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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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Heresy

Fandom: Star Wars

Character(s): Obi-Wan Kenobi x Padme Amidala

Rating: T

Summary: It had occurred to Obi-Wan that he might be going insane.

Wordcount: 2.6k | ao3

Prompt: came back wrong (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

Nearly seven thousand years ago, a group called the Dark Jedi split from the Jedi Order in an event called the Second Great Schism. This sparked a hundred-year conflict known as the Hundred Year Darkness.

Obi-Wan knew Jedi history well. It was rote and familiar as a normal person might know stories about their grandparents. Like most Jedi, the Order was the closest thing he had to family.

At least, mostly.

It was too dangerous for him to go to the funeral. He was supposed to be long gone already. But he had taken the risk, travelled to Naboo in disguise, and watched the procession from a distance. It looked like the entire population had come to mourn her, watching and singing mournfully as she passed.

She had been dressed in blue, looking like she drifted past on a river current, her hair flowing loose, eyes closed in the sun.

Obi-Wan knew she had spent a lot of time in Naboo’s lake country. He imagined she was quite a proficient swimmer.

A mausoleum seemed too constrictive to be her final resting place for her. She deserved to, for once, be known without the pomp and extravagance of the public offices she had held.

She would disagree, he knew. She had been rightly proud of the work she had done – on the rare occasions where she did not downplay it by talking about the “much more” that had to be done.

She deserved all this recognition. And perhaps it was best that who she was behind the steely gaze and politics and gowns stayed only with those who loved her.

However, those were fewer and fewer now. And even fewer knew the truth of everything.

Obi-Wan did not watch as the procession continued into the garden where the newly constructed mausoleum stood. Its mouth gaped, dark and ready for her.

The Hundred Year Darkness ended with the decisive defeat of the Dark Jedi at the Battle of Corbos. Those who survived – who called themselves the Exiles – were banished from Republic Territory. They settled on a planet called Korriban, where they took over the Sith Empire, merging their bloodlines with the native population. They would go on to found the Sith Order.

Obi-Wan flew through the darkness of space. The ship was small, built for only two people to be able to travel in. He was headed towards the Outer Rim.

It had occurred to him that he might be going insane. His lost loved ones spoke to him when he slept. He had awoken multiple times certain he had just spoken to them. They begged and raged; both the male and female voices reached out for him to save them.

One of the reasons the Dark Jedi split from the Jedi Order was their practice of alchemy – the manipulation of matter to change permanently into something else. This was a use of the Force that the Order did not approve of.

On Korriban, the Exiles perfected their alchemy, drawing on the Sith empire’s practices as well. One type that was particularly coveted was flesh alchemy. Altering inanimate matter was one thing; doing the same with living flesh was another.

In the back of the ship lay Padmé, wrapped in the layers of blue gauzy fabric she had been buried in. Obi-Wan had not been able to unwrap her. To do what he had planned, he could not look at her.

So long as he didn’t see her face, he could ignore the fact that she would be vehemently against the plan.

“You’re all I have left,” Obi-Wan said. It was the first time he had spoken in days. His words hung uncomfortably in the air.

Hours passed. Obi-Wan felt his eyes grow heavy. Behind him, he thought he heard movement. He turned around but Padmé lay where he had put her.

He set the ship to pilot itself and got up from his seat.

The ship only had one bed. Exhausted, Obi-Wan climbed in beside Padmé, who slept silently, motionless. He was asleep in moments.

In his dreams, he watched Padmé run to the top of a hill. She held the folds of her brown skirt in her hands; her green sleeves flowed behind her. At the summit, she turned, laughing, beckoning him to follow.

So he ran too, feeling the stitch in his side, as real as anything. Halfway, he realized that Anakin too was running up the hill beside him. Who had she been beckoning to?

He began to slow his pace, not wanting to intrude on the two of them. But she smiled at him – directly at him – and his legs moved faster again before he had even decided to do so.

They were close now and Obi-Wan noted curiously that her brown skirt had stopped moving in the wind as her sleeves still did; it was now stiff and rough and seemed to melt into the ground.

When they had just about reached her, she laughed again and threw her hands up in the air. The long green sleeves covered her face. The brown flowed upward, covering her waist and chest. The green fluffed upward and split into a million small pieces. By the time he and Anakin were close enough to touch her, she was no longer there. At the top of the hill stood a small tree, trunk the shape of her body, and leaves the colour of her sleeves.

Anakin glared at him wordlessly. His face burned and melted until it was unrecognizable. Obi-Wan looked back to the tree. Its leaves whispered, sounding like her voice, but so quiet he could not make out the words.

He awoke still straining to listen. She was cold next to him and the smell of her filled the ship’s small cabin. He pushed himself up slightly and turned his head, ear inches above her face. But he heard nothing.

“Arrival imminent,” the ship’s automated voice said, sounding like Padmé. He could almost see her lips move between the fabric.

Korriban was a wasteland of a planet. After the Dark Jedi had gleaned what they could from the peoples of the Sith Empire, they slaughtered them all, taking what they wanted from their bloodlines and absorbing it into themselves. They had been the only inhabitants for centuries until the Jedi Council had rooted them out.

All that remained were the ruins of temples.

Obi-Wan carried Padmé in his arms as he walked through the red fog, red rock landscape. Far ahead, a crooked spire rose above the low clouds.

She whispered in the wind, unintelligible but encouraging. He had been wrong. She would approve of this plan. She did.

The crumbling steps of the temple were somewhat perilous, gaps in the stone showing a plummeting fall to sharp rocks far below. Obi-Wan’s grip on Padmé tightened. Her head rested on his shoulder; gauze-obscured face tipped into his neck. He stepped at the top of the steps, the tall doorway looming before him. He looked down at her and kissed the fabric over her forehead.

“Nearly there,” he said.

