#the strife emperor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qvrcll · 9 days

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Warnings: mentions of political marriages, strangers > friends > lovers, kissing near towards the end, mentat at mind, lover boy at heart

The ordeal is simple — at-least on paper. You and Paul are meant to be wed on the single promise of a shared goal between the two of your houses, which come down to one thing and one thing only: security. Wealth, power and standing do not surmount to what, in Leto’s words, the Emperor has planned for the futility of house Atreides. He knows, Thufir knows, everyone knows, that Arrakis wasn’t branded to be some sweetly wrapped gift that fell into his lap when the time came to reward the duke. No - matters of this sort were much too systematic, especially at a scale such as this. Something must be done, to solidify the house of Atreides upon the rain-swept expanse of Caladan. Something to bind the Atreides to their mother planet long enough, so there might not be strife or conflict that sharpens whatever blade is held against them. So, wed Paul you must.

Simple doesn’t translate so easily against the obscurity that is the real world.

In the real world, the two of you are mere strangers. The only thing that binds the two of you is the responsibility bourne from the insignias that you wear, that are soon to culminate as two adjoining houses; whilst his happen to be two thick lines of silver against his collar, yours take on a different shape, a strange alterity between curves and striking lines, and shot through with gold against the sleeve of your garments. There is it — the mere tellings of your differences, as pure as day. He wonders how the symbols will look like, meshed together and serving as one. He wonders how he will appear next to you - frail boy or able man?

Half of the time, you catch his eye simply because you are there, sitting duly next to your father and ascertaining the weight of such a marriage past paper, when all is said and done. Other times, you are a blurring fragment in the hallways, swathed in your house’s colours and too fleeting to get a hold on, sometimes even flanked by your house’s livery. Mere strangers, he reminds the indiscernible feeling in his chest.

“Where is your head at? Focus!” Gurney growls out, more harsh tempered than his usual mood, as he crouches and takes Paul’s fair strike for what it was - a clean swipe that was meant for his chest, which now deflects smoothly off of the older, more haggard man’s shield, and sets the room abuzz with vibrations. And so the smell of ozone worsens, Paul calculates in his head, as he shakes his head thoroughly and shifts his grip on his weapon. Gurney isn’t impressed — not in the way he usually is. Paul knows he must answer.

“This is me focusing,” Paul offers, and doesn’t grit his teeth or possess a sudden candour with his strikes because he respects Gurney. But he cannot help the mood that has blanched him - voids, how he wishes he could confess those words, verbatim, to the older man who currently encircles his passes like a seasoned ring-fighter. But the word ‘mood’ had gotten him in line last week, when Gurney had simply upped his antics with the mere mention of it, “I’m just out of breath.”

“No, you’re not.” Gurney smiles, clenching his palm around the ragged hilt of the Kindjal. He knows, Paul thinks bitterly.

“No, I’m not.” Paul confesses. He tests a low swoop of his dagger - ill-advised - and reigns his laugh in when it catches Gurney off his feet, his back staggering against the training table.

Let’s see how you like this, lad, Gurney formalises in his mind, as he presses his defence like a bull and keeps his attacks slow and pulsing through the air, blinding all of Paul’s spots, “Is it the marriage?”

Cornered for tactics, and focusing mostly on not getting cleaved to pieces during training, Paul scoffs, “Of course it’s the marriage.”

“You’re scared.”

At this, Paul counters metal with metal, bounding back when it rings against his ears, rings against the room, “I’m not scared. I’m prepared to fulfil my duty, even if I am given options,” a dull parry, which still creates momentum, and thus space, between the two men, “I’m only uneasy because I’ve never actually met her.”

“You have. Several times. Or have you been asleep throughout your father’s meetings?”

Paul stresses a firm strike against Gurney, which repels off of his own shield by how close the dagger strikes the space between them. But he’s good at catching himself. Gurney, unused to Paul’s strange and newly learnt manoeuvres, falls short. He tries to counter, but cannot, but he is most impressed for it.

“Concede.” Paul breathes, low and attempting a threatening veil, as Gurney’s back meets the floor. The old man grunts, before nodding deftly as Paul hauls him to his feet with one palm alone. They settle in different corners of the room, silence beseeching both of them suddenly - they’re not two men for silence, but in Gurney’s head, Paul is undergoing a strange part of his life. He wonders if Paul fears it in the night.

