[kissmeawake]

Masterlist

• Blades of Light & Shadow

- Aerin Valleros

- A Powerful Boy

- A Shadow so Dark

• The Elementalists

- Beckett Harrington

- A Small Taste of Sunshine

• It Lives in the Woods

- Noah Marshall

- The Misfortunes of Shadow Boy

• The Unexpected Heiress

- John Somerset

- There is a Storm Out on the Sea

- And the Sky Was Blazing Scarlet

[irnhero]

if i see one more article, post, or news anchor talking about how joe biden is old, i'm putting my fist through a window. i feel like i've gone through the fucking looking glass.

this is project 2025, trump's plan for what he'll do if elected. whatever you think is in there, it's worse. watch a breakdown of the highlights here. this man wants to unravel the fabric of our democracy for good - this all aside from his vitriolic hatred of poc, his determination to start ww3, and the fact that he can't string a sentence together without telling outrageous and easily verifiable lies. his administration will start their crusade to exterminate trans people on day one, and they won't stop there.

do not talk to me about how joe biden is old, as if that could ever matter to me more than my life or the lives of my friends and family. my little sister is 14, she's trans, and i don't know what to tell her when we talk about politics, because one of these people wants her dead and the other one is old and some of you are still acting like those problems are equals.

i can't fucking stand this. i'm not hearing it this time, we are not repeating 2016. refusing to vote is not an act of protest, it is an act of complacency, and our most vulnerable will suffer for your negligence. vote like your life depends on it, because for some of us, it really fucking does.

[the-annual-clam]

It's honestly frustrating hearing people talk about how Biden isn't the candidate for the job as if we have another option to pick besides that isn't Trump. And the lack of emphasis on how abhorrent Trump's behavior was on the debate is disturbing. I would rather an old man that should retire over a man that wants people dead.

[echodoctor]

I don't think Biden's fit to be president, but I don't think Trump's fit to be human, so I'll take the first one. A man who might well have to be replaced by his vice-president halfway through his term is infinitely preferable to one who will keep us from ever electing a leader again.

(Seriously, I cannot stress this enough: we have built-in protocol to deal with a president who can't do the job medically-speaking, it's fairly straightforward. We do not have protocol for how to handle a president actively trying to sabotage the nation.)

[tanoraqui]

^We have built-in protocol to deal with a president who can't do the job medically-speaking, it's fairly straightforward. We do not have protocol for how to handle a president actively trying to sabotage the nation

[liquial]

[snapeaddict]

Snapetober Day 18 - Gaze

April, 1998

From where he was, higher up on the wall, Albus gazed down as his Potions Master - the new headmaster - sat behind the desk. He could only see his left profile, and even that, after a second or two, was hidden from him as well: a curtain of back hair blocked his view.

He could not feel terribly deeply, or at least, he knew his feelings had to be much less complex, much smoother than those of his actual self. But this added something to them, too. A layer of emotional rawness he had never experienced in life. 

He knew he had loved the boy, so he loved him, still, and his silence was excruciating. 

"Any news, Severus?", he asked, clearing his voice. "That is, outside of Hogwarts. I find myself longing for newspapers these days."

The younger man did not raise his head, and dipped his quill into the inkwell in front of him. 

"Even the Daily Prophet? Surely you remember, Dumbledore, the amount of nonsense that is printed on these pages daily", Severus replied indifferently. 

"Even the Daily Prophet. Life as a portrait is rather dull."

Severus' hand stopped mid-sentence.

"I am sorry to hear that. As you are aware, I did not wish for it to happen either."

"Severus..."

"I do not require idle conversation to pass the time, Albus. I have seen no news of importance as of late."

Raw emotions.

"You are being unfair", the portrait blurted out. "I made you do it - but have you thought about what this cost me?"

The Slytherin dropped his quill and his head finally jerked upward, turning towards the portrait. His usual mask of indifference was gone, and he looked utterly shocked: he could not master the strength to reply immediately. 

Albus, too, was shocked. The vague knowledge that such behaviour was unlike himself creeped over him, heavy with meaning. Who was he?

"I have thought about it, Albus", Severus replied after a while, coldly. His voice was a little lower than usual. "I have thought about it over and over again - and I wish you had too, before touching that damn ring."

There was a bizarre contrast between the rigidity of his voice and his face, distorted by an ugly mixture of pain, grief and anger.