The shadows developed them as they entered. Ghostly figures wavered in every corner. Obi-Wan disregarded them all, eyes transfixed on the elevated altar in the center. He approached it, barely breathing, and ascended the steps at its base.

Reverently, laid her on the altar. The whispers increased in volume, but not in intelligibility. He placed one hand on her heart and one on his own – to feel what hers was supposed to feel, how it would.

He sank into the rhythm of his body, the way it sang and stretched. He willed hers to do the same – to sing again.

He cast his mind back to every touch they’d shared: the handshakes, hugs, and every small insignificant brush of skin over the years.

He thought of Anakin’s body – a body he had seen mature and helped shape and watched burn – hoping the memory of its feel would be familiar to Padmé. How often had she woken up to that body, that skin, that heartbeat; a body she knew almost as intimately as her own? One flesh was how many cultures viewed marriage after all.

He thought of Luke and Leia, literally of her flesh. He pressed the memory of holding them into her as well.

All of the bodies she knew and knew her, he hoped they were enough to bring hers back into harmony with herself.

The whispers went silent. There was no sound in the hall.

Then, there sounded a ragged and a cough.

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and saw the fabric moving – sucking towards her mouth in a small depression and then pressing outward. He tore at the fabric that was still wrapped around her.

She coughed again, then began to breathe heavily, great gasping breaths as she twisted and turned her body. A whimper built up in her throat.

“Hold on, hold on,” Obi-Wan said. “You’re alright.”

He finally got her face uncovered and nearly stumbled backwards off the dais. But she got an arm free and grabbed his hand before he did.

He looked down at her hand. The skin was mottled and gray, and still cold against his. He looked back at her face, her wide brown eyes the only part that looked as it had before.

It calmed him, having those eyes on his again.

“Obi-Wan?” Her voice was gravelly. She coughed. “Where–?” She winced, closing her eyes tightly. “What’s going on?”

The sky rumbled and they both looked up at the places where the ceiling had fallen through and they could see the red sky.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said. “We need to leave this place.”

She looked down at her hand and let go of Obi-Wan’s. She stretched her fingers, then turned her hand to look at the palm. “I…” She stared at it. “I was dead,” she said quietly, then looked up at Obi-Wan. “What did you do?” She sounded so afraid that he nearly regretted his decision.

But she was here, her eyes open and seeing him, his name on her lips.

Somewhere in the temple, a wall crumbled and crashed to the ground.

“Later,” Obi-Wan said and grabbed her other hand, pulling her off the altar. She stumbled onto her feet. Her long gown pooled around her feet, and she looked down. The japor snipped Anakin had carved for her was nestled in its gossamer folds. She reached down to pick it up, face crumpling as soon as she touched it. Heavy sobs wracked her body, and she sank to her knees. She babbled something and Obi-Wan knelt beside her to hear what she was saying.

“I killed her, I killed her.” Over and over again.

Another wall collapsed, closer this time.

“Padmé,” he said gently, putting a hand on her arm. “We really–”

She screamed out in pain. Obi-Wan pulled back his hand from her as the image of flames and flowing lava stabbed into his mind.

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and took a few deep breaths. The ground beneath them trembled and he suddenly remembered the state of the stairs when they came in.

With no time to waste, he scooped Padmé into his arms again and took off toward the door. She was just as pliant in his arms as before but now cried out apologies to someone.

They flew down the stairs, avoiding the increased number of gaps. Padmé’s dress trailed behind them, snagging and tearing off the ruins they passed.

Padmé quieted as the sky began to rumble continuously. She tucked her face into Obi-Wan’s neck and cried quietly.

On the ship, Obi-Wan laid Padmé back onto the bed before rushing to the cockpit. In moments, they were in the air and speeding away from the red planet.

Padmé was sleeping, but fitfully so. Obi-Wan could hear her soft sounds and the rustle of blankets from behind him. He had no real destination in mind, so he had flown a few systems over. He landed on a small uninhabited moon and looked back at her.

Despite everything, despite having no idea what he was going to do next, he felt more at ease. She was here. Things were getting back to the way they were.

With a cry, she woke up. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

“My–” She looked over at Obi-Wan. “Luke and Leia,” she exclaimed. “Where–?”

Obi-Wan hurried over to her. “They are safe and well-hidden,” he assured her. “Luke is with Anakin’s half-brother and his wife–”

“Owen and Beru,” Padmé added absentmindedly. “They seemed kind.”

“And Leia is with Senator Organa and his wife–”

“Queen Breha.” Padmé nodded.

“Although now, I suppose…” Obi-Wan had not thought this far ahead. “If we find a safe place to stay, we could get them ba–”

“No,” Padmé interrupted.

“Why not? They’re your children.”

“Do I look to be in any state to be taking care of children?” she demanded, spreading her arms, loose sleeves falling open to reveal more of her mottled gray skin.

“I’m sure–”

“This was foolish and shortsighted, Obi-Wan,” Padmé said. “Why would you ever–”

“Because I am alone!” he burst out.

Padmé looked at him with pity, which was not what he wanted.

“The Jedi are gone and Anakin is gone and you were gone,” he continued.

“And my children?” Padmé asked. “You brought me back with what I assume is Sith magic. Given the dreams and visions I have been having, my connections to my loved ones were also involved in whatever dark ritual you performed on that planet.” She leaned forward. “Did you ever consider that doing such a thing would put my children in danger? How well-hidden can they be when I can see them when I dream, I, who was brought back by the magic of those who would do them harm?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I had… I must admit that I had not considered that.”

Padmé scrubbed her face with her hands. “I know the pain and loneliness you felt,” she said, gentler now. “Because it was not just Anakin and Luke and Leia that you used to get me back. It was you as well. I can feel what you feel right now.” She closed her eyes and smiled softly. “I can feel the dry heat of Tatooine. I can feel that Leia is being given a bath right now.” Her eyes welled up as she opened them again. “And I can feel a lingering burning over every inch of my skin.” Her eyes grew distant. “Burning is such a terrible way to die.”

