SCARLET GALAXY

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[diamandodusto]

LURKING IN (ONE SHOT EXCERPT from "The Spider's Daughter")

Summary:

At times, Jarlaxle would execute some orders coming from his birthgiver, otherwise called his mother (though he considered her none). And this time, as numerous other ones, he did. Yet, it turned out different, and perhaps more than he expected himself. [Part of a chapter from "The Spider's Daughter".]

Read on AO3 : Link

Dedicated to @lunastrophe who is such a resource and goes to me concerning the drows and helps unconsciously tons to write this book ! A big thank-you.

Characters : Jarlaxle Baenre, Original Female Drow Character

Genre : General

Warning : Matriarchal extremist behaviour, and overrall drow usual content. As well, it is the uncorrected version compared to the official one, please, ignore the perhaps few typos that remained.

To read, click on the button!

Have fun!

LURKING IN 

"To betray, you must first belong."

Blade against blade, not so far away from each other’s throats, the drow could feel Jarlaxle’s breath, aching from the effort against hers, that was much dispatched between deep inhales that one could distinct as a sign of exhaustion. Wylanda was distressed, none tried to kill her before, even less of a man. How stupid he was, she thought. Poor male thought he could get away with her murder, she, a daughter of the spider. Jarlaxle chuckled, it didn’t come from his belly, but a distinctive low roar from the depth of his very own throat. “You… remain quite as sharped, as much your blade against my flesh is.”

“This is what one can get from attempting to harm me.”

“Will you kill me then, Priestess ? For you are so young and lifeful, ressourceful in your own shenanigans.”

She laughed at his answer, noticing the forced tone on her title. It could only be fair, this, alone, separated them. It created a gigantic gap between the two, if not only for their genders to be socially settled as unpairable. “I’ll admit the gesture was quite daring, however vain. You know me better than to try getting a toll upon my life.”

“I’ll take the compliment.”

It was clear he should remain honest.

None of them moved, looking at each other’s deep set of crimson eyes, glowing almost in the dark as Wylanda was the first one to release the blade just as he did. “How many times we’ll play this game until we settle this ?” he asked. His mother would not stop commissioning his services until her head was delivered on a silver plate, but the ultimate secret of Good Matron Yvonnel knew better that it was nearly impossible for him to kill Wylanda.

“Until one of us bleed on the other’s silver.”

Wylanda removed herself, getting on her legs as she continued to tower him, still laying on the cold tiles of the Mizzrym’s bedchamber. He didn’t stay as such for long, though, preferring to be equals to her, even if he now dominated her in height, which bothered her. Displeased, even. It was a circular room, her bed was close to a wall, enligheted by faerie fire of hues of green, purple, blue. Turquoise shades gleaming. The rug he now walked on, bore the symbol of a web crossing across in stitches of most delicateness. A mannequin of marble wore a white dress, multiple books displayed on the desk nearby with an inkpot and a feather. The curtains were thick enough to cover the constant glow from Narbondel. The stained glass-windows sketching fundamental figures of the matriarchal society of the dark elves. And decors of most finerie.

On the very ground, strictly opposite, a harp with a seat, the cords made of spiderwebs as well, carved within the obsidian in shapes and softly filled in with sparks of gold here and there, and jewels of all wealthiness as well-showed on her dresser.

Jarlaxle thought that he did not ever step in her quarters, not even once. Despite the many times he had infilatred the Mizzrym household, he never actually succeded to enter here for the sole reason he didn’t have a reason to.

He found it rather ironic, considering how violent the woman could become, for she had such taste in decoration and personalisation. “Are you done?”

“Does my presence disturb you, Priestess ?”

She sighed, crossing her arms just underneath the corsetage of her dress. He had a smirk on his face, placing back correctly his eyepatch.

Jarlaxle wasn’t specially disappointed he had failed, in fact, he didn’t put it all in his attempt. Not even once. He had enough curiosity to stop himself and the mercenary did not quite believe either that he could get a hand upon her in general. Not anymore, she was way to careful now that she obtained so much. As the vain woman she was. “The fact that you vividly breath does tend to upset me.”

But cunning Jarlaxle was upsetting to anyone who did come to know him rather well. “Still after all those years ?”

Wylanda arched an eyebrows and walked around, sitting down on her own dressing table, their reflection within the mirror as she grabbed her brush to pass it thoroughly into her snowed-curly mane. “You are entertaining enough to make me tolerate your existence.”

Jarlaxle wasn’t used to acquint such domestic casualties, not even in his own household. Whether was it Gromph and his experimenting, Triel and her scheming, Yvonnel and her directions, or worst : Quenthel and her cruelty, He did not see often a woman so calmly react after an attempt of murder. Sure, it was at least the tenth time, but she never did riot against his very own life.

It was a sort of… Amusement to her. A disturbance, an annoyance she made him believe she was contended to see happenning. An irritant sensation, however displeasing that scratched to her very brain. Jarlaxle was the maestro of it all, just as he led the shenanigans of the dark elves. But he did not direct her.