"You are in no position to reproach me so, Severus", the portrait replied austerely, rising from his painted chair. "Have you not done things yourself without thinking of the consequences?"

He saw Severus' hand twitch. He had gone too far - he instantly regretted it, but did not find in him the will to apologise or even utter another word. He expected the younger man to explode or storm out. But to his surprise, he did neither, and Albus found himself dreading what would come next.

Severus simply reached out for the pile of newspapers to his left. He picked one specifically: the Daily Prophet. He turned each of its pages with care until he seemed to have found what he was looking for, his hands, albeit almost imperceptibly, trembling with anger.

"I was wrong, Albus", he said. His voice was terrible, low and icy cold. "There is one article you might want to be made aware of - it concerns Gellert Grindelwald. He was found dead in his cell yesterday."

There was heavy silence, and, tangible for all present, a bleak sense of no return. 

"It cannot be", the former headmaster managed, his voice faint. "It must be a mistake."

"It is not. There is a picture - his face is most distinctive. You remember the shape and colour of Gellert Grindelwald's eyes, I am sure?"

[shady-brain-farm]

Seriously can you imagine if Slughorn was like

OH HARRY

I TAUGHT YOUR MUM

LILY EVANS WASN’T IT?

YEAH SHE WAS SNAPE’S GIRLFRIEND

[robottko]

“Lily Evans was such a bright young thing. And oh, did she have the biggest crush on young Severus Snape.” “Er, professor, I think you mean my dad.” “No don’t be silly, James wasnt in love with Snape…at least, I don’t think so…”

[aurenrose-deactivated20210505]

I needed to reblog this just for that comment.

[cokeworthprince]

All the professors ship their students, and every other Head of House is like “James and Lily” meanwhile Horace has actual eyes in his head but was too lackadaisical to even mention that Lily only started curling her hair in third year when Snape had a proper growth spurt and gained three inches on her. Of course Snape only notices that Potions is much easier when one is taller than the rim of the cauldron and, “Evans, could you hand me the bubotuber pus, also if you don’t pull your hair back it’ll fall into the potion. What? Why are you frowning?”

Tiny Snape and Tiny Lily sharing looks and quickly looking away and it isn’t until years later, when she’s holding a newborn Harry, that Lily realizes Snape had no fucking clue about anything ever and she kind of has to laugh bc god fucking dammit, she tried so hard.

[notaplaceofhonour]

As a leftist Jew who believes strongly in the cause of dignity and freedom for the Palestinian people, and that Israel has abused them, I am begging fellow leftists to understand that real life is not a comic book. A government being “the bad guy” in a situation does not automatically make anyone who opposes it “the good guy”.

Hamas denies the Holocaust. Hamas disseminates the Protocols of the Elders of Zion—the conspiracy theory it paints is what they mean by “Zionist”. Hamas forbids foreign aid educators from teaching human rights to Palestinians, and claims that even teaching that the Holocaust happened is a war crime. Hamas has written the aim of annihilating Israel (the country and its people) into its charter—the mass slaughter and violent expulsion of 7 million Jews from the land is written into its laws.

There is no crime any state could ever do that would justify any of that; there is no act of state repression that could ever make it acceptable to side with the organization spreading Nazi pamphlets and Holocaust denial.

Oppose Bibi Netanyahu. Oppose Israel’s far-right, authoritarian government. Oppose its apartheid policies. Oppose its violent abuse of the Palestinian people. That isn’t antisemitic. But Hamas is—verifiably, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to its core—antisemitic. Its portrayal of Israeli Jews as blood-thirsty, child-killing master manipulators that control international media and finance is antisemitic. Its insistence that Palestinian freedom necessitates the death & expulsion of Jews from the land is antisemitic. Its redefinition of “Zionism” as a pejorative to mean genocidal Jewish/Israeli Supremacy is antisemitic.

Supporting the Palestinian people in their plight is a noble and loving goal; please never stop that. But do not let Hamas co-opt that into excusing or denying their rampant antisemitism and war crimes.