“I did not intend it to go this way,” Obi-Wan said.

“I know,” Padmé said. “But you need to undo whatever you did.”

His eyes snapped back to her. “What do you mean? You want me to kill you?”

“I was already dead!” she burst out. “I was at peace! Then you tore me from my grave and put me back into my mouldering corpse.” She looked down at her hands. “I can’t live like this. I’m not living. I am in between.”

A proximity alarm beeped from the control panel. “We’ll talk about this later,” Obi-Wan said, turning away.

“Obi-Wan, please,” Padmé begged.

“I just got you back,” Obi-Wan said sharply. “Let me have this, just for today.”

Padmé sighed and slumped back in the bed. A phantom pain shot up her leg and she pulled the knee to her chest, curling into a ball. As she closed her eyes, she saw a chubby hand knock a cup of blue milk to the floor. A mobile spun slowly overhead. Bacta tank bubbled flowed slowly upwards, and she fell asleep.

#febuwhumpday16 #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #star wars #nsfw #obidala #obi wan kenobi #padme amidala #my writing #mine

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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Butchery

Fandom: Agent Carter

Character(s): Peggy Carter x Dottie Underwood

Rating: T (blood)

Summary: Dottie pouted. “It’s no fun to fight you when you’re wounded. I like it when you touch my mortality a little.”

Wordcount: 505 | ao3

Prompt: "who did this to you" (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

It was late and Peggy wished she were in bed. But she first had to replace the bandages wrapped around her thigh.

Her record player crooned softly through the open doorway to the bathroom. Peggy stripped down to her underthings and hauled herself up onto the sink. The ceramic was cool against her skin, and she slowly unwrapped the bandages. The cuts were a few days old and were healing well.

She was so concentrated on the careful cleaning that she hardly noticed the movement out of the corner of her eye. But she did and looked up to see Dottie standing in the doorway.

Peggy sighed. She was so incredibly not in the mood for this. “What do you want?” she asked wearily.

But Dottie’s eyes were transfixed on the slightly-deeper-than-shallow, going-to-scar cuts on her inner thigh. The cuts that very clearly spelled out ‘CU’ and the beginnings of an ‘N.’ Peggy shivered at the memory from a few nights ago. Tied down, unable to move as the blade bit into her skin. Until she got a leg loose and kicked bloody the face of the large Russian man holding the knife.

“Who did this to you?” Dottie asked, nothing of her usual false perkiness in her voice.

“That is none of your concern,” Peggy said, carefully getting off the sink onto her feet. “So, shall we get on with it?” She widened her stance and raised her fists.

Dottie’s jaw worked, and then she put on a smile – one of the slightly terrifying ones that Peggy could never read the truth of. “I’ll come back another time,” she said, then pouted. “It’s no fun to fight you when you’re wounded. I like it when you touch my mortality a little.”

“Fine, yes, I will see you another time,” Peggy said, too tired to deal with her.

“Was it mob-related?” Dottie asked quickly. “Italian? Irish? Hydra remnants?”

“Either stay and try to kill me or leave, Dottie.”

She shrugged. “Alright. Toodle-doo, Peg. Feel better!” She turned and left the room. Peggy heard her retreating footsteps and then the opening and closing of a window. She would have to get that lock fixed.

The next day, Peggy arrived at the SSR office to find it in a tizzy.

“What’s going on?” she asked a passing agent.

“News just came in,” he said. “Twelve Bratva members, all higher-ups, were found killed an hour ago.”

Peggy’s heart nearly stopped. “Any clues as to who did it?”

“Russian gun. Sniper rifle, I think,” he said. “You were investigating them, right? Did you know about any internal dissent? They’ve always been so–”

“Everyone!” Jack called from his office doorway. “Murphy will give you your assignments. Has Carter come in–” He spotted her and waved for her to come to his office. “I need to know everything you know,” he said.

Peggy thought back to the night before as she crossed the bullpen, to what she now realized was Dottie’s disguised… anger? Protectiveness? Jealousy? This would be a fun conversation.

#febuwhumpday15 #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #nsfw #dottie underwood #carterwood #agent carter #peggy carter #my writing #mine

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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The Hotel Intel

Fandom: The Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Mysteries (TV)

Character(s): Frank Hardy x Nancy Drew

Rating: T (cw: blood)

Summary: “Do you really think this is the first threat that I’ve dealt with?” Nancy interrupted.

“And how many times have you almost gotten hurt or killed for your sleuthing?” Frank demanded.

Wordcount: 883 | ao3

Prompt: blood-stained tiles (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

“Maybe you should stay in Joe’s and my room,” Frank suggested.

“There’s no need for that,” Nancy said. “I’ll be perfectly safe in my own room.”

They were in the hotel elevator headed up to their floor.

“But the note said–”

“Do you really think this is the first threat that I’ve dealt with?” Nancy interrupted.

“And how many times have you almost gotten hurt or killed for your sleuthing?” Frank demanded.

“I wish someone would kill me right about now,” Joe said.

“And you think I’d be safer with you?” Nancy asked, ignoring Joe. “From this dangerous murderer?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Frank said, also ignoring Joe. “Three is more than one, Nancy.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “I’ve handled myself this far,” she said. “You guys are just paranoid. It’s a wonder you’ve solved a single case if a note like that gets you scared.”

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Joe protested. “I don’t want you in our room any more than you do.”

Frank glared at him.

“Then I’ll have to share a bed with you,” Joe said, raising his hands. “Blanket-hog.”

It was Frank’s turn to roll his eyes. “Please, Nancy. I won’t sleep a wink if you’re alone.”

“Then take a sleeping pill,” Nancy said as the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “See you in the morning, boys,” she called, walking down the hall.

Frank and Joe stepped out as well, Joe turning to head in the other direction. Frank grabbed his arm before he got far.

