#you know those snowcapped mountains that looked as if they could be as high as the cascades a few weeks ago?
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I lied, morning not so lazy \o/
#journal shit#you know those snowcapped mountains that looked as if they could be as high as the cascades a few weeks ago?
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The Silver Dragon (42/?)
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character
Word Count: 18,112 (OOPS, but not really)
Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.
Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.
Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?
Chapter Summary: In the Vale, Arianwyn receives a wedding present from Ser Gerold and has a candid discussion with her Godsmother. At Storm's End, Aemond goes on a tumultuous hunt with Borros Baratheon. Both are met with unpleasant interruptions to their missions.
Warnings: none, other than Baratheon/frat-boy shenanigans
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Three Days, Part II
On the 24th day in the ninth month, 136 years after Aegon’s conquest…
Arianwyn sat by the window of her rooms with the periwinkle scrap of silk still gripped in her hand, absentmindedly running her thumb over some of the Runes – those for wisdom and peace – while she drank her morning tea. Though she supposed ‘mid-morning tea’ was the more accurate term. When she woke, the sun had already been well into its journey across the sky.
Brynna would be horrified that she had slept so late, especially as a guest.
But perhaps the maid would be lenient, given how it had been her host who had kept her up with wine and a never-ceasing demand for stories. Arianwyn had not wanted to ask after the time before bed, and she would not inquire about it today either. If she genuinely did not know, she would not have to lie if Brynna asked about it – should she ever find out.
The apartments Arianwyn had been given were so large that she doubted they were actually intended for use as guest quarters, but she would not complain. From the window in the bedchamber, she could look over the garden where Emrys was staying. He had roused along with her and trilled sleepily when she came to the window to greet him.
Not wanting him to be confined for so long in the small courtyard, she had sent him into the mountains to explore. He had been all too excited to obey. The stress and terror of the last night were quickly forgotten. For in the daylight, the mountains offered him the novelty and excitement he had so long been denied on Dragonstone.
The window in the sitting room offered a view of the mountains themselves. Arianwyn drank her tea while watching Emrys weaving between the peaks, sending the snowcaps tumbling down, and flying through the mist from the waterfall just below the castle.
Alyssa’s Tears, it was called. After the mythical woman who had not shed a single tear when her entire family was slaughtered. As punishment for her heartlessness, the gods refused her peace in death until her tears fell upon the Vale and wet the ground in which her family was buried. The waterfall was supposedly fed by the tears she cried in whatever restless afterlife she was doomed to. But the water spilled from so high that it turned to mist long before it reached the valley floor and never truly touched the ground below.
The story was one of the many without a happy ending in Arianwyn’s little brown book of fairy tales from the First Men, and one of the few on which she and Aemond agreed: it was far too sad.
Bringing the silk to her face so she could once more breathe in her husband’s scent, Arianwyn let her mind wander to what he may be doing. He was nearly a thousand miles away, the furthest apart they had ever been.
Did he feel that distance as she did – as if it were a rope tied around her waist, growing tighter with every breath? Did he keep turning to his right expecting to find her there, as she kept looking up to her left? Had he dreamed of her that night, as she had dreamed of him?
Aemond had no doubt already been awake for hours – he had always risen early. Had he already secured Lord Borros’ support? At this very moment, were he and Vhagar on their way home?
The thought of him sitting alone in their rooms waiting for her brought a pang of guilt to Arianwyn’s chest.
Though perhaps that pain was only hunger. She had yet to break her fast, after all. The maid that dressed her had brought a tray of tea but no food. And though she had been awake for nearly an hour now, no one had come to fetch her.
She was about to give into her aching stomach and dig through one of her saddlebags for some dried meat when a knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” she called, hastily shoving her bag beneath the table to hide what she had been about to do. But there was no need. It was Ser Gerold, along with two footmen bearing trays laden with all manner of food.
He smiled when he saw her, his arms immediately spreading to pull her into another tight embrace.
Arianwyn would never get tired of his hugs – so different from Aemond’s, yet just as wonderful. While Gerold was nearly the same height as her husband, he was so much softer. He had never been thin, even when he was a practicing, muscled knight of the Vale.
No, he was the very image of the Bronze Kings she had seen in paintings and tapestries – tall and barrel-chested. She would never understand how the Andals had not immediately turned back across the Narrow Sea when they beheld King Yorwyck VI, purported to be the largest man to ever wear the Runic Crown.
All she knew or cared about was that the Royce physique was perfect for giving the best hugs in all the world.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, brushing a tangled curl behind her ear. “Or did you miss your husband’s presence too dearly?”
Arianwyn laughed and surreptitiously snagged the periwinkle silk from the table and slipped it into her pocket. “It took me a while to fall asleep,” she admitted, “but I slept well after I did.”
“Good,” he said. Then, he patted her head once and moved to hold out her chair for her to sit. “I apologize for how late I am, but I am afraid I slept too long myself.”
“How do you know I slept too long?” she asked as he pushed her chair closer to the table. “I could have been waiting here for hours, starving.”
Gerold only gave her an incredulous look as he took the seat across from her – the only other seat set for the meal. “Because I know you, and I knew your mother. She savored her sleep as well. You are the only people I have ever known who can sleep as soundly and as long as a bear.”
She made a disgruntled noise as she poured herself a new cup of tea. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that while sharing a bed with Aemond. He not only stays up hours past when all normal people go to bed, but acts as though he is in an eternal race with the sun to see who can rise first.”
“You could always sleep in your own quarters,” he suggested half-heartedly as he began to fill his plate with food. “Most wives do, after all.”
“Do I have to?” she asked as she set down the teapot, avoiding meeting her cousin’s eyes. “I mean… will it be expected of me?”
Lifting the silver lid off a tray of cold honeyed ham, Gerold grimaced as he considered his answer. “It will be seen as unusual, perhaps, if you choose to go on sharing chambers. But there is nothing wrong with it. Most couples simply are not as fortunate as the pair of you to actually want to spend time with their spouse.”
He smiled proudly as he began loading his plate, his gaze momentarily drawn to the window by the shadow of Emrys flying past.
“Lady Jeyne isn’t joining us?” Arianwyn asked, not wanting to put anything on her own plate for fear of offending her host, despite her stomach growling.
Gerold only shook his head as he dropped a fourth slice of ham onto his plate. “Not this morning. I told Jeyne I wanted at least some time with you, alone. If she was here, I would scarcely have the chance to talk!”
He laughed heartily as he scooped buttered eggs on top of his ham. “So, I get you for this meal. Afterward, she will claim you for a tour of the castle or some other thing, and you will have your luncheon together.”
“What about the petition?”
He finished his plate with three thick slices of rye bread slathered with an obscene amount of butter. “That will be later, after the rest of the court finishes our business for the day.”
“But – ”
“Yes, I know you are in a hurry to return to Aemond,” he assuaged her. “But autumn is here, and no one knows how soon winter will follow, which means we will soon depart the Eyrie. We have our own business to finish before then, which takes precedence, I’m afraid.”
Arianwyn shrank into her chair and half-heartedly looked over the food she had yet to add to her plate. The hunger gnawing at her was replaced by a sense of disappointed dread.
“Don’t worry,” Gerold said, leaning across the table to fill her plate for her, “At least, by speaking at the end of the session, the court will be more likely to give you a swift answer?”
“The court?” she asked, looking up from the mountain of porridge now on her plate. “Not just Jeyne?”
He sighed and frowned, forgetting that she knew only the ways of the King’s court, not that of the Vale. At least, with winter approaching, he would have ample time to teach her their ways before she was called to the Eyrie as the representative of Runestone.
“Jeyne makes the final decision,” he explained, “but she carefully considers the opinion of every member of her court before she makes it. She is not a Queen. She is… do you know what her title is?”
Arianwyn sighed, not particularly in the mood for a lesson. “Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East,” she answered before taking a sharp bite of her bread.
“Very good,” he said flatly, neither fazed nor amused by her tone. “She is not our Queen, but our Warden. She guides us. She does not rule us, at least not in the way you know. So, yes. It will be the entire court you must convince.”
“Will they listen to me? Or…” she pushed the small pieces of ham that Gerold had cut for her, as if she were still a child, around her plate. “You told me that rumors about me – about Aemond – have made their way here. Does the court believe them?”
He let his fork fall to the table as he thought about how to answer, the silence of the room echoing through Arianwyn’s mind. If those who had known Aemond when he was a sweet young boy could now believe Daemon’s outrageous lies, what hope was there in those who knew only his reputation believing in his innocence?
“No house which has provided a knight for your guard believes them,” he said carefully, giving her time to count how many allies that gave her. Only six, among the thirty-two houses – excluding Arryn and Royce – that would be present in the Throne Room. “The Lords Grafton, Hersy, and Hunter were with us in King’s Landing when we petitioned for your release. They saw how devoted he was to you then. Lord Hunter, in fact, commissioned a copy of your translations for his library. For years, he has asked that I send you his many questions along with my letters.”
That brought a small smile to her face, but it did not last. Not when she had to convince an entire court that Aegon was fit for the throne. She was not entirely certain of it herself. But like she had told Rhaenys, she was certain that Rhaenyra – and, by extension, Daemon – was even less fit.
“What about the others?” she asked, taking another slow sip of tea.
Gerold sighed. “They have their suspicions and their… hesitancies. But it is still only rumors, my dear.”
“It is because of those rumors that I am here,” she explained, “and alone. Otto Hightower thought that my coming here on Emrys, and showing that I am not a prisoner, would help dispel the worst of what is being said.”
Gerold nodded as he set down his tea. “A wise strategy. Though, I think I have something that may be even more effective.”
Arianwyn watched him curiously as he stood, briefly remembering that he had mentioned a present the night before. He had not brought anything with him beside the servants and the food they carried.
But then he drew his sword from his belt, resting the flat of the blade in his palm as he looked over the whirling patterns in the Valyrian Steel. One had to look very closely to see the Runes etched into its fuller. Those on the crossguard and pommel were much easier to read.
Lamentation.
The ancestral sword of their house, dating from just after the Andals had claimed victory over the Vale, and House Royce and House Arryn had been joined in marriage to end the years of conflict between them. The Arryns had commissioned the blade from a traveling Valyrian smith to be part of the bride price. The bride herself had not been a warrior, so the sword was instead wielded by her brother and passed down throughout the millennia.
Though Rhea had been a warrior, it had passed over her to Gerold after Lord Yorbert died.
And now he held it out to Arianwyn.
“I…” she stammered, unsure what to say. She was the Lady of Runestone, but certainly no warrior. The gesture was sweet, but unnecessary, and more than a little confusing.
Gerold lowered himself to a knee, his face tightening as his old muscles strained. “This blade has been wielded by our family for thousands of years, passing from father to son. Its rightful place is in the hands of the ruler of Runestone and the head of our house, whether that be its Lady or its Lord.”
He held his hands, and the sword, out further toward her. “That is you now, Aria. You and Aemond. So, I hereby relinquish my claim to Lamentation and present it to you. So that you may bestow it upon your husband, our new Lord of Runestone.”
Tears pricked her eyes as she wrapped a hand around the cool metal of its hilt, then the other. Though Valyrian steel was light, it was still far too large for her to lift with one hand. Even with both arms, she strained to hold it upright.
She had seen it so many times on Gerold’s hip but had never looked at it closely.
As a sign of respect to the long history of House Royce, the blade had been made in the style of the First Men. The crossguard and pommel were both made from the bone white heartwood of a Weirwood tree – a gesture of goodwill to the newly converted Royces. Thin bands of bronze emblazoned with “We Remember” in Runes held the ends of the leather-wrapped grip in place. The base of the pommel, too, was made of bronze and engraved with the full Runic words of their house:
The past is set in stone and cast in bronze. We remember.
It curved away from the blade, opposite the crossguard, forming the base on which five petals of Weirwood rested. Each rounded piece was bordered by more bronze, and each sigil and Rune carved into the wood was filled with hammered bronze wire.
A perfect embodiment of House Royce. Of their connection to the Old Gods and the Runes.
Or, it would have been had the blade, too, been made of bronze and not Valyrian steel.
And if not for the seven-pointed star at the base of the pommel, also filled with bronze. A reminder that the Andals had won. That the Runic Crown was stolen – some said it had been melted down to make this very sword – and the Old Gods displaced by the Seven.
Although in the centuries and millennia that passed, the Royces had become devoted to the new gods, none more heartily than Arianwyn. She did not see that symbol as a mark of conquest, but a comforting presence, and one she was quite glad of.
For that reason, and for the Valyrian blood in her veins, perhaps the sword fit into her small hands more perfectly than any of her ancestors before her.
But when she raised the sword again, her arms quavered and buckled, and the blade tip clanged against the marble floor as her strength failed. If it hadn’t been Valyrian Steel, the point may very well have snapped.
Any faint ideas she had about her wielding the sword, rather than Aemond, disappeared after that.
Arianwyn carefully handed the sword back to Gerold, who slid it back into the hilt he had detached from his belt and set it gently on the table. She tried not to blush at dropping the most valuable possession her House had ever owned, but her cheeks burned despite herself.
“Aemond will be so honored,” she said to her cousin. “I just wish you could give it to him yourself.”
Gerold laughed. “I could wait until the two of you finally get to Runestone. It would be a wonderful centerpiece to the grand feast I plan to hold for you.”
“You may want to send a raven to Queen Alicent,” she mused with a sly smile. “She also has plans for a feast. The two of you may need to conspire on a single event, so Aemond does not have to endure too much socialization.”
-
Aemond was sure that Borros had ordered he be given the worst horse in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Its fucking name was ‘Barrel,’ gods be good.
Barrel was the ugliest shade of grey-beige Aemond had ever seen. Beyond the nauseating color, his hair was patchy and scraggly, giving the appearance of an overgrown, malformed mule rather than a horse. And overgrown, he certainly was. At the shoulder, he was taller than Aemond, and his chest was as wide as two barrels – obviously his namesake.
It was also the most temperamental beast Aemond had ever met. Compared to Barrel, even Vhagar seemed as docile as a newborn kitten. Every command was a battle, and each one put him further and further behind the rest of the hunting party, making him lose valuable time he needed to sway Borros to Aegon’s cause.
By the time he once again caught up to the Lord of Storm’s End, his fingers bore the marks of Barrel’s misshapen teeth even from beneath his gloves. However, Aemond got several sturdy kicks and thumps in – though he doubted the massive horse had felt any of them.
Worse than the snickers he heard as he maneuvered Barrel clumsily through the party was that nearly every man already had at least one squirrel, rabbit, or even a game bird of some kind strapped to his saddle.
Borros had two rabbits and a small pheasant.
Aemond had nothing.
“I thought surely you’d have caught something by now,” Borros snickered as he looked over the Prince’s saddle. “You’ve disappeared into the woods alone often enough. Out of practice?”
The urge to draw his dagger and show Borros how skilled he was nearly overwhelmed Aemond. Aegon needs him, he reminded himself. We need allies to protect ourselves. Protect Arianwyn.
So, he took a deep breath and forced out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m afraid we have not hunted in many years. It did not seem right when my father could not join us. He was quite the avid hunter.”
“Yes, I remember,” Borros said as he turned away to focus on the path ahead. “I was a young man when my father took me to the Kingswood for the hunt in honor of your brother’s second nameday. It was quite the event.”
“So I have heard,” Aemond muttered.
Borros glanced at him again, a cruel grin flashing across his lips. “I was never invited to a similar event in your honor, or your younger brother’s. Why is that?”
Aemond knew the answer. And he hated it.
A hunt that grand had only been given once more after that. Not for Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, or Daeron. Viserys never found them worthy of such a celebration. No, the only other hunt of that scale was in honor of Rhaenyra when she birthed the first of her bastards.
It was always Rhaenyra.
But not now. Not anymore.
Viserys was gone. So too, was the Crown’s blindness to her sins – her unworthiness.
That was why Aemond was here.
“I believe it was my mother’s decision,” he lied smoothly. “She was quite disturbed by the sight of my eldest sister covered in boar’s blood and decided she would prefer more civilized celebrations for her own children.”
Borros didn’t even try to hide the roll of his eyes. “Yes, tourneys are quite civilized.”
“They are at least structured,” Aemond snapped, startling Barrel and forcing him to stop and soothe the stupid beast before catching up to Borros and taking on a more diplomatic tone. “I think we can agree that most knights are less savage than the average boar.”
At that, or perhaps at Barrel’s antics, Borros laughed. “‘Most,’ perhaps. Not all.” He looked back at one of his men and raised a brow. “We have heard rumor that the new King has his own… savage proclivities.”
Aemond bit his lip and tried to make himself look like Aegon’s nightly activities didn’t disgust him. “My brother is a man of strong desires. I dare say there are worse vices, wouldn’t you?”
“Like an overindulgence in wine, perhaps?” one of Borros’ men called out.
Turning around to try and identify the man that said it only upset Barrel even more. And, of course, the party did not stop to wait for him. So it was several minutes and three sharp bites later that Aemond caught up to his host once more.
“I hope any rumors you may have heard will not color your assessment of my brother too harshly,” he began, his voice more pleading than he had intended. “Aegon has his faults. I cannot deny that. But no King has ever been perfect, not even Jaehaerys. My brother will be a good King. He only needs the chance to prove himself.”
Borros’ face was impassive. “Most Kings prove themselves well before they take the throne, boy, during their time as heir. Your brother was only the heir for mere moments before King Viserys died, I am told. What was he doing in those moments, I wonder?”
A low chuckle rumbled through the hunting party, among the squires and servants, and even Barrel seemed to be enjoying himself for once. Aemond made a note to talk to Larys Strong when he returned to seek out any prying eyes in the Keep. There had to be many if word of Aegon’s habits had spread so far. Even if it was the truth, people could not be allowed to speak of their King in that way.
But for now…
“I will not deny that he was in the arms of a woman,” he conceded. Though it was only his best guess – he had not asked Ser Arryk for much detail. But if Borros already knew Aegon’s habits, convincing him of the falsehood should not be hard.
The Baratheon chuckled. “I assume it was not his wife?”
If any of these men said a word against Helaena… Aemond shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was one of his favorites – the daughter of a Pentosi trader, I believe. I do not know her name.” The lies came so easily. It unsettled him. “But I assure you, she is not misused.”
“She is… well compensated, then?” another of the men behind them asked with a barely stifled laugh. Each of them was vulgar and shameless. They would get on well with Aegon, actually.
Aemond once more swallowed his disgust, and his surprise that he was feeling so defensive of a fictional paramour. “She is not a whore. She is not paid. But Aegon does… spoil her. Gifts her jewels, silk, and other luxuries. It is in a man’s nature to want to provide for the woman he loves, is it not?”
“That it is,” Borros agreed, reaching over to clap Aemond’s shoulder, again startling Barrel. “Why else would my wife wear jewels as large as her tits!”
He led the party in another bout of rude, raucous laughter. Aemond thought he could vomit. He played his sour look off as further frustration with his mount.
When he finally stopped laughing at his own crudeness, Borros again turned to Aemond. “I suppose it is not what we usually expect of our heirs, but it at least proves he is a man.” Then, he scoffed, “Why your father waited so long to name him heir, I don’t understand.”
“I’m told being so close to death brings clarity of mind,” Aemond mused, though he did not entirely understand his father’s change of heart himself. Perhaps it was a final gift of apology to his wife, granting their son his birthright at last.
Pushing Aegon – and all of them – aside for so long deeply wounded his mother. But she never allowed it show. No, she let it strengthen her resolve.
As long as Aemond could remember, Alicent had often fulfilled the role of the heir in Rhaenyra’s place. Whenever his sister could not bring herself to care about her duties or was too busy holding her own private court in her tower with Harwin Strong as her consort, or later with Daemon on Dragonstone.
Many of the nobles who had flocked around her like a gaggle of simpering geese were the same who now whispered about him when they thought he could not hear – and sometimes when they knew he could. The battle lines between Green and Black were drawn well before Viserys’ death.
Borros considered him carefully. “And in this clarity… did he reveal anything to you?”
Aemond felt that same pestering shame in his chest as he did when his father begged peace for his family that night at dinner – the last time he had seen the King. A peace Aemond himself had shattered. He swallowed and pursed his lips, focusing on keeping his voice even and confident. “I confess I did not visit my father on his deathbed.”
“Given how long he was on his deathbed,” Borros half-laughed, “I find that hard to believe.”
The rest of the party laughed with him, and Aemond conceded a smile as he amended his statement, “I did not visit him in his final days.”
Or months. Or years…
For the first time, all of Borros’ men were silent. For the first time, their presence did not grate on Aemond.
One of them – one of the bastards – cleared his throat before speaking. “I did not visit my father, either. Even when he asked for me, specifically.”
Aemond turned to him slowly, ready to say something cruel, but the words escaped him. He was loathe to admit he empathized with a bastard, but the look on the man’s face was familiar. It was a look he had seen on Aegon’s face and felt on his own: that of a man who had never had his father’s love.
But this man – this bastard – had been summoned by his father in those precious final moments.
Aemond had not.
What was he, a trueborn son who was loved less than a bastard? What did you call a son whose father cared too little to even hate him? Was there even a word for something so wretched?
A sharp pain ran through his scar, and he hissed as he sucked in a breath and ducked his head.
“I’m sorry, my Prince,” the man whispered, bowing his head slightly.
Aemond did not reply. He hated the man for what he had. And though he was grateful for the sympathy, it did nothing to soothe his pain.
He needed to get this damn thing done so he could return home. Put that vulgar trophy room, these men and their depraved senses of humor, and the way they looked at him like one of the predators lining their floor – like he was to be both feared and hunted – behind him.
“My brother has sent me to…” he began.
Borros reared his horse, the sudden movement causing Barrel to nearly throw Aemond, and turned to him with a hard face. “Later, my Prince. There is a clearing just ahead where we will stop for a meal.”
He flicked his eyes to Aemond’s saddle. “Since you have not caught anything, I will give you one of my rabbits.”
As Aemond’s scar flared once more, Vhagar let out a grumbling roar in the distance.
-
Gerold and Arianwyn spent the remainder of their meal strategizing about what she could say to sway the Valish court. But when the tea had gone cold, and Lady Jeyne arrived to claim her time with her godsdaughter, they had made little progress.
Aegon’s character was well known, and many of the Lords of the Vale were more pious than anyone outside of Oldtown. So, convincing them that he was suited for leadership would be no easy feat. And while Rhaenyra’s own sins may have brought them to equal footing, the oaths the Houses had sworn to her more than twenty years ago gave her back the advantage.
Arianwyn had suggested revealing Daemon’s true nature to the court, but Gerold cautioned her against it. Rhea had refused to do so while she was still alive, fearing the devastation his wrath could bring. And since he had already threatened to kill Arianwyn, and nearly made good on that promise, Gerold did not want to provoke him further.
So, they were left with emphasizing that the King had changed his mind, reiterating the laws that demanded Aegon inherit, singing what praises she could of her good brother, and criticizing Rhaenyra as much as possible without also drawing any judgmental eyes toward Aegon.
Neither of them was very confident in the plan actually working.
But when Jeyne swept into the room, she brought an air of optimism that neither could resist. She flitted about the room as she sang Emrys’ praises, having watched him for most of the morning. And her playful jabs at Gerold for still eating like he trained daily sent all three of them laughing.
As she guided her godsdaughter through the Eyrie, she was much less voracious in her appetite to hear every detail about Arianwyn’s life than she had been the night before. Rather, she let the girl tell the stories at her own pace and let her lead the conversation. She even answered questions about her own life as a ruling Lady, the history of the Vale, and her experiences – though they were few – with sheep.
Arianwyn had never heard anyone laugh so loud as when she told her godsmother about the flock of sheep Aemond had procured for them. She was still laughing when they came to stand before a marble statue in the center of the gardens.
Though it was much less grand than the statues Arianwyn had seen in King’s Landing, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Carved entirely from white marble, like the rest of the Eyrie. And like the castle itself, it was carved with remarkable skill. It depicted a woman in a near-shapeless dress, the hood of her cloak drawn, and her hands held out in beseeching prayer as she wept.
Alyssa Arryn, the same mythical woman who gave her name to the waterfall next to the castle.
“I know her story is a sad one,” Arianwyn murmured as she examined the heartbreaking devastation the sculptor had captured in the statue’s face. “A warning that we should not hold back our tears, but…”
Jeyne said nothing, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. It was a rare and much-appreciated courtesy.
“But recently, I cannot help but wish I could be more like her, if just a little bit,” Arianwyn finally said. “The Seven know I have shed more than my share of tears in my lifetime.”
It was a truth she would only reveal to those she trusted most. Aemond, Gerold, maybe Alicent or Helaena. And though she had known her godsmother less than a day, she had a preternatural sense that she could also be trusted.
“Oh, my darling,” Jeyne sighed as she pulled the girl into an embrace so tight as to make up for all the time they spent apart. “I am so sorry for all you have suffered. I cannot help but feel I have failed you. That I should have prevented it somehow.”
Arianwyn shook her head as she pulled away and offered a shy smile. “You did not fail me, I promise. If you had intervened in any of it, I would not be who I am today.” Though her voice was thick with emotion, each word rang true in her heart. “I like who I am, and despite all I have been through, I would not want to be anyone else.”
Like Alyssa Arryn, Arianwyn did not shed a tear.
“Your grandfather, Lord Yorbert, was my regent in my minority. I would not be the woman I am today without him.” Lady Jeyne mused as she guided them to sit on a low stone bench facing the statue.
Arianwyn nodded. “Yes, I know. I am told he was wise and fair. And that he cared for you dearly.”
“As I did for him,” a dreamy look came over Jeyne’s face. “He was as much my father as Rhea’s.”
“I was only three when my father and brothers were killed,” she continued. “My memories of them are scarce and faint, but I miss them every day. But… I also like the woman I have become. If given the choice, I do not know whether I would change anything either. Perhaps that makes me a cruel, vain woman, but it is how I feel nevertheless.”
Arianwyn nodded, all the agreement she could muster.
After long minutes where neither woman said anything, the only sound the roaring of the mountain wind and the occasional joyful roar from Emrys, Jeyne finally spoke.
“I wanted to remain entirely neutral before your petition today,” she said, staring into the eyes of the statue. “But I cannot help but be curious as to why you are here.”
Arianwyn straightened against the cold marble of the bench. She had nearly forgotten her mission in the peace of the garden. “Did the Hand not tell you in his letter?”
“He did,” Jeyne answered. “Or at least, he hinted at it. I know why he sent someone here. I know what he wants from me.”
She looked at Arianwyn then, staring deeply into her silver eyes. For the first time, she did not look at her godsdaughter with awe and love, but with suspicion and apprehension. “What I don’t know – what I don’t understand – is why you came. Why you agreed to it.”
Arianwyn was taken aback by the almost accusatory tone. “I am a Royce. I am of the Vale, and I am your – ”
“That is why you were sent,” Jeyne clarified. “To try and counter my blood ties to Rhaenyra. But it does not explain why you decided to come and make this petition.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Surely, as the Lady of Runestone, you can sympathize with Rhaenyra’s plight?”
Oh.
Arianwyn had not considered how her petitioning for a son to inherit over his older sister would wound Jeyne – the only woman to rule one of the Great Houses, one of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been three rebellions to try and depose her in favor of some distant male relative. Thankfully, she had survived them all. But Aegon taking the Iron Throne would surely dredge up unsavory memories.