[sneverussape]

every town has a ghost story. cokeworth was no exception.

there was an old bridge by the river, rundown and rotting in places, that no one dared to spend much time on. folk claimed to see sightings of two children in the area, running, playing, and talking, before disappearing altogether, their laughter still echoing among the trees.

the children who still lived in the town often dared each other to cross the bridge even though their parents had always warned them to stay away. oddly, some of the older folk encouraged their presence by the river, telling them that if they saw the ghosts, to tell them hello from them, and to remember to run along home before it got too dark.

the children themselves never saw the ghosts, however they did pass on the greetings as they were told to.

hello, severus. hello lily, they whispered into the rustling grass and the chilly breeze. my nan says hello.

they often got no response for their troubles, but sometimes when the afternoon was golden and the breeze fair, you could see the faint outline of two friends on the bridge, laughing and talking as the sun streamed through them, and fading before anyone could get a closer look.

—

snapetober 2023 - “home”

[snapeaddict]

Snapetober Day 11 - Water

There was, in Cokeworth, an old well: it was said to be a thousand feet deep and a thousand years old, and to have been sealed when a child had almost fallen in it, many many years ago. It was closed with a heavy wooden lid, itself now suspiciously ancient-looking, and that lid was pierced in one place where there had been a knot in the wood. The little hole was round, and big enough for stones and coins to be thrown into the void: it had become a tradition in its own right.

One day, two small children, about ten years old, came to the well. The boy had dark hair, the girl was a flamboyant ginger: one after the other, they put a coin in the hole and made a wish. They waited a long time for the coins to hit the water, for a sound, even a slight echo, to come back to them. But the well swallowed the money in complete silence.

The boy's wish was: may Lily believe me. The girl's wish was: may Severus never lie.

-

At thirteen years old, Severus, flat on his stomach and holding a torch, attempted to look at the bottom of the well. But the light did nothing: it lost its way in the darkness just like it when pointed at the sky, at night.

He threw another coin, and wished for a real family. Lily wished for Petunia to like her again.

Two coins, no sound.

-

At fourteen, Severus wished for protection, and so did Lily.

-

At fifteen, Severus came alone and sat on the dirty ground, keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings. He sat there a long time, looking at the hole with a cold fury that often gave way to sickening despair.

In a fit of rage, only visible from the outside by the trembling of his hands, he took a handful of mud and plugged the hole.

On the morrow, however, it was unsealed, and he wondered what Lily had wished for.

-

He did not come back until he was 21, and that day he wished to be dead.

-

From ages 31 to 37, he wished, although with heavy irony and a mental sneer, for quiet years. He came back every summer to grumble about Potter's latest suicide mission and, while doing so, cleared the place of overgrown weeds with a flicker of his wand. People in Cokeworth thought he had a green thumb.

-

In 1996, he wished for Albus to stay.

-

At some point in the summer of 1997, a silhouette appeared at dusk and stayed immobile in front of the well for a long time. The weeds were granted the right to live.

-

In the summer of 1998, the city hall finally decided to renovate this part of town, and initiated large-scale construction works. A team of five men was sent to unseal the well and draft a report on how it could be permanently plugged. In substance, the question was to know if there would be a need to drain water out of it.

They were quite surprised to discover that the well's bottom, full of mud and stones, was completely dry: the foundation contractor declared that there hadn't been water in there for the last 50 years.

[myheadsgonenumb]

Owl

Dear Padfoot, 

It’s my birthday today. I am 26. I didn’t even realise it until they said the date on the wireless earlier, I don’t pay attention to such things anymore. My father sent me a card, which arrived by owl post a few days ago, and I just put it to one side and forgot about it. It’s been a quiet day. I haven’t worked. I had not eaten - but when I heard what day it was I allowed myself to break into my reserves and bought myself a loaf of bread and some jam. I could not justify the cost of a cake, but I shall have some toast smothered in apricot jelly later and be glad of it.

I am trying to stay cheerful, thinking about my toast - thinking this jar of apricot jam  can last me a good while yet. That I can treat myself again and again until it is gone. But, truthfully, my heart is sore - and I keep thinking of my birthday ten years ago. 

Ten years … it feels like a hundred. Since we four roamed Hogwarts, claiming it as our kingdom and having more fun than should technically be legal (indeed, much of what we did was not). I think of James - roaring with laughter, fizzing with energy, flirting so hopelessly with poor Lily. And little Peter, anxious not to be left out, clutching his comics and asking for help with his homework. And I think of you, Sirius. 

I think of you most of all. 

I think of how fiercely loving you were, how loyal; I think of how protective you were and how angry you got if anyone ever slighted me. How every mention of werewolves in Defence Against the Dark Arts was like a personal slight against you, they made you so furious. I think about how safe you made me feel. And how loved. And how appreciated.