“Frank,” Joe said. “You can’t argue her into agreeing with you. In fact, I think you arguing with her makes her agree with you even less.”

“We can’t just let her–”

“Nancy will do what she thinks is best,” Joe said. “C’mon, I thought you two had a ‘special connection’ and everything.”

Frank smacked his shoulder but started down the hallway. “Fine.”

Frank woke with a start. The clock read 1:27 am. Joe slept soundly in the other bed. He wasn’t sure what woke him, but whatever it was made him uneasy.

Nancy was probably right about his paranoia, but nevertheless, he got up. He pulled on a pair of pants and grabbed a flashlight. Quietly, he slipped out into the hallway and padded toward Nancy’s room on socked feet.

Immediately, he could tell something was wrong. Nancy’s room’s door was slightly open.

He rushed inside, the door slamming against the wall with a bang as he entered. Crouched by the bedside table was a figure that definitely was not Nancy. It was a burly man in blue overalls, who rose and turned quickly when he heard Frank.

A glance at the bed told him Nancy was not there.

“Where is she?” he demanded, brandishing the flashlight like a weapon.

The man’s eyes flicked to the bathroom and when Frank’s eyes followed, the man charged at him. He shoved Frank to the ground and took off out the door. Frank was on his feet in a moment, ready to run after him. But then he saw a flash of red in the bathroom.

He clenched a fist at the sound of the man thundering down the hallway. Then he rushed to the bathroom and flicked on the light.

The pure white bathroom tiles were splattered with blood – so vivid it looked fake.

But Nancy was very real.

Nancy, unconscious, hair matted with blood, lay sprawled against the side of the bathtub.

“Oh, god,” Frank breathed, stumbling to her side. The flashlight fell forgotten from his grasp, clattering and echoing in the small room. The blood soaked into the knees of his pants as he knelt beside her. He reached out and held her face, gently tapping her cheek.

“Nancy?” he said. “Nancy, wake up.”

When she didn’t so much as stir, he felt panic set in. Head wounds always bled a lot. He knew that. They always seemed worse than they were. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Oh god, oh god,” he muttered. He closed his eyes tightly. Get a handle on yourself, he ordered. He took a breath, opened his eyes, and hollered. “Joe!” As he called for his brother, he ripped towels from the shelves and packed Nancy’s head wound with them.

Joe appeared at the door in his shorts and a t-shirt. “Frank, what’s– Oh.” He was on his knees too in a moment.

“The guy– He was here, he ran, I– I couldn’t leave her,” Frank babbled.

“Did you call for an ambulance already?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head.

“I’ll do that then,” Joe said and rushed out of the bathroom to the phone on the nightstand.

Alone again, Frank looked at Nancy’s face, which was still except for the slight movements in her breathing. He repositioned her so she leaned against him, propping the towels between his shoulder and her head. As he reached for her hands, he realized one of them was loosely clenched around something. He gently opened her fingers to find a cloth patch of some kind.

He smoothed it out and read the text: Mac’s Auto Repair. Bits of fabric were still stuck to it – torn and the same blue as the intruder’s overalls.

Frank almost laughed. “Damn it, Nancy,” he said. “Never let it be said you’re not determined.”

#febuwhumpday14 #febuwhump #febuwhump 2024 #francy #frank hardy #nancy drew #hardy boys nancy drew mysteries #my writing #mine

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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thin line between

Fandom: Harry Potter

Characters: Hermione Granger x Draco Malfoy (one-sided)

Rating: G

Summary: “It wasn’t supposed to be you walking into that room,” whispered a choked voice that would have made Hermione freeze if she had been able to move.

Wordcount: 435 | ao3

Prompt: "you weren't supposed to get hurt" (from @febuwhump 's Febuwhump 2024)

Hermione had been in the Hospital Wing often enough to recognize its sounds and smells and the feel of its clean sheets before she was even fully awake. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy the effort was too much. Her limbs too were weighed down, like millstones were tied to them. Even breathing took some effort, expanding her lungs against the pressure around her.

Judging from the quiet, it was probably late at night. Hermione cast her mind back to the last thing she remembered. A normal Tuesday morning. She had had Ancient Runes first thing after breakfast. Then, in her spare hour, she had gone… back to the Common Room? She vaguely recalled going up the stairs to the dormitories, but not to her room.

Then she recalled, at breakfast, Harry realizing he had left his Defense against the Dark Arts paper in his room. He had back-to-back classes, so she had offered to grab it for him.

The last thing she remembered was pulling open the door to the boys’ dorm room.

A door creaked and she pulled herself back to the present. Quiet footsteps made their way towards her bed. She strained her ears for any clue as to who it was.

“Fuck,” the person muttered. A man, a young man. Familiar.

She heard the sweep of robes and then the creak of the chair beside her.

Heavy breathing, then a hard swallow, like whoever it was was trying to control their emotions.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you walking into that room,” whispered a choked voice that would have made her freeze if she had been able to move. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt."

It was Draco Malfoy. Hermione’s mind spun. Malfoy had laid a trap for Harry and, judging from her current condition, it hadn’t been a light-hearted prank. Perhaps Harry was right about Malfoy being a Death Eater.

She realized she was probably lucky to be alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I would never– I would never do that to you.”

Hermione’s blood boiled. How could he, a Death Eater, a person who had made his disgust for Muggleborns incredibly clear for years, say such a thing? The very existence of people like him was a danger to her.

She wanted so badly to tell him these things. She at least wanted to be able to see if the guilt on his face seemed sincere.

But, despite her best efforts, her mouth and eyes remained closed.

And Malfoy remained in the chair for a few minutes more before leaving without another word.

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday13 #whump #hp #dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #mine #my writing

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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one of the best things about fanfiction is that you can make the characters say fuck

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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In the Family Way

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Characters: Aemond & Helaena Targaryen

Rating: M (blood; childbirth)

Summary: Aemond had bullied his way into the room, threatening multiple guards and a septa until he was let in. And now that everyone was preoccupied, he knelt at his sister’s bedside.