Paul interjects Gurney’s thoughts.

“Do you - have you… met her?” his voice is meek. Uncharacteristic. Gurney smirks.

“Once or twice, in the hallways.”

“And? How is she?”

Gurney laughs. The boy is eager today.

The next time I see her, I will speak, he promises.

Better said than done. With no similar companions his age - a course of action being the very result of his heritage, his mother reminds him - he truly doesn’t know how to properly seek you out. You are more shadow than friend, more idea than person, and the more he sees you, the more he forgets.

“Something on your mind?” Duncan nudges him with the edge of some Fremen equipment, that bothers him well enough to dredge out Paul’s concerns. Not that he needs to. It is written on his face.

“Yes,” Paul confesses, readjusting for comfort, “It’s about my marriage.”

“You speak as though you will marry tomorrow. It is not set it stone. Not yet.”

Paul scoffs, “I know that. I just haven’t met her yet. And I want to.”

Duncan, in the midst of polishing some hardware and solar devices, that smell quite faintly of hot sand and the sun, pauses to glance away from Paul’s face. When his gaze returns, it is almost teasing, a smirk ripping across his face, “You’re in luck today.”

“What?” Paul swivels and —

Oh. Oh.

You’re standing there. Hands clasped behind your back, yes. Stoic, assessing expression, yes. Clothed in rich colours of your house, as you always are in his passing vision - only this time, it is a green so deep that it comes across as black. Suddenly, realising that you have been found out by not only Duncan Idaho, but by the Duke’s son himself, you uncharacteristically let slip your own embarrassment through wide eyes.

“Oh. My apologies — I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious by the - er - gadgets.” you fumble for words at a rate that would be comical if not for the morbid embarrassment seizing you by the seconds. You’re shaking your head politely, smile strained and legs rooted where they are and ready to melt into the various corridors - back to your own duties, you assume. Away from company. Paul, however, stands linearly and full of purpose, face constructed of hard lines that all smile at you.

“No, please. Join us,” his voice is smooth - you’ve never heard him talk, even around those board room meetings - and his hand is extended to gesture within the space, “I insist.”

Duncan raises a brow in amusement and Paul wants to tamp his feet down with a neat blow. That pulls a chortle out of the man, which only further startles you. Paul invites you cordially to take a seat, where you fit awkwardly, like you were truly imposing. However, in a manner of minutes, that is all erased when Duncan lets the two of you weigh the objects in your hand – sand compactor, weapons, stinted devices that were far too aged to be still of use but gathering attention nonetheless. When Paul passes it to you, he feels your soft fingers pass underneath his own, where a warm feeling curdles as an afterthought.

“This—is a sand compactor?” you ask warily, tilting the device as though it would spring up on you and dissolve to bits. Duncan barks out a laugh.

“For sand compacting, yes.” he humours you. You, however, are too lost on the object, still swirling it around in your palms; eyes peeled downwards.

“Yes. I see.” you reply.

The two men dissolve into a fit of laughter. You look up, eyes helplessly trailing from one to the next. The day is easy.

Paul is thankful for the event, and so are you. It doesn’t solve all his problems, and his head is always probing with inquiries and worries, but he can count on the off chance of seeing you in the hallways. He can count on the fact that you will pause, meet his eyes and smile.

You’re walking the countless hallways of the estate - Caladan had so much water to offer, but no one on your native planet ever mentioned the striking architecture, the hollowed out walls and think-pieces painted across rooms. High domed ceilings, with absolutely nothing to offer but soft light. Some rooms contained scintillating glass, chairs of different shapes and mediums, tables too big for just a few affairs. Others were bound shut, but that didn’t discourage nor intimidate you, nor your entourage.

On one such day, you’re caught in your explorations by none other than the Atreides heir.

In actuality, it is you who catches him first, stood perfectly still at the end of the corridor and holding a terse expression. When he spots you, his shoulders relax and he manages to blink once, before his mouth opens underneath the realisation that you were really here.

“Hello.” his voice is strong, and carries well.

That was awkward. This is always awkward. He curses himself.

You smile, and it swipes at the ground beneath his feet, “I didn’t expect to see you here.

“This is my residence, yes?” more jest than anything else. You snort.

