asks, voice light. She tipsnher chin up, matching Kat’s queenly actions. “So what exactly does an evil Katherine Howard operate, hm?”

Kat slips to a stop in front of Jane and it only makes Jane smile wider for a moment before she goes back to the reserved, soft gaze she had perfected over the years.

“I....” Kat frowns. “I dunno.” She leans back on her heels before she spins around and suddenly, dramatically, points to Parr.

“Hey! You wanna help me overthrow the mum’s of the house?”

“Yeah, sure-“ Parr starts, but she laughs when Aragon gasps dramatically and pulls her back into a hug from behind.

“No you don’t, Lady Parr,” Aragon quips, smiling as her goddaughter leans against her with a smile. Cathy smiles at the gentle kiss to the cheek that Aragon gives her. “You’re not corrupting my ward, Lady Howard.”

“Your ward?” Parr asks, raising an eyebrow, but Aragon shushes her and just hugs her tighter.

Katherine huffs, looking back at Jane. Jane just smiles demurely, ever the patient queen. Kat gently boops her on the nose before she looks to her right. “Well, Lady Boleyn is definitely in, right?” She hops on over to Anne. “You’re always down for some chaos, especially when Aragon AND Jane are involved and-“

“Sorry, babes, no can do,” Anne quips, winking at Katherine. Anne moves right over to Jane and hugs the girl from behind, winking at Kat over Jane’s shoulder. She can’t help but smirk wider when Kat’s jaw drops. “Jane and I have a pact, you see. We band together and fight against evil Kit-Kat’s.”

Katherine groans. “Oh, come on!” She glares at Jane, but Jane only quietly smiles.

Kat moves right over to Anna, giving her puppy dog eyes...

... but all she gets is a shrug.

“I also have that pact with Jane,” Anna explains. Then, with a smirk, she grabs Katherine gently and pulls her into a hug. “There there, Kitty.”

Katherine huffs as Jane walks over.

“Still evil, love?” Jane asks, smoothing out the girl’s hair with a smile. “If you’re not, I can make you some waffles.”

Kat blinks.

“... I mean,” Kat says, “you can do that regardless of my current moral alignment.”

“I only make food for chaotic neutral and up,” Jane jokes, smiling brightly at her girl.

Kat rolls her eyes. “... fine.” She huffs. “I’ll be chaotic neutral until breakfast is done.”

Jane shrugs. “Whatever you say, my love.”

Jane wraps an arm around Katherine’s shoulders and kisses her cheek. With a soft sigh, Jane and Kat wander downstairs, leaving the other four to watch them.

“Did Kat honestly expect that to work?” Aragon asks, a fond smile on her face as she watches the mum and daughter disappear from view.

“Probably not,” Anna says. “She probably wanted to just mess with Jane a bit.”

“One of these days we should help her,” Anne quips. “Messing with Jane is always fun.”

Parr gives a hum in thought before she looks back at Aragon. “What if-“

“Not a chance.”

Hey, it’s ya girl, back at it again with some more OCs discussed with @autophagic , who’s already seen this but heyo. Here I bring something I’m naming A knight with shining scales.   I hope you guys like a Princess Kwenthryth (also known as Nimueh) and her dragon(shifter) knight / girlfriend / target of far too much pining, Remiel.

A lil passage containing: pining, idiots-to-lovers, wlw who need to stop being fools and KISS already, discussion of royal names and the weird world of feudalism and nobility.

-

Kwenthryth had always thought that the crown weighing heavy on the heads of those who wore it was merely a metaphor -- some representation of the pressures that came with the throne, with heading the court and holding an entire kingdom in the balance. 

A while, yes, that certainly was too -- oh, was that overwhelmingly and terribly true, it was far more than some allegory. It’s difficult to balance properly, weighted gold threatening to slide and crash heavily onto the floor. She has to keep her head upright and straight to be even marginally comfortable, and it feels as if, if she tilts even slightly, her neck might just break under the pressure. Wouldn’t that be a sight for a coronation?  (Though, she supposed, that was the whole point of practising; to not make a fool of herself right away).

She adjusts it, carefully, on her head, and it indeed weighs heavy on her head.

Far too heavy. Both literally and metaphorically. She wonders, faintly, if it being uncomfortable is part of the point; if it’s meant to be some sort of reminder.

If she was more awake, if she felt less sick to her stomach and more in the mood to be clever, she may just have been able to come up with a quip about it all. 

She had tried - admittedly, in vain - to argue against wearing it at all. Wouldn’t a lighter crown be better? A new reign, a shedding of the old-- a new crown would surely be better, wouldn't it? 

Her advisors hadn’t appreciated the sentiment -- blathering on about traditions and their importance, and they had gone on so long that Kwenthryth had been forced to just laugh and pretend she had been making some bad joke. And that idea had been soundly quashed there; if she brought it up again, one of the chancellors might just magic up a way to enchant the damn thing to stay there permanently. 