Wordcount: 417 | ao3

Prompt: semi-conscious (from @febuwhump 's Febuwhump 2024

The little whelps were finally out of her and mewling across the room, surrounded by his mother, the Maester and his assistants, and a few septas. His brother stood near the door; he had held each child in turn before quickly giving them back to his mother.

But all Aemond cared about was Halaena, hair stuck to her face with sweat. He had bullied his way into the room, threatening multiple guards and a septa until he was let in. And now that everyone was preoccupied, he knelt at his sister’s bedside.

He took her hand and squeezed it gently. Her head turned slowly to look at him. She smiled weakly.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

“My body is mine again,” she murmured. “To stretch myself out in, like a bed.” She looked over to the gaggle on the other side of the room. “I think you and I should have been twins. I should have liked to share mother’s womb with you…” Her eyelids fluttered shut.

Aemond waited patiently for her to continue her thought. It was not uncommon for her to have to think a moment before speaking.

But after a minute, he squeezed her hand again. “Helaena?” he said. “If we had been twins, I think I would have liked that too.” He smiled. “You would still be older though; I would have let you go out first.”

“And you always say you think chivalry foolishness,” she whispered, then took a shaky breath. “Shall I slip back into the in-between world of the womb again so soon?”

“What?” Aemond asked, but Helaena’s eyes remained closed. He rose to sit on her bed. Only then did he look at the rest of her body, at the slowly darkening sheets. He tore them away and saw blood still flowing, staining the bed as crimson as their house colours.

“Maestor!” he called out. “Mellos!”

Grand Maester Mellos looked over. He noted the blood and quickly handed the child he was holding to a septa.

Aemond was pushed aside as the Maester and his assistants once again crowded around Helaena’s bed. He sidled up beside Aegon, who watched with his usual blank expression.

“If she dies,” he said under his breath. “You know I shall lay the blame on you.”

Agon stared at the scene in front of him. “I didn’t want her any more than I wanted to be the eldest,” he said.

“And yet it is your seed that is killing her,” Aemond spat.

#febuwhumpday12 #febuwhump #nsfw #helaemond #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #febuwhump 2024 #my writing #mine

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the-truest-sentence-i-know · 2 months

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A King's Ransom

Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia

Character(s): Lucy & Peter Pevensie

Rating: M (cw: major character death)

Summary: Peter knew what influenza looked like. And polio. He had read in medical textbooks about dengue fever and yellow fever and typhus. He knew enough to know that none of his admittedly limited medical knowledge would help Lucy.

Wordcount: 4.2k | ao3

Prompt: time loop (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

Peter knew what influenza looked like. And polio. He had read in medical textbooks about dengue fever and yellow fever and typhus. He knew enough to know that none of his admittedly limited medical knowledge would help Lucy. She was faded – not in a pale way, but in a black-and-white way, like photographs. Her skin was light gray, her lips and hair a darker gray, and even the blankets of her bed seemed to fade in hue the longer he looked at them.

Edmund was holed up in the library with Mr. Beaver and Mr. Tumnus. Susan and Mrs. Beaver were in the kitchen, where Susan was trying to remember their mother’s sick soup recipe.

And Peter was stuck pacing Lucy’s bedroom as she slept fitfully. Someone had to watch over her and his skills were not useful anywhere else, so he was stuck here. Stuck watching her eyebrows twitch and hearing her shallow breaths.

He sat down in the chair beside her bed, eyes heavy. He had not slept in nearly two days. He would just briefly close his eyes, he told himself.

Within moments, he was fast asleep, head lolling down to his chest.

In his dreams, he stood in a dark cave in front of a shining pool. A voice whispered, not into his ear but into his mind: Just a drop, Son of Adam, will prevent your greatest sorrow.

He woke with a start, eyes immediately pulling to Lucy. She still lay in bed, chest rising and falling, and he breathed out slowly. Someone – Susan, likely, judging from the bowl of soup on the night table – had covered him with a blanket.

He thought back to the dream, shuddering at the way the voice had scraped through his mind. It was probably a sign that he desperately needed sleep, he realized. Reluctantly, he rose and poked his head out the door, just in time to see Susan turn the corner.

“I think I should rest,” he said as she approached. “Will you watch Lu?”

She nodded. “Did she wake up at all?” she asked.

Peter shook his head. “I think her breathing is a bit better though,” he added when he saw her face fall.

“All the remedies mother taught me,” Susan said, passing by him into the room. “Useless.”

Peter caught her arm, and she looked back at him. “It’ll be alright, Su,” he said. “Lucy’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Susan almost smiled. “I know,” she said.

“Wake me if anything happens,” Peter said.

“I will.”

Peter managed to sleep for six hours before a tearful Mr. Beaver shook him awake.

As Narnia mourned her youngest monarch, Peter barricaded himself in the library. He didn’t tell anyone what he was looking for, and everyone mostly left him alone. Mrs. Beaver left him food. Mrs. Beaver told him to go see his siblings. Apparently, Susan was taking long walks alone in the forest and Edmund had thrown himself into the ins and outs of running a country.

One day, Peter waited until nightfall at the front gate for Susan to return. Her hair was unkempt, and her eyes were a little wild.

“How was your walk?” he asked softly.

She picked at the burrs that were stuck to her dress, avoiding his eyes. “The trees don’t offer their condolences constantly like everyone else,” she said, voice distant in a way that made Peter’s throat constrict. “They let me wander in peace.”

Peter nodded. They made their way through the courtyard together. Everyone in the castle tried to be respectful, but Peter felt their gazes as they passed by. He walked her to her room in silence. They never ate together anymore; she ate in her room, Edmund in the council meeting room, and Peter in the library.

“Does it help?” he finally asked when they reached her door.