“I am aware. Your residence is quite beautiful. I like to wander,” you say, finding yourself fixing a meandering pace beside him, and he smiles softly when he realises that he, too, steps beside you at a similar speed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Never.”

It is quick work after that – by pure coincidence, that you joke to Paul that is it is methodical instincts and ground-work as a mentat that he is able to summon himself almost anywhere you are present from that point onwards, you two bump into each other more and more in the corridors, and from there, it extends to the rather large library, the training space with Gurney skirting its edges, the ever-blossoming gardens even, which held more water than shrubbery in retrospect. Meetings pertaining to your marriage held an element of amusement now, as Paul actually tries to catch your eye this time, drumming his lithe and smooth fingers against the table in a way that could’ve passed off as a wandering of his mind as his father droned on about security measures and fuel caps, but you notice.

You hadn’t, not before, but you did now. To his pleasure, you even respond in a tiny flickering of fingers against the age-old meeting table, the vibrations a blur against his obvious contentment.

“You look glad.” Gurney comments and Paul realises how uninvolved his attention had been on the room before him. He quickly assesses it and whatever lays within it; table, check. Light source, check. Scratchy walls, check. Gurney’s ever-gracing height, check.

When had his habits, trained and chained to duty, begun to sweep towards you?

“Do I?” Paul asks, keeping his voice as still as he can manage. He had swiped at his face to rid the itch off his brow, but he unwittingly catches how warm he is. Not uncomfortable, no. But enough to leave a mark on his consciousness. It was like he was simply losing grip on his own composure when he thought of… something. It was still fleeting in his own mind.

He is too afraid to retrace his steps and find a familiar pair of eyes staring at him in the recesses of it.

Gurney slaps a hand on Paul’s shoulder, seemingly articulate with the latter’s feelings. Old man, Paul would curse out in jest, but he merely smiles. It is strained, and strange. Paul never puts an effort into his smiles, Gurney notes.

“Something is on your mind.” Gurney clicks his tongue.

Paul blinks, swallows, “Something is on my mind.”

“Out with it.”

Paul hesitates, which is strange, because in all his fights he is the first to stoke the flame. He isn’t vengeful – at-least, he doesn’t think he is – that’s why his strikes lack a hunger for blood and instead, settle for calculation. Briefness. No means to an end just yet. Or ever, he thinks.

But with you, it’s different. That’s what he spits out, what he lets Gurney work with. How you were a supposed intrusion into his life – something he had assumed would be awkward, like a stab wound that had scabbed over and began to weakly throb in pain, always to remind itself of its own compromise to work around demise. He thought you would be that; but upon meeting you, you were anything but that. You were curious and brilliant in your own way – similar to him, yet miles apart so that you were the form of a friend he had always wished for in his youth. You talked about your interests and spent double your time inquiring about his. When your hands brushed, his own grew clammy – that’s the strangest one of them all, Gurney – And something was blossoming – was it friendship? Was it trust? Was it fear?

What was this spattering and gooey mess slipping over the swell of his heart whenever you appeared? What was it?

He talks and talks and talks until Gurney squeezes his palm over Paul’s shoulder in a way an uncle would do to his nephew who he might want to reassure. Or a brother would to his youngest companion, as if to say: I see you. I hear what you say.

“Sounds to me like there’s an awful lot of trust between the two of you,” Gurney clicks his tongue again, only this time, Paul scoffs. Ah, there he is – there is the Paul Atreides I know, Gurney smiles, “And something else too.”

“What is it?” Paul asks. His eyes are curious, brows furrowed. Gurney holds down the laugh building in his chest, and the emboldened words in red: you’re falling in love with this friend of yours, boy, and instead, pats him on the shoulder.

“Piece of advice, if you’ll heed to anything I say,” Paul straightens with attention, “Let the truth flow. Do not stop it. Do not push it back. To live with the truth, you must learn its ways and be one with it.”

That night, Paul walks back to his room with the truth beneath his skin, and listens to his own heartbeat against his pillow. The rest of him warms with the realisation of, oh, oh, oh.

The next time you see Paul, you think you’d done something to offend him. Or bore him. Or something other.

It had become a pleasant habit; meeting him at the Caladan gardens, opting for a spot and sitting with your backs to the grass, counting the stars as you talked. Before, conversation had tipped forth whenever. Now, there was something in the air – tension. And it is him that brings it.