She adjusts the crown again, before tucking a stray strand of hair back behind her ear, observing herself in the mirror for a few more seconds before sighing, deeply, gaze flickering to look over her shoulder in the reflection, watching the figure standing there -- on guard and alert as ever. And she can’t help the small smile that plays on her lips.

Kwenthryth turns, slowly, careful not to jostle the crown; she’ll have to get used to moving with it on, she supposes. She can only grimly imagine the embarrassment of it toppling off mid-speech during her council meeting -- the last thing she needed was any more reason for those superstitious old men to doubt her ability to reign. 

“How do I look?” She asks, with a half-smile that’s more like a grimace -- everything about it feels awkward, as if she’s an imposter taking the place of whoever should actually be here instead. 

Remiel’s gaze is fixed on her, intense as ever -- though there’s a hint of… something, almost like stunned but not quite, within the look. 

“You look…” Remiel pauses, seems to grapple for words -- and Kwenthryth hopes that that’s a good thing, that she’s not trying to come up with some white lie or politely word criticism. “... Queenly.” It what she settles on eventually. 

Kwenthryth can’t help the snort that escapes her at that -- good-humoured and soft.

“I would hope so.” She says, with a hum. “Looking the part is at least the minimum.”

Remiel huffs, nervously, and Kwenthryth can see the faint tint of a blush rising to her cheeks, pink flushing as she straightens up more, adjusts herself, seemingly flustered. 

“I- I meant that- of course you’ve always looked regal-” Remiel bites her lip, fidgeting from side to side, and Kwenthryth feels the urge to move forward and soothe her anxieties- “You- you look beautiful.” It’s said quickly, and there’s some flicker of regret on the knight’s expression immediately after, some anxious energy bubbling beneath the surface. “Not that you don’t always look amazing, you do but…” She trails off, just watching Kwenthryth back for a while.

It’s Kwenthryth’s turn to blush, then. 

It’s more than just warmth across her cheeks, though -- she feels the burst of affection and… something, in her chest, too, along with that familiar fluttering in her abdomen.

“You think I’m beautiful?” She asks, quietly; the question falling from her lips before she can even think, before she can consider properly if she should ask it. Beauty was a thing she seemed to be ever chasing, yet never reaching. No matter what, some criticism would be made. True, she had been called fair by many of the court and outside of it, but she could never know for sure whether such compliments were genuine, or the work of sycophants wishing to grow closer to her. 

Oh, and just when she hadn’t thought it possible for Remiel to flush any deeper -- the flustered nature is cute, really, even if she doesn’t completely understand why things are spiralling like this. If anything, shouldn’t Kwenthryth be the one more flustered? She’s the one complimented, after all-

“I- well- I-” Remiel shifts, one hand moving to scratch at the back of her neck, and her gaze has shifted to fix on some spot on the floor. “Of course I do- I mean- you are- I don’t mean to step out of line, I-”

“Please, don’t apologise.” Kwenthryth soothes, with a grin that she hopes is reassuring, moving closer to Remiel, careful step by careful step -- both out of necessity to keep the crown in place, and so as not to alarm her. “You’re not stepping out of line at all. I… I really appreciate it.” It feels different when Remiel says it; more than just some standard compliment, something said merely because it’s polite. It feels real. “I- if it means anything; I… think you’re beautiful too.” 

Gods, how had Kwenthryth ever thought that she wasn’t? It was a different beauty to most ladies of the court perhaps -- something more wild, powerful, all might and oh-so-gorgeous strength. Kwenthryth can remember seeing her during combat training- 

She shakes the thoughts from her head before she’s too lost in them. 

Remiel’s looking at her again, expression confused, unsure, as if she thinks this might be some sort of joke- and it’s only now Kwenthryth takes note of how close they are, because Remiel is having to look down at her. 

“I- you’re too kind-” the knight begins, sounding doubtful already, and Kwenthryth elects to shut down that doubt as quick as she can-

“I meant it.” She tells her, firmly. “You are. You’re… the most beautiful person I know.” She utters it almost like a confession -- some secret she’s held. “Inside and out.” She adds, quietly.

Silence settles then, and Kwenthryth feels a flighty panic take hold in her heart; just how awkward has she made this now?

“Sorry- I… perhaps I overstepped there…” 

“No- it’s- it’s alright-” Remiel exhales a laugh, though it’s shaky. A little bewildered. “That means a lot, coming from you, your hi- Kwen.”

Kwenthryth quirks a smile at the catch -- the adjustment, however slow, feels nice. More casual. But still-

“You know, if you wanted, you could call me Nimueh-” Her real name, the thing buried under the grandeur of the royal name, one she often forgot herself. “-I think that everyone else will only know Kwenthryth. Not many will remember Nimueh” Kwenthryth was a name earned, a name chosen -- but Nimueh felt like home, some rooted thing she could go back to when the title felt too much. “I should like it if you were one of the few that did.” True names were an intimacy -- the sorcerers of old said there was magic in a name, and perhaps that was partially true. 