“Rhaenyra being a woman has nothing to do with it,” Arianwyn looked down at the scenery around them as she spoke, afraid that she would lose her nerve if she had to face Lady Jeyne’s cool, assessing gaze. “Viserys named Aegon his heir.”
“On his deathbed,” Jeyne added. “With only the Queen present to hear this momentous change of heart.”
Arianwyn faced Jeyne again, trying not to look too angry at the accusation. “I trust Alicent with my life. She is not lying.”
“If you trust her, then I do as well,” Jeyne said. “But you cannot deny the circumstances are suspicious, and many will be hesitant to believe her.” She waited until the girl nodded to continue. “None more than Rhaenyra. Would you not be doubtful yourself, were you in the same position?
“I suppose I would be.”
“And can you not see the injustice in the reported words of a confused, dying man overriding more than twenty years of insistence in Rhaenyra’s position?” Jeyne asked. “Were she a man, surely the matter would be thoroughly contested.”
“You may be right, but I cannot determine my allegiance only by my sex.”
“Why not?”
Arianwyn cleared her throat, taken aback by Jeyne’s intensity, and continued. “According to the precedent set by the Great Council, Aegon was the rightful heir from the moment he was born, no matter what Viserys declared.”
Jeyne raised an arched brow. “And you agree with this precedent?”
“No!” Arianwyn answered quickly, for fear of offending her godsmother further than she suspected she already had. “But the vote was twenty to one. The men of Westeros may be content to let someone’s women like me or my mother rule a small house, but – ”
“Runestone is no small House,” Jeyne cut in – not the interruption Arianwyn expected. “I apologize. Please go on.”
“Thank you. I… Your own inheritance was controversial,” Arianwyn continued. “It was only the ancient laws of the Vale and the support of Queen Alysanne that secured your position. If you had inherited after the Great Council, I don’t know you would have inherited at all.”
Jeyne looked away sadly, the crumpled look on her face breaking Arianwyn’s heart.
“I do not say this to be cruel,” she insisted, taking her godsmother’s hand. “I just… am trying to be realistic. If the ruling of the Great Council is to be overturned, it cannot be for someone who would only reinforce the worst fears of the men who think women are incapable of ruling. They would ensure women could never rule again.”
“You doubt Rhaenyra would be a good Queen?” Jeyne asked, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.
Arianwyn’s mouth fell open as her mind scrambled to cobble together how she could answer without revealing everything about Daemon.
“Before you answer,” Jeyne warned, her dark eyes hard as stone. “Consider that I am not looking for court gossip or the resentful comments of a stepdaughter spurned. I am asking for the objective assessment of a fellow ruler.”
Silence hung over them as Arianwyn considered her words.
“Grand Maester Orwyle once told us that a wise King is good, but a great King surrounds himself with advisors wiser than himself,” she said, finally. She felt somewhat ridiculous, quoting her tutor in such a serious conversation, but her mind kept returning to his lessons.
“Your grandfather told me the same,” Jeyne added with a sly smile before gesturing for the girl to continue.
“I will admit that Rhaenyra is wise,” Arianwyn said. “And reasonably fair. But her choice of advisors is… questionable at best.”
“To whom, specifically, do you refer?”
Arianwyn considered her answer, thinking back to all the people she had seen flock to Rhaenyra’s private court in King’s Landing and Dragonstone. “Lord Corlys Velaryon is the most ambitious man I know – to a dangerous fault. He abandoned his seat on the Small Council to pursue personal glory, and yet Rhaenyra has kept him close to her. Lord Celtigar does not approve of anything she does, yet he clings to her like a leech because he cannot resist the power she grants him. The Lords Bar Emmon and Massey are nothing more than toadies afraid to say a word against her.”
She took a deep breath and looked to the skies. While the men she had listed thus far were unlikeable, they were nothing that would endanger the realm. Not like…
“The one who troubles me the most is my father,” she blurted out, her lip trembling in fear of a man hundreds of miles away.
Jeyne’s face was as hard as granite. “Daemon?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Something sparked in Jeyne’s dark eyes. “Why do you say that?”
Arianwyn wet her lips, which had become quite dry thanks to the cold mountain air or, more likely, her own nervousness. “Daemon has a brilliant mind for strategy and warfare. But he is equally masterful at using brute force and unnecessary cruelty to achieve his goals, which in themselves are often… less than honorable.”
There was a subtle twitch in Jeyne’s eyes, and her nostrils flared. “Is Rhaenyra aware of the circumstances of your birth?”
It seemed even the wind went silent.
For a moment, Arianwyn convinced herself that Jeyne only referred to Daemon’s absence during Rhea’s pregnancy and after her death in the birthing bed.
But then she recognized the glinting in those dark eyes – the primal, righteous rage.
“My lady, I was not aware that you knew,” she whispered.
Jeyne pressed her lips together. “Rhea was my best friend. And a Lady of the Vale. I went to Runestone the moment I heard what happened. I heard it from her own lips and swore to protect the secret. I have cursed myself every day since for taking that oath.”
“I…” Arianwyn stammered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Give me an answer,” Jeyne commanded with the voice of a Great Lady, of the Warden of the Vale. “Does Rhaenyra know?”
Arianwyn remembered how her stepmother had looked at her only a week ago in the garden on Dragonstone. The pity and disgust in her eyes as she called what Daemon had done ‘regrettable.’ Her fear of what her husband was capable of. Fear that was apparently not enough to overcome her own desires – for the throne or for him, Arianwyn did not care. They were equally despicable.
“She does.”
Jeyne looked away, though she squeezed Arianwyn’s hand.
The Lady of the Vale spent many long minutes deep in thought, her eyes fixed on a window in the far wall of the garden.
What lay behind that window, Arianwyn did not know. She could not recall the tour she was given that morning, nor really care what lay behind the glass. All she could think about was what Jeyne would say next, what her answer to Aegon’s plea would be.
She had started to lose hope that she would get that answer when Jeyne finally spoke again.
“Tell them.”
“Tell who? Tell what?”
Jeyne turned back and cupped her godsdaughter’s chin in her hand. “Tell my court your story – your mother’s story. Tell them what Daemon did. There is no better proof that he and his wife would be worse than Maegor.”
Arianwyn shook her head slightly. “My mother did not want that. She did not want to risk his wrath.”
“Fuck his wrath!” Jeyne spat, her dark eyes blazing. “Show him yours.”
The words, and the ferocity with which they were spoken, fanned the flames of the cold fire within Arianwyn. She savored the chill that spread through her veins with every beat of her heart, letting it wash away any trace of fear she felt about what Daemon could do in retribution.
There was no need to fear for the safety of Runestone any longer. Not when it had two dragonriders to protect it – its Lady and its Lord.
And with Viserys gone, Daemon would not be able to escape punishment. Arianwyn was sure that when King Aegon learned what he had done, every army in the Seven Kingdoms would be called upon to bring him to justice.
Or rather, every army that was loyal to Aegon. However many that may be.
It was up to Arianwyn to deliver him the armies of the Vale.
“If I did tell them,” she said cautiously, “would they believe me? Would they declare for Aegon as the rightful King?”
“Tell them,” Jeyne insisted once more, the words affirmation enough.
Arianwyn smiled and nodded.
Today, the world would learn who Daemon Targaryen really was.
-
As Aemond expected, the midday meal in the cramped clearing consisted of under-seasoned, overcooked game meat and more crude conversation. Unfortunately, many of Borros’ men continued to act as though it was their sole mission to get the Prince to join them in their immoral musings – he was swiftly running out of excuses to not divulge the details of his marriage bed.
Just as scarce was his continuing resolve to not ram his fist into their sneering faces whenever they referred to Arianwyn.
Every time he could not reply to them without causing insult, he ignored them and tried to steer Borros toward his actual purpose in coming to the Stormlands. Every time, he was brushed aside.
‘Later’ was apparently the Baratheon’s favorite word.
And, of course, fucking Barrel seemed to delight in his rider’s every frustration.
The horse behaved perfectly well until the precise moment Aemond’s nerves were tested. Then, he did any number of infuriating things – rearing unexpectedly, pulling harshly to one side, or most commonly, just refusing to fucking move.
Aemond was beginning to think Barrel was not a horse at all, but some kind of demon.
He shouted as much when, after another not-so-subtle allusion to Arianwyn’s breasts, Barrel reared and bolted off the path and into the forest, making sure as many branches as possible hit his rider along the way.
The moment they came to a stop, Aemond leapt off the beast and stomped through the underbrush, unable to bear the creature’s presence for a single moment longer.
“You stupid, horrid, worthless godsdamned animal!” he roared, tearing sticks and leaves from his hair and straightening his eyepatch. Thank the gods it hadn’t come off; he did not want to imagine what Borros’ men would have said about what lay beneath.
Barrel whinnied and stared the Prince down with a challenge in his evil black eyes.
Yes, this was undoubtedly a demon.
Aemond drew his dagger, as his sword and bow were strapped to his saddle – the saddle still empty of any quarry. “I will fight you no longer,” he hissed, “I will simply send you back to the deepest of the Seven Hells where you belong.”
“And walk out of the forest on your own two feet?” Borros’ mocking voice echoed through the trees as he approached on his own, markedly well-behaved horse. “I dare say that is unbefitting behavior for a Prince of the Realm, though not nearly as much as murdering your host’s favorite horse.”
There was no self-control left in Aemond to try and hide his shock and disdain, nor the wave of relief that the Lord had left the rest of his entourage behind. With a huff, he sheathed his dagger.
“Please accept my apologies,” he said through gritted teeth. “I should not have lost my temper. If you give me a moment to collect myself, I will rejoin the party shorty.”
“No,” Borros sighed as he dismounted his steed and tied its reins loosely around the branch of a hazel tree. “You will not.”
Aemond’s scar was burning from both the branches that had whipped at his face and his rising anger. His nostrils flared as he looked at his host with undisguised contempt.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” he grumbled. “I meant no offense. I only – ”
“You have business with me,” Borros said, still unmannered and unfazed by the Prince’s fury. “Speak it now. Then, should you wish it, I will lend you my own horse to return you to your dragon. You can be back in your wife’s bed by nightfall.”
Even if he left this very moment, Aemond doubted Arianwyn would be waiting for him at the Red Keep when he returned. No, she would likely linger in the Vale with her cousin and godsmother until the three days were up.
But still, the offer was enticing. A night alone in his own rooms was more than preferable to spending even another hour here.
With one last look of pure loathing at Barrel, Aemond turned to face Lord Borros.
Though he could no longer hide the scorn swirling in his eye, he at least held himself as a properly mannered Prince, with his arms crossed behind him and his head held high. Even though he had just been seen threatening a fucking horse – albeit one he was still sure was somehow demonic – he maintained what dignity he could.
“The King has sent me to obtain your oath of allegiance,” he stated plainly, for pretense was no longer necessary. “In exchange, he offers a marriage pact between one of your daughters and my young brother, Prince Daeron. I have also been given some leave to promise the Crown’s support in other matters, within reason, should you feel the union insufficient.”
Borros smirked. “The bonds between our houses have always been strong. Pray tell, what has prompted such an overly generous offer now? Is my loyalty in doubt?”
“Of course not,” Aemond answered, far too quickly and harshly for a true diplomat. He sighed, regathering his composure. Away from the hunting party, their leering stares and boorish comments, he relaxed slightly – though the mere presence of Barrel still set him on edge. “King Aegon is eager to build his ties to the Great Houses, as he did not have the opportunity to do so in his short time as heir.”
“Pretty lies,” Borros hummed. “Perhaps you are more skilled a politician than I first assumed.”
Aemond’s jaw clenched. “My Lord, I remind you that I am a Prince of the Realm.”
“And you have come here to beg at my feet,” Borros spat back. “Because the mighty Prince and the profligate King fear that their bitch sister and her rogue husband will steal the crown, and you need my armies to put her down.”
“Watch yourself, Borros,” Aemond growled. “You tread dangerously close to treason.”
“Treason against whom? The King? Or the Queen?”
Aemond clenched his fists and slowly stepped forward, his right hand hovering near his dagger again. To his credit, Borros did not shy away.
“Treason against the true heir to the Iron Throne,” he answered, his words echoing those of his grandsire at the coronation. “Which by right of law and by my father’s dying wish is my brother. If Rhaenyra lays claim to the crown, she does so as a pretender and a usurper.”
“She will say the same of Aegon.”
“Then she will be wrong. And if she tries to fight us, she will be dead. As will anyone else who fights with her.”
Borros raised his brows, but his eyes were hard. “Are you threatening me, my Prince?”
Aemond scowled as the muscles in his cheek continued to spasm and ache. Perhaps if the scar didn’t cause him so much pain every time his temper rose even an inch, he could have handled this more diplomatically –like a Prince should.
But gods, it hurt.
He took a deep breath in, not smelling the dampness and decay of the autumn forest, but smoke and cold air – Arianwyn’s scent. A figment of his imagination, for she was nearly a thousand miles away. But still, it brought him comfort. Relief, if only for a moment.
The thought of her cleared his head enough for him to drop his hand from the hilt of the dagger and unclench his fists.
She would not have gotten so angry at Borros and his men. Yes, their jokes and lewd comments would have made her blush, but she would have played along. Perhaps she would even have enjoyed it. After all, she had grown quite fond of teasing him, even in the presence of others.
No, Arianwyn would have handled this with far more grace than he had. She would have Borros and his men wrapped around her precious little finger, ready to sail on Dragonstone the moment she asked it of them.
Seven Hells, even Barrel would have been smitten with her.
How someone so wonderful loved him, Aemond still did not understand. Would never understand.
All he could do was thank the gods that she did, and do everything he could to protect her.
Do this.
Because it wasn’t just Aegon who needed the allegiance of the Stormlands. Arianwyn needed it too.
If Rhaenyra gathered a sufficient army to truly fight Aegon for the throne, she would not only attack Aegon. She would come for everyone who posed a challenge to her claim.
Aegon. Helaena. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Maelor. Daeron. And Aemond.
And if they did not bow to her, she would eliminate the threat.
Even if they did capitulate, Daemon might kill them anyways.
He had married Arianwyn to keep her out of danger. But now, being his wife was precisely what put her life at risk.
His sleep had been plagued by nightmares of what Daemon would do if he found them.
Arianwyn tortured in front of him. Or her being forced to watch as he was tortured. Or killed. What Daemon would subject her to when Aemond was gone. Horrible, awful things that he would not allow his mind to return to.
The only way to prevent it was to give his brother an army that would dissuade Daemon – and Rhaenyra – from raising a challenge for the throne. Or that would ensure they had no hope of success if they did.
That army would require the might of the Stormlands. And that would require Borros.
Aemond looked at the wry grin on the Stormlord’s face, and something clicked into place.
Borros had already acknowledged Aegon as the King the day before. He had no son, but had yet to recognize one of his daughters as his heir. He had welcomed Aemond into his home rather than turning him away.
“I am not threatening you,” Aemond said, realization and embarrassment sweeping over him. “Because you are not a threat to my brother. And you have no intention of becoming one.”
The smugness with which Borros smiled was almost enough to make Aemond take out his dagger again.
“You made your decision before I arrived, didn’t you?” Aemond asked. “As soon as you received my grandsire’s letter.”
“Not entirely,” Borros shrugged, walking past Aemond to Barrel. The demon horse did not so much as flinch as he reached up to stroke his crooked snout. He was an entirely different beast now that he was with his true master. “If Rhaenyra herself had come here, I may have considered her. But she is not here. You are.”
“What about Rhaenys, your kin? Your House supported her at the Great Council. What is different now?” Aemond could not believe he was asking such questions. He had already gotten what he wanted – he should stay silent and leave in peace. Yet he could not restrain his curiosity.
Borros scoffed at that. “Aye, Princess Rhaenys is kin to me and mine. Some great-aunt I never knew was married to her father, but the both of them are dead, and Rhaenyra… she’s not Rhaenys, is she? Your sister is not a Baratheon. Perhaps she had a ferocity to entice me once, but she is tame now.”
The Lord’s face grew hard, his voice steely. “She has taken me and my house for granted. Never once while she was heir did she beg our support or offer hers. She has done nothing to earn my loyalty.”
“I understand,” Aemond whispered. Indeed, perhaps no one in the entire realm understood what it was like to be taken for granted more than he did.
The sin of the father had become the sin of the daughter, and it would be that very sin that damned her.
But there was yet one more thing he did not understand.
Aemond gestured to Barrel. “What was the point of him? Of taking me on this hunt and antagonizing me?”
When Borros clapped his shoulder again, it did not stir annoyance or rage within Aemond. He still did not like it, finding the gesture brutish, but he was willing to endure it.
“Negotiation tactic,” he explained while unloading Aemond’s weapons from Barrel’s saddle and tossing them on the forest floor between them. “I wanted you so sick of me that you would give me whatever I wanted in exchange for my allegiance so you could leave. Although I admit, I did not anticipate you threatening to kill my poor Barrel. That forced me to give up the ruse before I really wanted to, but I am still relatively pleased with the outcome.”
Aemond took his things and began swapping them for the supplies on Borros’ horse, which had been quietly gnawing on the leaves of a low branch, and did not move to kick or bite him at all. When he handed Borros his sword and quarry, he flicked his good eye back to Barrel.
“Is that really your favorite horse?” he asked.
“Yes,” Borros replied without hesitation. “He amuses me.”
As he mounted his new steed, Aemond smiled at the Lord and laughed. Not nearly as honestly as he did with Arianwyn, but still. He laughed.
“Now,” Borros said as he mounted the demonic beast – which Aemond could swear was smiling at him, “which of my daughters would your brother like?”
-
Arianwyn’s legs were about to give out, aching from what felt like hours of simply standing in the High Hall while Jeyne and the other Lords of the Vale conducted their business. She tried to pay attention, hoping to glean some lesson in leadership from the proceedings.
But she could not focus on the tedious negotiations about whose lands would have the honor of stocking the larder at the Gates of the Moon for Lady Arryn while she resided there for the winter. Not when her mind kept drifting back to what she planned to say to the court the moment they were finished.
Crop reports and petty border squabbles were simply not enough of a distraction.
For a while, she had occupied herself with admiring the hall's beauty – the blue-veined marble of the walls, the lovely slender pillars, the Weirwood thrones, and the various artwork scattered throughout the room.
After that, she stared at the Moon Door. When the court business became particularly tiresome, she imagined running through it and calling for Emrys to catch her before she hit the valley floor below. With how high the castle was, he would have ample time to reach her. Then they could soar through the waterfall together.
But she could not do that. For many reasons.
For one, it was a truly idiotic thing to do. Second, Aemond would surely die of shock if he ever found out she even had the thought. Most of all, because she had to stay and make her case.
She had to reveal what Daemon had done. His crimes would prove that whether Viserys had named Aegon his heir or not, Rhaenyra could not be Queen.
Because Rhaenyra knew precisely what her husband was. That he had maimed, and murdered, and raped to get what he wanted. And he would do it all again. Happily.
She knew he was a monster.
And she loved him anyway. She married him and bore him children. She proudly called him her consort and would happily give him a crown – give him power.
That could not happen.
So, she stayed put, standing next to Gerold with her hand folded prettily in front of her. She pretended to look interested in the dispute between Lord Corbray and Lord Belmore about one of them building a dam that would negatively affect the other – she had long forgotten which was which, as the debate had devolved into personal insults.
And she was not the only one exhausted by the argument.
In the middle of Lord Belmore dredging up some minor conflict from several hundred years ago, Jeyne slammed her hand on the arm of her throne, the sound echoing throughout the marble chamber.
“I will quite literally go mad if I have to listen to this story again, Holbert,” she groaned, exasperation evident on her face.
The Lord looked as though he may argue for a moment, but then Jeyne raised her hand to silence him, and he obeyed. Though he did mutter something under his breath.
“You are both supposedly intelligent men. Squabbling so publicly is shameful and, quite frankly, beneath you,” she scolded. Both men were her senior, yet they both looked down at their feet like children reprimanded for playing in the mud by their mother.
Arianwyn was amused by the sight. It reminded her of when Alicent would scold her and Aemond when they were caught in the library past curfew. Honestly, it was hard to believe the Queen ever punished them when their misdeeds were so tame compared to Aegon’s.
Oh gods, Aegon. King Aegon.
Her traitorous mind had taken a happy memory and turned it into an unwelcome reminder of why she was here. Another blow to her growing impatience.
If she didn’t get to speak soon, she might simply shout her piece for everyone to hear just to get it over with.
“It is a pointless debate,” Jeyne said, slumping over with her head in her hands. “Nothing can be constructed until after winter has passed, so you will have ample time to sort this out between yourselves. You are not to bring this matter before me again until a compromise has been reached.”
Lord Belmore looked like he had won a victory, whereas Lord Corbray acted as though the words had literally wounded him. But neither said anything more. Instead, they slunk to opposite sides of the hall.
Arianwyn sighed and waited for Jeyne to call some other Lord to discuss harvests, livestock, or –
“Lady Arianwyn of Runestone, on behalf of Aegon Targaryen.”
Her heart stopped in her chest, then resumed beating as though she had been running for hours. She frantically looked toward Gerold for some kind of support.
He only gave her a not entirely confident smile, laid a hand on her back, and pushed gently to the center of the room.
“I…” she began.
Then the entire room fell silent as the light disappeared, the sun itself blotted out by a great shadow circling the tower.
Men and women shrieked and cowered in fear while others ran to the windows to get a closer look, and a few even fell to their knees in prayer. Guards ran to each entrance, swords drawn. Ten knights immediately surrounded Jeyne, others gathering around each Lord present.
Ser Gerold himself drew his weapon and strode protectively to Arianwyn.
But she did not cower. She did not shriek. And she did not pray.
Arianwyn stood tall, her spine rigid with anger as she watched the shadow descend to the garden.
She recognized those green scales, those flashes of orange, and that shrill, juvenile roar. She understood Emrys’ warning growl that echoed off the marble as recognition settled upon them both.
“Seven fucking hells,” she whispered, not caring when Gerold looked down on her in surprise – he had never heard her talk so crudely. Usually, she did not care to use such coarse language. But in this case, she felt it more than justified.
For only moments later, escorted by eight Arryn guards, Jacaerys Velaryon strode through the doors and into the High Hall.
His brown eyes immediately locked onto Arianwyn, and he gave a short bow. “My dear sister,” he crooned. “What a wonderful surprise to find you here.”
-
By the time they rejoined the hunting party, Borros had convinced Aemond to not return immediately to King’s Landing and the promise of his wife’s embrace. Not because either man particularly wanted to continue socializing, for they were reluctant acquaintances at best, but because there were specifics about the marriage pact and alliance between their houses that needed to be discussed.
Foremost among these was the matter of which daughter Daeron would wed.
As Borros had four daughters– the four storms, they were called – and all were of marrying age, Aemond found himself spoiled for choice. The Stormlanders spent the rest of the hunt singing each girl’s praises, only stopping when they entered the dining hall, where each young Lady sat at the table, awaiting the judgment of the Prince.
Aemond asked each about her interests and desires, carefully calculated questions to help him determine the best match for his brother. He had felt the joy a loving wife could bring, and while Daeron did not share the luxury of marrying for love, he should be given the best chance of finding it.
There was the eldest, Cassandra. She had beauty, though it was severe and marred by her near-constant sneer. Her intellect was impressive, but she seemed to have no desire to use it. While perhaps the most traditional match, Borros himself steered Aemond away from selecting her. For past her carefully crafted elegance lay a deadly ambition. She would never be happy as the wife of a third son, even if that son were a Prince.
The second, Maris, was the least beautiful of the sisters. But she was the cleverest of them all. Rumors of her desire to study in Oldtown had once spread throughout the realm, prompting Arianwyn to entertain the prospect herself. But, of course, both their hopes were swiftly crushed. Women were hardly allowed entrance to the Citadel, much less leave to join the Order of Maesters. Perhaps it was that rejection that had made Maris so bitter of her lot in life, her tongue dangerously sharp. She would need a man with a wit to match her. And though Daeron was intelligent, he was far too gentle to be suited for a woman like Maris.
Ellyn was next. She was pretty, but not remarkably so. Smart, but no more than average. She dabbled in art and embroidery, not excelling at either. Her singing voice was fair, as was her skill with the harp, but she was far from prodigious. Any man would be perfectly pleased to have her for his wife, but Aemond doubted she would ever be their first choice.
Floris, however, would be many men’s first choice. She possessed the beauty that inspired men to create art, start wars, and defy the gods themselves for a chance at her hand. But to Aemond, she held no more allure than any of the paintings in the Red Keep’s gallery.
Only Arianwyn could compel him to such lengths. And she did.
The longer Aemond conversed with Floris, the more he realized that her beauty had become a crutch. She held no grand ambitions like Cassandra, was nowhere near as clever as Maris, nor as accomplished as Ellyn. But though the questions she asked Aemond regarding the history of his house were simple – the kind he would expect from a young child who had yet to start their lessons with their Septa, not a woman grown – he was charmed by her curiosity.
Unlike her sisters, nothing she said to him was intended to woo him into choosing her. She truly wanted to know about the house that may one day become her own. It mattered to her whether Vhagar was comfortable out in the rain, if the temporary shelter the servants had built for her was adequate. Her praise for Aemond’s performance during the hunt – he had brought back a brace of seven rabbits and a buck, his skill miraculously returned once he was atop a proper horse – was genuine.
She was kind. Simple, perhaps, but kind.
And so it was decided.
The youngest son of King Viserys would marry the youngest daughter of Lord Borros Baratheon. Not the most traditional match, but Aemond was confident in it.
Cassandra and Ellyn were gracious in offering their congratulations to their sister. Maris, less so.
She scoffed whenever Floris asked about her new betrothed, downing her wine with as much skill and ardor as Aegon. When the subject of the dowry came up, she took to making snide comments under her breath.
Neither Lord nor Lady Baratheon scolded her. Though Cassandra did kick her under the table after a particularly nasty jibe, if Aemond was correctly interpreting their shuffling in their seats.
Not wanting to upset his host, Aemond said nothing of it and continued his negotiation. “Apartments will be furnished at the Red Keep, though we suspect Daeron would prefer to remain in Oldtown for the time being. As such, representatives of my mother’s family in the Reach have begun inquiries into procuring a suitable estate within the city.”
“I would live in Oldtown, not King’s Landing?” Floris asked, her blue eyes wide.
Maris rolled her eyes and muttered into her goblet, “That is what he just said, you stupid girl.”
Aemond frowned but did not acknowledge her. He knew from experience with his own tormentors and detractors that to do so would give her exactly what she wanted – his attention.
So, he turned to Floris and offered a small smile. “Should you wish it, I am sure Daeron would like to have you near to him. But the Red Keep will also be available to you if that is what you would prefer.”
Floris smiled back at him. “I don’t know what I would prefer. I have never been to a city before.”
“I think you would like Oldtown, my darling,” Lady Elenda said, her first contribution to the conversation in some time. “It is quite beautiful and full of art and culture. And the climate of the Reach would agree with you. You have always been summer’s child.”
“Could we get married there, then?” she asked of her father. “It is already autumn, and I should like flowers at my wedding. Real flowers, not ones grown in a hot house.”