Paul avoids your eyes, settling instead for the vast colouring of grey across the hallway walls whenever he caught you in it. He had stopped sending you the familiar drumming of his fingertips across the meeting table, and instead always froze up when you met his gaze, whereby he turned red with anger – or was it anger? What was it?

He’d always be staring at your face, and you would wonder if there was a piece of parchment stuck to it, or if he was merely bored around you; most days, you allowed it. It stung, yes, but you had nothing ill to hold against him. But it accumulated, unbeknownst to you, and for him to miss your question yet again made you sigh in defeat – disappointment?

“You seem distracted,” you say, not bothering to shield the hurt in your words, though you couldn’t begin to understand why and when you had ever begun to crave expect the attention of his earthen-dusted eyes, “Am I boring you?”

He straightens up, his eyes wide, which in turn surprises you, “Bored? Seven hells, no. ‘Course not.”

“What did I just ask then?”

He cringes, “I promise I’m not bored. Just…”

His fingers flex in his lap, before curling into themselves, and his cheeks warm slightly. Is it happening now? Is he doing it now? The weather was right; a typical Caladan breeze, heavy with the wetting of the sky from the day, and now shrouded with clouds and a darkness that was impenetrable. Even as the two of you laid against the bare grass, no one outside could tell either of you apart from the ground itself. In the moonlight, you were almost one with it.

“Just?” you ask. You were curious of this now, “Just what?”

“Just!” he sucks in a harsh breath, his sharp face now boyishly soft and pliant in a way you hadn’t seen it before, “I… Just promise you won’t take offence to this.”

How ironic.

“I promise, Paul,” you smile, shoulder bumping against his as you glance at the side of his face, the way his nose shapes perfectly against the dampness of the Calandan wind, “Tell me.”

Be one with it. Be one with it. It is a mantra in his head.

“I realise that I have begun to grow a certain, uh, affection for you. Yes, I like you. I don’t know how it had begun. And I know it’s foolish of me to even act this way when we are set to marry. But I know, in my heart, that—“ a breath, as he nervously glances at your now surprised face and oh, he shuts his mouth. He opens it again, panicked, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—let me—”

“Paul.” you stop him, hands against his one arm that seems to be quivering ever so slightly – how much of it can he hold?

He waits. Bated breath.

You smile, shy and sweet and it whips against him in a way that the wind of his mother planet had never managed to. Here is my dear friend, he thinks, my dear friend who was but a stranger a long time ago and is set to marry me once talks have been concluded. Here is my friend who I have poured my stupid, ill heart to and who still looks at me with kindness.

“I like you too.”

He blinks. He looks at you when you speak and watches, really watches, how your mouth forms against the words. I like you too.

“As a companion? Or friend, at best? Is that what your ‘like’ refers to?” he asks, nervous in the face of your admission. It makes you smile, as he rambles slightly, and though his countenance is that of poise and grace, beneath he is a a boy of tender heart. Smiling, you grab the front of his thick coat lapel and watch his words die on his tongue as you place a feathery, warm and soft kiss against his mouth. It was so unbelievable, he thought he’d conjured it all up – that you weren’t here, timidly kissing him with a sheepish smile on your face, and the stars of his home glinting against your skin. He lets his finger brush your cheek, still dumb-struck.

“Again.” he whispers. His heart hammers at the sound of your breathy laugh, as you repeat the action, conviction in your palms as they lay upon his cheek, “Again, please.”

“Again?” you ask, voice soft and muted as he hoists you atop of his front, chest to chest, and gazing at him like he was everything. Within the action, your golden insignia brushes his own, silver ones so briefly that he can make out a shape bourne from the contact of either two, before they separate. You wanted him, as he wanted you. And soon, you would wed, and the image of gold upon silver won’t be so unclear anymore. Maybe, somewhere warmer and less unbelievable, he could let himself grow familiar with the reality of you. But for now, he could settle for this to be a mere dream he had grown to relish so very much. Even now, he could almost believe none of this to be real, just a trick of the mind. Maybe fatigue or delusion.

He says your name so quietly, a plea, and it has never sounded sweeter, “Please.”