“That- that’s a great honour-”

“One I see fit for my closest friend,” Kwenthryth reassures, feeling another flutter in her chest at the little intake of breath that gets her. “Think of it as returning the favour.” She gives a shrug. “I consider it a great honour that you remain my companion.”

“Are you sure? It feels far too-” Remiel shakes her head, not finding the word she’s looking for, but looking thoroughly… well, overwhelmed. “... intimate.”

Would intimacy be such a bad thing? Is the first thought that flitters through Kwenthryth’s mind-

“Alright,” is what she says, however, “perhaps we should focus on just Kwen for now, and work up our way from there?” She offers, amusedly. 

“That… That sounds good.” Remiel says, with a nod, returning her smile. “I agree, Kwen.” Her name’s said more confidently this time, more sure. “I’m glad that you view me as a friend- I think of you as mine, too- Not that I’m not also your guard but-”

She isn’t quite sure what’s driven her forwards -- whether it’s the flustered look, the compliments still swirling in her head, a way to still the nervous, awkward scramble for the right thing to say or a mix of them all, but Kwenthryth has moved herself forward, rising up on her tip-toes and letting her eyes flutter closed as her lips meet Remiel’s.

What am I doing?

It’s her last thought, before she loses herself in the feeling -- she’s warm, her lips soft, and it feels so right that it’s sending bursts of tingling energy bursting in her chest. All she can think of is questioning why she didn’t do this sooner, when it feels oh-so-perfect, as if it’s the only place she should be. For a while, she feels Remiel pause, only for a beat-

Then there comes the best part -- the fact she’s kissing back. She’s accepting this, she wants Kwenthryth, too. That’s enough to make her heart soar, to make her lean in deeper, sighing softly as she feels Remiel’s arm wrap around her waist, protective and yet so gentle. She encircles an arm around her shoulder in turn, pressing herself closer, and she hears the crown slip and fall to the floor behind her, but by now, she doesn’t care. 

The kiss is chaste, soft and simple, and yet more than enough, and they only break for air -- both of their breathing slightly shallow, blushes for the both of them flushed deeper than ever. 

With the pumping adrenaline gone, it’s only then that the flighty panic of before, the fear of awkwardness, comes crashing back in like a wave-

What had she just done? 

Remiel is just staring at her, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, looking as if she’s still not fully recovered-

“I-” Kwenthryth tries to start, but her sentence dies in her throat. What would even be right to say?

She doesn’t know why - she doesn’t know why she’s done anything, now -, but instead of speaking, she quickly swoops down for the crown again, faintly relieved but not truly caring that it’s not dented, and settling it back on her head. She readjusts her hair, smoothes out her dress, as if nothing happened.

“I should get to my meeting. The council are probably waiting-”

“K- Kwen-” Remiel starts, sounding incredulous, voice still quivering slightly. 

“I’ll- I’ll see you later,” she says, trying to lower her tone into some seriousness. “I promise. You… meet me in my room, if that’s okay?” She tries for a grin, some feigned casuality as she moves by, focusing on reaching the door before she can make any further decisions without thinking them through. “Just- meet me after, Queen’s orders, hm?”

She has to joke, in all this mess of her own cause. She doesn’t even know what she feels, whether she did right, had Remiel even really kissed back or had that been some imagining? Why had she even followed through on the thought to do that? Why had she even had the thought in the first place?

Bheric always did say she had a way of making things far more confusing than they had to be -- here, she supposes, is the evidence.  Being a Queen wasn’t easy; and yet here she was, seemingly wanting to make it harder for herself.

Gods, just how was she going to be able to get through a council with this spinning in her mind? So much for a decently focused first day. 

What a brilliant start to her reign.

{Hungry hearts} IX. Star fritters (pt. 2)

A/N: The promised follow-up to this! I don’t want to sell myself short here but I hope the Drama feels right and not anticlimatic. My brain was like “too mushy for this time period, add angst!!” and I couldn’t argue against that. BUT there is a lot of cooking and talking about personal stuff, too!

A couple of days went by before Leia got back to him about their cooking plans, so much so that Han was beginning to think she had either forgotten or was acting like it.

‘Some of us are busy leading a revolution, you know,’ she told him wryly, arms akimbo as she watched him push a repulsor cart loaded with packs of membrill cheese into the mess hall’s kitchen. He’d kept those hidden from the person in charge of overseeing the supplies brought from Espirion as they were unloaded, since the membrill hadn’t been requested and he’d yet have to confirm with Leia that they were safe, edible goods. Afterwards, he had figured he would hold on to them for a little longer, until their off-the-books meeting (or else, until Leia asked).

‘I think you were just afraid your cookin’ skills will never live up to mine,’ Han drawled, parking the cart and sitting on a counter.