Borros chuckled. “I think that depends on when you get married, dear. There is much to be decided before – ”
Vhagar’s roaring cut him off.
It was not the low grumbling she had done when she sensed her rider being tormented by Barrel, but a sharp roar of warning.
Something was coming.
Aemond immediately stood from his chair, hand grazing over the hilt of his sword as he scanned the exits to the room.
Borros was deathly still, though his eyes were wide. Elenda and Ellyn had grasped hands across the table, mother leading daughter in prayer. Cassandra was doing her best to not look afraid while Floris bore her fear plainly. Maris only stared up at Aemond, her lips slightly parted and brow furrowed as she assessed his reaction.
“My Prince?” she asked, the title coming out like a taunt. “Is something wrong?”
He glanced briefly at her before turning his eyes back to the window above them, searching amongst the dark, roiling clouds that had not yet loosed their rain for the shadow he knew would soon be approaching.
“I believe it may be,” he answered. “Another dragon is here.”
-
After a long moment, wherein Arianwyn felt every ounce of safety and happiness she had felt in this place disappear, Jace finally tore his eyes from hers and stepped around her towards the Weirwood throne.
“Lady Jeyne,” he said, bowing to the stern woman upon the throne. “I am Jacaerys Velaryon, the newly crowned Prince of Dragonstone and heir to my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen – your dear cousin.”
Arianwyn clenched her fists at her sides and muttered a slew of curses under her breath. It was only Gerold’s firm hand on her arm that stopped her from leaping at Jace with her teeth bared.
“My mother has sent me here to personally bring you news of her accession,” Jace continued, entirely oblivious to the girl raging behind him. “As well as to ensure your support for her as your Queen and that you will defend her throne against the Usurper, Aegon Targaryen, should she call upon your aid.”
He wore a smug, pleased smile as he looked at Arianwyn over his shoulder. The same nauseating look he had whenever he said something he thought to be particularly witty, and she could not reply to him for fear of reprisal from Daemon.
Digging her nails into her palms, she clenched her teeth so hard she thought they would shatter. This couldn’t be happening.
The Vale was hers. By right of birth and blood.
How dare he try to claim it from her?
How dare he ruin this?
But Gerold held her back, whispering into her ear as the court – including Jeyne – began to glance suspiciously between the Prince and the Princess. “Calm yourself, Aria,” he commanded. “If you lose your temper now, you will lose your credibility with the court.”
“Lord Belmore turned as red as a beet and called Lord Corbray a ‘selfish cunt’ in this very room only minutes ago,” she hissed. “Did he lose credibility?”
Gerold grimaced. “You know it is not the same thing. Not for you.”
She could scream, but she understood the logic in his words. As a woman – a girl, really – even a small outburst from her would be interpreted more harshly than any tantrum a man could throw. Besides, her only credibility with these men came from the Royce blood within her veins.
And perhaps the large dragon she rode that now rested in the garden.
With a slight nod, she began to take slow, careful breaths to calm her racing heart.
“Good,” he said, loosening your grip on her. “Now greet your stepbrother – kindly. Tell him you are happy to see him and laugh that his dragon gave you a fright.”
Arianwyn took one more deep breath before she pressed her hand to her chest and plastered a wide, false smile on her face.
“Jace!” she exclaimed, channeling her anger into breathy laughs that she hoped conveyed surprise and delight. “I had not expected to see you so soon after you left King’s Landing, but it is a most welcome surprise. Though I admit, Vermax gave me quite the fright with how he circled the tower so menacingly!”
She laughed again to try and banish the hint of malice that had slipped into her words. But her disdain was evident in her cold silver eyes.
“And while I commend you for the eloquent delivery of what I have no doubt was a carefully rehearsed speech,” she said, the taunt only caught by Jace and Gerold, “I am afraid you have interrupted my own address to the court.”
Jace looked at her with uncertainty. He obviously couldn’t decide whether he should respond to her teasing – if he could find the words to. But his curiosity won out over his offense.
“My apologies, sister,” he said, only because he knew how much it bothered her when he used that word. “What, pray tell, are you speaking to the court about?”
She gave him the sweetest false smile he had ever seen and feigned bashfulness. “I am here to announce my marriage to my fellow Valeman, of course. And to introduce myself as the Lady of Runestone, now that the title is mine to claim.”
His jaw clenched, and Arianwyn straightened her back as she stepped toward the center of the room once more, commanding the attention of all gathered.
“And is Prince Aemond here?” Jace asked just before she opened her mouth to speak. He made a show of looking around the room for his uncle, then turned back to her. “I did not see Vhagar on my flight here, but I know how… protective he is of you. Surely, he would not allow you to make such a long journey on your own – and unsupervised?”
Whispers ran through the crowd. Wonderings about whether the One-Eyed Prince was hiding somewhere within the Eyrie, ready to strike. Expressions of pity for the poor Lady of Runestone, now forced to be the pet wife of such a cruel man.
Each word was like a blade in Arianwyn’s heart – no doubt precisely what Jace intended.
Perhaps he was cleverer than she gave him credit for. Either that, or he just enjoyed taunting her.
The literal bastard.
Arianwyn acted as though she didn’t hear the horrible things being said by the Lords of the Vale, and instead pretended to be shy as she fought against her pious sense of modesty. It wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Aemond and I were both hesitant to be so far apart only days after we were wed,” she admitted, making sure to blush and look away when she caught Jeyne’s eye. The perfect picture of a new bride. “And since Emrys and I have been confined to Dragonstone these past six years, he was concerned about our safety in making this journey alone. Especially since he was sent to Storm’s End.”
“I’m sure he’s grateful for the cold rain,” a Lord’s son in the crowd whispered, not as quietly as he surely meant to, and was quickly walloped by his father for his crudeness.
“But do not worry cousin,” Arianwyn said to Jace, even going so far as to set a comforting hand on his arm. “I have clearly arrived safely, thank in no small part to my husband. He spent more than an hour reviewing the maps with me and helped pack my saddlebags the morning of our departure. Why he even spoke to Emrys just before I took flight to give him words of encouragement.”
Jace scowled, his frown intensifying when she called him ‘cousin.’ But he did not respond.
Satisfied that she had once more forced him into flustered silence, Arianwyn released his arm and addressed the rest of the room.
“But while I am thrilled that I finally have the opportunity to meet all of you, and to be able to personally bring you the news of my marriage, I am also here on behalf of my good brother, King Aegon,” she added, as though it were an afterthought, not the true purpose of her visit.
Arianwyn ignored the widening of Jace’s eyes as she looked up at Jeyne on the Weirwood throne. “He has sent me with his fondest greetings to express his admiration for, and loyalty to, the Vale and its people. Although he was granted so little time as the heir to the throne, he swears that as your King, he will prove himself worthy of the same admiration and loyalty from all of you.”
“Prince Aegon had no time as heir to the throne,” Jace hissed, “because he never was the heir to the throne. My – ”
“Perhaps the news has not reached Dragonstone,” Arianwyn said, her animosity no longer hidden in her voice. “Or Rhaenys may have declined to mention it among the details of all the innocents she killed at the coronation, but Aegon was the heir. By law and by Viserys’ own proclamation, just before the Stranger took him.”
Jace stepped forward until he was nose to nose with her, entirely oblivious to the bewildered look of the crowd. “If you actually believe that…” he snarled, then bit back whatever he was going to say. “I thought you were smarter than that, sister.”
“I am not your fucking sister,” she growled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t left her dagger – or Lamentation – in her chambers.
Jeyne pounded the side of her throne, drawing the attention of the room back to her. She was silent momentarily, her breathing heavy and dark eyes full of rage. Then, she stood.
“That is enough!” she shouted. “Court is ended for the day. Prince Jacaerys, Princess Arianwyn, come with me. Now.”
They stared at each other, unsaid insults crackling between them like fire. Arianwyn was almost taken aback. With his dark eyes blazing like that, Jace looked more like a Targaryen than ever before – even when on dragonback.
After a long moment, they turned and followed Jeyne out of the throne room, Gerold and Jessamyn close behind them. As well as several on-edge guards.
Walking side by side through the halls of the Eyrie, they remained painfully silent, the only sound the howling of the mountain wind and the clanking of the guards’ armor.
As the minutes passed, Arianwyn felt a clawing sense of dread settle in her stomach. Despite Gerold’s warnings, she had lost her temper. Likely her credibility with the court as well.
But the opinion of the court almost didn’t matter. Not when the sight of Jeyne looking at her with such anger and disappointment haunted her every breath and flashed in her vision every time she closed her eyes.
Had she just ruined everything?
No, she reminded herself. It wasn’t her that frightened the court by flying her dragon dangerously close to the tower. She hadn’t interrupted her own petition. And between her and Jace, she had not been the first to antagonize the other.
Why was he so fucking obsessed with calling her ‘sister?’
Gerold coughing pointedly broke her from her thoughts and made her realize that she had been glaring at Jace. She quickly turned away, instead locking her eyes onto the wild dark curtain of Jeyne’s hair as the Lady of the Vale stomped angrily through the halls of her keep.
Arianwyn would have to apologize. She wanted to. And she would. Just… after Jace left.
Jeyne finally stopped before the dining hall and motioned for one of the servants flanking the pale wooden doors without turning to acknowledge any of those who followed her there.
“Set another place,” she informed the man. “Prince Jacaerys has paid us an unexpected visit and will join us for dinner.”
Every curse she ever learned blared in Arianwyn’s head like a dragon’s roar. But she let none of them spill over as she walked into the room and took the seat by Jeyne’s left, nor as Jace took the chair across from her.
Indeed, the entire room was silent until another setting had been assembled on the table in front of Jessamyn, who had been impressively gracious when protocol dictated she surrender her usual seat to the Prince.
But the servants did not move to lay the food on the table, stopped at the door by a gesture from Jeyne.”
“Before we eat,” she said, her voice ringing with barely concealed anger, “I feel I must, unfortunately, set some rules for how this meal will progress.”
Arianwyn tried not to think too much about how Jeyne only looked at her and Jace as she spoke, not Gerold or Jessamyn.
“There will be absolutely no discussion of why either of you is here,” she continued. “That is a matter for the court, not the dinner table. You will each have the chance to make your petitions tomorrow.”
When she noticed Arianwyn’s face fall for a moment, she took her godsdaughter’s hand. “I have sent word that the court will convene in the early morning, my dear. I promise you will be home before the three days are up.”
Jace raised an eyebrow as he sulked but remained silent.
“Our conversation will be pleasant and civil,” Jeyne instructed. “If either of you begins to act otherwise, I will not hesitate to call an end to this gathering and confine you to your quarters until the morning. Is this understood?”
The Prince and Princess both muttered their agreement, prompting Jeyne to signal for the servants to bring the food.
It was only after several minutes of awkward eating, wherein no one looked anywhere but at their own plates, that Jessamyn finally spoke.
She set down her fork and smiled at Arianwyn. “Gerold told me that you hope to return to Runestone before winter makes travel too difficult. Do you know exactly when you will be there? I – and Jeyne, I am sure – would love to be among your first visitors.”
“Brynna was planning to depart as soon as my people arrived back from Dragonstone,” Arianwyn explained. If she ignored Jace, perhaps she could fall into the same comfort she had the night before. “Aemond and I would fly there only after she sent word that everything was up to her standards.”
“Which could take half a year or more,” Gerold grumbled.
Arianwyn laughed, but the sound died when she noticed that Jace was laughing as well.
He also fell silent, staring at her expectantly with a wry grin.
“What?” she asked, her brow furrowed in anger and annoyance.
Jace had the gall to laugh again as he speared a piece of meat on his fork. “Nothing, I just…” he licked his lips. “I am not used to you actually talking at meals.”
She snarled back at him, wishing she could spear him with her fork. “I had nothing to say on Dragonstone. No one to really talk to.”
His smile faded into a sneer, his thick brow forming a hard line over his dark eyes. “You talked to me. Quite often, as I recall. Just never at dinner.”
A smirk passed over her lips as she remembered how often she had snapped back at him in those smooth stone halls, often leaving him gaping as his simple mind struggled to find a witty reply. More often than not, she had left him behind by the time he finally formed words.
But at dinners…
She could not respond to his taunts at dinner. Not with Daemon present. Not when she did not know what he would do if she did. Whatever momentary shame she felt for her childish fear vanished when she remembered what her father had done the first time she had risen to Jace’s baiting.
Beneath her nearly faded bruises, she could still feel Daemon’s fingers closing around her throat.
Arianwyn raised her chin, allowing Jace to see the greenish-yellow remnants of her father’s failed attempt on her life before she replied. “And you never wondered why that was?”
As his gaze flickered to her neck, she could swear she saw a flicker of regret. But it passed quickly, replaced by annoyance and anger.
“How is your new husband?” he asked before chewing on his meat like it had personally offended him.
“Prince Aemond is utterly perfect,” she answered with a wide, saccharine smile and a voice dripping with adoration. “He is every maiden’s dream. Kind. Gentle. And oh, so loving.”
She dropped her voice suggestively on the last word, recalling Jace’s anger when Aemond was accused of raping her. How he had raised his sword to defend her virtue. How he had called her his ‘sister.’
Biting her lip as she let herself remember the feeling of her husband’s glorious tongue on every inch of her skin, she did not try and hide the deep blush that crept over her cheeks. She wanted Jace to see how much she enjoyed being Aemond’s wife – how willing she was to share his bed.
And it worked brilliantly. Jace’s face flushed with anger, the redness spreading to his ears as he blazed with rage. Then, once again, he simply sat there steaming as his mind fumbled to come up with a response.
They were both so engrossed in their private battle of words that neither noticed Jeyne and Gerold staring wide-eyed at each other as they silently debated whether or not this counted against her earlier warning. Jessamyn kept her eyes locked on her plate, resolved to stay out of whatever odd Targaryen family drama this was.
The slight pursing of Jeyne’s lips was as good as a command, and Gerold set down his fork and steepled his hands as he cleared his throat to draw attention. “Yes,” he said. “We are overjoyed to welcome Prince Aemond into our family and our house. He will be a wonderful consort for our dear Arianwyn. Why, just today, I even ga – ”
Jace’s disbelieving laughter cut off the knight’s plea. He leaned back in his chair, his food entirely forgotten. “Aemond as a consort? He’ll go mad within a week.”
“He’s quite excited, actually!” Jessamyn cut in. Her bright green eyes were wide, desperate to steer the conversation towards something lighter – friendlier. “Prince Aemond just took on a flock of thirty-two sheep in King’s Landing. I assume he will bring them to Runestone with you, yes?”
Unfortunately for Arianwyn, Jace survived choking on his wine when he heard that news.
“Aemond got you sheep?” he asked incredulously, not bothering to conceal his gleeful grin. “That is by far the strangest wedding present I’ve ever heard of. And not at all what I’d expect of my grim uncle.”
Gerold slammed his hand on the table, ignoring the look of ire he received from Jeyne. “The sheep were no wedding present, my Prince,” he growled. “Their shepherd was killed at the Dragonpit and had no relatives to take them on. Aemond acted out of compassion and a desire to help his wife feel closer to the Vale – her homeland.”
“How noble of him,” Jessamyn mused, still trying to play the peacemaker.
Jace ignored her, looking only at Arianwyn. A hard glint had appeared in his eyes at the mention of the Dragonpit. Had Rhaenys told them the truth of what happened there – how many people she had killed?
“Is Vhagar going to be his sheepdog?” he asked mockingly, chuckling at his own joke. No one else laughed with him. “Will he carry a crook?”
“My Prince,” Jeyne warned.
But Jace had already completely slipped back into his dinnertime habit of baiting Arianwyn.
“The ‘one-eyed shepherd’ sounds like one of those silly little stories you’re so fond of,” he remarked. “Perhaps even more than the “One-Eyed Prince.”
Arianwyn shot up from her chair so quickly that the table shook. Every person in the room, servants included, froze.
The scene was familiar. Hauntingly so.
A meal that was little more than a futile attempt at peace. Ruined by a Strong bastard goading a trueborn Targaryen and igniting their fiery anger.
Jace’s taunting was as infuriating to Arianwyn as Luke’s laughter was to Aemond.
Yet only one of them would be blamed.
And it wouldn’t be Jace.
Aemond’s outburst had led to Daemon’s attempt to murder Arianwyn. To their hurried wedding. To Daemon’s assault on Brynna. To those vile accusations he hurled against Aemond that seemed to have already taken root throughout the realm.
What would be said about Arianwyn if she lost her temper here?
She took a deep, rasping breath and turned away from the table. Slowly, she pushed her chair back in and straightened her dress. At last, she faced Jeyne.
“Forgive me, godsmother,” she said. “I am afraid I have lost my appetite. With your permission, I should like to retire for the evening. I need a good rest before my flight back to King’s Landing tomorrow.”
Jeyne’s dark eyes were filled with both relief and pride. “Of course, my darling. I will have a maid wake you in time for court.”
“Thank you,” Arianwyn whispered. She nodded once to Jeyne. Then Gerold. Then Jessamyn. And without acknowledging Jace, she left the dining hall.
Tomorrow, she would make her case to the Valish court. And whether they accepted or rejected her petition, she reminded herself that while she would sleep alone this night, she would spend the next in her husband’s arms.
-
As he followed the procession into the Round Hall, the throne room of Storm’s End, Aemond was exceedingly glad he had kept his sword and dagger on him during dinner. The servant who alerted them that a dragon had indeed landed had not offered any detail about which dragon it was, not even the most basic description.
“Is it Daeron, my Prince?” Floris asked him. While the rest of her sisters had gone to stand at the side of their father’s throne, she was still next to him. She assumed that, as she was officially betrothed to his brother, her loyalty was now to him.
He gave her a reassuring smile, knowing he had chosen wisely. Daeron would be quite charmed by her. And he was sure Helaena and Arianwyn would take to her as well.
“I do not believe so, Lady,” he answered. “He remains in Oldtown, where he will stay until he is summoned to the capital to meet you on your arrival.”
She smiled and blushed slightly. “Then who is it?”
“I do not know,” Aemond sighed, biting the inside of his cheek as he considered the question.
It could be Meleys carrying Rhaenys to the keep of her cousin after leaving Dragonstone. Would she come seeking shelter from the coming conflict, or to sway Borros to Rhaenyra’s cause?
Or it could be Caraxes and Daemon coming to vie for the loyalty of the Stormlands himself. Aemond almost wished it to be true. Seeing the look on Daemon’s face when he learned that his new son-by-law had beaten him again may feel even better than killing him.
Though it was nigh on impossible, Aemond even considered that it could be Emrys bringing Arianwyn to him. Perhaps she had already won the Vale and was so desperate to see him again that she came here instead of returning to King’s Landing.
It was none of them.
Floris looked over his shoulder, a look of confusion on her face. “It is just a boy.”
Though his blind side faced the door, Aemond knew instantly who it was.
It was worse than Daemon, yet somehow almost better than Arianwyn.
As he turned away from Floris, ignoring her still questioning gaze, he saw the boy.
Lucerys Velaryon.
Aemond’s heart began to beat hard and slow, as it had been conditioned to do when he entered battle. To keep him calm and level-headed. To let him last until the fighting was done. To ensure he did not make any foolish mistakes.
That whelp had the gall to come here alone?
Aemond almost laughed, especially when Luke’s eyes – the muddy brown eyes of a bastard, not a true Valyrian – met his, and the boy looked afraid.
The face that was once twisted with rage and splattered with blood, that had not long ago laughed at his expense, was now slack with fear.
It was one of the most gratifying things Aemond had ever seen. He could not help the slight curling of his lips at the sight.
Still, a twinge of pain struck deep in his skull when the bastard was announced as “Prince.”
Surely the realm could now do away with that ridiculous pretense. No one was left to defend the bastards’ legitimacy – save their whore mother.
Lucerys was as much a Prince as that pig he had once led into the Dragonpit was a dragon.
At least the Baratheon page only referred to Rhaenyra as ‘Princess.’
The allegiance of Storm’s End was firm, then. If even the servants knew that they bowed not to a Queen, but a King.
With another clash of thunder, Lucerys looked away from his uncle and back to the Lord of the Stormlands. His voice was small and pitiful as he began his plea. “Lord Borros, I have brought you a message from my mother – the Queen.”
Aemond did not look to Borros. He did not want to miss the look on Lucerys’ face when he realized he would be returning to his usurper mother empty-handed.
“Yet only a day ago, I received an envoy from the King,” Borros said.
There was no hint of the man who, only the day before, had greeted Aemond so informally in his trophy room. Who drank and laughed with his men. Who adored a horse that was more demon than animal.
There was only the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, a man with lightning in his eyes and thunder in his blood.
“Which is it?” Borros asked. Lucerys looked again to Aemond, the lapse in attention not helping the Baratheon’s swiftly souring mood. “King? Or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”
Borros laughed, the lonely sound echoing throughout the chamber.
Had he not known better, the taunt may have grated at Aemond. But he knew the allegiance of Storm’s End was secure. And for the first time, he almost shared Borros’ sense of humor.
Lucerys retrieved a scroll from within his cape, handing it to one of the four guards flanking him. And as the guard walked forward, he turned back to his uncle.
Aemond’s heart jumped slightly, its pace quickening out of his control, and he looked down at his feet.
He told himself it was merely an amused reaction to the futility of Lucery’s tactic. That it was laughable that the boy was too afraid to relay the message himself and instead relied upon the words of the mother, like a child fearful of standing up to his own bully.
It certainly was not because Aemond feared what may be written in that message. That perhaps whatever leverage his half-sister and Rhaenys had over Borros may negate everything he had done for his brother this past day. That all his efforts were for naught.
Aemond turned his eye back to his nephew, telling himself over and over that he was not afraid.
Not anymore.
He couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t be.
The guard gave the note to Borros, who immediately called for the Maester. An advisor – a man who had not been on the hunt – ran to fetch one.
Lucerys looked back to Aemond and set his hand on his sword.
Aemond’s heart truly began to race then, his mind running away with it.
Run, it told him. Get away before he can hurt you again. Before he takes the other eye. Before he hurts her.
The steps of the approaching Maester sounded as far away as King’s Landing. As far from him as Arianwyn.
But Arianwyn was not here, he had to remind himself. Every instinct screamed that she was just behind him, struggling to breathe as she writhed helplessly in the sand. Lucerys could not hurt her. Just as he could not hurt Aemond.
He was still just a boy.
Aemond was a man.
A warrior strong enough to defeat the greatest knights in the realm. The rider of the largest dragon in the world – a dragon who sat just outside the castle. A true Prince, not a bastard pretending to be what he was not. What he could never be.
The sapphire in his eye felt like it had caught fire.
“‘Remind’ me of my father’ oath….” Borros’ ire-filled voice snapped him back to reality. “King Aegon at least came with an offer. My swords and banners for a marriage pact.”
Fear sparked in Lucerys’ eyes as he balked at the rage now facing him.
Had he expected it to be that simple? That Storm’s End would be handed to him as easily as everything else?
A fool.
His mother was not here to lie for him. Daemon was not here to murder anyone who would oppose him.
He was helpless – just as Aemond had been when he was blinded by the sand Jacaerys had thrown, allowing Lucerys to strike with that stolen blade.
It was almost justice.
“If I do as your mother bids,” Borros growled, “which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”
“My Lord,” Lucerys mewled. “I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed.” He glanced again at Aemond and the Baratheon girl standing next to him.
Yet another thing that had been so effortlessly given to him. A trueborn Valyrian bride. A daughter of Daemon – Arianwyn’s dear sister.
When he married Rhaena, would anyone accuse him of raping her?
Of course not. Lucerys was the noble son of Princess Rhaenyra. The gentle young heir to Driftmark could never do anything so vile.
How easily the world had forgotten the blood he had already shed. Aemond’s blood.
“So, you come with empty hands,” Borros grumbled. “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”
“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my Lord,” he replied, with the same look of anger and defiance he wore when his face was spattered with Aemond’s blood.
Any satisfaction he may have felt at the boy being so soundly dismissed vanished when he beheld that expression. Aemond looked down at the stone floor and forced himself to breathe as a roiling wave of pain washed over him, his nostrils flaring and his lips pulling into a flat line to bite back a scream.
Then Lucerys turned to leave. To run back to his mother and Daemon, who would assure him he had done nothing wrong. Perhaps they would even raze the Stormlands for the insult of denying their sweet, perfect little bastard Prince.
Aemond could not allow it.
This was not justice.
The bastard had stolen his eye and faced no consequence.
It could not be the same now.
There was a new King.
There would be justice.
There would be punishment.
For taking Aemond’s eye, and for his current treason.
“Wait!” he called before he could think better of it. Not that he could if he wanted to.
His mind had abandoned him. It was not logic or any form of rational thinking that had him raising his eye again to Lucerys, the boy frozen in terror as he waited for his uncle’s next words. Instead, his every action was now dictated by the six years of fiery rage that burned in his heart.
“My Lord Strong,” Aemond drawled.
There was no one there who would contradict him. No one there to protect the boy’s fragile feelings.
Good.
Aemond cocked his head, the motion reminiscent of a dragon assessing its prey, and prowled forward. “Did you really think you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”
He felt the weight of his dagger and sword like limbs itching for use. The sapphire still blazed, as though it would project white-hot fire if Aemond only lifted the patch covering it.
Lucerys stepped back toward him. “I will not fight you,” he declared. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.
A messenger – an errand boy. A lowly role well suited for a bastard. Especially one whose blade sat so uncomfortably on his hip.
“A fight would be little challenge,” Aemond mused, his head once more twitching to the right as every nerve in his face seared.
No, he did not want a fight.
A fight was fair. A fight had rules. A fight implied an even match between opponents.
That was not what he was given in that tunnel so many years ago. It was not what he would give Lucerys now.
He wanted justice.
There was a pulse of something around his sapphire. Not pain, but a calling. A plea.
“No,” Aemond proclaimed, his arm raising as he closed his fingers around the leather of his eyepatch and tore it away. “I want you to put out your eye.”
The cool air on the ruined skin was nearly as soothing as Arianwyn’s touch, so much so that he did not care that every person in the room blanched and shied away from the sight of him – even kind Floris.
He knew all too well the horror of the scar that marred his face, of his missing eye. The sick fascination of the jewel that now lay in its place– its beauty entirely at odds with the viciousness of what surrounded it.
“I want you to put out your eye,” he demanded. “As payment for mine.”
Even the storm quieted.
Aemond brushed aside his coat and retrieved his dagger, his fingers grazing the marks Arianwyn had left on the hilt.
“One will serve,” he said plainly, before tossing the dagger to the floor between him and his prey. The sound of it clattering on the stones was sharper than any crack of thunder.
“I would not blind you,” he crooned with the cloying magnanimity of a power-drunk Septon.
It was a mercy, he thought, to only make him pay this long-standing debt as punishment for his treason. When it would be well within his right to take the boy’s head.
But he would be benevolent and only take his eye. The price Alicent had demanded and been denied on Driftmark.
Aemond smiled and hummed, his expression almost bashful. “Plan to make a gift of it to my mother,” he explained. “Or perhaps Arianwyn, as a wedding present.”
For she had been as distraught as Alicent. More so, even. It was Arianwyn who had pressed her hands to the fresh wound to staunch the bleeding. He so vividly remembered what she looked like in the throne room at Driftmark, nearly every inch of her stained with blood. Even then, red had not suited her.