And yet, the soft press of your mouth upon his convinces him that it is so much more.

i wanted to incorporate some inferences of paul’s character from the early novel (mentat, solitude in terms of companions, great fighter), as well as the film, whilst wanting to stray away from the destruction of house atreides after the gifting of arrakis, which would explain why the marriage needs to take place. sooo no one dies! HURRAH!!!!!!!!! enjoy :]

#paul x you #dune paul x you #paul atreides fic #paul atreides x you #paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x y/n #dune x you #dune x reader #dune part two x reader

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an-idyllic-novelist · 1 year

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qin shi huang with yoriichi tsugikuni!fem!reader headcanons

warnings: spoilers from manga, ooc, slow burn friends-to-lovers troupe

Special thanks to @onecantsimply, @yellow-snark and @thatstrangesheep for their feedback and help with these headcanons! Enjoy! :)

Even in death, Qin Shi Huang was an emperor whom everyone respected as the ‘king who began everything’. He had reunited the annexed nations of China, a guiding light who led his people bringing peace and prosperity after almost a millennium of strife. Now, within the vast afterlife known as Valhalla, he reigned over a substantial amount of territory alongside his successors, working as a cohesive council when conflict arose.

Today, however, he has come to handle the problem on his own terms. For the last two months, men, women, and even children have gone missing from the foot of the northeastern mountains. Given the harsh environment, it is not too odd to believe that the cause of their disappearance might be an attack from a wild animal, angering the spirits who guard the terrain, or just simply got lost.

But the disemboweled bodies told the emperor a different story: there is a beast devouring his people, and it is certainly not a bear. For a split moment, Qin Shi Huang feared that Chi You had somehow returned from beyond its miserable grave and had come back to take revenge on the ‘insolent whelp’ who would not bow before its bony knees as payment for being accepted as an emperor of China.

If that were truly the case, though, there would be more corpses strewn about the mountain base than the current number of victims. Qin Shi Huang had already defeated the god, and he will do it again to protect his subjects. Such is the road he leads as an emperor, after all~.

So imagine his surprise when he comes across a six-armed being with pasty skin and glowing golden sclera, hunched over the corpse of a man cradling his child. It was not Chi You, but a demon. A demon that was the stuff of legends many years ago, only for them to suddenly vanish and become nothing more than a bedtime story to keep children from sneaking off at night.

And now, here is the great emperor, face-to-face with this drooling beast. Qin Shi Huang frowned, bending his sinewy body into an offensive position. Just when he was about to launch an attack, his opponent’s head rolled off its shoulders. He blinked, watching the demon’s body collapse onto the grass, twitching rapidly before disintegrating into dust. Hm? He hadn’t even moved! Unless the presence of an emperor is that powerful before a demon that it self destructs?

“Are you all right?” Qin Shi Huang then saw a figure standing where the demon had been, sword unsheathed. At first glance, she seemed like an ordinary traveler by the way she dressed, but the emperor knew that she was certainly not an ordinary person. Not from the tremendous amount of chi circulating around this woman’s body and the sword fastened at her waist.

She was a warrior as Chun Yan had been.

He grinned. “Hao!”

[Eye Color] orbs blinked at him in confusion, tilting her head to the side as she repeated the word. “Does that mean…you are hurt?”

Zori sandals stomped against the bloodied soil as she strode over to him, astounding Qin Shi Huang with her agility. She frowned slightly, her eyes scanning over his body. “You…are all right, it appears.” She glanced up at him. “I…apologize if I had gotten…your clothes dirty. You are a young lord, yes?”

Qin Shi Huang frowned. “Buhao.”

“Hm?”

He raised his right hand, pressing his middle and index fingers together before he pointed them towards the ground, the golden nail guards glowing beneath the moonlight. “Humble yourself. You are in the presence of an emperor. Be grateful I have not executed you for your impudence.”

“You…are an emperor?”

That was how the greatest emperor in all of Chinese history crossed paths with the greatest Demon Slayer in history, the Mother of All Breathing Techniques, the Sun Hashira [First Name] [Last Name].

In your defense, you never would have guessed that the man who had been endangered moments ago had not been a feudal lord looking for trouble in these woods, but an emperor who had come to kill the demon devouring his people.

You did apologize for being rude, and politely asked His Imperial Majesty if there was a town close by. You lived deep in the mountains, though in the opposite direction of his territory. It would take about two days to return should you leave now. That was only if you were lucky enough to not come across any more demons on your journey back home.