‘First off, get your butt off the place we prepare food on,’ Leia said, raising an eyebrow at him. ‘Second, does everything have to be a competition with you?’

‘Not everything, but—’

‘Good, because my fritters will knock everything you’ve ever made out of the park.’

‘Ha! Alright, let’s see it.’

Leia pointed at several piles of pale squares separated by layers of flimsi that she’d laid on the table.

‘We’re actually going to use the pre-made puff pastry dough that we use for pies because I… um, I actually don’t know how to make puff pastry. I remember the ingredients, but not the exact quantities. And you also need to do some tricky folding with butter, and you have to let it rest,’ she explained.

Puff pastry pies were a rare treat in rebel bases. Synthefood and dehydrated rations were the norm: easier to obtain, store and prepare than natural foodstuffs, and often lacking in terms of flavour unless you got creative with them—which many of the Alliance’s untrained cooks were not.

‘I was under the impression we’d be doin’ the whole thing?’ Han quipped. ‘You know that takes some of the credit off your cookin’ skills, Your Worship, don’t you?’

‘Oh, shut up and come here.’ She re-opened the pack of membrill Han had brought into her office and grabbed a knife. He noticed half of the square was missing and felt oddly pleased at knowing she’d at least enjoyed some herself. ‘First we need to cut this up into small squares, but not too small. Let’s just do this one to start with, all right?’

Once that was ready, she grabbed one of the squares of dough and laid it in front of her.

‘Now we take a piece of membrill, put it in the middle. We get some water in there,’ she said, dipping her index finger in a glass she’d set on the side and drawing a circle around the membrill square before grabbing another piece of dough. ‘We cover it like this, with the corners matching.’

She wetted the area over the covered sweet again, pressing lightly on the dough to seal it, and picked up the confection.

‘And now we just pinch under it like this and fold the corners out a little. See?’ Leia held it out for Han, who thought it looked more like a flower than a star.

‘Okay, I think I got it,’ Han said, nodding and rolling up his sleeves. He stood next to Leia and she watched as he repeated what he’d seen her do.

‘That looks good. Pinch it a little more—that’s right.’ She gave him a satisfied grin and then looked away, lost in thought for a moment. ‘I know I said we were just going to make a couple of them but—since there’s a lot of membrill and there’s a good stock of frozen dough… What if we made enough fritters for everyone, for breakfast tomorrow? I think the cooks will appreciate it. That is, if you want to. We’d have to be here a while, and we’d be doing a good deed, which I know you hate...’

‘Cute,’ Han said, although part of him appreciated her quick thinking in teasing him—when she wasn’t trying to hurt him. ‘Fine, let’s do this.’

He began to hand her over the packs of membrill, which Leia methodically unwrapped and set side by side on the counter—actually a long plank of durasteel set over trestle legs, identical to the ones spread out in dozens of rows in the hall outside. When the cart was empty, he grabbed a knife and they worked side by side cutting smaller squares of membrill.

‘So how come you know how to do this, Princess?’ Han asked as they worked. ‘Don’t imagine you were ever required to make dessert back home—or was it part of your royal training?’

He knew he was treading dangerous ground here: Leia could be as cagey about her past as he was. But sometimes, she’d open up a little, offer some kernels of her life before the day they’d met. In return, Han often found himself reciprocating—not with stuff that offered much about the less savory aspects of his life, though.

It wasn’t so much that he needed to know about her past. Nobody could understand better than Han that some things were best left behind, that his present self was the only thing he cared to show to the world. He was fine just getting to know this Leia, the one he shot Imps next to. He asked questions because then she’d talk to him about something other than her rebellion. And yes, maybe he’d learn something about her in the process.

Leia shrugged. ‘They were my favorites and I wanted to know how they were made, so one day when I was about six or seven, I snuck into the palace’s kitchens and asked one of the cooks to teach me. Memily was afraid she’d get in trouble if she put the crown princess to cook, so she told me we had to ask for my mother’s permission. I think I didn’t take that suggestion very kindly,’ she said, scrunching up her nose in embarrassment.

‘What did you do?’ Han asked, his knife still as he looked at Leia with interest.

‘Oh, nothing too bad, but… yeah, I think I said that I was the princess and she had to do as I said. I loved Memily, though. She just talked to me and convinced me to go to my mom and ask. She was very entertained by the idea, my mom,’ Leia said with a small, wistful smile. ‘She came down with us so that Memily could teach her, too. I was allowed to hang around the kitchens afterwards, if I wanted, as long as I behaved and didn’t get in anyone’s way.’

Han grinned, thinking of a tiny girl with pigtail braids trying to order around a bunch of poor cooks and learning how to make pastries next to her mother (whom he pictured in full queenly regalia).

‘So did you pick any other cookin’ skills from your stint as kitchen assistant?’