He had not yet given her a ring, but he could give her this.
Lucerys looked up from the dagger, looking so like his father – Harwin Strong always had an air of righteousness , however false, about him.
“No,” the bastard said.
Pain radiated from Aemond’s eye to every inch of his body.
“Then you are craven as well as traitor,” he hissed.
The aching from the sapphire was now thrumming at the same pace as his heart.
“Not here!” Borros barked, suddenly aware that there was a dragon in his castle.
But Aemond was already moving.
“Give me your eye!” he bellowed as he surged forward, a beast advancing on its prey. His fingers wrapped around his dagger, so numbed by his rage that he could not feel Arianwyn’s mark in the leather or the gold. “Or I will take it, bastard!”
Lucerys drew his sword, holding it with little skill, as though it was the first time.
“Not in my hall!” Borros shouted as he finally rose from his throne.
It was not the Lord’s plea that stopped Aemond mere strides from Lucerys, his blade held level with the boy’s eyes. Instead, it was a tugging feeling in Aemond’s skull, as though the sapphire itself was pulling him back, reining him in like a rope around his waist.
“The boy came as an envoy,” Borros begged – not commanded. For though he bore the distant blood of House Targaryen in his veins, it was diluted by time and bastardy. He could not hope to control a dragon. “I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take the boy back to his dragon. Now!”
Aemond did not lower his blade, but he moved no further. An indomitable cold had spread through his veins and frozen him in place. He could only watch as the pitiful boy clumsily sheathed his blade and ran from the hall.
But the fire in his heart, in his very soul, continued to grow. As Lucerys disappeared from sight, it burned bright and hot enough to melt the ice holding him back. He spun his dagger twice in his hand, flexing the tightened muscles as warmth slowly returned to him, and turned back to Borros.
For the first time, the Baratheon looked at Aemond with fear. As did his wife, daughters, and all his men. If he ever returned, he was sure they would never make a joke at his expense again.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, not a trace of the diplomatic Prince left to be seen. “But I shall take my leave now.”
He said nothing more as he stalked out of the castle, not bothering to retrieve any of his belongings that remained in the guest chambers. All the cries, pleas, and orders for him to stop faded among the sounds of the storm that raged around him.
Thunder boomed, lightning cracked, rain poured – and Vhagar roared.
She knew exactly what had happened. And what needed to happen next.
By the time Aemond reached her side, already thoroughly drenched, she was practically purring with excitement.
“Issa jēda naejot arghugon, Vhagar!” he called to her over the din of the storm as he mounted the saddle and hastily strapped himself into place. “Konīr iksis iā nādrēsy naejot ūndegon, se iā gēlȳn naejot sagon addemmagon.” It is time to hunt. There is a bastard to catch, and a debt to be paid.
Next Chapter
#aemond#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond fanfic#aemond fluff#aemond imagine#aemond one eye#aemond the kinslayer#aemond x reader#aemond x you#hotd aemond#house of the dragon aemond#prince aemond#prince aemond targaryen#house of the dragon imagine#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon#hotd x reader#hotd fanfic#hotd#ewan mitchell
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You are Malleus, grandson of the Witch of Thorns and heir to her kingdom. From nearly the moment of your hatching, you are revered - and feared. Your magical abilities present themselves at a young age and everyone declares that you will be the greatest wizard to walk the world by the time you come of age. Though you are naught compared to your grandmother, it doesn't matter. You never see her, and hardly see your parents.
Your care and tutelage is largely the responsibility of the courtiers and servants. Your favorite is a man with sharp teeth, who often goes into the human realm disguised as a round-faced young boy so that the humans will be less inclined to run away from him in terror. The others whisper that he was once a great warrior who killed many humans and even other fae in the name of the Witch of Thorns - not to you, personally, because you are the prince who cannot be seen conversing with those who are beneath you - but you come to understand that even though Lilia is indeed a mighty warrior and wizard, he is also very eccentric and funny and openhearted. He pats your head - right between the pointed black horns that terrify so many - and tells you that you have done a good job today, and would you like to have tea and snacks later? He brings you trinkets and toys and curiosities from the human villages. On your one hundredth birthday, he brings you an entire cake and tells you to eat it - by yourself. You do; you are sick for three days, and vow never to do something like that again. Lilia laughs himself silly while he nurses you back to health. Sometimes he disappears for long periods of time, and nobody asks where he is, or tells you where he's gone, and when Lilia returns, he tells you that it was a simple errand gone awry.
You are not naive, even as a child, and indeed, nobody spares details when it comes to gruesome history, the high cost of magic. Again and again you are reminded what became of your grandmother - gone mad pierced, pierced with a magic sword, stripped of her powers, reduced to a near-humanlike state without horns or wings - this was the price she paid for power. The humans cannot be trusted, your tutors say, because they are weak and feeble in body and mind. They will not understand you. They will hate and fear you.
So you learn, in addition to spellcasting and histories and sciences and politics, how to speak in such a way that nobody can tell what you are really thinking. You learn to make a simple set of expressions which you can call upon whenever it is necessary. You learn to choose your words very carefully. The Valley of Thorns is a dangerous place, even for princes, even for mighty wizards like you.
But Lilia tells you about the villages beyond the Valley of Thorns. Places which have days upon days of pure, warm sunshine and fields of flowers. Trees that blossom in the spring, and turn crimson in the fall. Snowcapped mountains, great golden deserts. One day, you have dinner together and Lilia speaks endlessly about the sea. The human world sounds nice, you say, idly to disguise your fascination, perhaps it would be useful to go and visit it one day. As part of your education, naturally.
Lilia says, "Perhaps, one day." And smiles.
Your kind grow slowly, and you are separated from the humans, so you are not properly aware of time passing until one day, Lilia goes away on another one of his errands. It’s a short errand, and when he comes back, he shows you the strangest thing yet.
“A human?”
“A baby,” Lilia confirms, adjusting the bundle against his chest like it’s no strange thing. You stare, amazed and confused. “I’m going to be taking care of him from now on.”
There were no further explanations. Perhaps later, Lilia would tell you the story, but not today. You bite down a protest. There are no humans in the Valley of Thorns. Even someone as esteemed as Lilia would face consequences for bringing one here, even if it was a harmless child.
“Look.” Lilia holds out the bundle. “See how small he is?”
He hands you the infant and positions your arms correctly so that you are supporting it’s head, cradling it against your chest. It is indeed tiny, and squishy, and very, very pale. Were humans meant to be so pale? Was it sick? You frown down, sniffing for any hint of poison or disease. The infant smells strongly acrid, the way swords did when they passed through the copperfires of the Valley. But underneath that, was something soft and muted. Human. Innocent.
You look up at Lilia, confused. He smiles back, undeniably pleased, though you are not sure what you’ve done to make him smile like that.
“He has no name,” said Lilia. “Would you like to name him, your highness?”
You hand the bundle back to Lilia, but as your hands fall away, you touch one finger to the infant’s cheek. The human baby whimpers but does not wake. You brush the threads of pale hair on his head.
“Silver,” you say.
“A fine name,” says Lilia, and smiles.
Now, for the first time, you understand the passage of time. Silver grows very quickly - far more quickly than you did. It is not long before you two look to be nearly the same age. Lilia is mostly responsible for Silver’s care, just as he was once responsible for you. But you find yourself wanting to help as well. Your duties as prince have not changed, but now you have a playmate as well, one who changes rapidly. Silver has magic of his own, and since he was accepted by the prince, no one (openly) questions Sliver’s right to be there. It is frustrating sometimes, yes, but mostly, it is interesting. Silver is not much of a troublemaker and isn’t prone to tantrums. He sleeps quickly and easily. Too quickly, too easily. One day, he nearly falls into a lake and drowns after he appeared to fall asleep while standing up. Thirteen years had passed since Lilia took him in.
While Silver rests - properly, having been healed - Lilia informs you that the human child is cursed, and his parents abandoned him at the edge of the valley, because they could not bear to raise him.
“Do you know,” said Lilia, “that humans often do such things? If they believe the child is sick or not of their own, they will bring them to us. There are many bones on the edge of the valley.”
You find it in yourself to be horrified, and angry. “Why do humans do such things?”
“Because they fear what they do not understand. However, there are also many like Silver. Silver is a good boy. You have done a fine job caring for him, your Highness.”
You look away. “I did nothing.”
“Be that as it may,” says Lilia, smiling. “I am sure that he will work hard to repay you.”
This is indeed true. Silver requests to join the royal guard and begin training as soon as he wakes from his slumber. You cannot fathom why Silver would do such a thing - since you still have not done anything useful for him, at least not in the way Lilia has - but Lilia happily agrees and takes a supervising position in the royal guard, so that he may continuing assisting in Silver’s growth. Many of the fellow trainees are uneasy and displeased with the idea of a human in their ranks. None is more upset than a youthful fae by the name of Sebek, who took his displeasure one step further and complained directly to Lilia himself.
In response, Lilia invites Sebek over for dinner.
You watch, fascinated and amused, as Sebek struggles through simple conversations. It seems that being in the presence of royalty is uniquely overwhelming for him. His fair skin goes scarlet at one point, when you ask him to please demonstrate what you have learned.
“I am no great wizard!” says Sebek, loudly. His loud voice seemed to be a defense mechanism against his embarrassment. “But I assure you that once I have completed my training and education, I shall become a guardsman fit to stand at your side, young Master!”
Sebek is funny. You like him; you haven’t talked to very many fae-kind who are close to you in age. You ask where he is going to school.
Night Raven College. Of course, you know if it. It’s the school that your grandmother helped build, the place she graciously lent her strengths in order to educate a new generation of young wizards.
“Of course!” says Sebek, proudly, when you note this. “There is no finer place for one who was raised in the Valley of Thorns! I am most honored to be attending!”
Lilia chuckles. “It is a school mostly for human and mortal students, but I’m glad to see you’re so excited about your future. You still have some time before you send admission paperwork, yes?”
Sebek says, “Four years, ten months, and nine days precisely!”
An idea sparks in you when you hear this. “Oh? Is that so?”
Silver remarks, “Yeah, I was thinking about applying when I’m old enough. I think it’ll be useful for me to get training there. They say they’ve got some of the best alchemists in the world working there.”
And Silver as well? Now that was interesting. The conversation continues, and moves away.
Two days later, you ask for permission to apply to Night Raven College.
#fanfiction#my writing#twisted wonderland#malleus draconia#diasomnia#i have no reason why i wrote this but i was Thinking About Malleus and Silver#lilia vanrouge#sebek zigvolt#silver
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But What If | Semi Eita
Synopsis: In which cold nights in rooftops with pizza, beer, and acoustic songs make you ponder on the what ifs.
Characters: Semi Eita, You
Genre/Warnings: Slice of Life, Angst (I think? depends on you :v) NO WARNINGS
Word Count: 1.1k
a/n: Ok guys. Hear me out. PLEASE listen to Bruno Major’s Tapestry as you read this!! This oneshot was based off of my personal feels and I had this song on repeat the entire time!! :))
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Living with Eita for the past five years had always left you moments where you found yourself conflicted. You knew never to read too much into your Saturday night routine where he always made it a priority to be home before seven so he could spend the night downing cans of beer, eating pizza, and singing songs at the rooftop of your apartment building with you. You never assumed the lyrics in the love songs he wrote or the look in his eyes when he sang in a softer tune were for you either. He never bothered to mention the inspiration behind his lyrics and so you left it at that. You never answered yourself when the question of ‘do I even want to know?’ popped in your head.
Instead, you let yourself love him quietly. You found yourself silently hoping that he’d see how red you turned when he brought you an extra hoodie during the winter nights up at the rooftop and not just blame it on the cold. Maybe see you in the table at the far left of the café he was hired to play at during Fridays. You used to always tell yourself that you just liked how they made their coffee there, and you weren’t there just because Eita had a different glow when he was playing music. And then along those five years you had a realization and stopped blatantly lying to yourself and admitted your heart may have an extra special place for Eita.
You never thought your tiny crush for your long time roommate and best friend would snowball into something greater. Key words being, you and thought. You could tell the man anything and just about almost everything, but you made it a promise to yourself, on one very drunk Saturday night, where he was out on a date with a senior from his department leaving you to your designated rooftop Saturday nights alone, that this- or whatever this is, will dwindle down into nothing but a funny memory.
But only that it didn’t. The only silver lining in this was the fact that you’re a pro at hiding what’s meant to be hidden. Like now, where you’re at your apartment building’s rooftop sitting on a blanket next to Eita, beer in hand, with your head leaned on his shoulder as he fiddled with his guitar’s tuning.
He’s like my own space heater, heh.
You grabbed a slice of pizza and held it near his face, where he leaned forward and took a bite. “New song?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking of playing it next Friday. You going?” Hearing that your ears turned red (though this time you were glad you could easily blame it on the cold) and quickly sat up to face him. “How did you know that I go?”
He stopped testing the strings, faced you and let his finger tap the tip of your nose. “You wear the brightest scarves.”
“But you got me that scarf for my birthday.”
He smiled at you in the way you both loved and hated. You wanted to turn away before your face turned another shade of red. “I know, it’s so I can find you quickly.”
You leaned your head back on his shoulder and sank deeper into the hoodie he leant you. “I’m not your dog, Eita. And you could have waved hi.”
His laugh set of a vibration that you felt against his shoulder. “Yeah, but you looked cozy so I let you be.”
You tsked and took a sip of your beer.
You listened to him strum a couple of times before he fell into a picking pattern.
“Have you seen the seven oceans?”
You smiled when his voice began to melt into the vibrations of the guitar.
“Or the snowcap of a mountain top?”
“Or the northern lights set in motion.”
You took another sip and closed your eyes.
“A heartbeat slowed to a stop.”
And then there it was. A feeling you had become familiar with over the years except this time you let yourself close your eyes a bit longer. Though if you had them opened you would have noticed he looked at you. But then again, you may have caught the soft look he had and we all know that can’t be good.
“Have you read a book by candlelight? Or heard a leader’s call to arms.”
You felt him shift his head in your direction so you kept your head down and shut your eyes a little tighter.
“Have you ever felt my love? Burn so bright. Like a fireball in your palm.”
His voice felt close enough that you realized you held your breath and tightened your hold on the can. It was then you decided to finally open your eyes and look at him. His gaze found yours at the absence of weight on his shoulder but he smiled anyway and nodded as he dived into the chorus,
“More-”
You held his gaze and hummed to the pattern you picked up. Eita was beaming at you.
“-than all the things that I’ve seen-“
His demeanor was little softer than usual and you stopped keeping track of what expression you must have had at this point because regardless of the fact that you are in love with him is the undeniable fact that he is so beautiful.
And he is looking straight at you, as he continues, “-you will always be part of my tapestry.”
So maybe you’ll indulge yourself this time. And maybe you’ll blame it on the third can of beer of why you stared a little too boldly in his eyes and didn’t turn away when you were positive that your cheeks are flushed red. Maybe you’ll blame the cold, or your loopy-ness, or the high that you’re feeling, or that third can of goddamn beer again, on seeing his eyes twinkle in a special way as he held his gaze right at you. Goddamn he’s so pretty. Fuck.
And just this damn time you’ll let yourself drift into the thoughts of the what ifs that never stopped dancing around. What if I kissed him right now? What if I went on that date with him instead of what’s her face? We probably would have lasted more than their three day relationship. What if we actually did?
He turned his head up and briefly closed his eyes and that was when you realized you had held your breath that long.
But he continued, and you were still entranced.”
“More, than all the places I’ve been-“
You like to think you aren’t sad, but tonight you felt your heart throb a little sadder. You didn’t allow yourself to ponder on the what ifs for too long, but tonight just made you think that what if he wrote this song for you?
“-you will always be part of my tapestry.”
#haikyuu#haikyu#haikyuu scenario#haikyuu scenarios#haikyu scenario#haikyu scenarios#haikyuu imagine#haikyuu imagines#haikyu imagine#haikyu imagines#haikyuu x reader#hq#haikyu x reader#semi eita#semi x reader#semi eita imagines#semi eita scenarios#eita x reader#shiratorizawa x reader#shiratorizawa#angst#haikyuu angst#semi eita angst#haikyuu x reader angst#haikyuu slice of life
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Time was overall subjective when this far out beyond the Edgeworlds. It was hard to keep track of birthdays, and holiday events however being in the Empire, he had a sense for such things as they worked to help pinpoint memories, and schedules. So when the infamous day of Valentines had come around - Sona would find a box on the bed in the hotel room. Plain. Unassuming. Sat atop it would be a note which upon being unfolded would offer a map and instructions.
Follow the map through the tunnels by 23:45.
Do not open the box until you reach the specified location.
Use the light on top of the box to illuminate the tunnels.
You will find something identifiable once you reach the designated spot.
The lights within the cavern city dimmed to entice the bio luminescent rock ceiling high above. Torchlight took up the streets in a warm glow giving the atmosphere a welcoming, and peaceful vibe. The tunnels too were lit, but only a short ways into the maze. She would have to follow the map to the letter if she had any hope of locating the designated destination.
It would take… a little time. A little effort. Starlight shimmers across the rockface made it seem like she were wandering the galactic plain. A landscape threatening to consume her imagination with its warm twinkles, and dense atmosphere. Even the low laying mists looked like they were kissed with the colors of a nebula, swirling effortlessly with the sway of her steps and motion of her body.
It was upon arrival that the woman would find the identifiable marker. A lantern hung low from an iron arm curved up and over a small mountain of sand and rocks. Stones made stairs spiraling up to its crest to reveal a basket concealed under a small hand towel and two pillows stacked atop a folded blanket under the faint glow of quiet firelight contained within its glass prison.
Another note would be hung from a thin string dangling from the base of the lantern.
Blow out the candlelight, and open the box.
Should she do so, she would find that the cave was not as dark as it originally seemed as moonlight immediately consumed its reaches from an opening high above. Higher than even the storms that raged across the surface of the planet. The light was strange but not for the moon itself, but the source; the neutron start that blazed so strangely not terribly far off. It’s bluish hue thrown off the snowcaps of the moon to radiate gently down into the depths of this place. It was stunning. But more than that – When she would open the box, a single flower would rest inside. It stirred as it felt the rays with reactive pollen creeping from within the flower like tiny fireflies reaching out to the sky. Harmless, and beautiful. As the flower turned to bask in the moonlight, wide, vibrant petals would spread one at a time until fully blossomed. It was alive. Responsive even to the direction the lights would come from always seeking to embrace the rays as if it were the greatest gift that could be given to it.
Behind her Kayn stood with his hands rested to his back. His eyes keen and observant, making a point to not give his position away. To linger at the edges of her vision to drink in her response, and the unfurling of the moon flower.
It would be a few minutes giving her the ability to bask in the moment before he would make himself known, speaking plainly as he watched the tiny pollen fragments drift higher and higher forever seeking the rays of the moon.
“This moon flower is not named only for its reaction to lunar light, but because the pods actually thrive in space making homes on the surface of moons, or near to them. Tide locked are among their favorites, and tend to prosper because there is no waning of light, nor necessity to relocate.”
His steps were calm, and calculated, taking his time to join her, “Consider this a gift. A show of appreciation for your efforts despite–” Kayn waves his hand absently, “–our disagreements.” More like his disapproval of some things, but he surely wasn’t going to get into it.
If she were to pull the towel off the basket, she would find a simple, but well loved meal common among the people of her home world. He doesn’t comment. He simply tends to the blanket, unfolding it and plopping the pillows down so the pair had a place to sit.
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It was late, and by the time Sona found the letter left behind by the Ordinal, Sona had already removed her binding for the day. She hoped he’d understand when she showed up to the location in her normal attire. In truth, she hadn’t any issues traversing the city nor the tunnels--aside from the abyss of twilight which nearly caused her to trip twice. But at least she made it safely within the hollowed out network of corridors. Part of her wondered what he had in store for her this time. Kayn was full of mysteries and his displays were nothing short of grandiose. Always one for the flair, that one. There could be all manner of things he could be plotting for her but...
Whatever she had been thinking--this wasn’t it.
Seated upon the blanket and pillows, Sona finds herself in the moonlit cavern, the flower in the box beside her and the basket on Kayn’s side. The meal before her is not only nostalgic, but coincidentally a favorite of hers; Gyūdon--fresh rice with thinly sliced beef and fragrant slivered onions, cooked with dashi, soy, and mirin. There were even mushrooms and a bit of ginger as well. What’s more, it had a dollop of what looked to be shichimi, a type of ground chili pepper that Galrin was known for. It really was a shock to see a staple from home, to the point that she didn’t wish to disturb the bowl--instead she wanted to admire it for a bit longer, as if it were a piece of art not meant for consumption. Yet, the Ordinal’s pointed glare was all the silent urging she needed to grasp her chopsticks and dig in.
“I must have lost track of time. Certain holidays are universal, even where I’m from. This must mean we’re nearing the fire festival back at home.” Sona reflects aloud, her smile warm and bright. With a warm meal before her so reminiscent of home, she continues to eat and drown in the memories, allowing her senses to be taken over by the comforting sweetness of days past. “You’re full of surprises, Shieda. I gratefully accept this incredible gesture...heh, I don’t even know how you managed all this on Shedola. It’s nothing short of talented.” And she means it. Sona never seeks to fluff up anyone’s ego with hot air, least of all Kayn--he doesn’t need it. However, she’s able to recognize ingenuity, prowess, and ability when she sees it. “It does mean a lot...I-”
“-I don’t...have much to give to you in turn though.” Sona goes quiet for a moment, knowing that Kayn would dismiss such musings. Still, she couldn’t. If she had realized the date, she’d have prepared him baked goods--those were always a perfect gift around this time of year and she knew he enjoyed her food enough. Not that she had ample opportunity to do so, even if she had known of the holiday fast approaching. It gnawed on her mind that she hadn’t anything substantial to give such as a materialistic gift nor succulent--but a thought occurs to Sona as she finishes her bowl; a gift of a different kind that wouldn’t require much from her, but it would still be something which might interest the man so eager to learn.
“Shieda,” Sona calls out his name while standing up. “I know you’re an educated man, but perhaps you didn’t know-” Sona would glance over her shoulder towards the man, a faint smile on her lips. As she does, she steps forward, a hand upon her bosom to calm her racing heart. It’s such a simple thing that she’s about to do, and yet she can’t calm down. She can never shake the nerves, even in the privacy of this cavern. When was the last time she had done this?
“-the Order is quite an old organization and has been around for countless generations. While we have evolved with the times, there once was a time where we memorized oral histories and events. Nothing was ever written, only spoken. It made every individual in the group precious and important, as each carried with them part of the galaxy’s stories and traditions.” Sona smiles a bit brighter, hoping the flash of teeth would help calm her nerves. “The original Templars were nomadic, held no material possessions, and often communed with Ora--though most of their tales have faded into antiquity due to the nature of their paperless ideals. Only folklore and unverified recordings of events exist, knowledge still passed on from the founders of the past to the youth of today. Even if it bears no particular importance on the events of today, it is part of our values to learn of our forebears.”
“What’s more-” Sona takes a deep breath. “-is that their voices live on through arcane scripture, written in a dead language that only High Templars are permitted to learn.” Sona turns, now facing the twinkling expanse of the cavern. With the milky moonlight pouring fourth from the opening in the ceiling, it nearly looks as though a halo of snow forms across her crown, an almost ethereal sight.
“Being who I am--what I am--I learned the archaic dialect and their ancient hymns.” And with a final breath to rid herself of what anxiety remained, Sona would part her lips--and she would sing. Music was her life, the small bit of self-expression and freedom afforded to her in life. It was an intimate experience, sharing her song to Kayn in that moment, using the language scarcely known in the entire universe.
“Kuwata tsunowo vralai
Tsuriji pufuralekai
Kwondzuvai undovartsu wronduwail
Tjortetei jeki liago
Jiunmata ivelischpfuli
Neftyoma sorepiyamei
Schijiyako alefni fatalliliya
Nic'hpisfa unhoreselye
Otrajain aforeje kurasolda
Towari hatasei mic'hatasei tsufrallai
Otrajain aforeje kurasolda
Towari hatasei mic'hatasei tsufrallai ilja
Ullilya kojijichatjukaijai-wa nyame fretsumekri fretsumekri linganmai
Ulreri manja huteharraku-mu harirch lahadachfei lahadachfei shindulhwo“
It wasn’t a magnificent performance filled with pyrotechnics and an orchestral swell. She’s certain he’s heard far better among the Empire concert halls and various parades his home boasts. Even so, there is something so pure and sincere in her voice, in the way the acoustics of the cavern exemplify the purity to her singing. She had been so nervous to share her melody and part of her heritage to him, but now that her singing has ceased and she has a moment to breathe, she realizes that Kayn is not the type of man to scorn her for what makes her unique. Even as an Ordinal, he would not mock that which she offers him in kind. It’s not the exact gift she had in mind to give him, though she hopes the new insight on her people--and the performance itself--is still enjoyable for him...even without her beloved instrument.
And in the end, she was able to bear more of herself to him--something that is perhaps the most priceless thing of all.
#tw long post#long post#epoch tale || Odyssey au#in harmony || ic#the lady performs || my art#MAN I LOVE THIS#I love drawing in response to certain stuff#and this was#so fun for me#Sona super nervous like#'this man is afraid of my smooches and I got nothing on me'#'what do I give him?'#K N O W L E D G E#and in fairness it's a rather unique experience#given its a dead language#even out in the vastness of a cavern#she had to do SOMETHING in return#cue her vibrating nervously because#hnnnngh she hasn't sang the language in front of others really#let alone she rarely sings in front of others too#probs once or twice with the Morning Star#but otherwise nada#<3#submission
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Soon
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Trigger warning for whipping near the end. It doesn’t explicitly occur, but it is mentioned and discussed.
“317! The Mistress would like to see you.”
Wild glanced up from where he was stitching carpets on a loom to see one of the guards above him. At the guard’s eyebrow raise, he quickly stood up and bowed his head. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Ada tilt her head slightly to make sure he was okay. He gave a subtle nod and walked out of the room, unknowing of the danger he was about to face.
He kept his head down as he was escorted, although he was mentally tracing the layout of the place. The slaves were only allowed to go to two places: the sleeping room, the place he had woken up in, and the loom room, the place he had just been in. It was very hard mapping any possible exits for their plan, but perhaps this meeting was a blessing in disguise.
Suddenly, a flash of light caught his eye, making him squint and stop walking. It had been incredibly long since he had seen any source of light besides torches; he had a feeling they were kept in some type of cave structure, and it seemed he was right. The light appeared to be coming from a hallway full of windows overlooking a snowcapped mountain. A realization struck him: they were in the Gerudo Highlands.
“Hey!” The guard barked, “Keep walking!”
Hurriedly, Wild caught up to the man, acting like the submissive servant. “Sorry,” he apologized softly, making sure to manipulate his voice so it sounded feminine, “I just haven’t seen sunlight in so long.”
The guy sneered, “Treasure it while it lasts. You won’t see it for much longer.”
Once he turned around, Wild had to hold back a glare. Treasure it yourself, he thought, when we bust out of here, you’re gonna be first on my list.