And this, he appreciated. Some people, actually going against him and knowing their boundaries to his masterisations. He never looked at Wylanda that closely, never did observe her physique in all those years with such little distance. Therefore, it was now time for him to notice the double fringe of thick black eyelashes, trimmed dark eyebrows which the slant’s made her seem quite unapproachable, the smoothest appearance of her dark complexion, but also the magenta dress she was wearing which covered only her most feminine parts, A best was solidifying the tie, a spider with a gleaming ruby in its center, and each of its legs holding on an attach. There was as well a veil in shades of lilac, made out of thin lace. A couple pair of earrings were hanging on her pointed ears and, bracelets blinging and her Priestess’s necklace laying freely until her developed’s chest crevace.

“A could pass behind you and slit your throat while you are detangling all of that.”

“You could, but you won’t.”

“In such a moment, it lacks your usual carefulness.”

“Don’t make it seem as if you planned on trying again so soon, you might be a good liar, just as I am a good perceiver.”

He responded in a whisper, holding the point of his hat and caressing its feather in a gentlemany-way. “I didn’t doubt of it a mere second, Wylanda.” There was absolutely no reason in the world Jarlaxle was allowed to call her by her name, even less as a male. No matter how much power and control he held over the City and its population, the drow woman wasn’t known to tolerate any slights without repercussion, though she possessed a sense of humour. But, Jarlaxle was different enough for her to thrill against the way he clapped his tongue against his palet each time the middle part of her blase came out. That singular “L” that didn’t roll, but how his lips half-opened when he pronounced it.

“I could get you whipped to blood for just employing the mere significance of my name.”

“I’d bestow.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

He smiled again, perfectly aware their power play was harmless, or perhaps it was not. There was always a sensation in his stomach, an instinct that told him to depart as soon an opening showed itself before him, no matter how much he wanted to push this far, he could not risk it all for the sake of pure amusement. Jarlaxle was smarter than this. Nonetheless, that did not restrain him from walking just behind her and towering further as she was seating in her chair built upon adamantine and carved just as her harp watching over them, a few inches away.

She did not appreciate this either, to be submitted. He could sort of a blade from who-knows-where and slice her skin until she’d shred to the ground. Her blood coloring the already dark tiles. But, Jarlaxle did not. Instead, a silence installed itself within the room, in which they looked at both their respective reflections. His hand on the back of the seat, taking ease and leaving a bit of his weight on it whilst she remained there. Wylanda did not attempt to understand why she did not already made him leave, instead, she watched herself, for a couple of seconds, She did reflect, observing her features intensely, then the ones of the mercenary.

Always flamboyant, Jarlaxle wore his short vest, still his hat and eyepatch resting on his skin. His ashen skin discovered, she found him stupid to expose such an amount of complexion near the priestresses who would harm a male just for the act of simply breathing. Or, perhaps was it because she knew herself she wasn’t the only one who could. He had that superficial grin on his thin lips, ever so confident, curved into a smile she could not describe the nature of.

Always a scheme behind his sole, showing, red eye.

The drow was well-aware he must’ve had already ten ways ahead to depart if their exchange was to go south.

But, that, at the end of the line : none would win.

He bent, his body distorded in two as his lips were now near her ear, purring like a cat on one’s lap as he approached her even further. There, she could smell the musk and the dark wood’s scents on his skin. Whilst, him, could appreciate the florals and surfaces fruits she sprayed upon hers. Their conversation could not be heard, if not by a spell, a supernatural or someone close enough to witness their discussion.

“That is indeed true, Wyla.”

“Why do you stay as close, for you, to hate our Mother, the Queen of Spiders ? Am I not all you despise, a woman who wields power as you, your words ? The epitome of your sufferings ?”

Again, his chuckle that came to her ears sounded melodic and terribly sardonic all at ones, perfetctly aware of all their differences and how they could be alike but so much unpairable. That did not bother him, instead, he rolled his hand underneath the veil resting on her thin shoulder, grabbing the rounded part in his hand. The other one still supporting his weight. His skin was fresh, which made sense considering he wasn’t much covered.

“Near danger is where I live best, and what inspires the songs our bards are singing, dear. Further more, dare I say you are not devoid of good sense. It’s endearing indeed.”

“Did you just insult my sisters in our Goddess ?”

He hovered, sneaked even closer as his hand then reached her hair to place it on her back, leaving free space for him to invade. Jarlaxle liked their game, their very own very of the cat and the mouse. “I would rather say I valued you over them: isn’t that more flattering this way, Priestess?”

Against all odds, she maintained her seriousness, by all will restricting her body from shivering at the way his voice speaks to her, rolling in their language as he did not detach once his eyes from their reflections, making sure she would not attempt a foolish act of retaliation against him, for her blade wasn’t so far away, and she could martially defend herself very well. Even burn him to death, if she ever wished to. Jarlaxle found magic fun, for using the elements as weapons, but none found better way at exploiting it, than the Priestess of Lolth herself.