She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. “No,” she said simply and left him standing in the hallway alone.

Next, he went to the Council meeting room and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Edmund’s voice was steady, and Peter felt heartened as he opened the door.

Then he saw his brother – heavy bags under his eyes, piles of papers around him like a wall – and his heart sank.

“Did you find the census from–” Edmund stopped when he looked up. “Oh, Peter, it’s you.”

Peter made his way across the room, around the chests of books and rolled-up maps. “I spoke to Susan today,” he said.

“I hear she spends a lot of time outside,” Edmund said, his focus back on the paper in front of him.

“Perhaps some fresh air will do us all a little good?” Peter suggested.

“It’s not like there isn’t air inside,” Edmund said, sarcastic and snide and sounding like his old self.

“Edmund,” Peter said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Edmund looked up. “What?”

“When was the last time you went outside? Or even left this room?”

“Someone needs to run this country, Peter,” Edmund snapped. “Susan’s out doing God knows what in the forest and you haven’t met with advisors for weeks.” He gestured at the papers on the desk. “A census is long overdue, Ettinsmoor is chest-thumping again, and nobody has been replying to the condolence letters from our allies.”

“I’m sure they won’t blame us for the delay, given the circumstances,” Peter said.

“That’s not the point, Pete!” Edmund exclaimed. “The world doesn’t stop spinning just because–” He swallowed hard and swiped a hand over his eyes. “It’s been a month,” he said, sounding far wearier than he should at his age. “We need– We need to get back on our feet. We can’t mourn forever.”

Peter moved a pile of books from a chair and sat down. “I know,” he said. “I just… Without her…”

“We’re monarchs now,” Edmund said. “Not just siblings. We’re not responsible for just each other anymore.”

Peter nodded. “Just make sure you’re getting enough sleep,” he said finally, getting up.

“Are you?” Edmund asked, looking down at the papers again.

“Of course not,” Peter said. “Goodnight, Ed.”

“Goodnight.”

Peter went back to the library, more determined than ever to figure out what his dream meant. There were books on dream interpretation, but they were all useless. Likewise, the books on Narnian geography and history held no mentions of anything similar to the pool he had seen in his dream.

Finally, in a small book – Mythical Waters – he found fallen behind a bookshelf, he found a drawing of a cave with a pool. The only words on the page read: The Weeper’s Well. He flipped through the rest of the book. Each page only had a drawing of some body of water with its name, no other description.

Outside, the stars were high. Peter glanced out the window and sighed. It was some progress at least. He curled up on a couch on the other side of the library and fell asleep.

Like every night before, the voice curled around his dreams: Just a drop, Son of Adam, will prevent your greatest sorrow.

The next evening, after another fruitless day of research, Oreius stopped by the library to see how he was doing.

“Oreius,” Peter said after he had been updated on the daily news. “What do you know of the Weeper’s Well?”

“According to legend, it is a body of water deep underground, surface smooth as glass,” he said. “It was believed to ensure that one’s greatest sorrow would not occur.”

Peter nodded.

Oreius frowned slightly. “Why does Your Majesty ask this question?”

“I’ve–” he hesitated. “I’ve been having these dreams, since before Lu–” He took a breath. “For weeks.”

“Even if it existed,” Oreius said firmly. “Which it does not, it would not be a place one would want to go, nor would it hold magic one could trust. Only the darkest tomes even mention it.”

Peter’s eyes wandered to a trunk in the far corner of the library, where he knew the most dangerous books were kept. Oreius followed his gaze uncertainly.

“Your majesty, I cannot say this strongly enough: pursuing this will only lead to more pain.”

Peter swallowed. “You’re right, Oreius.” He looked up at him. “I just…”

Oreius nodded. “We all grieve with you,” he said and turned to leave. “Your siblings too,” he added. “Do not let them grieve alone as well.”

Peter resisted the urge to open the trunk for a full week. For a week, he did his best to help Edmund in the Council meeting room. For a week he met Susan at the gates of Cair Paravel when she came back in the evenings.

He began to think that perhaps time was all they needed. Until he smelled alcohol on Susan’s breath one night. And the next night. And the next.

Susan’s out doing God knows what in the forest. Edmund’s words rang in Peter’s ears, and he stormed into the Council chambers.

“You knew Susan was getting drunk in the woods!”

“We all need a way to cope,” Edmund said, barely looking up. “I work, she drinks, and you… try to make sure we don’t die too.”

Peter nearly stopped in his tracks at his words. “Ed! Have you also been drinking?” he demanded.

When Edmund did look up, he looked exhausted. “No, Peter, I would never do something so irresponsible,” he said dryly.

Peter glared at him, and Edmund held up his hands.

“I haven’t been drinking, I promise,” he said.

Shaking his head, Peter left the room. “We cannot go on like this,” he said to himself.

The trunk beckoned. Peter closed the door of the library and set his jaw. If there was a chance to get Lucy back, to make their family complete again, he would take it. Consequences be damned.

He crossed the room and reached out to open the lid. A chill very similar to the one the voice from his dreams gave him ran through his blood. It was accompanied by a sense of incredible foreboding, but Peter ignored both and pushed the lid open.

Inside were several neat stacks of leatherbound books. He felt his gaze pull to one near the bottom.

Knelt on the floor, he flipped through it until the words The Weeper’s Well caught his eye on a page.

The Weeper’s Well Rhyme Weary Weeper, do not plead Just one drop is all you need Far inward do the waters reach Within its grasp is what you seek To make right what is now wrong Weary Weeper, you’ve been so strong Come find my depths, far below And what was will again be so

Peter read through it several times, then copied the rhyme onto a piece of paper. Most of the rhyme seemed unimportant, except for the third and fourth lines. Those, he thought, were clues to the location of the well.

Waters reaching far inward sounded like a bay or a cove. Peter looked up at the map of Narnia painted on the ceiling.