Finally, they arrived at the designated spot. The guard slammed his spear on the floor. “Listen up,” he barked, “You disrespect the Mistress? You ain’t coming out of this alive.” Wild kept his eyes trained on the floor, carefully schooling his expression. “Got it?”
The sudden spear tip under his chin forced Wild to lift his head up and stare into the dark eyes of the guard. “I said,” the guard increased the pressure, “Got it?”
“Dakota, enough.”
Both men looked toward the new voice to see the woman that had lured Wild into this mess. “Iesha,” the guard, now dubbed Dakota, took the spear away from Wild’s throat, “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she sauntered over to the two, “So this is Mother’s latest sales pitch?”
“It would appear so.”
Iesha quirked an eyebrow, “If she’s meeting with her, then why was I called here as well?”
Dakota shrugged, “Don’t know. We need to get going, though, or else the Mistress won’t be happy.”
“Hmm,” Iesha looked pensive, “Let’s get going, shall we?” And with that, she sauntered into the room, leaving Wild to catch up with her.
When they walked into the room, they were greeted by a Gerudo woman with black eyes and braided red hair wearing a purple sheer version of Wild’s outfit sitting on a stone throne. (How she was able to survive up here with that little protection was a mystery to Wild. Perhaps potions?) “Ah,” she smirked, “I see you have arrived. Guards,” she addressed the warriors in the room with a sharp look, “leave us at once.”
As the guards filed out of the room, Iesha slowly lowered herself until she was kneeling before her mother, “You’ve called for me, Mother?”
“Yes,” the smirk the woman wore turned into a look of disdain, “I will get to you in a moment. Now,” she turned her attention towards the smallest person in the room, “we have other business to get to.”
Wild straightened up immediately, which caused the woman’s grin to widen. “Don’t worry, you’ve done nothing wrong. Yet.” The threat hung in the air making the two young adults shiver.
“Indeed, we have something else to get to.” The woman continued, “First off, I simply must introduce myself. It’s a requirement when you’re sold off to know the name of your former owner, of course.”
That didn’t sound good. Wild cleared his throat quietly, “What is your name, milady?”
“Oh, I like this one,” the Gerudo laughed, “I go by many names, most unimportant to you lot.” She snarled, “You may address me as Mistress Zara, if you need to address me at all.”
So this was the mysterious Zara. Wild flashbacked to the first time he had heard the name, after he had first met Ada and Nabila.
“If you ever are called to meet her, be careful,” Nabila had warned, clutching Ada’s hand tightly, “She may look Gerudo, but that is the extent of it. She is a monster in every sense of the word.”
Ada had nodded, looking at her lover in concern, “I’ve heard that she beats her most loyal follower for absolutely no reason, no matter the time of day.” She had looked at Wild fiercely, “Do not upset her, no matter what.”
With those words of wisdom echoing in his head, he responded, “Of course, Mistress Zara.”
“Good,” Zara clapped her hands together, “Now, onto to more important news: you’re being sold.”
Wild’s breath caught in his throat, “Excuse me, Mistress?”
“You heard me. We’ve had a recent buyer ask for someone with your proportions, something we don’t normally carry, so you were plucked from the masses. I’ve only kept you here for the past week so you can be trained properly, and then you’ll be shipped off, outside of the kingdom.” Zara sighed dreamily, “Isn’t it great? You won’t ever have to think for yourself ever again!”
Still in shock, Wild licked his lips, “O-of course, milady. That is truly the greatest thing I could hope for.” The last words came out so quietly, even Wild had a hard time hearing them.
“I’m glad you agree. And now, for you.” Zara’s face changed from one of faux-excitement into one of ice-cold anger. “My own daughter. My, how you disappoint me.”
“Mother?” Iesha said timidly in response.
“Silence!” Zara hissed, “Do you know what you have down? There have been a string of those horrid Gerudo bimbos traipsing by here too closely. Do you know who’s fault that has been?”
Iesha kneeled in silence for a moment before saying, “Mine.”
“Yes,” Zara waltzed off of her harsh throne, “If it weren’t for your stupid, selfish mistake, we wouldn’t be having this problem. As such, you will have to learn from it. One hundred lashes.”
Iesha’s head dipped lower than Wild thought possible, “Understood, Mother.”
“And as a bonus,” the cruel grin was back on the mother’s face, “you will do it here, in front of 317.”
Wild heard Iesha’s breath stall, “Of course, Mother. I will not disappoint you next time.”
“You better not. Dakota!” Zara barked. She waited until said man entered the room, “Strike her one hundred times. Make sure it hurts this time.”
Dakota’s eyes widened, “Mistress, I don’t think that’s a good-”
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Zara whispered icily. At Dakota’s head shake, she continued, “Then do as I say.”
“Y-yes, Mistress.” He slowly turned toward Iesha, who refused to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
As Dakota took out a whip and raised it up, Wild refused to be silent anymore. “Stop!”
Dakota seized raising the whip and looked to Zara for guidance, who simply looked toward Wild. “What did you say?”
Wild’s throat went dry. He hadn’t thought this far ahead, “W-well,” he kept his voice high pitched, “I just think if you do this in front of me, I won’t be motivated to help my master. I-if you do it to me instead, I’ll have more incentive to do it.”
Zara thought for a moment, mulling it over in her mind. “Weak argument, but fine,” she drawled. “If that is what it’ll take to make you behave, then so be it. You’ll be receiving two hundred lashes each day, one hundred in the morning and one hundred in the evening, until you get sold off. It starts now.”
Wild exhaled shakily, feeling tears slowly forming in his eyes, “Thank you, milady.”
Zara waved toward Dakota, “Start swinging, guard. And don’t forget to count!”
As the whip fell on his back, Wild closed his eyes. His last coherent thought was seeing Iesha’s horrified face and thinking she doesn’t deserve this before he lost himself to the pain.
Phew, it’s done. I spent pretty much all of this evening writing this because you guys deserve an update <3 I hope you guys like it! If you did, leave a comment or something, it helps me to know that you enjoyed it!
For the @linkeduniverse AU.
#linkeduniverse#linked universe#hero of the wild#my ocs i guess#we finally meet zara#also nabila and ada are a couple#i dont think i established that when we first met them
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The Last to Fall
Short fic full of KoA spoilers ahead, so everything’s under the cut!
Feysand’s POV of Aelin falling through their world.
Word count: 1031
AO3
It had been fifty years since the war. Fifty years of peace, fifty years of prosperity for the Night Court, fifty years of trying to start a family. And now, with Feyre eight months along, the entirety of Velaris had come out in force to catch a glimpse of their High Lord and Lady before the big day, as they gathered to the House of Wind to celebrate the festivities of Starfall.
But as the evening had gone on, with many guests approaching to give their well-wishes to the expectant couple, not a single star had fallen from the sky.
Every year, fewer and fewer star spirits had graced the skies over the Night Court, fewer travellers trying to return home or making their yearly migrations, but never, in his six centuries, had Rhysand seen them fail to make the journey altogether.
The citizens of Velaris hid their disappointment well, still reveling in the champagne and dancing wildly to the music which had been cued when it grew apparent that they were unlikely to witness this sacred event, but he could feel the unrest growing on the dance floor beneath them.
Would there ever be another Starfall? Would they have to revert to celebrating Nynsar as the rest of the continent did?
He frowned as he took in his mate, seated on a chaise on their private balcony, as he massaged her swollen feet. They’d retreated up here after hours spent among the masses, once her back had become too sore from standing and her eyes beginning to droop from the exhaustion onset by the pregnancy.
He’d been so excited coming into tonight, thinking about how this would be the last Starfall they’d celebrate before they’d have a family—the only Starfall remaining before they’d get to show the spectacle to their own little one.
He could still remember the utter delight he’d felt as a child as he took in the magic shooting through the sky every year. He’d wanted his son to have the same experience.
“You know that even if we never see another star fall, this day is never going to fail to be special, right?” Feyre murmured before sidling up next to him.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, unable to come up with the words to confer everything he was feeling to his mate. He shot those emotions down the bond though, allowing her to soothingly stroke against his mental shields until his body was relaxing under her touch.
“The people of the Night Court will never forget this holiday. It will go down in our sacred history books as legend, its importance only growing as people begin to spin tales of it.”
She kissed his brow.
“And for us, it will always be the first time I realized I was falling in love with you, the first time I began to hope for this future—a future I still couldn’t imagine would be this incredible. It—you—brought me back to life on this night. And I’ll be forever grateful for it.”
He pulled her in close to him, leaning in to kiss her gently, before scooping her into his arms.
“Where are we going?”
“If this is truly to be our last Starfall, I’d like to go somewhere private with my mate. Perhaps to mountains near our cabin.” He gestured down at the party below them, at the music which was still filtering up to their secluded retreat. “I just want to look up at the stars with you, still though they might be, and capture this moment to remember for the rest of our lives.”
“That sounds lovely,” she breathed.
So with half a thought, he winnowed them to the top of one of the neighboring snowcapped mountains overlooking their familial retreat, a shield thrown up to protect them both from the frigid tendrils of night air attempting to slash at their bare skin.
He set Feyre down gently, allowing her to lean into him as he held his wife, his mate, his queen on this solemn night—as he desperately looked up to those stars and wished—wished for some closure before this new chapter of their lives began.
And there, stark against the static sky, came one solitary shooting star spirit, so close he thought he might be able to fly to meet it.
He turned to Feyre, intoning down the bond, Look, darling!
It seems your wish has come true. She smiled back at him.
And it was in that moment that he felt the star spirit reaching for him, felt its terror, its urgency. Rhys felt the surprise in its mind from across the sky as it noted his Fae features, how handsome he was, amongst its signal that it was searching desperately for any way to slow its own descent.
His head snapped up, taking it in. This lifeform—this female, he was able to gather from spearing out with his mind—who was just trying to find her way home, to be able to land in her own world after having sealed the gates between them.
Without a second thought, he reached out with his hand, sending gentle tendrils of night to form a shield beneath her, not a shield to halt, but one with just enough power in it to reduce her velocity. To assist, to give her hope.
An instant later, she had torn through his shield in a blaze and disappeared from the sky.
Rhys solemnly hoped that she would find it, whatever home she was searching for.
“Was that—?” Feyre gasped, holding a hand over her mouth.
“The last one,” Rhys murmured. “She was the last.”
And with that, he sent those images, those insights he’d gleaned in that split second down the bond to his mate.
Afterwards, the two of them stood there, hand in hand, savoring this memory, and praying to the Mother that wherever she was trying to go, she found her way home. That she found the peace they had already fought so hard to attain. That this female who had rattled their starry sky for the final time found her way to a better world.
Masterlist
#kingdom of ash#koa spoiler#koa spoilers#feysand#rhysand#feyre#feyre archeron#feyre x rhysand#aelin#aelin ashryver galathynius#aelin ashryver whitethorn galathynius#throne of glass#tog#tog/acotar crossover#acotar#a court of thorns and roses#fanfic#my finds#the last to fall
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Budget Cuts
In case you’re too busy reading my blog to follow the politics of the state of Alaska, here’s a brief rundown from an admitted newcomer. Last October when he was up for reelection, Bill Walker, the previous governor and an Independent, stepped down in the aftermath of a scandal involving “inappropriate overtures” made to a woman by his lieutenant governor. That left two contenders. The Democrat, Mark Begich, had been a US senator; Flo actually met him at our local radio station when they were both being interviewed on the same day. Ladybug and I were listening for Flo to come on and talk about university events but Begich talked for awhile before Flo’s segment; I found him interesting, but Ladybug was not impressed.
“Ugh,” she said. “He just keeps talking!” In short, most people’s view of politicians.
I think it goes without saying (does it go without saying?) that I am a Democrat – though my recent move to the “coast” of the Tongass Narrows changes slightly my status as a member of the coastal elite. Regardless, Flo and I were pretty dang disappointed that Begich lost. The winner, Republican Mike Dunleavy, was elected on the campaign promise of restoring the PFD. Allow me to explain – again, forgiving my very rudimentary understanding of the whole thing. The Alaska permanent fund was established in the late seventies, in the wake of the construction of the Alaska pipeline; a lump sum is given to each Alaskan once a year, with the variable amount effectively contingent on the price of oil. This year it amounted to about $1600 for every man, woman and child in the state; in the past it’s been significantly more. (I should note that we won’t receive it until we’ve lived here a full calendar year, which will mean 2020 for the three of us and 2021 for Bronson, I believe – the indignity of having a birthday in early January.) To outsiders, those of us who just moved here from down south and aren’t yet eligible, for example – it can feel like a bonus. But to many Alaskans, it is the thing they wait for all year. A friend here told me that there are people in remote villages who rely on the PFD to pay their bills. The day before the dividends were handed out last fall, I overheard a salty dog of an old man, possibly drunk, talking on the phone.
“I’ll get you the money as soon as the PFD comes through,” he said, like a character in the Alaska version of a gangster film: To Live and Die in Ketchikan.
And it’s not only homesteaders and people living on the fringes. This money is important to people. One of my friends used hers to buy a new oven; they’d been out an oven for eight months, waiting for the PFD. In the lobby of the aquatics center last October, watching our kids practice the front crawl, parents debated about whether to use the money for vacations or household upgrades (middle-class concerns to be sure, but I did notice that none of the people I knew actually used the money for vacations – something else always seemed more urgent.) All that to say, Dunleavy was elected in part on the basis of his campaign promise calling to restore the PFD’s former glory, and to retroactively distribute funds he felt had been taken from the people by the previous administration. Now. I’m not going to delve too deep into the politics of a state to which I have just moved. I really don’t know what the right answer is. I do know this: a budget that allows for Dunleavy to award this money also includes cuts in the billions of dollars to the Alaska Marine Highway system and the University of Alaska. Obviously, the latter of those two would be a real problem for us. If Flo were to lose his job, the life that we’ve built here over the last eight months would be impossible to maintain. We would have to move. As I write this (and “write” should be in quotation marks, since I’m talking into my notes app like an old timey doctor into a dictaphone), I’m walking down Jackson from the top of a high hill, looking out towards snowcapped mountains on Gravina Island with the waters of the Tongass Narrows gliding by below. We had friends over for dinner last night, a chaotic group of kids and babies and nursing mothers, all sitting around eating linguine and clams and talking about hiking. I called Ladybug’s school yesterday to ask about serving on their board. Things are happening for us here – things we like. Bronson was born here. I won’t be dramatic and say that I plan on dying in Ketchikan. I have no idea where or when I’ll die. (Way to bring the mood down, Bolton.) But we’ve been very happy here. And frankly, I wouldn’t even know where to go next.
So as it turns out, the looming budget cuts for the state of Alaska, which are probably not even national news, well, they’re affecting us on the most basic of levels right now. I will say, we have high hopes. I could go into detail, but the gist of it is that, though small, the Ketchikan campus features a maritime academy that the governor has toured and thought very highly of. Flo thinks that may be the salvation of the school. Then again: if the marine highway system shuts down, is there any point in a maritime academy at all? Any thoughts of buying a house have been tabled, at least for the moment. All this has gotten me thinking about the ways I inadvertently implement cuts in my own little life.
I didn’t go on my regular walk today, the one where I tuck Bronson into the carrier and watch his eyes grow heavy and eventually close. Ladybug stayed home from school, Flo had several meetings at funny times, and the day just sort of got away from me. So it’s evening now, though it’s still light (it’s amazing how quickly the days have started to get longer) and I’m walking by myself. I didn’t start the walk by myself, though. When Flo got home and I handed off the baby, Ladybug chimed in and told me that she wanted to come on my walk. I started to say no. I fact, I did say no. A couple of times. But she was undaunted. My brother and sister-in-law had sent her a super-secret spy notebook today and some new crayons. She put on her shoes and a little stocking hat and grabbed her notebook. Off we set: me slightly annoyed that I wasn’t getting my time alone and would have to slow my pace; Ladybug all excitement.
We did start slowly. Ladybug kept stopping me so she could unbutton her little notebook, pull out a crayon, scribble something, and then reverse the process. She pointed things out, too.
“Look Mama!” Ladybug said. “It’s a ketchup and mustard house!” It was true: there are two houses next to each other a few blocks from us, one bright yellow and one bright red, that I’d never really noticed before.
“Look Mama!” she said, indicating across the street from the condiment houses. “That house is so cool!” It was a wide house with two levels and a big deck that looked sort of like a duplex but wasn’t; I couldn’t tell you why it was cool, but it was.
“Stop!” she shouted, still only three blocks from home. “I have to look at my map.”
Ladybug pulled out her notebook and consulted the scribbles she had made earlier. She pointed us in the direction that we should head. She found some berries. She noticed buses. She ran ahead, and lagged behind, and drew pictures and talked and held my hand and laughed and skipped. Eventually she’d had enough so we doubled back, I dropped her off, and I picked up my pace.
If having a newborn means falling in love with someone you’ve just met, having a five-year-old when you have a newborn, at least for me, has meant something closer to a marriage that’s headed for divorce. The newborn relationship is a series of meet-cutes: “He spit up all over me and then looked at me so helplessly that I had to laugh!” Parenting the older child now consists of button-pressing and limit-testing, of the building up of micro-aggressions that lead to epic explosions: “She threw a tantrum because I put yogurt, then fruit, then granola, but she wanted the fruit on the bottom and I LITERALLY CAN’T ANYMORE.”
Children always ask if their parents will love them less when the new baby comes along. The parents always say no, of course not, there’s room enough in our hearts for all of you. Which is true. But what we fail to mention is that it’s really easy to love a newborn; it’s much harder to love almost anyone else. When Flo and Ladybug have argued in the past and she’s come to me in tears, I’ve often said to her, “It’s hard to live with other people.“ A new baby is a person, but with respect to Magda Gerber and Dr. Sears and everyone who preaches the importance of respecting our newborns – they are still just barely people. Yes, each baby has a life of his own, and I have immense respect for what what my baby has been through up to this point and the person he already is. But. A baby is also a vessel for all of our dreams, for the things we love about ourselves and our partners; he represents the abundance of life that we have been seeking and, in his shy smile and soulful eyes, have finally found. (We had that time with Ladybug too, I should say, and it was dreamy.) A child, though, is in many ways already fully realized. Ladybug is the most intense version of herself at five, even if that five-year-old self will only exist until she turns six. For the rest of her life she will embody the self that she is at that moment, in that season, and it will be fascinating and thrilling and scary for her dad and me to behold. Right now it’s intense, because five-year-olds can be intense. They can be bullheaded, attention-seeking, and mean. Ha. Sounds like me sometimes – must be my daughter. Which is what the walk reminded me. That this girl with her notebook and her rainbow-colored coat – because “rainbow” is her favorite color – is still the manifestation of everything that has ever mattered to me. The arrival of her brother has made it harder for me to have the patience to remember that, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
I’d like to think that I’ll be kinder tomorrow, that I won’t snap at her when she lifts up a table and carries it, haphazardly and seemingly for no reason, directly over the tiny bed in which her brother is sleeping. I can’t guarantee that will happen. I’m growing too. I’m trying to be the best version of myself at this season in my life, and I’m not always particularly successful. But the magic of life and of parenthood is that I’ve made no campaign promises. I have no constituents that are going to send me packing after one term if I don’t deliver. My cabinet is populated by people who cheer me on and commiserate with me and make me laugh, and I can wake up every morning and decide how best to move forward.
So if Alaska Marine represents travel and the university represents education, then couldn’t it be said I’m cutting them out of my own budget by not taking a walk with my daughter, by not learning from her and helping her learn? How can I ask the governor to keep funding these institutions unless I’m funding them in my own life?
Ladybug’s maps were so clear in her own mind; all I saw were scribbles. That’s the way it is sometimes with maps. I’m just going to keep walking and looking for berries along the way, hoping for the best.
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LOVE IS A BURNING THING
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"He (Sherlock) wants to rise above us like a snowcapped mountain, but he’s actually a volcano." Steven Moffat (IGN interview, February 2014)
A volcano is associated with fire, flames, heat, explosions, erruptions, ash .... One could easily say that the inside of a vulcano is a rather hellish place.
Recently @gosherlocked wrote a very interesting meta about the topic of fire ('Set this house on fire') and @tendergingergirl added some equally interesting informations about the fire symbolism in dreams.
What I want to play with here, is 'FIRE' as a metaphor for LOVE ... as I did already a little bit in a comment on this post by @sherlockshadow which got this whole FIRE=LOVE theory in my head really going (and Johnny Cash, of course). :)))
If Sherlock BBC is a story told from the inside of Sherlock's head - partly or entirely - the audience perceives those parts exactly how Sherlock envisions certain things .... and not how they really are.
All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots ... love is a dangerous disadvantage ... the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive ... all emotion is abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument ... romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people ... and so on and so on ....
This is what Sherlock thinks about emotions and LOVE. Would it be very far fetched to assume, that he might compare LOVE to a serial killer or to a poison, to fire and flames. Anyone can become LOVE's victim and then even the most clever and intelligent people tend to turn into useless idiots. Does Sherlock view LOVE as something extremly dangerous and destructive to his mind and therefore to his work? Or to put it much more dramatically: does Sherlock depict love as a spawn from hell, created by the devil?
Let's see what FIRE (in all its shapes) is able to reveal ... under the cut ....
The 'pink case' .... already a red-hot topic
It's much more obvious in PILOT (here) but in ASIP the pink case is indeed a 'burning' one as well ... though mostly hidden by the chair.
Effectively (not on Sherlock though) the serial killer uses a fire-spitting gun.
Dragons are fiery creatures
And a rather dangerous dragon - a yellow one, the color of fire - rises its head in TBB. It threatens Sherlock and drags his heart (John) underground into it's dark den .... to shoot at it (Sarah the 'pretty doctor companion' as mirror for John) with a really, really big arrow (X)
Explosion from the outside
A bomb explodes opposite 221 in the very house where in canon (in ACDs The Empty House) the words are spoken: 'journeys end in lovers' meetings' (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night X X ) It shatters the windows and throws Sherlock violently to the ground.
Challenged by a mysterious player, Sherlock discovers a new and exciting game. The boredom vanishes and he feels elated .... he is 'on fire' ... until suddenly this 'novel' game changes and 'fire' turns into a mortal threat. 'I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you'. Ohhhh ....
The Boomerang-Effect
That's when carefully laid out plans are starting to backfire and heads are smashed in by things returning from the East.
And fire does expose Sherlock's priorities. Protect the heart! He reacts by sending the threat away to a forsaken place ... to perish there. Hot and dry. Full of whirring heat by day, freezing cold by night. A desert. But then ... in the end Sherlock can't let that happen ...
Dewer's Hollow
The entrance to hell? Where the devil resides? Who lets loose a ghostly monster hound with glowing red eyes.
A hound from hell who creates fear and panick to keep the inquisitive at bay. Poisoned air directly from the depths of hell .... released with every step one takes ... driving people into insanity ... into seeing things that aren't there ... seeing monsters where no monsters are.
What's the final problem?
Has Sherlock worked out by now how it will be done? How he will be burned to a crisp like the gingerbread man?
He has been told, but did he listen? How can he escape that handshake in hell? By running away? Maybe? He will try ...
An ocean of flickering candles
Is it here where Sherlock lands after his .... flight? Fire and flames everywhere he goes? Fire and torture ....
Escaping the dungeon and back into the fire
A case from the past destined to lure him back ... involving a fire damage. Sherlock knows it's fake.
Soon the burning starts again and gets worse than ever. His heart (John) is thrown into a bonfire and left to roast. It's a last minute rescue. And the danger is still far from over.
A massive attack is imminent! Sherlock's brain knows this. But where should he look for it? A network of underground transport .... trains and tunnles. Of course, it can only be underground. And it's not just a bomb .... not just a giant bomb ... the whole carriage is the bomb and demolition charges are installed everywhere ....
Sherlock has a vision: He is inside that carriage ... a man engulfed in flames ....
The whirring heat goes right up the high tower, spreads through the whole parliament, the goernment, the brain .....
The palace is hit by a massive explosion. Old walls of solid stone are cracking and bursting and crumbling down into rubble and ashes and licking flames.
Oh, shit! Sherlock uses the off-switch just in time to stop his brain exploding! Now he can play the 'danger' down and risk a joke with his angry heart ....
The living, breathing facade
A proud warrior, the former commander of a heart ... but now living an isolated life, way out in the middle of nowhere ... with a badly burned and useless hand, with visible scars in his face (and how many might be hidden under his uniform) This soldier watches in stoic calmness how a heart (his heart) decides to marry a facade.
And Sherlock ... who has planned and rehearsed this wedding down to the last detail ... watches his mirror watching .... and takes a look at the inexplicable.
Another last minute rescue and a revelation. Something has taken hold and is growing. Oh .... might this be .... ???
Keeping the heart safe
That's still Sherlock's first priority ... to keep his heart safe behind the facade. But the drug, the poison (the chemistry of love) is working already. A man pisses into a cold fireplace, a bullet is fired into Sherlock's chest, a memory stick gets thrown into the fire and another bullet to the head 'deletes' the mind palace of the businessman who pissed in the cold fireplace..
'Stand fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!' ... the brain shouts bevor it tries to sends Sherlock away to the East ...... to die ....
two hidden notes inside a library of secrets and scandals
two times Sherlock is ready to go away forever to save his heart
two times Sherlock is brought back by the criminal mastermind ... because his heart is in danger if he leaves the heart alone.
Taking on a new case
'Sometimes, to solve a case, one must first solve another.' That's what happens in TAB. Sherlock lays aside the 'burning pink case of romance' and opens another one ... a very old one .... the cold case of: 'what made me like this?'
TAB is set in victorian times. And from the beginning to the end it is filled with real fire. No electric light but living, breathing, flickering flames. Burning candles, gas lamps, candelabras and torches. Braziers ablaze in flames illuminate the crypt where the secret cult is chanting. The shut down voices of 'a league of furies'.
The consulting detective and the criminal mastermind .... both are bathed in the red and orange hue of licking flames ....
The whole episode is on fire - dark and glowing at the same time - and Sherlock ist high on an overdose of drugs (chemistry of love) throughout it.
When a facade is crumbling down
A young man, back from Tibet, burns in his car and a blue Power Ranger melts on the grille.
A journey through many waters. From the waterfall in TAB to a licking wall of blue flames which consumes the fallen facade.
Blue is the color of water and emotions. In TST even the fire seems to be colored by emotions .... becaus the firewall is gone now and the path clear again for the Eastwind to come ....
The angry heart
Another episode where Sherlock is 'high' from beginning to end. And again fire plays a big role. This time though mostly in words.
Sherlock left his flat? .... 'Was it on fire?' .... 'Quality food' licked by open flames .... 'We must not burn our bridges' ..... 'I'm burning up! I’m at the bottom of a pit and I’m still falling and … I’m never climbing out' .... 'I’m a mess; I’m in hell!'
And that's Sherlock's mission .... he has to go to hell .... to meet another serial killer.
He has to go to hell to trick his angry heart into action. His angry naked heart who has lost the protection of the facade and refuses to speak to him. It is deeply hurt and seething with rage. Nonetheless they need one another. And Sherlock's plan works. In the very last second (with a littel nudge out of the door) his heart rushes to his rescue .... armed with a .... fire extinguisher.