‘No,’ Leia said, laughing. ‘I’d moved on to something else a few weeks later. I did attempt to cook when I started going to Coruscant as my dad’s apprentice but—let’s say he claimed to have allergies I know he didn’t have, and I gave up after that.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘Yeah… And I knew it was almost inedible, I just refused to give up.’

That didn’t surprise Han.

‘I think we’re done here,’ he said, looking down at all the cut-up membrill.

‘Okay, let’s clear up some space here—and here we go,’ Leia told him, moving a pile of dough squares next to him and setting the glass of water between the two of them.

They began to assemble the pastries, working in silence for a while.

‘Maybe I should take a commission here in the kitchen, teach ‘em what “flavor” means, whaddaya think?’

Leia chuckled softly but didn’t look up. He could see her biting her lip slightly and wondered what she was thinking about. Had he said something wrong?

‘Maybe you should,’ she said casually. ‘So when did you learn so much about cooking?’

‘Long time ago,’ Han said. ‘Picked up some from Chewie an’ his family.’

‘Oh.’

He could do this. He could give her something.

‘But mostly, I learned from Dewlanna,’ Han told her. It was less painful now, talking about her. ‘She was a Wookiee, too, an’ a great cook. She lived in the ship I grew up in, ya know. Looked out for me.’

‘Sounds like she was really special,’ Leia commented, touching his arm briefly.

‘Yeah.’

Leia didn’t ask what had happened with her, and Han was grateful for it. She got it. She understood this implicit agreement between them of not pushing, of accepting what was being given—at least as far as sharing personal information went.

‘She made a mean wastril bread,’ he said, smiling fondly at the memory, ‘an’ whenever I came in and watch her cook, she’d put me to do somethin’, said everyone should know how to feed themselves.’

‘Smart,’ Leia said with a dry chuckle. ‘My strategy is to just stick around people who can feed me.’

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, as long as I’m here I won’t let you starve,’ Han said, without thinking much about his words. He expected to hear her laugh or make a comment, but Leia only said ‘Right,’ and kept working in silence.

After some time, she asked, ‘Would you start frying the ones we have while I finish the rest? You know how to fry, right?’

‘Sure, yeah. Do you?’

‘I... have fried,’ Leia said, looking away, her mouth twitching.

‘Oh no. What happened?’

‘A lot of splattering, and food that was still uncooked inside.’

Han shook his head.

‘Rich people.’

‘Hey!’

He winked at her and walked to the lined-up freezer units. ‘Fat, right?’

At Leia’s confirmation, he picked up a pack, took it to a deep pan and began his task. He fried pastry after pastry until they were golden brown, and placed them on trays lined with disposable towels.

In between batches, when the first ones he’d done had cooled off, Han said, ‘Alright, let’s try this.’

Leia looked up and watched him.

‘I hope you’ll like it.’

Han picked up a second fritter and held it out for her. ‘You too, Princess. Go on, you’ve earned it.’

The star fritter was as crispy as it looked, and Leia had been right: the sweetness of its heart was balanced out with the crust.

‘Well?’ Leia asked eagerly; he saw now that she had still not taken a bite out of her fritter.

‘Hats off, Your Royalness,’ he told her, raising his half-eaten pastry to her in salute. ‘They’re really good.’

‘Told you,’ Leia said, but she grinned before she started to eat. There it was, the nostalgic look again, as she savored her star fritter slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before staring off into the distant past of a Leia who wasn’t allowed to cook and didn’t need to, who was loved by parents that spent time with her, who thought that, no matter what, she’d always have her home to come back to, a plate of star fritters waiting for her.

Han was physically attracted to her, of course, but he was also drawn to the way they worked together, her quick wit, the fact that she didn’t back down from anything. Hells, even her shooting turned him on. And yet it wasn’t just that. He felt something for her he’d sworn he’d never feel again; mushy, idiotic feelings that he had no idea where they were coming from. He wanted to get her on his ship and fly her away from everything, have her making him try food from every corner of the galaxy while she watched closely for his reaction.

No, fuck this. I just want to sleep with her! he thought viciously.

‘Think we’ve done enough work today, Princess. When do we get to play?’ he asked, leaning in close, ignoring how lame his words sounded to his own ears as he tried to push those pathetic thoughts away.

Unsurprisingly so, Leia took a step back, her face darkening with confusion.

‘We still have some work left to do, Captain,’ she said firmly, then pointed at the still boiling pan. ‘That fat is going to overheat.’

‘Didn’t I do enough?’ Han asked, his voice rising in exasperation. He was met with a scowl.

‘Then go! I still have work to do here!’

This wasn’t what he wanted. How had they even gotten there?! But that was the truth, wasn’t it? She had work to do and it didn’t matter if he stayed or left. It never had. She “appreciated it” if he stayed, but only as long as he behaved and didn’t get in her way.

He turned on his heel and started walking away, waiting for her to call him back, to say that she wanted him to stay.