The largest bay in Narnia was Glasswater Bay, which did reach far into Narnia. It also kind of looked like a hand at the end. Within its grasp could describe the piece of land that cropped out into the bay, looking like the space between the fingers and thumb.

Surely there were caves along the shore there. If he looked long enough, he was certain to find this Weeper’s Well.

And what was will again be so.

It was all he wanted. He wanted to see Lucy’s bright eyes and hear her laugh. He wanted to hear them all laugh again.

The next morning, Peter saddled his horse, Ferdinand, and loaded him with a pack of food, clothes, and blankets. The trip down to the bay would take five or six hours, so he wanted to leave early.

Edmund was unsurprisingly already awake, skimming through a pile of correspondence. He looked up when Peter entered, noting his travel clothes. “Where are you off to?” he asked.

“A short trip,” Peter said. No point getting anyone else’s hopes up. “I need to clear my head.”

Edmund nodded. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “Stay safe.”

Peter nodded. “I will.”

He stopped by Susan’s bedroom next but found it dark with the curtains down. There was a blanketed lump in the bed, so he quietly closed the door.

He departed as the sun was still rising at a brisk trot down the main road south. Only ten minutes later, he heard a familiar voice singing in the woods.

“Susan?” he called, bringing Ferdinand to a stop. He looped the reins around a low-hanging branch and followed the sound into the forest. In a clearing he found her, lying in the grass, feet bare, dress muddy, swaying her hands above her head in slow swooping motions as she sang to herself:

“…sure of a big surprise. If you go out in the woods today, You’d better go in disguise. For ever –”

“Susan?” Peter said and she stopped singing and looked over at him.

“Peter!” She smiled, wide and dreamy. “I’ve had the most lovely night.”

“Have you been here all night?” Peter asked, kneeling beside her.

“I have been everywhere, Peter,” she sighed. “I made some friends.”

“Who? What kind of friends?” Peter demanded. “And where are your shoes?” From close by he could see that her feet were cut, and her legs bruised and scratched.

“We run barefoot through the forests to feel it breathe beneath our feet,” Susan rambled. “We sing to the stars, and they sing back to us. We–” She stopped when she heard joyful shouting in the distance. “My new friends!” she exclaimed and sat up, promptly losing her balance so Peter had to grab her shoulders to keep her upright.

Into the clearing trotted a donkey carrying a squat man with vines curling through his hair and beard. Following him was a troupe of nymphs and fauns.

“My queen!” he called out. “Will you join us in our revels?”

“Bacchus,” Peter said, nothing but cold fury in his voice.

The man hesitated a moment before exclaiming, “My high king, you are welcome as well, of course.” He hopped off his donkey and ambled over with the stride of someone who had already been indulging themselves. His companions stayed back, chattering with each other.

Peter rose and stood in front of Susan. “Absolutely not,” he said. “And neither will she.”

“My lady,” Bacchus said mournfully. “Are our larks at an end?”

Susan began to protest, but Peter spoke first. “They are,” he said firmly. “If I hear of your contact with my sister again, you shall be banished from his land in perpetuity.”

Bacchus nearly stumbled. “But Aslan–”

“Aslan put us in charge of Narnia,” Peter interrupted. “If he sees fit to pardon you after, so be it. But until such a time, my authority stands. You will have no contact with any member of my family from this day forward. Do you understand, Lord Bacchus?”

He bowed his head. “I do, your majesty,” he said, suddenly solemn. “If I may but say one thing more?”

“Very well,” Peter said.

“You mustn’t fear the prospect of joy after tragedy,” he said. “The time will come for happiness once again.”

“Perhaps,” Peter said. “But even then, it will not be your version of joy I seek. I have seen your joy undo even the best of men.”

He held Bacchus’s gaze until he bowed again. “Your majesty,” he said, then bowed to Susan. “Your majesty.” Then he turned and led his donkey and entourage into the trees.

“You’re such a spoil-sport, Pete,” Susan whined.

“You’ll thank me someday,” Peter said grimly. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He hauled Susan to her feet, supporting her as she swayed slightly.

“No, not now,” she protested.

“Yes, now,” Peter insisted, forcing her forward. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

“I can’t–” she stumbled, and Peter just managed to catch her. She grabbed a handful of his coat, and he looked down at her. “I can’t go back inside those walls with a clear head, Peter,” she said desperately.

Peter clenched his jaw. “We can organize other accommodations, Su, but for now–”

“Please, Peter,” she begged. “I’ll stop drinking, I promise. I just can’t go back there.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I see her in every room. I wake up every morning and have to remember again that she’s gone. I can’t go back there.”

Taking a breath and looking away to blink away his own tears, Peter relented. “Fine,” he said and thought for a moment. “I’m headed south. Along the way there’s a system of dwarf tunnels. Would you maybe want to stay there for a bit?”

Susan thought about it. “I suppose that might be alright,” she said finally.

“Good,” Peter said and helped her the rest of the way to the road. There he lifted her onto Ferdinand and took the reins in hand. After checking that Susan was secure and stable, he began walking down the road, leading Ferdinand behind him.

It was well past noon when they reached the first entrance to the dwarf tunnels. Peter left Ferdinand and Susan at the opening of the cave and walked a small distance inside.

“Hello?” he called. “I was hoping to ask a favour.”

An until-now-invisible door opened in the earthen wall and a red dwarf stepped out.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing low. “What would you require of us?”

“Not require,” Peter said quickly. They had worked hard to repair relations with the dwarves but things were still sometimes tense. “I was hoping you could help me.”

The dwarf nodded.

“My sister is… not… well,” he said, stumbling over his words as he recalled saying a similar thing weeks ago about a different sister. “With her grief,” he added quickly. “She finds it difficult to remain in the castle, so I was hoping she could perhaps spend some time here.”

He looked surprised. “Of course,” he said. “We would be honoured to host Her Majesty for a short while.”