The final problem
Eurus sends the 'passions grenade' to 221b Bakerstreet ('patience greande' I know :) And because Eurus sends this 'passions grenade' I call her a very wise woman/incarnation/anima/shadow ... whatever. :))))
The explosion goes off right in the middle ot the living room and it hits 221b with massive force. Realistically, no one could survive this. Neither Sherlock, John or Mycroft ... nor Sherlock's Belstaff or John's chair or any other flammable thing in that room. Therefore I consider all three of them ... deaded .... completely and utterly deaded .... Thankfully, this whole story happens inside Sherlock's head and therefore 'deaded' doesn't mean 'dead' in real life. It's just a metaphor ....
'Killed in an explosion of burning love' ... sounds good to me. :)))
The burning of old Musgrave Hall .... is it a sign for a past trauma? Or is it a sign that an old proplem has been resolved? Will there be more stories to tell? If so ... when and where will Sherlock, his heart and his brain reappear? The last scene shows them running right onto Rathbone Place. Well, maybe Sherlock isn't quite done with his thought journey yet ..... there's always something ..... :))))
December, 2017
I leave you to your own deductions. Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.
@gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @kateis-cakeis @raggedyblue @tjlcisthenewsexy @sarahthecoat @monikakrasnorada @darlingtonsubstitution @tendergingergirl @possiblyimbiassed
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Chapter 6: Smell of Fear
I sat on a rocky outcrop on Sia Kangri, taking a moment to absorb the stunning view of the sun setting over the Karakoram range in front on me. Pakistan lay directly ahead, Tajikistan to the left. It was like walking down Highbridge Road in Aylesbury, a joke that my dad would probably be proud of. The jagged snowcapped peaks extended what appeared to be endlessly into the distance, the sun setting behind them casting a shadow into the mountain mist that had started to roll in during the last hour.
I squinted against the harsh, low light, my head throbbing somewhat due to the altitude and dehydration after a day’s climbing. I looked away from the panorama in front of me, my focus eventually landing on the ridge that I just scaled. The first ridge in what would be a groundbreaking sequence, and the start of the Gasherbrum traverse. I let out a small frustrated sigh as Andrew and Ifan finally appeared from behind a small rise that lay about sixty meters away.
Temperatures were dropping and I felt the cold slowly seeping into my sedentary muscles. I stood up and tried to shake my limbs a bit, encouraging some blood flood and warmth through my extremities. Ifan’s fingers would soon be transparent. I looked down at my Garmin Fenix 6 and checked the elevation, then compared this to the GPS reading from my Samsung Galaxy Z Fold2 (*product placement oppos for the future film franchise). We were just above 6000m, some 1400m from the peak of Sia Kangri. After scaling this climb we would drop down into the valley and take on the next one in the sequence. Whatever Andrew decided it to be.
The combined sounds of boots crunching on gravel and wheezing grew louder, and I turned to see Andrew and Ifan arrive. I picked up my bag.
“Okay, shall we go?” I asked eagerly.
“Fuck off,” replied Andrew bluntly.
Resigned to being here for a while longer, I sat back down and got the latest Jack Reacher novel out of my bag, accepting what would be a fairly unspectacular addition to the franchise, much like most things Tom Cruise touches these days.
I noticed Ifan scanning the area. “Maybe this isn’t a bad area to set up camp for the night?” He asked.
“Yeah,” agreed Andrew. “We can’t get over the summit and back down in low light anyway, so best to wait here until day break.”
I let out another sigh. If only these guys had committed to the same cycling based training schedule that I had. I needed Johnny here to push the pace, but the issue would be that he would then invite himself along to the Sia Kangri tavern later that evening.
Outvoted two-to-one, I acquiesced and started to unpack the base camp tent, a huge 50 foot diameter circular dome that would house our mess and sleeping quarters for the night, along with kitchen, washing facilities, jacuzzi and toilets. The latter wouldn’t be used by Andrew, of course.
Half an hour later we had camp set up, and Ifan and I went about preparing supper for the evening. Ifan hooked up his small Sony speakers, something of a tradition as they had accompanied us on numerous trips, including Swanage and Tanzania. Back then they gave a low quality, tinny type feel to the music, but a series of recent firmware updates had led to them to produce a high quality sound, worthy of any Bose flagship range. Ifan put on his favourite Christmas tune – East 17’s Stay Another Day – and cranked up the bass, the resulting vibrations creating an avalanche that fell down the face of the mountain, taking some goat herders with it.
“Where’s Andrew?” I asked Ifan, whilst preparing some freshly caught mountain lake lobster.
“He’s outside having a FaceTime with Ribet,” He replied.
“Again?”
“Yup, still catching up on homework from sixth form French,” he explained.
I crept over to the base camp door and listened intently on the conversation outside.
“Oui, j'écoute Radio Authentique. Oui, j'ai noté les nouveaux mots et expressions,” I heard him say, courtesy of Google Translate.
Happy that he seemed absorbed in his latest bollocking, I headed back over and rejoined Ifan.
“Okay, tell me.” I began.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is Andrew still oblivious to the plan? Is he buying what you are telling him? You’ve spent the whole day walking with him, so you must have something to update me on.”
“I…” Ifan began, before stopping. I looked at him. Conflict was etched all over his face.
“What is it?” I asked
“I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can,” I said. “Who knows, you might like it.”
“Adam, this is your fucking wake-up call, man. We can’t do this to Andrew.”
I turned and faced him, pointing the chopping knife at his face. “It was you who agreed to this deal with Craven, not me.”
Our conversation was stopped instantly by the sound of a blast outside, coupled with Andrew shouting. Ifan and I looked at each other, before turning and sprinting for the exit. Learning from Jimmy Hill on sports day all those years ago, I stuck my chin out and pipped Ifan to the line, subjecting him to yet another “L” that he would be reminded of for the next 25+ years.
Bursting out into the fresh mountain air we were met with Andrew sitting on the floor, his back to a rock. Bits of a smashed smartphone lay everywhere.
“Get down!!” Screamed Andrew, pointing down the ridge. Partially hidden behind the same small rise that I watched Andrew and Ifan scale just twenty minutes ago was a large silver metallic robot. It had a round bulbous head with a series of optics and lights all the way around, and five manipulator arms underneath. It seemed to hover over the ground instead of standing firmly on it.
A red laser blast erupted from the robot, which impacted in the ground between Ifan and I. As ice and rock particles sprayed all over us, we dove behind the same rock that Andrew was using for cover.
“What the hell is that thing?” Shouted Andrew.
“It’s one of Craven’s probe droids,” replied Ifan, his hairy face covered in snow and ice in a comical fashion.
Andrew reached into his bag and drew out his laser blaster that he had constructed in physics, a device that ultimately had been used to save the life of Leighton from terrorists in the 1997 Sir Henry Floyd Grammar School Science Block Terror Attack. Why he bothered, I don’t know.
Andrew charged the weapon and stood, sending a series of blasts towards the droid.
He missed.
He ducked back down as it fired back. I felt the impact in the rock on my back, and the three of us were covered in shards of black and brown phyllite. Andrew stood once more and fired through the cloud of dust and gunpowder smoke. The red laser blast hit the ground near the droid.
It exploded. Even from sixty meters I felt the heat of the blast on my face, as a ball of fire was launched into the twilight before dispersing.
Ifan and I stood slowly, standing shoulder to shoulder with Andrew, looking down the ridge.
“I didn’t hit it,” Andrew explained. “It must have self-detonated.”
We were all thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to say it.
Eventually Ifan spoke up. “Craven knows we are here.”
Andrew threw the smoking laser gun onto his bag, ran over to the tent and started pulling tent pegs out of the ground.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like?” Andrew shot back. “We can’t stay here.”
By now it was almost completely dark, and the night winds – something renowned in this part of the world and not just made up as I wrote that sentence – were picking up.
“Think about it, they are not going to send anyone up now, not in these conditions. We’ll pack up early and leave at first light.”
Andrew seemed to relax somewhat. He placed the pegs back in the lush grass. “Ribet is going to be pissed though, my phone got hit by the initial blast.”
As Andrew and Ifan headed back into the tent, I stared back down at the smoking probe droid, wondering if I could trust my own advice. What was Craven doing? Had he altered his plans? Why send a droid when we were following his instructions? Things started to blur and I struggled to recollect our last conversation. It felt like… like…
My mind started wandering.
*
I had woken slowly, becoming aware of sounds and movement around me. I had the feeling of being cold. Of being in a dark, damp room, almost claustrophobic in nature, with the roof pressing down on me.
As I became more conscious, pain shot through my body. It felt like there wasn’t a square inch that wasn’t stimulating pain receptors and shooting them through my nervous system. But my hip was the worst. It felt like I’d woken in the middle of surgery. I reached down and touched the epicenter of the pain, my fingers feeling something warm and sticky. I lifted my hand to inspect it and was somewhat relieved to see it was blood and nothing more suspect. What was going on? I lifted my head and noted that I appeared to be in some sort of cave. I exhaled sharply, my breath fogging in front of me in the cold air.
A man stood with his back to me on the other side of the cavern, seemingly oblivious to my now regained consciousness. He wore an apron over old mountaineering clothes, transfixed by something on the bench in front of him. He clocked movement behind him and turned.
“Ah, you are awake,” he said in a thick French accent.
As he turned I saw that it was one of those novelty aprons with a picture of 6-pack-abs and a stuck on cock’n’balls.
I tried to get up, but an excruciating blast of pain shot through my head. I cried out, and he rushed over and pushed me back onto the table that I had been laying on, the apron cock draped flaccidly over my shoulder like a scene from a stag do on Mallorca.
“Where am I?” Was all I could manage, panic flaring. My brain was thick, thoughts seemingly taking a long time to process. But most worryingly I couldn’t remember anything.
“You have had an accident, you fell off K2,” he began, before showing me a small round metallic item, about the size of a AAAA battery. “A map of the Himalayan mountains, why was it in your hip?”
He proceeded to press a button on the device and the famous peaks and other landmarks were projected onto the wall on the cave. These I just about managed to drag out of the depths of my submerged memory. Except there seemed to be a series of lines connecting the peaks, nothing that I had seen before or had any memory of.
“Why do you have this?” He asked again. Blood pumped in my ears. The coppery taste of adrenaline filled my mouth. I tried to get back up again.
“You need rest,” he said, trying to push me down once more, but this time coming up against more resistance. “I am your friend. Who are you? What is your name? What’s your name?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Oh God,” I managed, before collapsing back on the bed.
The walls of the cave spun and everything went black.
After I regained consciousness again, he had introduced himself to me – as with all French men – as Jean-Claude, and helped nurse me back to some sort of health over the next two weeks. He explained that he had found me at the base of the hockey stick gully on K2, having fallen what he thought was a long way, judging by my appearance and scuffed up green Arc’teryx jacket. He’d brought me back to his man-cave, just off the Negrotto Pass, and patched me and my jacket up, but couldn’t guarantee the same level of water-tightness and breathability as before. What he was doing here, I had no idea. He said ordinarily he was captain on a fishing trawler in the Mediterranean, 60 miles off the coast of Marseille to be exact. But I didn’t press it any further.
Asides from the headaches that refused to die down, I started to feel well again and eventually got around to the question that I had been dreading asking.
“How long was I unconscious?”
He blew out his cheeks. “About three years.”
My knees went weak momentarily. “Three years?” I repeated, shocked.
“I’m just joking, just a few hours.”
I had spent the next few days and the last of our time together perusing maps of K2, desperately trying to discover who I was and what had happened to me. Eventually, I found a lead.
“I think that if you found me here,” I said pointing to a spot on the map, “based on the winds and the glacier current at the time, it means that I must have fallen from the bottleneck.”
I once again projected the map onto the wall. “And these lines, I think they are tunnels. I think I was trying to find this one on K2 that runs to the bottleneck.”
He considered my theory for a moment before nodding.
He’d offered to drive me up to The Shoulder at 8000m. That was as far as he could take me, but it was only a short walk from the car park up to the bottleneck at that point. As he struggled to find a parking spot - and had scoffed at the £5 charge anyway - I jumped out of the car and had shaken his hand.
He handed me the apron. “It’s not much, but it will get you to where you need to go.”
“Thanks for everything,” I had said, accepting his offer, before turning towards the bottleneck. I took a deep breath and set off.
*
The next morning, we had set off at first light. I am still not sure what time of the year this story is set, so that could either 4am or 7am depending on what season we are talking about here. But either way, there’d been a slight delay as we had to wait for Ifan to take his latest in a long line of topless selfies, in order to satisfy his 1.2m followers on Instagram @rippedmountainman.
But finally we were ready, and influencer sponsors were satisfied. We scaled the remaining 1400m of Sia Kangri in just a few hours - barely even acknowledging the summit - and started making our way down the razor thin ridge that would lead us down towards the Abruzzi Glacier, where we would take the next peak. We reminded ourselves that we weren’t here for peak bagging, but instead were on a diplomatic mission.
After descending approximately one thousand meters (my Garmin had packed in so I wasn’t completely sure) we stopped for our first break, just as the path dropped down onto the side of the ridge and ran across the traverse. High walls on one side, a two thousand meter drop on the other. In between was a narrow path just half a meter wide in places. Andrew had christened it ‘Liam’s Tramline’.
We all felt it wise to recharge before attempting this technical traverse, so Andrew fired up his snow-melter and presented us with tea in custom made cups – foam inner and plastic outer. They were made from recycled mountaineering boots, giving the tea a certain sweaty sock aftertaste, though contained critical electrolytes. It tasted pretty good.
Rehydrated and recharged, we stood up to set off once more, slinging out rucksacks over our shoulders.
Ten meters onto Liam’s Tramline, I raised a gloved hand to the rock wall next to me to balance myself. I turned momentarily to check the progress of Ifan behind me when the rock by my fingertips exploded
I stumbled back a step in surprise, almost losing my footing on the narrow passageway. But then the sound caught up and finally hit us; the crack of a high velocity sniper rifle that reverberated around the mountain valley after the initial sound waves.
“Sniper!” I shouted, turning once more to Ifan. He stood with a confused look on his face, one usually reserved for seeing a girl naked in his 20s. I ran at him and bowled him over. As we fell backwards, the next slug hit his rucksack, spraying couscous granules and bits of cucumber all over us. We landed in a heap on the floor, partially protected by a rock. I rolled off him and scurried over to the rock, hopefully giving full cover or at least making myself as small a target as possible. Ifan joined me.
“Where’s Andrew?” Ifan asked. I looked around. Andrew was already in action, not yet on to Liam’s Tramline, he raced towards us, simultaneously sliding behind the rock whilst drawing his rifle from his bag. Not only did he have an army camp bed, but all the moves too.
For the second day running we found ourselves taking cover behind a rock as someone took aim at us. How can the same shit happen to the same guy twice?
“Another probe droid?” Andrew asked.
“No, this is different.” Ifan replied, licking the lost bits of couscous up from the ground. “I think it’s one of Craven’s Bounty Hunters.”
“Where is he?” Andrew had asked.
I dared to peer over the top of the rock. About one hundred meters away was a ridge. I saw a muzzle flash, and quickly dipped down below the rock as the round slammed into the rock where my head had been just a moment ago.
“He’s on that rise,” I said. “He obviously waited until we got onto Liam’s Tramline as he knew we’d be sitting ducks here. Lay down some suppressing fire and I will try and draw him out.”
I reached into my bag, but realised I was only carrying my 15 litre daypack, and Ifan was carrying the rest of my crap in his 257 litre backpack. He handed me my assault rifle, but I saw that it had taken the biggest impact from the couscous explosion and was now useless. I would have to settle for my double-barrel shotgun.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I said, loading some shells.
Andrew rolled to the side and started firing at the sniper as I made a dash for the next area of cover; a group of trees around twenty meters away. I felt the rounds fizz past my head, the sound of them hitting the trees and ground around me. I dove for cover, and lifted my head. I couldn’t see the rise, so I took the brave assumption that he couldn’t see me either. I got into a crouch and started to head towards the rise. I anticipated that he would assume that I would double back on him and would cut me off, so my plan was to double bluff him.
I came out in a clearing that appeared to be an overgrown field, covered in snow and frost. I stilled for a minute. I had lost him. I started to doubt my plan. What if he’d double bluffed me? Should I triple bluff him or do a bluff within a bluff? Would this start to become like Inception if I did that?
Suddenly I saw him move through the long grass, about thirty meters away. I raised the shotgun and fired, hitting him in the shoulder that spun him around before dropping him. He rose once more, aiming a pistol in my direction and I fired once again, this time hitting him in the chest and putting him down for good.
I reloaded and approached with caution.
“Where is it?” I asked him, scanning the area around where he lay. “Where’s the weapon?”
I located it just behind him and picked it up. I crouched down next to him. He was struggling to get up onto his elbows. “How many do you have out here?”
He looked up at me. He was around forty, with steel rimmed glasses and spikey hair that made him look like a professor. Blood seeped from the wounds to his shoulder and chest
Struggling to breathe, he said “I work alone, like you.”
“What are you talking about?”
He ignored my question. “Do you get the headaches?”
I thought of the near constant headaches that I’d had since my accident on K2.
“I get such bad headaches, especially at night when driving,” he continued.
The life was running out of him. I desperately needed some answers.
“Who are you? Did Craven send you?”
“Look at this,” he said, once again ignoring my questions. “Look at what they make you give.”
With that he collapsed back onto the grass and groaned in pain. I turned away not wanting to see the end.
I rejoined Andrew at the top of Liam’s Tramline. He was making tea, stirring it with a willow wand. He looked up at me expectantly.
“He’s dead,” I stated flatly. I looked around. “Where’s Ifan?”
“I don’t know, he seemed to get spooked. He ran off down the ridge,” he said, pointing with his tea cup, brown liquid sloshing over the side slightly.
I scanned the horizon but couldn’t see him. I exhaled.
“Okay, Andrew,” I began. “Craven knows where we are. Do we keep going with our original plan, or do we find a new route? And what should we do with Ifan?”
He considered this for a moment, before leaning to the side and letting rip with a pretty wet fart.
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Five Thanksgivings in Snowy Mongolia! | #14 | November 2019
Thanksgiving’s season marks my one-year anniversary since accepting my invitation to Peace Corps Mongolia. This Thanksgiving, I reflected on all I’m grateful for. And I celebrated it nearly a week, thanks to Mongolia’s Independence Day and Chinggis Khaan’s Birthday leading up to Americans’ day of thanks! Plus, unrestricted weekend travel in-country began.
I’ve been grateful especially for my students and the time to reflect on life and relationships. Part of why I chose Peace Corps after college was to refocus on people I hadn’t spent as much time with while a busy undergraduate.
You can compare this to my story #4 (August 2019), from when I first arrived in my current city. Preceding Thanksgiving, I also shared a novena of photos and reflections from my first five Mongolia months, from training to beginning my service.
Snaking Snow
Many Mongolians call winter their favorite season. I like snow.
One morning, while seeing the glistening light blue snow merge with the horizon’s blend of smog, my view looked beautiful but bittersweet.
While leaving the orphanage one day, powder snow skirt across the creamy surface snow, blasting freeze in my face. They remind me of the summer’s dust storms, yet these stings linger.
I had never felt face-numbing cold before. Every exposed side of my face felt cold. I pulled down my beanie to even keep my eyebrows warm. I wrapped my scarf around my head to protect my cheeks. Even still, the furthest edges of my cheeks numbed. I get used to it, though. Best to bundle up!
Snowy Thanksgiving Adventures
This Thanksgiving outside America, I basically celebrated five times. Recalling the White Christmas ideal, we’d snow blanketing our Thanksgiving world.
First, I celebrated it Monday at a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer’s secondary school, with snacks for her and her students. She made amazing bread pudding. I enjoyed meeting her students again, too, since they participate in our student community English club.
Then the volunteer and I met again Thursday night (Thanksgiving Day) for the community dinner she helped with at the coffee shop of our World Vision building. As it happens, I dropped by the coffee shop to write, ran into our German volunteer friend, then stayed. An American couple from the Jesus Assembly group hosted the dinner. I felt impressed one shared the Thanksgiving origin story from the Native American perspective, because of his ancestry. I wished more Americans could hear his story, yet here I heard it in Mongolia.
University’s Thanksgiving
My biggest Thanksgiving came Friday (Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.). My department celebrated our university's Thanksgiving with our students. My department values teaching not only language but also culture. So, since I’m here as the American here this year, we celebrated my holiday. I helped make the itinerary.
Students included our English education sophomores, Mongolian language and literature education seniors and foreign relations sophomores. Their wonderful dishes made me more forgiving of the students missing in class. While eating, I recalled Friendsgiving events from my university years.
For our activity, I joined suggestions from other Peace Corps Volunteers with an activity from summer training I recalled during my Thanksgiving novena. I had students draw hand-turkeys then tape these to their backs. Afterward, they went around to write on each other’s backs what they’re thankful for. I felt delighted teachers and students loved these.
My colleagues also had students write in advance English thank you cards to whomever. I received two! One student gave me the craftiest little paper book, with a Pikachu face. She thanked me for everything. Her piece reminded me of my own crafts I loved to make. Another student gifted a letter he typed and sealed in an envelope. He gleefully commemorated the (only) PUBG match I was credit to team. He, too, gave many thanks.
Above the Snow
I traveled to a neighboring province that night and reunited with one of my Mongolian teachers from the summer. They next day at brunch, I celebrated Thanksgiving with fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and a community group. Whatever food I missed at my university’s Thanksgiving, I found here.
Then I enjoyed my weekend leave with a hike to the stone гэр \ger\ and a Buddhist monastery.
The winter’s snowdrift was so packed, I could wake on top of it without falling through. I walked out from the slippery city square, across a park and up a hill to the stone гэр, as we called it. I later read it serves as a mausoleum. I felt somewhat sad to see industry’s smoke billowing across the quaint town from where I came. I donned my face mask.
Continuing, I saw the monastery over the ridge, as the Volunteers said. Though rebuilt after Soviets destroyed it, it still looked as though centuries old.
I love history. It makes me smaller.
Afterward, resting a moment, I returned to cook with my fellow Volunteers. That evening, we celebrated our Thanksgiving for the province with local Mongolian counterparts and phone called Volunteers celebrating their Thanksgiving another province over.
While in the cab ride back to my city, I mused how people compare Northern Mongolia’s snowcapped hills and mountains here to Northern Nevada. And while I find the comparison a bit overstated, I do, too, get the feeling from days like these.
Their Brother
I find comfort in being someone's “агаа” \agaa\ (like 哥哥). Literally, “older brother,” the term extends to plenty males slightly older than us. You needn’t even be friends by Western standards to be one’s агаа. But the name feels so endearing to me.
All are brothers and sisters in the Catholic sense, too. But we don't usually call each other these in English. So I like this about Asia.
The first day I heard the word, “агаа,” I mused to the friend who said it how I’d never heard the word before. I thought it strange I’d been in Mongolia so long without hearing it.
God must have noticed. That very night, in a video call with my language partner, over her shoulder suddenly popped her younger cousin, who beamed a huge toothy grin and just greeted me, “Aгаа!” giggling. I felt agape. Then the girl rushed away.
I never quite know what about me excites small children and pets. It’s like… my presence is plenty.
Maybe I stem the feelings from missing Mom. Or maybe the titles remind me of the bygone age when my own siblings were warmer toward me. That was the time we lived in Indiana, before moving to Vegas. Though I still call my siblings “sister” and “brother,” I feel more warmth from other languages’ terms.
Have I mentioned, when Mongolians ask where I’m from, I consistently identify as an American Midwesterner more than as a Nevadan, despite living in Nevada just as long? Maybe childhood roots hold stronger.
Fulfillment in My Service
During my first site placement interview this summer, the regional manager explained my backgrounds in helping students speak publicly, build confidence, and succeed in interviews and applications could help especially in a сум (soum), with high schoolers. Indeed, other managers also commented I did very well with our soum’s children.
In August, I felt surprised then to five places especially where I fulfill what the need that manager described.
Weekly with working adults, I’ve helped the new Toastmasters public speaking club. And, with students and adults preparing for IELTS and TOEFL, I help them rehearse their interviews. On one occasion at a past Peace Corps Volunteer’s school, where my senior students did their practicums, I even gave a personal development workshop on goal-setting. At my own university, I’ve given resume workshops. But lately, this orphanage has felt most special.
After co-teaching my very first English lesson for the orphanage teenagers, the 12th grader whose birthday was that day wanted to keep in touch. That night, we discussed her goals for life after high school. And I felt her eagerness, although she didn’t know how to get there. But I teach at a university, I explained. So I know a bit. Another time I visited the orphanage, she had me help with her homework.
Unlike the younger orphans, who call me, “агаа,” she called me, “bro.” Being a supportive bro to her and the rest matters to me.
Roots in My Community
The Saturday one week after Teachers’ Day was the first time I returned downtown, since recovering. That afternoon, one of my senior students doing his practicum invited me to help at his school’s speaking club.
As I learned from the teachers there, this was a school where generations of Peace Corps Volunteers have served! I learned their previous Volunteer was Chinese, like me. And some of their staff even used to work where I teach now.
That afternoon, I fielded a delightful QA about American teenagers. We also discussed social inequity and homeschooling. Cultural exchanges interest me plenty.
Afterward, my senior student treated me to snacks, which was so kind. Then I returned to church, since it was en route to the birthday celebration of our teacher I wrote about some time ago. Church had rosary, since it was Saturday. Although I still struggle with the words, I felt peace. What a mystery! I actually prayed a rosary that morning, too.
That night I even saw one of the students who visited me during my cold, during our teacher's birthday! Apparently he was her teacher, too. What a small community.
Living Legacies
Before learning I would serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a city that’s known decades of them, I worried I would be boxed by those I worked with, being expected to look and act like whoever came before me. But instead, I’ve found excitedly the opposite.
I feel such joy when colleagues and community members compare me to the Volunteers they knew before, like the English Volunteers Rob, Sam and Adrienne and even the Health Volunteers Alice and Samantha. I feel comforted to enter into the legacies of those who served before me. I feel glad, in doing as I want and feel drawn to, I am for these communities like those they knew before. I think, no wonder we were placed in the same city and schools! There are things about us that just fit.
While I was preparing to leave the office for home one day, a colleague mentioned how one of her evening course students asked her if she knew me and whether I could come help teach the course. My colleague said she felt surprised! Me too! I’d hardly been in this city three months, and people already knew of me and wanted my help. What a marvel. I love to help, of course. So, I shouldn’t even worry about the legacy I’ll have… I will have made differences. And those will be enough.
Onward!
Gratitude is a lovely topic. I’m closing the year with December’s first story detailing a typical week from this autumn life, followed by last stories before my return visit in America.
You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me
#peace corps#mongolia#memoir#memoryLang#Catholic#student#university#community#English#story#Chinese#teacher#snow#travel#winter#Thanksgiving#gratitude#orphan#love#holiday
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Leaving Dickson, we set off for Campamento Perros. This day was one of the most beautiful! One of those days where you can’t stop taking pictures and can’t help but be grateful to be alive, to be breathing and seeing this scenery. I was starting to feel better but nowhere near 100 percent yet. We took our time and took in all the beauty of Patagonia. The mountains spread as far as we could see. This part of the hike was forested, dense, and thick with some pretty decent accents — the first coming right out of Dickson Camp. There are fantastic views of the backside of the Towers and extraordinary views of the Valle de Los Perros during this section.