“Your arrogance will be your downfall, for you are walking on a thread.”

“Danger is what inspires me best, and what behold before me is quite the muse.”

She turned her eyes to his, her head shifting as she could now feel his breath against her very face. They did not speak furthermore, as Jarlaxle’s remained there.

It lingered for a while, just in one another’s gaze. She could feel a knot in her stomach forming, a tight tie that remained within her very center and a fire ablazed within her body. But, she did none. Instead, his hand slowly walked up to her throat, her jugular rolling against his artistic and gracile gloved fingers. She let him do so, freely, though careful he would try to strangle her the moment after he decided so. Her skin was smooth, dancing under his hand, and Jarlaxle was more than happy to smell the essence of the perfume she wore, yet, he didn’t set apart from her eyes. She could use of a hair pin to pierce through his own carotide, or break his neck with mere strength.

“In less than an hour you offended all the rules our society settled for you males to submit yourselves to.” She whispered as well, her words falling against his lips as the peak of their noses touches barely. Jarlaxle’s hand moved until her chin, which he grabbed to maintain her in his grasp.

“Offensive was my very birth.”

She smiled at that. True, telling a woman she had a risk of bearing a male was enough of an insult on his own, but it was even worse if this was indeed the case. Born a third son, he wasn’t even meant for survival, but all in his dreams Jarlaxle saw the reminiscence of his existence. Though, he was indeed much happy to be alive to see all he was witnessing, all he’s traveled and all the achievements in his own record. Including holding Wylanda Mizzrym the way he did.

For she was rather untamed.

Without warning, she left her seat, pushing back his hand and the distance between them for a short while, before it was Jarlaxle’s himself who stayed near her. A mad man, Wylanda thought. One who complied in the danger of it all. As if an owlbear has made its nest inside a cavern full of driders. “What rule will you butcher next for your own amusement and pettiness ?” He didn’t answer to that, however she could spot he was displeased she left her initial position. Now equals again and full of her capacities. The Mercenary did not if he actually liked that or despised the mere thought of her turning away, again.

He did not leave, not even when he watched her quickly looking at her dagger nearby, just in case. But he would not harm her, except if his life was truly on line. They could not kill each other.

The drow walked towards the woman, not answering her question just as of yet. He wanted to look at her, to see her true. To witness something else, to catch on a difference he could exploit for his own profit, his own satisfaction. Jarlaxle was content with the fact he almost baffled her aura of steadiness, like a slap on the cheek placed singularly.

What else he’d butcher, she asked ?

Jarlaxle was no butcher, he was a prudent assassin who wielded his blade like none did, dancing, doing a tango constant with death. Wylanda did not move an inch, meddling as always as she waited for his answer. To do so, in wrapped one arm around her thin waist just at the exact same place her belt was. His best bet and angle.

Wylanda shivered at his sudden arrogance, but she did not like that. In fact, none had been volatile enough for her to feel such an insurgance of deep lust. Almost longing of their usual plays of tricks and games. Thus, when his forehead hit hers, calmly, but controlling, she did smile back.

And more so when his other hand grabbed her face and he slammed his own lips to hers, eating her flesh. Now flushed from all his bites, Jarlaxle pushed her with his strength to the nearest wall, as his hands were now fully resting on each side of her slim face. He danced, for long, searching for her mutinous tongue to waltz with. Her own fingers were resting on the flesh of his shoulder, grabbing to his vest so he could not move away. She despised that, but she adored it as well. How intoxicating this man was, how poisonous he remained despite not being a son of the spider himself.

He could murder her, at this moment. This was a breech, she thought. Nonetheless, Wylanda wasn’t mad : it was her own fault to succumb to the dandy’s hands and talents. It was also his fault if the same thing was to happen to him. They could not blame one another for this time only.

The knot in her stomach tightened, and now all she felt was this very word : ssinssrigg. The one word to describe the urge to possess, to own, to lust. To long for. One that rolled on the tongue like the Mercenary’s was with hers. Emptied of pure emotions, but only villainy and possessiveness, one the drows were taught at the very beginning of their adolescence to match their own instincts.

When they departed one from another, breaths panting for her, not for him, her gaze turned bloodied and deadly as Wylanda realised what had just happened. She denied the way her wramth called for his name, she ignored it royally as the Mercenary looked down at her figure, his shadow hovering on her smaller frame. “I should struck you down for what you have done.”

“Perhaps,” He whispered, so full of himself. Pretentious even in his own certitude. “But you won’t.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his own lips flushed due to their contact, she said nothing, but the rage that consumed her was palpable for the slight he had committed.

The white-haired woman did not focus one second on her own anger towards herself for never yielding fully the blade against him. For butchering all the rules of her mistress. But, most importantly : to never desire stopping this futile dance between them two. This play they had, pending since years now. She pushed him away, her white curls flowing away as she walked onwards, trying to hide the subtle fastened breaths that came out of her lips. Jarlaxle was no fool : Wylanda was aware that he did notice. That his keen eye could not escape the sight that was to behold before him. To see her so… disrupted, flabbergasted by his own demeanour. She did not possess much control over him, she realized. In fact, almost none.