She never did, so he walked faster, because it was easier than staying and keep burning himself trying to do something he wasn’t meant to do.

Finding Goddess (Chapter 12)

Carol stood in front of the mirror clad in her full regalia, her heart beating a mile a minute. Gossamer threads poured down her form like sheets of precious snow, standing in stark contrast to the queenly plaits in her ebony hair. Her lips gleamed a brilliant red from her lipstick, and her eyes emitted a violet aura upon her perfect milky skin thanks to the luxurious eye shadow she had just applied. Dazzling stars of blue dangled daintily from her ears, and a lovely sapphire brooch in the shape of a jay clung preciously to her neck. A light fragrance of lilac wafted off her form from the gentle perfume she had put on barely an hour ago, and her feet clicked in the delicate white heels that made it impossible for her to stand in a way that couldn't be described as majestic. Without a doubt, this was the most beautiful she had ever looked.

And yet...she didn't feel beautiful. Every time she looked in the mirror, something always seemed off. A ruffle where there shouldn't have been, an out-of-place hair, a jewel hanging at a crooked angle, a smudge of something on her face. All problems, all imperfections that marred her looks. And no matter what she nipped, no matter what she tucked, no matter what she wiped or tied or brushed away, it seemed like another flaw would take its place and capture her attention. This wouldn't do at all! She had to look her absolute best. No, she had to look better than she ever had in her entire life, and not just for herself. For this was not just any day. This was a very special day. This was the day when Caroline Connors would become a wife. "You can't keep putting this off any longer," said one of her bridesmaids. Carol turned to look behind her and saw that it was Henrietta. "Everyone's waiting for you." "Yeah," said the other bridesmaid, Katherine, who took this moment to grab Carol by the arm. "C'mon, Mommy. You keep stalling like this and you'll miss your own wedding!" "But, but," Carol stammered as the two women dragged her away from the mirror, "I'm not properly dressed for this! I have to look absolutely perfect and I...don't yet." "Hmmm, you're right on that count," said Henrietta as she took a moment to eye Carol up and down. "You really aren't looking your best." "And you're definitely not properly dressed!" quipped Katherine. "Honestly, Mommy, it's like you didn't even bother at all!" "But...but I've been in here for hours!" said Carol, feeling her heart drop into her stomach. "I put on my best makeup for this, put on my best shoes, made sure my dress was pristine! I even spent all yesterday in the spa just to have perfect skin! How could I possibly—" "Exactly!" said Katherine as she gave Carol's gown a disdainful tug. "You've got all that crap on!" "We all know what you look best in," said Henrietta. "And we all know what your special someone wants to see you in." Carol blinked in confusion. What her special someone wanted to see her in? What did they mean by— RRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP! A stretch of her dress was torn off, starting from the shoulder and extending down to her hip. And her black bridesmaid was the one holding the fabric. "Katy!" she cried. "Why did you—" RRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP! Another stretch of fabric was ripped off from the other side, tearing off a sizable chunk of the skirt and exposing her leg. "Henri!" More dress was ripped off, this time from her back. Then from her other shoulder. And then from her leg. Soon, the air was filled with a cacophony of torn silk screeching all around her. "WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?" Carol screamed as more and more of her body was shorn of clothing and exposed to the air. The...cool, gentle, sweet-feeling air. It cascaded down her now bare shoulders, poured onto her back, pooled into her navel, and seeped between her thighs. Soon, the only thing between Carol and the rest of the world was her lacy white bra and panties. "Putting you in your best dress," answered Henrietta. "The one we all want you to be in," continued Katy. "The one you are meant to be in," they both said in unison. "Meant...to be in?" said Carol, who was starting to feel dizzy. "You can't possibly mean..." There was a tug on her bra strap. A pop in the waistband of her panties. Carol could only watch as they both fluttered away from her and onto the floor, joining the pile of all that remained of her now ruined wedding dress. She was naked now. Everything about her was bare. Her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her butt. Even her heels had been destroyed in the confusion, leaving her completely barefoot. There was not a thing left to cover her! "They're waiting," said Henrietta, looping her arm around Carol's. "She's waiting," added Katherine as she took Carol's other arm, keeping the bride from escaping. "Who? Who's waiting?" said Carol as the two bridesmaids dragged her out of the room and into the corridor, towards a set of formidable-looking double doors. "You know exactly who, Mommy" said Katy with a warm smile. "The one you are destined for," said Henrietta. "She's always been with you." "But...but I can't see her...like this," murmured the naked woman, who was finding it harder to think straight. "Of course you can," said Katy. "This is the only way you can see her." "I don't...under..." The doors opened, seemingly of their own accord. Behind them, Carol found herself staring at a chapel overlooking rows upon rows of seats where many eager guests awaited. Greeting her on either side were her two daughters, Mindy and Erin, dressed in identical blue garbs that made them nigh impossible to tell apart for