Rockin’ my Elevation hat…as always!
We stopped to eat alongside a river. One of the things any backpacker has to consider is water. It’s vital and, in my opinion, one of the most important things to consider.It’s a vital life saving force. In most of my hiking experience….(ok other than when I was a hose-drinking wild kid and didn’t know better) I’ve filtered water. I have a great filtering system that condenses down into a small pouch. I’ve heard the horror stories of people not filtering and falling so sick that they’ve had to stop their hike. Heading into this trip, ALL of my research showed NO FILTERS were needed along this hike. I was skeptical. The last thing you want is to be sick… from bad water. The flu I can conquer, but hiking with a stomach illness, sleeping in a tent, with little to no showers did not sound great to me. I packed the filter, but ultimately after talking to people and guides in Chile before leaving, left it along with our “travel clothes” in the hostel in Puerto Natales. That’s trust in humanity!
“Patagonia water is the best water you could ever possibly drink,” we heard over and over. “It’s straight from glaciers and the purest, finest, cleanest water ever!”
TRUTH!!
I’ll tell you, though, the first time I had to take the lid off of my bottle and dunk it into a water source and drink, I was on my knees praying that everything I had read and had been told was the gospel. And it was! That’s faith!
G and I still talk about the water there and wish so terribly we could find a way of getting it here. It’s hands down the best water on our planet!
We got into camp a little early, set up our space, and backtracked along the trail to Los Perros Lake and glacier. We marveled at the icebergs floating in the turquoise water of the lake. We took a ton of photos and sat taking in God’s creation. We breathed in the Holy wind.
G and I, even though we spend a lot of time together, never lack in conversation. He and I can sit into the wee hours of a morning, from the night before, talking. We can go to dinner together, sitting across a table from one another, like no one else is in the restaurant and have a 3 hour dinner just chatting away. BUT we also crave our alone time. Our independence. It has always been an important and essential part of our relationship, and we always consider and honor one another’s space.
Bridge For One
On this day…after the funny pictures and skipping rocks into the water, trying to reach out and touch some icebergs we both found ourselves wandering to the opposite sides of the lake. Taking our time, individually to pray, meditate and just be alone. We have been coexisting in a 2-pound backpacking tent with a space of 88 x 42 inches for the past 7 days….we needed to air out our minds, our hearts….our pits. HA! We needed to get quiet, to listen, to take in what was being given to us. What nuggets were we going to glean from this adventure?
As we were getting up to leave, we heard the strangest sound… we stopped, looking around, and right across the water, a HUGE section of the glacier was cracking off. It plunged right into the water! We stood there mouths gaped.
The next morning was an early alarm. We knew we were hiking over John Gardner Pass. The weather on the pass can change in an instant, and we knew our best bet was to get an early start because weather conditions in Torres del Paine are generally better in the mornings.
We put on our headlamps and started our ascent in the dark. The first section is forested. It is wet, dripping, and had parts with creek-like crossings, and oversized puddles. It is swampy and has mud holes that will swallow you up. The rocks are slippery, and we had a couple of slips, nothing too terrible, but I was happy for my Jackie Chan-like skills when one of my trekking poles slipped off of a boulder and left me falling headfirst towards the deep, dark, black mud. Somehow I was able to hop-scotch my way whilst falling headlong, recklessly. I somehow recovered gracefully after bouncing over several logs, roots, and boulders. We stood and laughed for the longest time, remarking how we wished we would’ve “caught that on video” and thinking about what it would’ve looked like had I fallen. I am glad I didn’t find out!
We took our time over this section and eventually came to the boulder field that is the toughest part of the pass. It’s full of small and large boulders that require maneuvering around. Quite a few places were gushing water from melting snow, and we felt like we were climbing through waterfalls. Essentially… we were. We were happy that this day was sunny and hot and that the glacier water was ice cold! There was a steady stream of hikers heading up at the same time, and we would watch as other hikers, looking like ants, would disappear over the saddle to their first view of Glacier Grey.
The final pitch was steep and seemed like we were never going to get over the top… then… there we were!
The view!
Isn’t it incredible how after so much effort in a huge climb, there is a reward. Kind of like like, huh?
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I often get overcome with emotion when I hike in the mountains. The enormity of it all just takes my breath from my lungs. I feel so small and it really humbles me to be surrounded by such giants. I stood in complete silence and awe.
We were gifted on this day with perfect hiking weather. This pass is riddled with wind, snow, and rain, but today was full sun, blue skies, and NO wind. We talked with several guides who said that type of weather happens about three times a year on that pass. THREE TIMES A YEAR! and here we are atop the pass with the most perfect view of Glacier Grey, in the most perfect weather, surrounded by snowcapped mountains. I could’ve just died right there it was so magnificent. Thank you, God.
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Grey Glacier is a glacier in the Southern Patagonia Ice Field. It flows southward from the Patagonian Andes Mountains into Grey Lake. The glacier is 6 kilometers (3.72 miles) wide and over 30 meters (98 feet) high. It occupies a total area of 270 km2 (100 sq mi) and a length of 28 km (17 mi) It’s the second-largest contiguous extrapolar icefield. There are truly no words to describe this glacier!
After taking photos and spending time taking in this marvel, we made the massive decent down, relishing the views of the glacier and having fun on the suspension bridges. If you’re afraid of heights… stop here, because these bridges are incredibly long and the valleys that they connect are DEEP! The highest and longest bridge is 80m high (262 feet), and 50m (164 feet) long.
Luckily it wasn’t windy, and I wondered as I crossed how these bridges would be in heavy wind. Thank you, Jesus!! I read over some blogs before our trip that said to be sure and HOLD ON in high winds. Ummm… We stopped at Paso Camp today. We rested, drank, filled our bellies, and chatted with fellow hikers about coming over the pass. We were exhausted, sun, and heat beaten and were happy to be off of our feet this day. One thing to note, there is zero ozone in Patagonia, so if you’re planning a trip, pack FIRST; sunscreen, SECOND; glasses! The sun is no joke!
Paso to Grey Camp was up for our next day. Grey was initially not on our itinerary… but ya know… those pesky eleventh-hour reservations… We were quite happy to get to Grey. We had decided we would sleep inside (a lot of people opt for the tent area) and had a shared room with another couple. Funny enough, it was a couple we had met a few days ago on a windy ascent but hadn’t seen since. It was like a family reunion when we opened the door of our bunk house. This is the first time in our history of travel that we’ve “bunked” like this. We were a little hesitant about this sleeping arrangement with total strangers! Turns out after hiking all. the. days. adding in a nice HOT shower and a legitimate meal in the restaurant… no one cared. We were so tired, after some small talk about our future adventures, we each collapsed onto our beds and slept straight through until the morning.
Grey Camp was in a gorgeous area against a sheer rock face. We sat out on the deck in Adirondack chairs, watching the sunrise the next morning.
From Grey, you can hike to the Glacier Mirador. After the Mirador, we headed off to our next camp, Paine Grande. This is the part of the trail where you meet up with the W hikers. This also begins two-way traffic on the trail, as there are a lot of day hikers and hikers heading in and out for an overnight or two. The trail gets busier after this section. G and I always call them “the shiny people” because frequently we have been out backpacking for DAYS and sometimes WEEKS and to day-hikers, I’m sure we look and ..ahem… smell like hobos. They pass us in their clean khakis and white t-shirts, smelling heavily of that morning’s shower. They have applied deodorant, fresh-hair in perky ponytails… and I think… I used to look pretty like that!
Paine Grande is a bustling place with O-hikers, W-hikers, and day-trippers. It sits stunningly on a lake with towering mountains to its side. We had already booked a room (alone) for this night’s stay. We checked in, showered, bought meal tickets FOR REAL FOOD in the morning, and set out to explore.
First stop; the fantastic bar on the top level. With its panoramic view, great music, and ice-cold beer, how could we pass that up? It was here that we talked over the trip that we knew would soon be ending. We talked about our ups and downs and the emotions that hit you when you’re on long treks like this. The peaks and valleys, and how real life seems to always follow trail life. We both hit low points. I was upset I had not felt 100 percent dealing with the flu, and I had times I got extremely frustrated with the congestion and nose blowing. Greg’s came after descending from John Gardner Pass, where I am convinced he was suffering some slight sunstroke and dehydration.
Looking back, I am still so glad I took the risk to start this hike.
Always take the risk! I could’ve let the sickness win, the fear of being miserable, the dismay of starting and maybe not finishing the hike, but like every hard thing in life, I pressed on and was so happy for that. I (we) never take our travel for granted. We both know there are people unable to travel as we do. There are couples who, one likes to travel, and one doesn’t, so they both don’t! For some, it’s a financial burden, some constrained by their career, some just simply don’t like to travel and some… are just paralyzed in fear to take that first step into something unknown. I can’t be that person and am thankful to have married a man who feels the same! There is no chance of tomorrow, and there is no chance that we will allow this precious life to pass by us.
We sat in this bar for a couple of hours and talked about the stories we will have for our future generations. Our grandkids… when looking at the globe someday, can hear stories of us climbing mountains and hiking all the miles, getting flooded in monsoons, eating God-knows-what from street vendors all over Asia. Standing in the Sea of Galilee in Isreal, getting stuck in the middle of the jungle, alone, on a motorcycle in Panama, having lightning strike so close that we felt our hair stand on end on a backpacking trip. Walking across a border crossing into Nicaragua, paragliding and sky diving, climbing down into war tunnels in Vietnam, surfing with giant sea turtles and stingrays all around us, nearly falling to my death in the Colorado Rockies… the list goes on…..
I know all grandparents have beautiful stories to tell their grandkids… and we can’t wait to share ours if someday God blesses us with littles.
We did a little sink laundry before heading over to the mess tent to cook some dinner. Greg was utterly crippled with eating dehydrated meals, so he opted to shop in the small store and buy… none other than Cup-a-Soup. Because that dehydrated food in styrofoam was far superior to the Packit Gourmet meals that we were currently existing on. Can you hear my sarcasm? I say this laughing because BOY does that food get old, and Cup-a-Noodles is like five-star cuisine when you’ve gotten tired of what you’ve packed.
As the sun set on another incredible night, we saw a Mama fox and her kits running around and playing in the meadow just outside. We moved out to take some video. They YIPPED and wrestled with one another until it was too dark to see.
Cont…..
Didn’t catch the first part of our Patagonia adventure? Start by clicking RIGHT HERE.
Patagonia Ocho a Diez Leaving Dickson, we set off for Campamento Perros. This day was one of the most beautiful! One of those days where you can’t stop taking pictures and can’t help but be grateful to be alive, to be breathing and seeing this scenery.
#wordpress#backpacking#Blogger#dreams#faith#food#funny#health#humor#media#nature#nutrition#opt outside#Patagonia#prayer#through hiking#Torres del Paine#travel#women
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NaNoWriMo 2017: Part One
Graveyards weren’t a place he frequented, too many bad memories. Too few people interred in them, in the past, bodies had been too hard to recover and move. Their deaths glossed over, always “training accident” whenever someone close to him fell. As for the grave at his feet? Officially dead in some African jungle, disgraced, accused of a war crime. The truth wasn’t so simple, and the grave itself was a lie. The casket below his feet was empty, how did he know?
He was the man supposedly buried here.
Michael Haghn sighed quietly, looking at the three graves: his to cover up a lie, and the graves of his mother and stepfather. He would have been lucky to get a grave in the first place, with what had been said about what he had done. Betrayed, imprisoned, now, he was here. A mist hung over the graveyard, morning dew clinging to the well manicured grass, the early time of day when people were still getting their morning coffee and getting ready for the day.
He needed to reflect, to see things in perspective. Information had been given to him, information that changed everything. A war was coming, and he was the reason why.
A fallen angel had approached him, with warnings: the archangels, the leaders of Heaven’s armies, were getting restless. They wanted a solution to a long running problem, and that problem was Allyson: The former angel who had saved Michael, trained him, but who had so much concentrated power it made those in positions of leadership nervous. For decades both the archangels and the forces of Hell had tried to influence her, get them to help their side and destroy the other. One side had grown tired of playing the game with her, and was preparing to take her out of the equation.
Further complicating things was the revelation that Michael was next in line to assume the mantle of an archangel. He wouldn’t get to pick a side, it was being chosen for him. If this happened... he couldn’t think further past that. He would be forced into a war on the wrong side, against the person he owed his life to.
Turning on his heel, he strode across the grass, heading back to his car. Questions and scenarios swirled in his head, and no outlet existed for him to get them out and discuss with someone: everyone he could talk with would eventually get it back to Allyson, or he could talk directly to her about it.
Facing the music would be tough, but it had to be done. He climbed into his car, the silver Camaro that had seen him through too many firefights and tough times. The engine purred when he started the vehicle, and the drive out helped to clear his mind and calm the soldier. Michael remembered the way home, but it would take a few hours to return to Goddess Island and the Institute.
The drive was uneventful, taking the backroads and letting the motor roar given straight empty asphalt in front of him. Only the sounds of tires on pavement and the running engine filled his ears. It was smooth driving, easily gliding past any vehicles in his path, until he entered the verdant forest that marked the last stage of the journey home. A full group of figures ahead of him blocked the road, and they stared right at the approaching vehicle.
Michael narrowed his eyes, and slammed on his brakes. He’d been ambushed in these woods before, even on this road. He didn’t decelerate fast enough, so he angled his vehicle and started to slide. Michael leaned over and reached behind the passenger seat, for the submachine gun secured in a hidden container flush with the back of the seat. He grabbed the grip, and pulled it free of it’s housing and into his lap. The weapon was loaded and chambered, he already knew, and two spare magazines were secured to the receiver. He pulled these free and hid them in the pockets of his reinforced leather jacket.
Sliding to a stop, Michael held the weapon low in his hand as he pushed the door open, and stepped out. He maintained a low profile, keeping his weapon hidden as he stepped behind the motor side of the vehicle. “Can I help you?” Michael asked them, narrowing his eyes.
The seven figures before him formed an echelon, all of them clad in shining golden armor with similar helmets. Swords adorned their hips, save the two at the ends of the echelon, carrying bows and quivers. The figure at the point of the echelon strode towards the car, until Michael held a free hand up: “No closer,” he ordered.
“Michael, you’re not going to shoot me,” he called out. The man walking towards the silver Camaro had mid-length black hair, a regal face and light green eyes, his head not covered like the others.
“Am I supposed to know who you are?” the soldier asked.
“I’m your brother, Michael,” he stated with a ivory grin, setting his hands on the hood of his car. “Gabriel.”
“See, you’ve got me mistaken,” Michael said coldly, “I’m an only child.”
“Not anymore,” the archangel stated. He slowly walked towards the front of the car, “a storm is coming Michael. You can either take shelter, or be wiped out,” he threatened, his voice the contained cadance of the court, the kind way one man threatened another.
“No closer,” Haghn warned, fingers tingling on the grips of the Kriss he held. “They measure your worth with how you weather the storm,” he replied, “if you know the slightest about me, you know your shiny army doesn’t scare me.”
“I could have you killed any time I wanted,” Gabriel threatened, losing the controlled tone and letting a short burst of anger bubble to the surface. “Why do you resist?” he asked, exasperated. “I’m offering you a cause, something you have been without for so long. You can join us, rid this world of wretchedness and evil. Make the world for humans a better place,” he told the man across the car. “Isn’t that why you’ve been fighting?”
“If you need me killed, are you really that different from what you fight?” Michael shot back. “I have a cause, and I don’t need some pretty looking armor or fancy swords to enforce it. Besides, if you know anything about me, you know I’ve done dirty work, things I’m not proud of.”
“But that’s why we need you, you’re willing to do the things others won’t for the greater good,” Gabriel told him, stopping before Haghn’s vehicle. “Or is it the woman?” his voice turned venomous. “Your precious Allyson?”
Michael’s hands tightened on the grips, his eyes narrowing: “Watch your tongue.”
“You know, I took her wings once,” the archangel said casually, “it was fairly easy, in fact. You of all people know how powerful and talented she is, and I brought her to heel. You should have seen her, sobbing and cowering like-”
White hot anger pulsed through his veins, and Michael stepped back in a blur, bringing his weapon to his shoulder and fixing the sight on the archangel’s nose. “Finish the sentence,” he threatened. The guards further down the road drew their swords and readied arrows in their bows. “You may be an archangel, but you do not want to fight this battle.”
Gabriel laughed, fixing Haghn with a stare. “You’re not going to shoot me,” he smiled like a shark.
“Look into my eyes,” the soldier replied. “Does it look like I’m not going to shoot you?” he asked, emotionless behind the blue.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Gabriel replied proudly, turning on his heel to walk back to the others. “Regardless, you have a choice: you and your fallen lover can continue to be defiant children, and be disciplined as such. Or, you can join the only right cause in this world, bring her to us, and make this world right.”
Michael held the weapon trained on the archangel’s back. “I’m considering a third option: Shoot you in the back and be done with this whole affair.”
Gabriel turned, the same threatening smile on his face: “Michael, we’re the Kingdom of Heaven. Our armies hold countless troops. As a military man, you know you could never survive.”
“Numbers don’t count for much, you do know who it was who retrieved her wings, right?” Michael asked, a proud grin coming to his otherwise stoic face.
“A crime for which we are willing to forgive you for.”
“One man, a few guns, and some high explosive broke into one of the most secure places in your kingdom of clouds,” Michael reminded him, acknowledging his involvement. “And I managed to avoid your armies until I extracted. Do you know what I could have stolen from that hall if I really wanted to? How much damage I could have caused?”
“You got lucky,” Gabriel shot back.
“Maybe I did,” Michael conceded, “luck doesn’t happen without help. I’ll take my chances,” he finished. He watched the archangel return to his guard, tracking them the whole time with the Vector in his hands.
“I urge you to reconsider, Michael,” the archangel said in parting, before a flash of light lit the forest road. The seven ahead ahead of him were gone, and the road was clear.
With a huff, Michael returned to the driver’s seat. He returned the Kriss to it’s hiding spot behind the passanger seat, righted his vehicle and resumed his drive. The encounter only reinforced his dread that war was coming, and that he had to prepare: With a few words, Gabriel had drawn the battle lines, and Michael Haghn was committed to another war.
They needed resources, troops for a stand against one of the most powerful armies ever raised. Defending against a human army would be easy, but how did one win a war against one of the largest and well trained militaries in all of creation? He did not know the answer, not at this juncture, but he would learn it or die trying.
Crossing over the red bridge onto Goddess Island was always a strange experiance, going from the known to a world invisible to billions. It was pristine here, untouched by the hand of man beyond the paved stone path that snaked through the hills up to one of the few structures on the sprawling island. Most of the island was covered in forest, a snowcapped mountain dominated the southeast of the island, the ice interred there fed a crystal clear river that ran the length of the island. In a break in the forest, atop a low hill, the road terminated at a large building that was the Goddess Island Institute for Advanced Studies. Formerly a school for the supernatural, it had been deserted sometime around the turn of the twentyth century.
The building could easily be mistaken as a fortress, with ramparts on the decks, arrow slits now covered by glass. Ivy climbed the grey walls, great windows watching every inch of the landscape around them. A barn and a few small sheds sat west of the structure, with a fenced area that would allow animals to roam, if any were kept in the barn.
Despite the ancient exterior, the Institute offered many modern amentities and elements: The wide windows were hardened ballistic glass, rated to stop sustained high caliber weapons fire. The window covering arrow slits could be removed, to allow a weapon through. As it was in the past, it was in the future, only missing a complement of guards. Maybe some heavy weapons, too, Michael mused quietly as he punched in the code to the garage door opener. The building had several armories and storages, with enough equiptment to sustain a small army for quite a while.
The building had gotten some renovation, the spacious garage one such feature. A pool and deck had been constructed on the surface level on the other side of the building, drained now since fall was going to set in any day. The many rooms were spacious, and the building even had it’s own secure internet network. It had seemed too expansive and massive for Michael at first, the soldier having difficulty navigating the massive building: However, only a fraction of the building was in use by the three occupants.
He alighted the silver muscle car and strode into the building, walking the empty halls until he reached the inhabited portion of the building.
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Huayhuash
Cast of characters:
Marcelo and Rafael, uncle and nephew from Brasil
Amin: from Qatar, wants to go back to Namibia
Yuri: Mexican woman whose eye swelled up like crazy
Benito: Spaniard with the most Spanish accent ever
Rebecca: Aussie who knows Haley from antartica
Linda: doctor from Canada
Ohn: Israeli military guy with mohawk and drone (I want to visit him, he's cool as hell)
Michael and Amelie: French couple who live in Geneva. They were so laid back and chill that I'm making a rule: no more talking shit about the French
Estrella: badass guide. Always addressed us with "ok, chicos" and had a fun sense of humor
Kelly: other guide, much quieter but still nice
Enoc: chef. Skinny with a big-toothed smile, seems to own every business in Huayllalpa
Elmer and Russell: donkey drivers. Friendly, salt of the earth guys with badass wide brim hats and the ability to run seemingly forever in the high altitude
Day 1:
Met at the office in Huaraz. Long drive up to our start point, through a couple villages where we had to pay an entrance fee and get let through some gates. Spent most of the drive talking to Amin about Namibia. When we got closer to the start, saw HUGE grey granite slabs poking out of the hillsides with steep and slanted but sheer/flat faces. Our campsite was in this green gold valley with one sharp snowcap rising up above the hill next to us (before dinner we climbed up there to see the view on the other side of the full mountain)
-leaving dinner we got staggering views of the milky way in a totally clear sky. Not sure if it was the clear air of the altitude or what but the twinkling of the stars was the strongest I've ever seen it.
Day 2:
-Immediate climb up and to the right out of the valley (about 600 meters climbing to Qaqanan). Could see the whole green valley stretching out away from us as we climbed.
-view from top (4800m): brownish red river cutting into green/gold valley. Descended and then took break, watched the donkeys gallop by with the handlers running after. RUNNING.
-walked along the valley for a while- river wandering along next to and below us with patches of grass next to it glistening in the sunshine.
-came to a turn where there was a road cutting left and our trail cut right to a check point. (Waited for Amin because he dropped his cell). View of huge snowcaps!
-after the gate, the other group who had gone through the checkpoint turned off right and went into the valley to Mitucocha Camp in a big open field below the mountain, while we continued to the left, over a little river bridge and up a steep climb to meet Enoc and the horse and have lunch on a beautiful hillside looking back over the camp and the valley.
-after lunch, continued up the valley, sloping gently up to the second pass of the day- Punta Carhuac, where we got the first view of the three mountains together that dominated the landscape for the rest of our walk.
-down into a brilliantly green valley to the left of a hillside. As we walked the three mountains got bigger and bigger: Yerupajá, the 2nd tallest mtn in Peru in the center with vertical chimneys in the ice of it's sheer center face at the top, to it's right a really triangular one with lots of colors including deep maroon and cream (Rasac), and to the left a more rounded peak with brown and white layered horizontal stripes (Siula). I was laughing with delight like a crazy person and playing aesgir songs to accompany the descent. Ended up in a more tan/green valley that was right below the three mtns with this really mystical feel.
-continued descending along the left side of a hill (I ran for a while because it felt really good) and was first one to come up a small ridge and get a view of our first lake, Laguna Carhuacocha. It's a long strip of brilliantly royal blue that ends in a golden field cut by dark snakes of riverbed and then the 3 mountains (from a slightly different angle) TOWERING up over it. I watched two white birds soar from above us, down to the lake with their shadows on the surface and then land on the bank.
-We hung out on the ridge taking photos and drone videos and then went to our campsite, at the far end of the lake.
-Went to sit at this stone house at the end of the lake and look at the mountains. Same as in the campsite and on the ridge beforehand, the mountains are SO insanely huge it's difficult to comprehend them. People on the ridge above me looked laughable in comparison. And they're so steep- they soar straight up from the meadow, gold and slate grey down below, white above, and dappled in sunlight and cloud. Just insane.
Day 3:
-super sunny morning on the bank of the lake, but quickly turned to cloud
-walked around the far end of the lake then back towards the mountains, then cut left through a scrubby valley to a dark lake.
-hiked up the first mirador to see two of the three famous lakes. The middle (name?)is darker blueish green but the one on the right (name?) is a brilliant, stunning turquoise (a more concentrated version of the bright blue of a swimming pool in direct sunlight) with a ring of ice on the left side, below a sheer face of ice fields/galciers with falling mixed ice and water coming down in rivulets into the lake
-climbed up to the left of the lakes until we got to the famous Siula mirador: you can see a chain of 3 lakes: farthest are the two i just described and then closest to the mirador is another of the same amazing bright color, but reflecting the mountain and the sky so it had a sharp white glare on it like sunglasses. Behind the lakes closer are slate grey icecaps and in the distance (off to the right) are sharp mountains whose knife-like ridges divide a brown side from a mossy-green gold side
-i was a little disappointed to not have a totally clear day to see the lake colors, but the sun did peek through for a few minutes and make the turquoise lakes glow like jewels. And no matter what the weather, it's crazy to be among mountains this dramatically huge, lakes these insane colors, and tramping through high meadows like we're in the sound of music- they're sights that few people have the privilege to enjoy
-put the lakes to our back and went up another two hours to Siula pass (4850 m). View from there down to a big brown hill kind of triangular shaped like rainbow mountain and a small dark colored lake.
-descended to a flatland and then again down a series of sort of bog mounds (terraced green mossy mounds with mud between). On the right side were icy mountains with glaciers and on the left was a set of 3 or 4 slate grey peaks that were all connected and had sheer, flat faces.
-ended the day with a descent into a valley with those grey mtns to the left side, Huayhuash mountain to the right, and some brown craggy peaks in the center, the 3 mountain sets sheltering a wide field of greenish tan filled with sheep circles, stone walls, and dotted by the bright colors of our tents.
-played soccer with the donkey guys- so hard at altitude
Day 4:
-Climbed to Trapesio pass, kind of unremarkable climb because mostly clouded/fogged in. Actually got snowed and hailed on at the top. But 5010m elevation so new highest
-we crossed and the fog started to lift to show lakes on the other side! A string of like 5 small ones (including two that were like bright metallic glacial blue) and then a larger, dark blue one with a giant butte behind it, covered partly by a dramatic ceiling of fog
-stopped for lunch on the way down- donkey had fallen and gotten injured and was left to die. Made me really sad that it's whole life was to serve people and then when it got hurt they didn't do it even the service of putting it down. I wanted to help but had no
-descended to the lakes: super incredible up close because the dark blue lake is surrounded by rows of buttes of columnar brownish orange rock that look like they're made of carved wood, some of them with curved deformities that look exactly like termites have been eating away at them. The contrast of the orange/brown with the color of the water was amazing.
-at the end of the lake is an especially huge one of these that's so tall and cylindrical it looks like a cathedral or a keep (kind if the twin of the one in Torres del Paine), so I nicknamed it The Citadel.
-beyond that was a row if more normal shaped mountains colored in brown, tan, and this odd sort of shiny steel that looked like silver in the sunlight. The whole color palette has changed: before it was greens and gold's and now it's oranges and browns.