And she vowed to fight against that.

Instead, she pulled herself together and turned decent again, shoulders back and straight, walking out as the double doors slammed against the wall, leaving the mercenary alone to taste the sweet flavour of the ghost of her lips against his.

He’ll devour her.

But at the time being, a new game had just began.

And he intended to win.

[oranolli0]

INKTOBER DAY 4 : DRIZZT DO'URDEN

[feyspeaker]

Lolth's Chosen portrait done for august's monthly portrait giveaway on patreon

[snacobie]

Revenge on @mr-moonzeal ✨✨💖💖

[bloodcasket]

A BEGINNING, AND AN END

PAIRING: Vergil Sparda x GN!Reader

WARNINGS: Not proof-read, angst, mentions of readers death, depression, loss, loneliness, a relationship that is crumbling.

WC: 1,650

DESCRIPTION: Vergil wonders what exactly he did that made him lose you. He breaks as he realizes his mistakes, and that he will never be able to hold you again.

A/N: This work was rushed!!!!!!!!!! I literally just had a vomit post of all my sad little ideas. Currently hyper-fixated on Vergil! Probably will write more for him. I imagined this concept last night, and I kid you not, I cried.

Marriage was a concept created for foolish beings who wished to bind themselves to one another. When Vergil lived through his life, blinded by a pursuit of power, such things like marriage were nothing but a stupid scheme.

Why would he wish to be controlled by someone? Tied down to them? Love was nothing. Love was idiocy. That is what he thought, after all.

Then you came.

A human, young and kind. You placed your hand in his, pressed your silken lips along his bruised knuckles, and kissed his ruined skin. You promised him love. You showed him peace. You introduced him to light and laughter and mirth.

It was then, after the many days of holding you and growing to love you, that he realized why people did such “foolish” traditions. He grew weak with you. Became sensitive. Was not embarrassed to be genuine with you. He had finally decided.

He would propose.

You had tears swelling up along your waterline, slipping down your upturned cheeks as you smiled, you sobbed the words “Of course I will marry you”.

He married you.

The marriage was simple, no one but you two to promise yourselves to each other. He had found an old church to hold the ceremony, the ceilings tall and pointing to the sky. The tinted glass waned bright colors over your bashful face, your eyes glittering with devotion before you leaned in to kiss him. A kiss to ensure eternity.

Your fingers trembled against his as he slipped the wedding band on, he had not realized his cool façade has cracked along with yours. He was crying with you, so ecstatic to finally have someone who can understand him.

Someone who won’t judge him, someone who will tell him it will be okay. To hold him close in the night when he had nightmares. To lay their head in his lap as he read out his favorite poems.

“Vergil, stand over by the tree! I want to take a picture of you!” you giggled happily, face contorting into an expression that can only be described as glee. You held up your camera, adjusting the device to be suited for the brightened, summer day.

“And what for?” your husband seemed annoyed, looking at you with a nonchalant grimace. “Because I want to capture memories, now go, go!”. You shooed him away, begging him to find purchase near the weeping willow tree. It’s arms swaying in the gentle breeze, faded green leaves swooping overhead, tangled moss falling to the soil.

He obeys, acting as if this was something pointless, but internally, he was blissful, full of pride at the acknowledgement of your adoration. He stands, watching as you snap the picture, and then returns to your side gracefully.

“Well? Was that to your liking?” he asks, leaning down to see the picture, and you nod with a grin, telling him “thank you”.

This was something that became quite frequent. You had recently started to indulge in art, and had brought up to him that you would paint his portraits.

And paint you did.

Your works were wonderful. Your art room his secret sanctuary. A gallery of only him, painted with oils and acrylics, colors that portray him to be a god amongst this tiny Earth.

Inspired by a simple, small photo of him. A photo that is always captured by you.

You enjoyed comparing his white hair to the color of a rich magnolia. Consistently painting him alongside the elegant flowers. You had told him once that they reminded you of him. They were sensitive to the human touch, turning brown from the oils of a selfish finger caressing it. They were independent, and were beautiful while they kept to themselves.

Just like him.

Relationships are hard. He understands this. He knows that if he does not give enough, the ones he finds dear will crumble away. Loyalty, honesty, generosity, quality time, devotion….. so much he must do to keep you satisfied.

He tries, he’s a perfectionist, but when you two wander in public, see the other couples mold into one another, he feels ashamed. He does not like to hold your hand in public, and he feels tense when you initiate certain intimacy. You would get bored of him, wouldn’t you?

He admires how easy you make it look, how you strip him of his clothes, settle him in the tub, speak reassuring words of praise as you scrub the grime off his beaten skin. He relaxes under your touch, wonders why of all people, you chose to be with him. How you don’t hesitate to bend to his will, run miles to retrieve whatever he wants. Speak honeyed words, just enough to make him melt.

You’ve helped rid his nightmares, you’ve made him feel alive. He only dreams of bliss, of divine moments shared with you.