anyone who hadn't birthed them. "You look wonderful, Mom," said Mindy as she gave her mother an affectionate hug, completely unconcerned about her nudity. "I knew you could do this," said Erin as she embraced her in turn. Together, the four dragged the naked woman to the altar, where there awaited another equally naked woman. Carol went stiff the moment her eyes fell upon her. The tanned skin, the brilliant fiery mane, the distinctive symbol tattooed on her Venusian mons...it could only be... "Ce-Celeste?" Carol uttered, totally at a loss for words. "Yes, it is I, my childe," said the priestess in a tone that sounded like a soothing whisper, but carried with it a resounding echo. "Please, come closer. The time is fast approaching." "Time? Time for what?" stammered Carol. She still didn't know what was going on. Nothing made sense. No one was telling her anything. Wasn't she supposed to get married? She didn't even know anymore. "You know what it is," said Celeste. "You've always known. You've been waiting your whole life for this. You've been waiting your whole life for Her. And She has been waiting for you." "Who? Who is..." The double doors opened again. Light flooded into the chapel. It swallowed everyone, the attendants, Carol's bridesmaids, her daughters, the priestess, and Carol herself. She couldn't see anything, everything was just a haze of imperceptible whiteness. But she didn't need to see. For everything had become clear now. Everything made sense. Carol knew what she needed to do, what she always needed to do, what she was always destined for. It was only the most natural thing, as natural as breathing, no, more natural than that. Warm arms embraced her. Warm breasts engulfed her. Warm lips kissed her. *** Carol awoke with a sudden jolt. That dream! She was in...she was getting...everyone was...she was naked...and she...and she...! She blinked and turned her head around stiffly, as if it was on a swivel. She gazed at her surroundings. This was...this was a bedroom. This was her bedroom. In her apartment. In the great city of Beringall. And she was most definitely not... Carol blinked again. What was she most definitely not doing? She had clearly been not doing something meaningful, because whatever it was, it was making her feel...making her feel...warm? Hopeful? Like everything was good, and that everything would be alright? What could she have possibly dreamt to feel that? She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to remember the dream she had, tried to dredge up any fleeting memory she could muster that could help her recall it. She found nothing. "Figures," she groaned. "Just another dream to wake up to and forget. Like all the others." Carol sighed. Maybe if she went back to sleep, it would pick up where she left off. That seemed worth a shot. Stealing a glance at her clock radio to see if she had any time, the mother couldn't help but groan again. There was only one minute to go before the alarm was set to go off. There would be no more dreams for her today. "Goddess damn it." As she clicked the device off to keep her ears clean of the infernal country music that was mere seconds away from playing, Carol heard a murmur to her side and felt something shift next to her. Looking down, she saw the sleeping face of her younger girlfriend, Katherine, looking precious as she always did in her slumber. Just like a big, overgrown baby, Carol couldn't help but think with an amused grin. At least seeing her like this made waking up prematurely a little worthwhile. Carol was half-tempted and let her faux daughter sleep in a little bit, but she knew that just wouldn't do. They both had work today after all. "Hey, baby, it's time to wake up," she said giving her girlfriend a gentle shake. It didn't work. Katherine only mumbled a few garbled syllables and rolled away, determined to stay in whatever nice dream she was having. This got a wicked smirk out of Carol. "Okay, girl, you asked for it!" she snickered, flipping the blanket off and exposing the younger woman's naked body to her. So young, so slender, the sight of it always elicited a lick of Carol's lips, especially those cute little tits of hers that made her think of sweet melted chocolate. But it wasn't Katy's boobs that had the nudist's attention now; it was her trim stomach, moving slowly up and down with her breathing, showing off just off  a hint of the sexy girl abs she was packing in it. "THBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!" That woke her up immediately. "AHHH! Mommy! What are you—" "THBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!" "AHHH! Stop it, Mommy! Ah-hahahaha!" "Are you ready to wake up now?" "Yes! Yes! I'm ready to—" "THBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!" "AHHH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!" It never failed. If a shake didn't wake Katy up, if a thunderstorm didn't wake her up, if the coming of the Apocalypse didn't wake her up, then a few good old-fashioned belly raspberries and a lot of tickling would do the trick. The younger girl laughed, kicked, and squirmed uncontrollably in desperation as she tried to escape her torture, but it was all in vain. With Carol's superior strength and her hands wedged firmly into her armpits, there was nothing Katy could do; she was left thoroughly at the mercy of her dear sweet mommy! "Okay! I give! I gi-hi-hi-hi-hiiiiive!" Katherine gasped. "Just, hahahahaha, stop, hahahahaha, stop, hahahahah, STAAA-HAHAHAHAHAAAAHHHHHP!" "Okay, you earned it," giggled Carol as she mercifully withdrew her hands to end her lover's gleeful torment, though not before giving her a playful kiss on the lips. "C'mon, we both gotta get ready for work. Wouldn't want you to get fired, homeless, and forced to move back in with your parent, now would you?" "Oooooh, I'd love to move