“Many thanks– What is your name?”

“Rakror, your majesty.”

“Many thanks, Rakror. This will not be forgotten.”

With Susan safely in the cool tunnels, Peter set off again. He would have to make good time if he were to make it to the bay before nightfall.

The slight sense of foreboding he had felt before grew as he travelled. He prayed to Aslan for some guidance or sign that this was a bad idea. He had expected Aslan to appear every day of Lucy’s illness, and every day after her death. He could bring her back, he knew. But perhaps he expected Peter to handle this, he thought. Why else would the location of the Weeper’s Well be so clear to him?

The sun began to set as Peter reached the banks of the bay and turned to go inland along the shore. It was fully dark by the time he neared the end of the bay, but it was a clear night. The half-moon reflected off the water, which rippled with its light and that of the stars.

Glasswater Bay ended in a steep cliff dotted with caves. Peter left Ferdinand tied to a tree and set off on foot. He had had the presence of mind to pack a torch and lit it as he approached the first cave.

The dark mouth yawned before him, but he felt a pull further to his left, so he continued down the rocky beach. There, what could better be described as a hole, not a cave, opened at his feet. A tug in his gut like vertigo told him it was the right place. He held the torch to the entrance and saw that it did not plummet down as he had feared. It was, however, quite steep and not near large enough to walk through.

Peter looked back to where he could see Ferdinand, calmly waiting for him at the shore. He took a breath, then got down on his hands and knees, hand holding the torch extended out front, and crawled into the cave.

The rocks were sharp and snagged at his clothing and scraped his skin. The proximity of the torch’s flames made him sweat and made his hands slick. He lost his balance and nearly bashed his face into the ground multiple times.

Soon he could no longer see the mouth of the cave when he looked back. He wasn’t sure if the cave was actually getting smaller or if it was only in his imagination that the walls were pressing in on her.

Still, he forged onward, as his clothing tore and his skin was cut. The front of his hair singed, and from the heat on his face, he thought his eyebrows might be suffering a similar fate.

Eventually, after nearly setting himself ablaze when his grip slipped, he decided to put out the torch. In his dreams, the pool had glowed anyway, so he wouldn’t need it.

So he crawled on in the dark, feeling his way forward on bleeding hands. He had no idea how long he had been down here. Hours? Was it growing light outside again? His limbs were tired, and his eyelids were heavy, but he refused to stop for even a short rest, afraid he would never get up if he did.

When he first saw a faint blue glow far ahead, he thought he was imagining it. But as he got closer, the light grew stronger, until he could see his hands and the rocks they left dark stains on.

Before he knew it, he was blinking in the light as he entered a large cave. He rose on shaky legs, pulling himself up with trembling arms.

The pool was just as it had been in his dreams. Perfectly round, with a glassy undisturbed surface that emitted a blueish glow.

Just one drop, the rhyme and the voice in his head had said. Peter stumbled forward, falling to his knees again at the edge of the water. He reached out a scratched and bleeding hand, only hesitating for a moment before plunging it into the cold water. He cupped his hand to hold the icy water and brought it up to his mouth. But before he had ever touched his lips to it, that now-familiar cold voice cackled in his mind. “You feed me well, Son of Adam,” it said gleefully.

“What?” Peter asked, letting the water trickle between his fingers back into the pond.

“It was not a drop of my waters, but a drop of your blood, required. And once again you have quenched my thirst.”

“What do you mean, once again?” Peter demanded.

“My magic does not just solve your problems for you. It simply allows you to fix them yourself… before they happen.”

“So you send people back in time,” Peter said, then stood. “Will you show yourself, so we can talk face-to-face?”

“Do you think this is the first time you’ve come to my shores, desperate to give me your blood?” it crooned, ignoring him. “Do you want to know how many times I have sent you back in time to save your precious Lucy?”

“You’re lying,” Peter said, but his voice faltered.

“Why would I lie? You’ve already given me what I want.”

“Then why send me back at all?”

“Because it is a magical bargain that I must hold to,” it snapped. “If you request to be sent back, I must do it.”

“But I won’t remember any of this.”

“No.”

“So how will I know to save Lucy?”

“How indeed?”

Peter scowled at the condescension. “What’s the point then?”

“So, you don’t want me to send you back?” The voice was sickly sweet.

“I didn’t say that,” Peter said quickly and swore he could hear the whatever-it-was smile.

“So you do want me to send you back?”

Peter took a deep breath. “You remember every time,” he said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “You somehow live on in any repeated time. You feed every time.” He looked up. “That is our trap, keeping desperate people stuck looping that time over and over again, while you get fat off their suffering.”

“Clever boy,” the voice said, then, like a beast licking its teeth: “And yet?”

Peter gritted his teeth. And yet, he wanted to do it.

Despite what he knew – that there was no chance by design, that this was set up for failure – if there was even the slightest chance to save Lucy…

“I want you to send me back anyway,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?” it purred.

“Just do it, damn you!” he cried out, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

“As you wish,” the voice said. The pool’s waters suddenly rose into a tall wave that Peter just saw his reflection in – clothing tattered, skin torn and bleeding – before it crashed over him, cold and stifling.

Peter awoke in his bed to a fierce knocking on his door.

“What?” he said groggily.

The door burst open, and Lucy rushed in. “Still abed?” she asked, bounding to the windows to open the curtains.

Peter made a sound of protest, protecting his eyes from the blinding sunlight. Despite the rude awakening, he felt a sudden joy and relief at Lucy’s smiling face when she turned to look at him.

“The workmen just came to tell us the Splendour Hyaline is finished at last!” she exclaimed. “We must go on a short trip today!”

Peter found himself smiling too as he sat up in bed. “Indeed, we must.”

#febuwhumpday11 #febuwhump 2024 #febuwhump #nsfw #narnia #peter pevensie #lucy pevensie #my writing #mine #whump

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