Moments like you and him, taking pictures under the willow tree.

But yet, he cannot even find the courage to move forward. To give you the smallest things you desire.

He grows sour. For once, he feels powerless. Inferior.

He can never give you what you want.

Recently he has grown colder to your touch. Shallow and incoherent with any simple notion.

You will try to reach for him, your pinkie grazing the side of his firm hand. He only tugs away, resisting your affection. You will plead to bathe him, massage the ache in his shoulder blades. He only denies your wishes to care for him.

Your paintings become more erratic than before, a sense of gloom in their glistening wake. A sheen of desolation hidden amongst the thick lines of paint. You have lost inspiration. His divinity and blue aura that was once captured by the bristles of your paintbrush are now fading into a melancholic art piece.

You are afraid you have lost him.

You two seem to get in an argument one night. It is after an awkward vent of your feelings to him in the library.

“I miss when you loved me”, is what you confess.

Vergil shouts selfish comments, says he prefers to be alone. Says you bother him too much. Says that maybe marriage was the wrong decision. He does not mean these things. But you have taken them to heart.

You start to cry, the whites of your eyes now bloodshot. Hiccups erupting from your lips. Sobs that beg him to take all his words back.

He doesn’t.

“Fine” you sniff, “I will let you be “.

A sickening feeling blooms in him when you leave, your bag tossed over your shoulder.

When you pass it is like no other.

He felt it burn through him. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. He knew something had went wrong.

Your body had been found on the streets, bloodied, bones shattered, arms disfigured. You had tried to put up a fight, that was for sure. It made him sick. He felt numb. Practically in denial of your death. Of your murder.

He could have saved you…..he promised you. You have given him everything he wanted, and yet this…he couldn’t even prevent this from happening.

Your face, swollen and bruised. Eyes blackened and cheeks cut open. Your soft lips, never to kiss his again.

If only he hadn’t been selfish, you wouldn’t have went out that night. You could have been here, with him, embracing him. Telling him that you loved him for all eternity.

The wedding band was still firm on your finger, your blood thick over Vergil’s name engraved on the ring.

Vergil kisses you one last time before your body is sealed in it’s coffin, a wooden box that shall keep your remains concealed forever. Your lips are so cold now, lifeless and chapped. Lacking it’s warmth and tenderness that you usually carried.

A part of him regrets kissing you. Your frozen face and your icy touch will now haunt him for the rest of his life. Terrorize his dreams.

Just a couple of months ago you two had stood in the old Victorian chapel, the stained glass casting an array of colors over your gentle smile. The beginning.

The last image of you is an image of death. They are lowering you into the Earth, shovels tossing dirt over the wooden case. An end.

Dante has offered that Vergil should stay with him, get away from the home that he once shared with you. His brother figured it would be best, a solution to rid him of his sorrow. The elder refuses every time.

Your presence…your glow. It still is fresh, and alive in the walls of the home. He must stay. He must stay for you. Sometimes he swears he hears your voice in the halls, your sweet tone making him panic and get up, just to realize he is only imagining it. He is only imagining that you are not gone. That you are still here with him.

He still visits your grave, as often as he possibly can. In the meantime, he tends to the tree he has planted in your garden, a magnolia tree that is fresh and desperately trying to grow. He wished he could show you.

There had been one night where he had a nightmare, images of you screaming and crying his name, pleading for help as you died, crimson leaking from your lips as you sputter blood.

“Vergil! Help me!”.

He wakes in a cold sweat, so terrified that it genuinely shakes him. This vision had stayed clinging in his dreams ever since your death, never sparing him mercy.

On nights like this, he rushes to enter your art room, sitting amongst your wooden work chair, now too restless and shaken to attempt to sleep again. He knew if he tried, he would only be met with the image of your lifeless form again.

He sits there, your painting of him underneath the willow tree sitting proudly amongst your art desk. You had told him it was your most prized possession. Your best work. He thought so too.

He cries your name under the glum luminescence of the moon.

He decides this time, he will paint you. No matter how bad he does it, your beauty will always bleed through.

[cathianemelian]

Priorities

[cathianemelian]

Last resort

[cal-kestis]

😇 vs 😈

[tddd123]

My imagined Drizzt as a child…

[steamclouds]

Hold tight to the proud honor of your spirit,

Mighty Guenhwyvar,

And hold tight to my side,

My dearest friend.

-Drizzt Do'Urden

Exile makes me really emotional, okay?

[diamandodusto]

Lady Alicent Hightower

"I want to see my sons again, and Helaena, my sweet girl, oh ... and King Jaehaerys. I will read to him, as I did when I was little. He used to say I had a lovely voice."

[ribbonentrails]

Welcoming home His Majesty

[valiisthea]

I have the jitters before this procedure so here are some Barnabas thoughts.

No, he is not attracted to his mother. I do have a sense of humor, though, so jokes aren't going to irritate me. But my Barnabas had a very loving relationship (albeit a little...rocky) with his mother. She chose to raise her child in a cult and that's on her, but she loved her boy and he loved her. He was very loyal to her. She is the only person who has ever made him FEEL.