To your surprise, this emperor all but commanded you to follow him to his palace. He boasted that it was the largest one in Valhalla, with the finest food and rooms available for only esteemed guests and members of his court. However, since you did humble yourself before him, he will make an exception and allow a weary traveler to stay in the guest quarters for the night. You thanked him, trailing after the man through the woods to the crowded streets of a bustling city and right up the stone footsteps of an extravagant palace the likes of which you had never seen before.

You dared to say that it was much bigger than the Ubuyashiki compound.

With a clap of his jeweled hands, a group of young maidens in flowing robes appeared before him. He ordered them to make sure you received the most excellent care, including running a warm bath and mending your damaged clothes. Before you could have a moment to say something, you were immediately whisked away to another part of the palace until dinner was ready.

The food was just as extravagant as the clothes that the maidens had dressed you in. It was almost too much, but you dared to not insult your host. Instead, you bowed your head to him in gratitude and ate as much as you could without being too rude. Thankfully you could recall some of your table manners from when you had been alive, before becoming a Hashira and just the daughter of a prestigious household in the Sengoku era.

Between the raucous laughter and idle chatter amongst the others who dined at this table, you had almost expected to be asked to leave or escorted out of the banquet hall so that the emperor could speak to his fellow countrymen freely without the presence of an outsider.

Instead, His Imperial Majesty asked you many questions. Who you are, why were you in the woods, how did you defeat the demon, etc. You answered them to the best of your ability, humbly explaining that you had once been a Demon Slayer and trained to exterminate the ones who came out at night to consume human flesh. There is nothing special about you.

You had simply worked hard, protected humanity until your untimely death. There was no need for him to know of your ability to see the Transparent World, much less the Breathing Techniques of a Demon Slayer.

Some secrets were meant to be just that: secrets. And you were bad at explaining things; it had been a miracle that the Hashiras, those whom you had worked alongside all those years ago, could comprehend your words and adapt the Sun Breathing techniques into their own variations: Water, Insect, Flame, Wind, Stone, and so forth.

Again the emperor surprised you; he seemed intrigued by the Breathing Styles and continued to ask questions about how to use it until the handmaidens escorted you to the guest quarters later that night, although His Imperial Majesty wished to keep speaking even in a drunken stupor.

The following morning, you thanked the emperor for his hospitality and left the palace. An armed entourage followed you out to the city’s borders to make sure you would not try to attack His Imperial Majesty nor the citizens. You thanked them for their vigilance and hard work before beginning the journey towards your humble home.

You were certain that this was the first and only time you would come across royalty and thought nothing of it in the days that went by upon returning, weeks becoming almost two months since the demon attack. You would either be tending to the crops or practicing your swordsmanship. Eventually, it was time for you to venture down from the mountains to restock on your supplies.

The villagers who lived at the mountain’s edge were kind people. Some of them were elderly and required assistance with manual labor or errands. You did not mind helping them, and were quite hesitant to accept anything from them, especially rice or other precarious commodities.

Most were merchants who traveled a great distance from the village to the city to sell their wares. How could you even consider taking that away from them? To your dismay, they were quite stubborn and practically shoved it in your hands.

The ‘payment’ from the villagers, including the usual amount of items you purchased from the vendors, became too much for you to carry without making two trips up and down the mountain.

You were almost considering having to borrow a cart when a voice called out to you.

Turning around, your eyes widened in shock at the appearance of the emperor Qin Shi Huang walking down the muddied main road, flanked by four or five armed soldiers. He recognized you immediately, almost running with a wide grin on his face.

He’d been wanting to continue his conversation with you, yet due to his workload in the palace prevented him from venturing out sooner. You had also been difficult to track down as no one seemed to be aware that a Demon Slayer wearing hanafuda earrings existed in Valhalla except for a young whelp and his little sister living in the floating cities alongside the Valkyries.

But now, he’s here and ready to chat~. You should be grateful he had traveled such a long way to visit. He is an emperor after all. He was willing to help carry the supplies up the mountains if it meant he had an opportunity to challenge you to a fight and idly chatter over drinks.

Upon explaining that you did not drink alcohol, the emperor told you not to fret. He’s come prepared. Revealing a large jug of corked liquor in his hand with a wide grin, you realized that he would not go away even if you politely asked him too.

So with great reluctance, you guided Qin and his entourage up the mountains, some of them carrying your supplies.