back in with my Mommy," laughed Katherine as she sat up to hug Carol from behind and give her an eager nibble on the neck. "No, I meant...ah, I guess I walked into that one. C'mon, let's go shower." After cleaning and drying themselves off in the shower, the two women exited the bathroom, Katy wrapped up in a towel, and Carol content to wander around au natural as usual. Upon stepping into the kitchen where she intended to fix up a quick cup of coffee and breakfast, Carol couldn't help but look around with a feeling of bewilderment. "What the hell happened in here?" The couch in the living room was overturned, assorted chairs were scattered all over the floor on their sides, cups, papers and other odds and ends rolled around haphazardly, and she couldn't help but notice that some things looked like they had accrued some new stains. "Oh, yeah, about that," said Katy, "we got really wild last night and went through this whole apartment like a tornado in a trailer park. First we did it on the couch. Then on the kitchen table, then on the counter, then against the fridge, then against the door, and then..." "I...barely even remember," said Carol. "Yeah, it was really fast. Faster than usual anyway. You were like a wild animal, Mommy! I thought you were wild before, but last night was...it was like something in you just blew up! It was amazing! Made me wonder what you would have done to me in the gym yesterday if you hadn't caught yourself." At her words, a realization of horror suddenly dawned over Carol. She darted her gaze to the door leading to her daughters' room, eyes wide with panic. "Oh shit! Katy we didn't actually do it in there, did we?" "Um...I can't say. Like I said, we were all over the place. After you finished screwing me in one area, you would just scoop me up and carry me to another area and..." Carol didn't wait for her to finish. She just about broke the sound barrier rushing to her girls' room and flung the door open almost as fast, kicking up a breeze that in normal circumstances would have felt amazing on her completely naked body. She didn't have time to appreciate the feeling this time though. If she had been so careless as to actually have sex in Mindy and Erin's space, she'd never forgive herself. And most likely, neither would they! Fortunately, it looked like that wasn't the case at all. The bunk beds were still neatly made, the desks were still in one piece, the TV was still standing, the controllers for the connected game console were lying right where the girls left them...everything was untouched and exactly where they were supposed to be. "Phew, that's a relief," she said, letting out a deep breath of air. "Wouldn't want to traumatize my kids." "You know, I can understand not wanting to violate their personal space," said Katherine, "but don't you think it's melodramatic to say that having sex in their room would traumatize them?" "Not everyone is like you, Katy," said Carol as she shut the door. "Most children don't have sexual fantasies about their mothers!" "Not according to Freud," said Katherine in a wistful tone. "But...that's not what I mean. What I mean is they're not going to be scarred for life if you have sex in their room. Okay, maybe they'd get a little angry, maybe they'd get a little grossed out, but they wouldn't get traumatized! Mom, you need to stop being so self-conscious around them!" "Well I can't help it," said Carol. "They're my babies, no matter how big they get. It's my job to make sure they live as comfortably as possible. Even if..." she looked down at her body, completely uncovered, completely exposed, completely...perfect in all its raw nakedness, and let out a sad sigh. "Even if I can't." Katherine recognized that look and tone in her older lover well enough, and it made her sigh as well. "Mom, you shouldn't have to keep this side of you a secret from them forever." "I've been doing it for almost 18 years," said Carol. "I can do it a little longer." "Well...whatever!" Katherine just shrugged. It was too early in the morning to have this kind of talk with her. One day, she and Henrietta would have to team up to convince their mutual lover to be more open about her nudism. But that was a discussion to have in another time and another place. Possibly involving that religion she had been going on about yesterday. "If you're really that concerned about what doing it in their room will have on them, I doubt doing it everywhere else is going to be any better." "Oh Goddess, you're right!" cried Carol as she looked around in horror at the state of her apartment. "They can't see the house like this! I have to clean it all up!" Already she began scurrying around the apartment, righting and picking up every little object she could find lying on the floor. "Does this go here? Is this supposed to go there? I don't even remember where this was! Oh Goddess, I can still smell that over here! How am I going to wash this out?" "Calm down, Mommy, calm down!" said Katherine as she grabbed her naked fake mother from behind to get her to stop. "They're not home yet, you don't need to worry about cleaning up now. Don't your daughters still have a few days left?" "You're...you're right," said Carol with a relenting sigh. "I...I don't know what came over me." "The same thing that always comes over you whenever you start fretting about your girls," muttered Katherine. She changed her tune when she began to explore her lover's body with her hands, sliding them over Carol's breasts and giving each orb a tender squeeze. "When right now, the only girl you should be fretting over is me." Carol shut her eyes and leaned back as the black girl massaged her breasts. Goddess, that felt so good right now. "And what would you ask of me, sweetie?" "Well, I could use some food for one. All that sex last night really took a lot out of me!"