So when she passes away, and Barnabas finds himself awakening as Odin, it makes sense for him to trauma-build a person that CANNOT leave him. Enter Sleipnir. Built of trauma and necessity. Cannot die and leave him. Will always be loyally at his side.

He has not forged close bonds with anyone else. No matter how many people warmed his bed - none of them moved his heart.

So yes, he does crave the warmth and comfort of a mother's touch. He does wish to lay his head down in someone's lap and have his hair gently pet. He craves that feeling of warmth and safety - but he would never look for it in another human. Maybe Sleipnir, but purposefully choosing a human would be nigh impossible.

That doesn't mean he wouldn't accidentally grow feelings and emotions for someone. He's still human deep deep DEEEEEP down in his chest. It's possible, just improbable.

For this reason, I have modified him ONLY SLIGHTLY to make writing with him a bit easier. And I mean very barely slightly. Still do not hold expectations of him.

Ultima and Mythos are his purpose. His mother is his love and whatever is left of his heart. That is why she is an effective reward from Ultima when Barnabas is a "good boy."

He is not in love or lust with his mother. He is an 18 year old scared boy who just watched her be murdered in front of him that loves and misses her dearly. She was all he ever had.

[otterlyart]

"The last thing you hear is… 'I don’t want to go back!'"

[summoneryuna]

[unholyblissafterdark]

[diamandodusto]

me and my husband, two english speakers: 

[diamandodusto]

A FEAST TO THE GODS : CHAPTER VIII (FINAL FANTASY XVI)

CHARACTERS

Clive Rosfield : Eldest son of Anabella and Elwin Rosfield. House Rosfield. Dominant of Ifrit. 

Joshua Rosfield : Second son of Elwin and Anabella Rosfield. House Rosfield. Dominant of Phoenix. 

Jill Warrick : A ward of Rosaria and the Rosfield’. Dominant of Shiva. House Rosfield by alliance. 

Cid Telamon : Ex Lord Commander of Waloed, and leader of the Hideaway. Dominant of Ramuh. 

Dyanne Hidgins : Second daughter of Beatrix and Josiah. House Hidgins. Dominant of Leviathan. 

Dion Lesage : Prince of Sanbreque and eldest son. House Lesage, Dominant of Bahamut. 

Barnabas Tharmr : King of Waloed and Ash. House Tharmr. Dominant of Odin.

Sir Terence : Lord Commander of Dion and his lover. 

Sleipnir Harbard : Lord Commander of Barnabas and physical incarnation of his steed as Odin. 

Benedikta Harman : Ally of Barnabas and Chief of the Intelligencers. Dominant of Garuda. 

Hugo Kupka : Economic adviser of Dhalmekian Republic and lover of Benedikta. Dominant of Titan. House Kupka. 

Gav : Cid’s sidekick and scooter. 

Darius Hidgins : Eldest son of the Hidgins. Dyanne’s Shield. House Hidgins. 

Jacob Aryn : 

Bastin Aryn : First heir of the Aryn’. House Aryn. 

Ornela Aryn : Second heir of the Aryn’. House Aryn. 

Anael Aryn : Third heir of the Aryn’. House Aryn. 

Beatrix Hidgins : Darius and Dyanne’s mother. House Hidgins. 

Josiah Hidgins : Darius and Dyanne’s father. House Hidgins. 

Anabella Rosfield : Clive and Joshua’s mother. House Rosfield then Lesage. 

Elwin Rosfield : Archduke of Rosaria. Father of Clive and Joshua. House Rosfield. 

THE HOUSES 

House Rosfield : The Phoenix. Lords and governs Rosaria. Faith of the Eikons. Current head : Clive Rosfield. 

House Lesage : The Dragon. From the Holy Empire of Sanbreque. Governs the same region. Faith of Greagor. Current head : Sylvestre Lesage.

House Hidgins : The Sea Snake. Allies of the Rosfield and has lands in the same regions. Later alleged to Sanbreque. Faith of Leviathan, Eikons. Current head : Josiah Hidgins. 

House Tharmr : The Knight. Possesses Ash and Waloed. Faith of Ultima. Current head : Barnabas Tharmr. 

House Kupka : The Titan. From the Dhalmekian Empire. Current head : Hugo Kupka

House Aryn : The Stag. From Waloed. Faith of Eikons. Military house of Waloed and allies of House Tharmr. 

Thanks to : @aria-lesage​ and @damatheirin​ for their help and support. 

CHAPTER VIII 

DION  

For once in his life, the palace was so silent. No maids, going back and forth if not the one who took out the bloodied sheet from her bed to change it. Dion had told her to remain in bed until he could get out of the bedroom, covered, he undressed the upper part of his body to make it look more real, and only opened the door himself to the poor redhead that would discover their “duty” done during the night. They discussed it for a bit, beforehand, how she felt, he reassured her, even. Made a version both of them could tell the curious ones. Sure, he strictly avoided sitting on the bed at the sole moment he knew what happened on it, but the couch was comfortable enough to get his cheeks on to wait. 