-i descended through fields of orange and grey rock, having a ton of fun with my imagination: making up a story in my head involving the citadel and a sort of scout/lookout on another planet
-came to final viewpoint over our camp: this huge green and gold valley that looked surreal in the misty partial rain and fog, with at the far end these protruding rock formations that look like an elephant and a serpent. Looked exactly like a scene out of Lord of the rings, I half expected horses to come galloping out of the gap between the figures. It felt extra cinematic because I was looking out at it from under my hood and through my bangs which was sort of framing the whole scene in a cool first person perspective.
-It started raining harder as I went down and I took my hood off to feel it in my hair. Got to camp as it turned to hail, which fell strongly for like 10 minutes, filling the camp with hail bits, and then abruptly stopped, leaving the camp bathed in sunshine
Day 5:
Perfectly sunny warm day, FINALLY! Left the campsite with the elephant and serpent and climbed sharply out of the valley over ground covered in snow/hail combo. Leapfrogged with a group from Colorado for a while. Passed on the left next to a brown mountain and then approached Santa Rosa Pass on the right side of another snowcap. Steep snowy climb up to the top of the pass, revealed amazing view: huge snowcapped mountains towering over a dark blue lake and with a smaller one above and to the left. Pass is at 5238m, the highest I've climbed as far as I know. Stood at the top shouting to hear the echo and feeling so accomplished, drinking in the view. Descended (listening to "Tierra del Olvidos" and chatting with estrella and a cook from the Colorado group named Cristian) to a ridge next to the lake and we could see another one to the right, more mint colored. Took a really cool widening frame video of Ohn (Israeli guy I really liked).
-Went to the left down the valley- first carpeted with green and big stones like a high meadow in the Alps, then a sort of high walled arid canyon like Arizona- I walked ahead and enjoyed some solitude for a while. Waited for the rest of the group at a gate- path now runs next to a river. Passed through and suddenly the valley narrowed like we were going to get ambushed from above and we came to a large waterfall and a section where the river was running in weird rivulets directly through the grass. The valley got more and more lush, with large skinny trees standing out above it and the river running quickly through it: started to look like the shire or rivendell, this insanely lush green paradise. Further down the valley the town of Huayllalpa was huddled in this tiny ledge in the shadow of the towering mountain. Tiny boy blaring music passed us sprinting down the hill and we descended into the village: ate dinner literally in the bodega where we'd just bought snacks (and ate them right there and some people bought eggs and then asked the bodega owner to boil them- she probably thought we were totally crazy).
Day 6:
Climbed back up the steep stairs that lead into Huayllalpa and then turned up the valley. Hot climb in the sun up the valley, watching Amin struggle to get his horse to keep walking. Crossed over the river and came into a high mountain meadow and then up to Tapush Pass (kind of stoney last ascent)- Amin and his horse and I arrived first: view on the other side was our first look at the black mountains, serving as a backdrop to a lake in a green meadow, divided into two sections by a much shallower pinched section in the middle. Camped down below the lake in a big compound surrounded by stone walls called Quashpapampa. Washed my socks and then lazed in the sun. I got up to pee in the middle of the night after moonset- refreshingly cold on my bare torso and amazing stars in the clear dark sky.
Day 7: Our last real climb: Michael, Ohn and I warmed our feet in the sun and then left the circle of rocks. Up through a valley and then steep climb up a set of switchbacks through big rocks and then grey gravel (sometimes iced over like a frozen river) to Yaucha Pass. At the top (Ohn and I got there first), sat on a big rock and looked at the mountains across from the pass- they seemed really blue because the sun hadn't gotten high enough to shine on their faces yet. And the foothills off to the side somehow seemed to be backlit even though the sun was almost overhead- dark blue with a sort of lighter halo that made them seem like the fake mountains that run along the edges of a planetarium sky. When the rest of the group got there, we cut laterally to 2 miradors. First one showed us the the full view of the mountains: turns out this was the backside of the 3 big mountains I described on day 2 (there were actually 4- get names again from map). Incredible views of these mountains- they just tower over everything with these impossibly steep upper summits of ice and foothills of red and tan dirt in some places and in others then amazing gold-green that's all over in Huayhuash. And all around we could see brown mountains and lush valleys and other cordilleras in the distance. Second mirador was further along and revealed a pair of lakes nestled in the valley below the leftmost mountain: one darker blue with a green sheen close to the edges (turned out to be some sort of huge green pond plant like kelp) and another higher up that was that impossible glacial blue like a piece of polished jade. CRAZY steep descent- stopped on this huge rock that just drops off like a cliff where we were literally looking down on gliding birds, and then sort of half-walked half-skiied down the valley next to it in a series of switchbacks. The little jewels of our tents in the camp were TINY and seemed to not get any bigger for a really long time during the dusty descent of switchbacks. Eventually got down to the valley- seemed like paradise: this green lush slice through brown hills with a lazy river running through it, which comes from a waterfall that spills down the hillside and under a little suspension bridge over rapids and a deep pool. And at the top of the valley is the totally imposing, serene presence of the mountain. Ohn, Michael, and I arrived first and were commenting on how the camp seemed like somewhere fake that got created just for a brochure, but it's real! Russel greeted us by sharing his beer ("para tu sed") and then we took a (very brief) jump into the little pool below the bridge. I read in the sun lying in the pile of sleeping bags and luggage, and then pulled a blanket over me to protect myself from sunburn and sort of half-napped like a cat in a sunbeam, enjoying the view and sound of the waterfall and the sense of absolutely 0 responsibility. Might be the most idyllic campsite I've ever been to!
When sunset came, the mountains turned really orange and then this amazing pale white backed by a sky that was this incredible lavender color I've never seen in a sunset and was an amazing contrast/backdrop for the snowy mountains. To the opposite side of camp the dark hills were backed by the purply halo glow of the setting sun. We watched the stars slowly come out one by one, then played cards and had dinner. After dinner the sky was dark but we could still see the white silhouette of the mountains in the light of the half moon.
Day 8: went down the valley following the river on a sort of twisty path on the scrubby hillside. Nothing special in terms of the walk but because we weren't huffing and puffing from a hard climb, had more of a chance to talk- chatted a lot with Rebecca, Linda, and Ohn about the future of medicine (the girls are both in the field), relationships and physical types, etc. It was a nice discussion, really interesting. Dropped down another steep set of switchbacks to reach our final destination, the village of Llamac (small, clean, and cute but at first really deserted in a way that felt really twilight zone-esque. Especially the old woman with cloudy blind eyes who just didn't respond to anything i said to her..). Bought a beer and some chips and then hung out waiting for the minibus back to Huaraz. All in all a super successful trip- there were times when I would have preferred not to be with a group, if they were complaining or I wasn't feeling social, but sometimes it was nice to have company and it was amazing to not have to carry a full bag, deal with cooking and pitching a tent, etc. And the views were INSANE- Easily comparable to Patagonia, just one after another place that was so beautiful as to not seem possible to be real. Main differences from Patagonia: less glaciers but also way less trees, you're above the treeline so literally nothing obstructs any view. Glacial lakes in Patagonia were more of a slate blue like Gatorade, these are more turquoise like a swimming pool or tropical shallows.
The whole place also kind of reminds me of Ireland on steroids because of the greenish gold lowlands around the mountains, the old stone sheep pens and huts, and the mysterious kind of misty quality to the air on cloudy days but brilliant green glow in the sun.
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The Seven, Part 1
Title: The Seven, Part 1
Pairing: BTS x Reader (you are Snow!)
Type: Fairytale!au, Fluff, Angst
Rating: PG-13 (still no smut, but there might be more language and other themes, like depression and references to sexual situations later on)
Word Count: 2, 860
A/N: So it’s midnight, and I’m exhausted. I had my finance final today, so hopefully I can move on from the stress this class has been giving me. Keep your collective fingers crossed for good results! I haven’t edited so please let me know if it’s stilted. I love receiving asks or messages! Thanks to @dianas-world for being a sounding board, and making me realize that this is the second fic I’ve written featuring a blogger character lol! I wonder what the underlying cause is? :)
Snow’s POV
I slipped quietly down the hall, trying not to disturb my stepmother, who was filming a vlog for her fashion blog, Mirror, Mirror. Everyday she would post photos of her “#ootd” and wait for the comments and likes to roll in. She also did videos of her morning makeup routines and product reviews. I was somewhat in awe of her ability to create a community and become an influencer in that sphere. I mean, companies sent her (expensive!) free stuff all the time. It was true that she was very beautiful and very fashionable, but I worried what would happen if she even stopped blogging, or god forbid, lost popularity. She was reliant on external validation, sometimes taking posts down if they didn’t receive a certain amount of likes or comments that she had deemed necessary.
The blog had become even more important to her since my father died. She had always been kind to me before his death, but things were different now. I didn’t think she was fake, but rather that his death had depressed her and her outlook on life. Things were a little stilted betweens us-she and my father had been married only a short time before he passed away in a freak accident. Her blog was filled with positive reminders of the network she had and the people who supported her. I could hardly blame her. I always tried to like her photos and to leave positive comments on the blog. Maybe she thought it didn’t count since we were legally family, but I wanted to bond with her or try to be on good terms.
My mother had been a professor of Caribbean and West Indian literature, constantly trying to better understand the culture she had left behind. My mother had died when I was around 7 or 8, so I missed her, but in a more muted way. I had memories of her reading stories to me, giving each character a different voice, but other than that the memories were hazy. My father was the one who had raised me from that point out, taking me on adventures, watching action movies together, and yes, playing tea time with my dolls and me. Losing him had broken something inside of me that seemed permanent.
My father had been an environmental scientist, focusing on snowfall rates and snowcap melting rates. had moved to this country for his work. He had spent time in various mountain camps out west, frequently telling me stories of one his favorite places in the whole world. While I was grossed out by this story, I was conceived in one of those mountain camps, and born during one of the biggest snowfalls on record, ever. Thus, my name. He had always promised that he would take me to one of these ecological camps when I graduated high school but fate had taken that chance away from us. I was determined to student environmental science in university, when I went in a few months.
Hearing my stepmother in the other room brought me back to the present. I had been on my way to the kitchen and decided to bring her some juice as a peace offering. Our apartment overall was nice, but her office had the professional photography lights, and different props to create flawless pictures. When she saw me, she smiled.
“I was just about to do my Outfit of the Day post…do you want to be my ‘featured guest’?”
I shrugged and smiled. I wasn’t dressed up in any particular way, wearing leggings and one of my dad’s old flannel shirts, which came down to my knees. But if she was offering this olive branch, then I was sure as hell taking it. I just wanted us to live peacefully together until I went away to college. She arranged the cameras, and set up the lighting. Half an hour later, she had taken enough different shots and angles of the both of us to fill multiple blogs. I knew that she would only pick one though. I smiled at her, and went back to whatever I was doing in my room. I don’t recall what it was, since what happened next changed our entire relationship, and possibly my future, forever.
The photo she selected was good (she had mad photography and editing skills), but it blew up more than she could have ever expected, with the most comments and likes she had ever received. People said that I was radiant, my skin “golden” or “glowing,” and wanted to know my skincare routine (soap? moisturizer? I didn’t really have any secrets to share, not to mention the fact that most of it was Photoshop). Other commenters raved about my “girl next door” grungy style, and asked where I shopped. Others still were asking that I be a regular on her blog or start my own. There were thousands of others, and honestly for someone who didn’t have or necessarily want a blog and the following attention, it was all a bit overwhelming.
My stepmother was even more overwhelmed. She had featured me to show that she could be casual and “down to earth,” and I had inadvertently stolen her thunder. She was used to being the star of the show, and rightly so on a blog that she put so much effort, attention, and love into. She was used to people calling her beautiful, glowing, and radiant. My presence and popularity possibly reminded her that she was not alone at the center of the universe, and it was painful.There were no fights or blow-ups after that, just a quiet withdrawal from me. It got to the point where the things left unsaid were so unwieldy that we would literally tip toe around each other, waiting for the other to go to bed or leave the house before the other would go into the kitchen.
After finally accepting that this was how the relationship would be until I went away to school, I came home from my part time job a few weeks later, and found a letter on the table. It was from somewhere in the western mountains, inviting me to come and work as an environmental assistant in a national park. I hadn’t contacted them, but it seemed that whoever was offering the job had known my father previously. The way it was positioned on the table (already opened too, indicating that my stepmother had opened it, knew the contents and left it there) made it clear that I was no longer welcome in the house. It was just a building, but it held the few memories I had of my mother, not to mention the many good years with my father. The start date was in a week, meaning I would have to pack up the loose ends of my life quickly, not that there was much left for me here.
A week later
So I had said, being all emo, that “there wasn’t much left” for me back home, but now that I was looking down the cabin where I would be spending the summer, I realized that there were a lot of things. Like air-conditioning, wi-fi, and running water in the house, for instance. My dad had always romanticized his time in the woods, but now, I wasn’t so sure that I wanted to relive his experience. The sunrise over the mountains had been ethereal and beautiful, but was it worth a summer of cold showers in an outhouse? The park ranger, a woman in her mid-forties, lived a few miles down the road in a cosy house with all of the amenities (namely, wi-fi), but was currently showing the cabin that I would be staying in. What she had failed to mention, was that I would be sharing a cabin. All of the park facilities were gender-neutral, but it just so happened that I was the only female intern for the summer. There were seven other “very nice boys,” she assured me, who were all out doing their work for the day. Despite the lack of modern conveniences, the cabin is small, and clean, with a main living area with large windows, a kitchen, and one large bedroom with four sets of bunkbeds lining the walls. It was small, but
With the tour of the cabin lasting approximately all of three minutes, the park ranger said her goodbyes, and left me to my own devices. Namely, taking a nap on the first bunk I came across. They all had different blankets, pillows and personal effects, but one was spotlessly clean, and neatly made. I assumed that was mine and landed facedown, asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
Used to the uncomfortable silence of my home, I jolted awake as soon as I heard the key in the latch, and experienced that fleeting moment of panic when you wake up in a strange place. I quickly closed my eyes again, still feeling overwhelmed and not ready to face seven new roommates. I heard them shuffle in. Luckily, I was a good actress, and was able to stay still when a gasp sounded in the doorway of the bedroom.
“YAHHHH, WHO IS IN MY BED?” A loud, fake whisper came from someone who was clearly agitated. “How can she sleep in someone else’s bed, and in OUTSIDE CLOTHES!” Another gasp. My presence was already an affront to everything this person stood for, apparently, and we hadn’t even met officially yet. Clearly, my guess about this being the free bunk was incorrect.
“Hyung, calm down,” a bored sounding voice drawled. “She’s probably exhausted, not that I blame her. I wish I could have stayed here all day....” A sense of longing came through, even though I couldn’t see the speakers face or gauge his body language.
An authoritative voice, clearly the leader of the group said, “Leave her be. We can do our introductions and sort out this misunderstanding later, Jin-hyung,” he said, clearly trying to calm the original speaker. “Let’s get dinner ready as a proper introduction, and wake her in an hour or so.”
I heard footsteps as they drifted away, and assumed I was in the clear when a warm body shifted on the small twin mattress next to me. I let out a small squeak at the sudden closeness.
“You’re a shit actor, you know that?” I opened one of my eyes slowly to see the face of the person with the slurred speech. “You’re lucky that Jin-hyung was too busy working himself up into one of his comedic rants to actually pay attention to you.”
Still feeling discombobulated, the only response I could muster, in my most sarcastic tone of voice, was “And you are? I must know the name of the one who so gallantly did not blow my cover.”
He paused for a moment, waiting just long enough for me to start feeling uncomfortable. “Suga, or Yoongi. Whichever you prefer,” he said dismissively. “You made a rookie mistake, sleeping in Jin-hyung’s bed- he’s very particular. Do you think you’ll be able to make it through the whole summer, with him now out to get you?” He smirked and scooted closer, which I had thought was impossible.
Before I could come up with a witty retort, or anything at all really, another person burst into the room and my cover was officially blown. If I had thought that the apparent “Jin-hyung” was loud, he had nothing on this person.
“YAHHHHHHHH, LEAVE SUGA ALONE. How can you impose on him like this?! And so close too, how pushy!!!!!” This outburst was coming from one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen, but somehow I had inadvertently pissed him off as well. This was going swimmingly, I thought to myself.
“He was the one who crowded me in, after I was already sleeping here!” I shot back, feeling the need to defend myself.
“QUIT FLIRTING. THIS IS NOT THE TIME OR PLACE!” He huffed. He had some weird ideas about what flirting was-I had thought Suga was trying to intimidate me, if anything.
“Hyung, you’re needed elsewhere,” the beautiful boy said in a completely different tone of voice. Talk about a 180.
“Yes, Hoseok. Don’t give yourself a hernia or something,” Suga monotoned. As he passed through the door, Hoseok put his arm over Suga’s shoulder, and shot me a possessive glare. Well, I was learning names quickly, but maybe not making friends.
I remade the bed, even though I had only been on top of the covers, and shifted my stuff to the other open bunk, hoping that I wasn’t just repeating my earlier mistake. I ran my hand over my hair, having no way to check if it was presentable, before heading out to the common area. Hoseok and Yoongi were on the couch, watching a movie on a small portable dvd player. I was kept at a distance by another glare from Mr. Grumpypants. Turning to the window that graced the main room, I could see three younger boys I hadn’t met yet running around outside like little kids. How they still had energy after supposedly working outside all day, I had no idea, but to each their own.
“I’ll give you this, you know how to make an impression,” I turned abruptly to see the most amazing dimples I had ever seen, and the first genuine smile I received since the park ranger left.
I returned it with a small smile of my own, not trusting his reaction. “Apparently so. My name is Snow.”
“I’m Namjoon,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “I’m so happy to meet the newest intern.”
He had a commanding presence, but also seemed innocent and cute. Right as I was thinking how suave he was, he walked back to the other boy in the kitchen (who I assumed was the fake whisperer), and managed to burn himself, trip, and drop a sharp knife all in one go. It might be safer to admire from afar, I realized.
I walked over to help clean up the fallout from this apparent God of Destruction, and to hopefully make things right with who I was pretty sure was Jin.
“I’m sorry for sleeping in your bed earlier,” I said, cutting right to the chase. “I thought it was the spare since it was so tidy compared to the rest.”
He sighed under his breath, not entirely placated. I saw him getting ready to drain the water from the pasta he was preparing for dinner, and offered to help.
“Not to sound like a know-it-all, but if you save a little of the starchy water, and mix it into the sauce, it helps it stick to the noodles better,” I said, while trying to avoid an unwanted steam facial at the tiny sink where I was draining the water.
He had a completely different expression on his face when I turned around, and I had a feeling that we would be fine from here on out.
“You know about cooking?” He asked, eyes shining hopefully.
I was scared of what I might be committing to, but nodded my head.
“It was just my dad and me when I was growing up, and while he was a great cook, he had to work late sometimes. So if I wanted food, I had to learn.” I smiled at him, and he winked, which weirded me out a little. But he seemed harmless enough. We chatted about nothing in particular as we finished preparing dinner. Namjoon was setting the table, and from time to time we would hear suspicious clinking sounds of plates being almost dropped, and curse words muttered to himself louder than he intended (probably).
The others came in and before I knew it, we were sitting around the table, eating and chatting. Well, they were chatting. I was eating and feeling a bit left out as the new person, but it was to be expected as they had already been here together and knew each other. As I thought about it though, it was still the homiest experience I’d had in a long time. Dinner passed without me offending anyone else (a rarity), and I was able to meet Taehyung, Jungkook, and Jimin, who were the three who had been running around.
When dinner was over, I helped Namjoon & Jin clean up (they seemed to be the parents of this little family), and excused myself for bed. It was still early, but tomorrow was my first day out collecting samples and specimens, and I wanted to do a good job, especially since the park ranger had known my dad and said that she had “high expectations for me.”
The bunk bed, though small, felt heavenly, and I slept through the night with no anxiety dreams of my dad or stepmother for the first night in ages. Perhaps, looking back, the comfort I felt then was a sign of the things to come.
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My Artifacts
Multimedia Project for Writing 107: Updated Version 2/6/18
By Kelsey Husted, Katie King, and Emily Thomas
Synopsis
The purpose of this particular project is to give insight into the van-life community within Isla Vista that many UCSB students aren’t familiar with. Every individual’s story and reasons are different for choosing the mobile lifestyle. The following will go through through two individuals’ distinct stories to display the diversity of those reasons.
Why this story
The relatability of making non-traditional housing choices as a young adult
Most college students don’t experience van life firsthand, making it a novel living situation; enough people in Isla Vista have heard of it and/or seen it to make them want to learn more.
People tend to enjoy stories of overcoming odds and ‘sticking it to the man’. People who live in vans are avoiding the exploitation by landlords that is so prevalent in Isla Vista.
The humor of the unconventional lifestyle and the types of stories it produces
Beginnning
Possibly start with a description of one of the main interviewees/a short anecdote ….something humorous
Introduce/Set the scene of student exploitation & describe the costs of student housing
Introduce the concept of Van Living as some students’ solution to financial need
List other reasons for van life (e.g. live in peace, alone; mobility..)
Middle
Context of modern vanlife both in and outside of Isla Vista and the benefits and drawbacks of that lifestyle
The stereotypical view of people who live in vans:
bums maybe with no goals
antisocial, unapproachable
bad hygeine
History of vanlife the ideology of vanlife
History of IV: the atmosphere, laidback collegetown
In depth stories and character development of our two main character
Ending
Ties together the connections and differences between the two stories and considers the extent to which their experiences as individuals trump the predetermined tropes and expectations of living in a van
Hanes, Kristin. “How to Downsize and Build Your Dream Home inside a Van.” City Brights: Howard Rheingold, San Francisco Chronicle, 15 Sept. 2017, http://blog.sfgate.com/stew/2017/09/17/how-to-downsize-and-build-your-dream-home-inside-a-van/.
“Camper van conversions can really run the gamut, from a luxury Sprinter Van conversion done by a company that could cost you up to $150,000, to a simple DIY cargo van conversion that will only be $1,000. The type of conversion you pick will largely have to do with budget and what type of van you want. Do you want off-road and off-grid? Do you want something that can plug into the grid at an RV park? Do you want a toilet and shower? There are so many things to consider when building out a van”
“Thomas Townsend has been running Townsend Travel Trailers out of Santa Barbara, California for two years now, and he said business is growing as more people grow interested in van life”
“‘That’s the difference between us and a DIY person. They’ll use standard home techniques and haven’t gone through the testing and applications that we have,’ he said. Also, if a van designed by Townsend is side-swiped, for example, it’s built so the interior is broken down into pieces. The van can dismantle in five hours down to bare metal if you need to get in there and fix something”
“‘Making the jump to do this was the most challenging,’ Ben said. ‘We’d been wanting to do a trip and build a van for a long time, so making that initial leap was the biggest challenge mentally. Then, it was the design. Just wanting to make sure we thought of everything.’”
As you can see, there are a lot of ways you can build out a camper van, from an ultra-luxurious custom build-out, to something cheaper that you can figure out on your own.
“Just like there’s no one way to live the van life, there’s no one way to build out your dream home”
The Vanual, Ryobi, 2016, www.thevanual.com/.
Provides an introduction to van life, a guide to determining if van life is write for you, and comprehensive instructions on how to choose a van, maintain van safety, and set up the interior of your van
“The variety of people you’ll find living and traveling in a van is wide and all-encompassing. You’ll find climbers and outdoor enthusiasts who enjoy spending as much time as possible out in nature. Former desk jockeys now doing freelance work in an ever-changing environment. Penny pinching young professionals avoiding exorbitant rent prices in the city. Newlyweds starting the new chapter of their lives together with a grand adventure. Whatever your reason, your experience of living a mobile lifestyle will differ from anyone elses. Your budget, your van, your preferences, your plan—all of these aspects will give you a bias towards what you like and dislike about the vanlife”
The negatives of vanlife
Loneliness. Even if you regard yourself as a bit of a lone wolf (as I do), the constant solitude can eventually generate feelings of loneliness. If left untreated this can easily slip into depression. The cure to this is simple: honest human connection. This could be simple small talk with the people you come in contact with during daily life or it could entail connecting with old friends and family.
Inconvenience. The simplest things you probably take for granted while living in a stationary home can take two, three, four times as long while living in a van. Almost everything requires a bit of planning and preparation. This includes using wifi, going to the bathroom, taking a shower, doing laundry, cooking and finding a place to sleep. These are the realities of the vanlife that you’ll face every single day.
Legal grey area. In many places around the US it’s frowned upon by local law enforcement to live in your vehicle. In a few cities it’s even downright illegal. However, if you follow local parking laws and are discreet, no one will know or care (more on that later).
The positives of vanlife
Freedom. The ability to go where you want when you want for as long as you want can’t be underestimated. It’s something very few of us ever get to experience during our lifetimes.
Cost-effective. After the initial conversion costs, living in a van can be quite inexpensive if you are smart about budgeting. You can live in and travel to the most beautiful places in the world for a small fraction of what others pay. The villa looking out over ocean cliffs or a beautiful snowcapped mountain? You can wake up to that same beautiful view… for free.
Simplicity. Such a small living space will force you to cut out the extraneous and superfluous out of your life. This will prove stressful at first, but you’ll soon find it to be easier and almost therapeutic as time goes on. Once you remove these nonessential items, you are left with only the things you value the most. A level of simplicity that discards distractions and encourages significance and meaning.
“There are people who’ve—out of necessity—converted their vans for only a few hundred dollars. It’s possible. For every material and tool I used there are cheaper alternatives that will shave off major money from the total cost. Alter an Ikea shelving unit instead of building custom cabinets. Use strand board instead of birch plywood. Don’t paint. Simplify your needs and requirements. These are all things that can reduce cost”
Lopez, Steve. “Living in a Parking Lot amid Santa Barbara's Wealth Is a Kind of Middle-Class Homelessness.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Times, 23 Dec. 2017, www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-lopez-safe-parking-20171224-story.html.
People of all backgrounds switched to van life in response to California’s high housing prices
“Middle-Class Homelessness”
Many people are too emotionally connected to the area to move to somewhere where rent is cheaper
“People hold open the option of leaving, but many are connected to specific places by history, family and employment connections, and they’re not quite ready to give up on a turnaround, move to a place they don’t know, and start over from scratch”
Safe Parking Program
“The clients can park after 7 p.m., but have to clear out as early as 6 a.m. The benefit is that the vehicles are no longer parked on city streets, which riles some residents and merchants. And because the lots are monitored by New Beginnings, the clients, who all go through a screening process, can at least feel safe while they sleep”
All of the people featured had economic problems from a variety of circumstances and misfortunes
“Cassie Roach, the program coordinator, said 40% of the clients are employed, 35% are seniors and 30% are disabled. Six families live in vehicles with at least one minor, and only 25% of the clients have RVs, so the others are sleeping in smaller quarters”
“Phil and Kathy asked me not to use their last names, at least partly because they already feel targeted and looked down upon for living in a vehicle”
“It gets really cold in the truck, he said, shivering. But the way he looks at it, this is temporary, and sometime after the holidays, they’ll be back indoors”
Rockland, Michael Aaron. Homes on Wheels. Rutgers University Press, 1980.
Describes the beginnings and evolution of people who live mobile lifestyles either in RVs, motorhomes, or converted vans
“There are a million Americans living full time in RVs with no other home, gypsies by choice”
Starts off from people who like to be on the move, in the 1970s, people began choosing mobile homes because housing prices skyrocketed
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