A peaceful day became chaotic. And from this single afternoon of idle chatter and sparring with an incredibly powerful fighter transitioned to an unlikely friendship. Qin Shi Huang was nothing like Sumiyoshi, that much was certain.

Where Sumiyoshi was a humble man blessed to have a family in turbulent times, the boastful emperor had been an unwanted child from the moment he was born. If it had not been for his mentor and mother, that meek little boy would not have the confidence to move forward and pave the road for his people to live in peace, let alone find a method to deal with the Zhao’s anger aimed at him simply because he was from royalty.

He had many children sired from his concubines but he never took an empress, much to his council’s annoyance even in the afterlife. Chun Yan too, of all people!

Yet despite such different personalities from two different people who are your friends….you knew they both possessed kindness and empathy. Why else would an emperor continue to maintain contact with you via letters and occasionally visit you in the mountains over the next thirty years?

He’s a man who had led his people into prosperity after all, the king of all kings.

You had lost so much when you were alive…is it truly all right to be selfish and treasure Qin Shi Huang as a friend, an emperor of all people?

Qin Shi Huang quickly discovered that there was more to his new friend than being a calm, unreadable individual who never raised her voice once even when he had been purposely annoying just to gauge a reaction.

The Sun Hashira…she was perfect. A beautiful, complex creature who values integrity and kindness above all else. She did not enjoy fighting, preferring a quiet life away from society than challenging one opponent after another. And like him, she knew what it meant to lose a loved one.

When it came to strength, she once told him, those who are marked like herself will all meet the same fate. He had an idea as to the cryptic meaning behind her words…and he prayed that she would live in this afterlife.

When he revealed his past to her, what he had done as a child until his death, the Sun Hashira simply accepted it all as they say together on the snowy veranda of her small home.

“To live in an era of conflict…there can never be true peace without bloodshed. Your Imperial Majesty had gone through so much….and you were loved deeply by Chun Yan. I wish….I could have met her….and thank her for raising a wonderful, strong son.”

Qin Shi Huang.exe stopped working for a span of five seconds before he tried to hide his embarrassment with a swing of the warm sake that his host had prepared especially for them to celebrate the New Year together.

Another year has come and gone…so why was it that his heart hasn’t stopped hammering against his ribcage?

Bonus Content:

After five years of sending luxurious gifts and love letters, it took a stammering confession from the emperor to convey his feelings towards the Sun Hashira.

Although she did not want to marry right away, she humbly accepted a period of courtship from China’s greatest emperor until it was appropriate to be welcomed as his empress.

Some of his court were pleased that he had finally selected a wife to become the mother of the nation, but there were others who believed that [First Name] was too independent and would not respect the traditions required to follow after becoming an empress.

Needless to say, Qin Shi Huang made an example of the courtiers who dared to disrespect his new wife behind closed doors. His warning also extended to the concubines, should they try to do something malicious out of petty jealousy.

Quality time included sampling delicacies in the garden, sparring matches, and cuddling in his private quarters.

Chun Yan approved of [First Name], congratulating her adoptive son on finding a woman who can keep up with his shenanigans.

The domestic bliss between the emperor and empress never wavered…until Brunhilde approached the palace and asked for their aid to fight against the gods. Both of them.

If it hadn’t been for [First Name]’s benevolence, Qin would have immediately executed the Valkyrie on the spot for her arrogance. Instead he gave her the courtesy and listened to her proposal regarding the event called Ragnarok. A battle royale until one opponent is annihilated.

The emperor would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested, but he had no intention of bringing his Sun Hashira into it. He wanted her to spend this afterlife in peace, not to put her life on the line again.

Alas, his wife was stubborn. He agreed to Brunhilde’s terms so long as she agreed to his terms. Once she left the palace, he pulled his empress into a long talk about this…situation.

Whatever obstacles will come their way, they will face it together. The Sun Hashira isn’t alone anymore.

Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@onecantsimply

@recreationalfanfics

@deathmetalunicorn1

@yellow-snark

@thatstrangesheep

@dance-till-the-death

@staticradiotv

Honorable mentions:

@myrisan-melodies

#record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok x reader #qin shi huang #qin shi huang x reader #shuumatsu no valkyrie #snv x reader #snv qin shi huang #qin shi huang headcanons #an idyllic novelist #ror x reader #fem reader #snv

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