He warned her the castle would speak of them two. That, gazes would be given, whispers chanted. That she had to bear with it, that, during his absence, there was a chance for his father to invite her more to spend time with him. Dyanne was maybe still too innocent when things were about herself, but Dion, on his side, was her polar opposite. Thus, protecting her as much he could. 

And she was on her little cloud, how could he take her off it ? That was not what he wanted. Himself, got to see Terence again, during the night. Spent it just the way Clive and Dyanne did, he could only understand her. In the end. 

Therefore, when the red-headed maiden took off the bedsheets to take it out of the bedroom, he laughed heartily : she would run to Anabella to tell her, if that was for her good graces. And, thus, this would get to his Father. And, before his departure, he’d be given a word with him. 

And it went, just as he planned. 

“My Liege, his Grace, commands you to come to his chambers. He wants to discuss with you.” Dion nodded kindly, in the corridors of the Castle of Oriflamme. Making his way, he made his bones crack quickly, in absolute relaxation. He knocked on the door thrice, before his Father dared to ask him to enter. 

“I am expecting you to explain what were your shenanigans last night. No hiding. No lies. I know the versions of those who witnessed, you better tell the whole truth, Son.” He sat on his father’s couch, crossing his leg one above the other. “I intended to bed the woman who shares my days, Father. Isn’t what a man shall do in such case ? Our departure on the sea is for today, I did not want to lose time with her and desired to spend more in her company.” 

“You two aren’t even wedded!” 

He faked surprise. “Yes, that is truth, I must admit. But, I am only but a man, Father. Is it really that bad ? I can marry her, when the political situation between the realms will cool itself. As of the time being, it is no good idea to betroth us, by the way. In my opinion, we shall wait for a bit.” 

“Did you come in her?” 

He was stunned on the spot, his maroon gaze becoming almost surprised by his father’s directness. He took a couple of seconds before finding his senses again. “I… No-I don’t remember it well. In the middle of action, I must admit I did not exactly look, if you would pardon my language.” He lied. 

“What will I do if…?” 

Dion thought. Yes, he didn’t think of that possibility. Not to say he wasn’t there to look if Clive bred or not, sweet Dyanne, and he didn’t want to know. He wouldn’t ask her, either. They were close, but not this close. “There are plenty of solutions, there. You are the Emperor, your Grace. Tell our folks and nobles you’ve betrothed us in secret, and we wedded in such as well. Thus, nothing shall be more muttered throughout the populations that surround us.” 

Sylvestre sighed. This boy exhausted him. Since his very birth, Dion always did as he saw fit and didn’t exactly look who could be affected by his own actions. The latter got up from his seat, approaching his father. “I shall take her today, say goodbye to her brother, therefore do not expect those hounds to remain silent when they’ll see us three, or even four, with Lord Rosfield always with him. I shall get you warned, Father. May Greagor lead us to victory.” 

He went out of the room, before pressing on to the outskirts of the castle to join the Deccan. He asked Dyanne to move by herself to the docks to say goodbye to Darius, Clive, and himself. Until then, he left her to her own doings. Yet, Sylvestre, on his own, was already thinking of the outlets of this matter. 

Wasn’t Dion right, in the end ?

ANABELLA 

Fucking wench. 

Whore. 

Bitch. 

Slut. 

She threw a vase nearby, awakening the birds by her window, she yelled and then clenched her fist into striking the table of wood. Wounding herself in the process. That fucking streetwalker, she thought. She bloodied a sheet on the ground, her feet kicked in it. She cursed Dion, she cursed Sylvestre for his incompetence, she cursed Dyanne for messing up with her plans to place Olivier, heir. Anabella thought numerous times of how she’d get her way, but now the Dominant of Water and of Light shagged, Sylvestre would focus on his eldest and Olivier would… She shook her head. She could simply not come to terms with the fact of the ending she’s planned would never happen. 

Anabella looked at herself in the mirror. Oh, how beautiful she was in that dress. But then, her thoughts went back to Dyanne and Dion. If two Dominants bedded, there were higher chances their offspring would be also one. Hence, discrediting all of her efforts to take good care of Olivier’s future. He’d be nothing but a discharge of sperm. All because of Dyanne’s fucking womb and the fact the Erysean’ women were known for their fertility. That was also why Elwin chose the girl as a spouse for Clive, as well. Just because of the wonders, genetics from her god-damn people. 

Anabella wished she (the Sea Snake) would drown. But, Leviathan couldn’t drown, could she ? And, despite all her good pride, Anabella feared Bahamut and his bursts of rage. At the moment, she could not even attempt to give a moon tea to their political hostage, in case that’d be suspicious. And, she knew Sylvestre wanted to become a Grandsire, oh, so badly. All of this must've been a dream for him. And, Anabella started to become afraid of the possibility of Dyanne reaching the good treats of Sylvestre, due to her role in this atonement of bullshit. 

“Bring me ink, a feather, and paper.” She commanded her lady-in-waiting. The other blonde woman executed herself, ordering the latter to prepare her a bath before sending the letter she attended to be received. Anabella smirked as her fingers swung against the piece of paper, attending. She wrote three of those, three of them. She enveloped them, destined to be posted by the woman she called “her favourite”. 

“Where, my Lady?” 

“East, The Iron Kingdom, and the North.” 

She nodded, as Anabella engulfed herself into the warmth of her path. 

Was it a women’s war she desired ? 

Then she shall have it. 

DYANNE 

Oh, how much she hated that. 

If somebody had told her the aftermath was to be thing… Embarrassing, maybe she would've thought twice if not thrice before getting there. But here she was, now on the docks, watching the knights come and go in paddles to fill up the Deccan. She admired the ship, its sea-city rising tall and proud on the sea. White, white, pure as untouched snow. Golden, like the sun. She smiled when she spotted the sigil of her house : the seahorse. 

“I thought you would never come.” She heard behind her. Turning around, she found Clive and urged herself to not break off before the urge to reach his arms and kiss him on the spot. She could not get away with herself, neither could he, if she ever was to do that. “I hesitated. Maybe denial suits me better than facing good ol’ truth after all.” She half-joked, remarking her brother was discussing with Dion not far away. She waved at them. 

“You would have regretted this.” Assured Clive, keeping also his hands to himself. “Surely, yes. I would’ve. How does it feel ? To know you’ll be soon enough on the Master of all Ships ?” Clive laughed heartily before giving a glance around his fellow, Dion and Darius. Of course, the stares were judgmental, curious, but nowhere near what it was two days ago. “I never thought I would've got on the Deccan. It was more mythical than anything else, for me.” 

She smiled, before seeing Dion and Darius approach. She embraced her brother before Dion and she shared a gaze. “Here we are, at last. Time to sail.” Confirmed Darius. She pushed back the tears from her eyes, at his words. Of course, she trusted Leviathan to take care of her Shield, the man she loved and the one she considered her brother. 

“Please, I beg of you three, make it out alive. I could not bear your losses. I can’t think about continuing without you all.” Dion winced sadly at what she said. Sure, this was the duty of going to the front. Moreover, on the sea itself to land. But at least, the very least, was to assure their safety. And hence, hers. If they’ve lost, Greagor above could only know what would await her. Dion grabbed her hand, gently. “Remember what we said last night : I gave you everything I’ve had to ease your wait. But, be courageous. You are Dominant, and a strong person. I know you can do this.” She nodded, as Darius wiped off a tear running down her cheek. Clive was distraught. He couldn’t touch her, nor could he even get closer without being looked upon by those who dared listening in their conversation. 

But, may the Founder be blessed, Dion seemed to understand that. He called them off, to the ship, to wait on them. Thus, executing themselves, they were all three on the deck. 

“I will take care of myself, sweet sister, you shan’t fear for me. I will always come back to you, even without a member, I would. It’s you and me until the end of the line. Plus, I got Leviathan’s blessing. I can get myself just fine.” Swore Darius. She dug her head deeper against his armoured torso, before kissing his cheek wholeheartedly. Then, Dion called Darius to help him pack some ropes, letting only the two else, together. 

Without a glance upon them any further, Clive kissed her forehead and dragged her into an embrace she wished would never stop. “Thank you, Dyanne.” She raised her head, looking at Clive right into his eyes. “For what?” she asked. Lord Rosfield kissed the tip of her nose, his hands resting in the crease of her back. “You eased the pain. All these years. You, Darius. You were the only mooring anchor I had, when I was alone and lonely. Not only that, but you visited me each day, gave me all of your attention, you’ve never given up on me. Never. And for this, I shall give you all of my gratitude. I wished I would stay, to accompany you each day. But I can’t, and this breaks me.” 

Dyanne’s eyes watered again, as Clive kissed under each of her eyes, his lips becoming salty due to the taste of water. “This sounds like a farewell.” She concluded. He shook his head. Was it ? No, definitely not. But he wanted to be honest, to say what was on his mind. “No, see it like a promise of a better future for you, for Darius, your parents, me, us. I’ll avenge Joshua, my Father, you, myself, and all the ones they’ve wronged. Your company and your brother have kept me standing still and straight in my boots, always looking for my goal. And I owe it to you two. Then, I promise you I’ll do everything to make it out alive. To make it back to yo-.” She kissed him tenderly, on her tiptoes, her flat shoes not making her taller, Clive took a salty taste upon her lips, but took greed in their paradoxal sweetness. “I will have to go.” He said as he heard Darius and Dion coming back. 

Jumping in the paddle, Clive and the two other men waved at her, as Dyanne teared down, falling on her knees as she witnessed them three drifting away. They’ve felt their heart break, all of them. But they could not turn back. 

War is war. 

Goodbye, Brothers, she thought. Goodbye, dearest Clive. 

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