And then I think of that man, sitting rotting in his cell in Azkaban - and that is why my heart is sore. For once again I am faced with that impossible choice I have wrestled with for nearly five years now: Did I have a friend, who loved me beyond reason until one day he did not? Or was my friend always a lie? 

I have been asking myself since the night James died which hurts more - and all this time later, I still do not know…  

I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away in my own melancholy. Letting the gloom overtake me again. Well, you know what I get like, you better than anyone. Today is my birthday and I am having apricot jam on toast, and I should probably go and open the card my father sent me and send him a “Thank You” letter by return owl. I will let myself think of us, all four of us - as we were - in the Great Hall, enjoying any number of feasts that we ate there; I will think of us laughing and joking and having the time of our lives - the way I should always try and remember us. The way we would have wanted to be remembered. 

And I will try not to let it hurt too much. 

I will write again soon.

Love, Remus

He finished his letter, and read it back - and then he took it into his bedroom, opened the wardrobe and took out the shoebox he kept stashed carefully at the back of it. He took the lid off. Inside, there were piles of letters - just like this one. Over four years worth. All written to Padfoot, and then put away here, where no one - not even Remus - would ever look at them again. 

This was just one more letter for the collection.                  

Word Count: 629

@wolfstarmicrofic

[undermounts]

and other forgotten things

Summary: One year into his imprisonment, Aerin receives his first visitor.

Or alternatively, my version of the ch. 2 prison scene because I wanted more angst and anger <3

Read it here on AO3

-

Aerin is no stranger to envy.

He has spent his life wanting. Knowledge, affection, attention, power. Things he coveted but could never have from a family that did not want him, a kingdom that would not have him. Such was his lot in life, from the very beginning. He is Aerin Valleros, second son of the Gentle King, brother to the Crown Prince.

Or at least he was.

Now, Aerin is… well, he no longer knows what he is. A nobody, perhaps. Or worse than that, he is forgotten. He is a dark stain on a long and questionable legacy, the corrupt end to a line of corrupt rulers. He is an afterthought, a bad memory, an unwanted trinket that had long since lost its novelty, just another object to be tossed away with all of the other lost and broken things.

Aerin Valleros, brother to no one, heir to nothing.

And still, he wants. 

The thirst for knowledge—a most noble pursuit, his tutors had always said—has never waned. But affection, attention, power!—his ambition, his hunger, has been dampened. He has lived without each before, and he shall live without each again. He will do so gladly if it means he can have the one thing he now desires above all else: freedom.

A small window, set in cold, grey stone—his only connection to the outside world. The mingled chatter of people crossing the streets far below drifts up through the bars, too distant to be distinguishable. People, his people, living. 

In the hallway outside his cell, Aerin hears the scuffle of boots against ancient stone, the clink of armor, the whisper of fabric; his guards moving in another rotation. So soon? Aerin cannot help but wonder, questioning his own perception of time. How reliant he has become on the routines of his keepers, the punctual rotation of their shifts serving as his only means of marking the passage of time since he was left–discarded–in this cell a year ago.

Softly, distantly, he mourns, A year…

His name day–twenty one years now, he has lasted–came and went, alone in his cell. His father never even sent word, no acknowledgment that his second son–his only son, now–still existed. 

A metallic, shimmery noise, a dozen keys rattling together and then–click!

Aerin blinks as the door to his cell swings open. Too early for mealtime, his mind races, a tasteless bowl of sludge. 

All thoughts trickle out of his head as a figure enters his cell, clad in black leather armor, the scent of ash heavy in the air. For a moment, Aerin recalls volcanic fields and the constant presence of fear and agony all around him, but then his impossible reality reforms around him and he stares, slack-jawed .

“Iliana.”

Aerin does not mean to say her name, had vowed to never speak of her, never think of her again. But she is here, miraculously, cursedly, before him, in his blasted cell, a sight he never thought he would see beyond his dreams, his nightmares.

But it is in his nature to be wary, and life in court has taught him that deception is a means for survival. He stands, establishing equal ground, and lets his mask fall over him like a shroud.

“I wondered if you’d ever come and visit me,” he says evenly, each word pleasant but caustic. “It certainly took you long enough.”

How often, in the early days of his imprisonment, had he thought of this moment? At first, he dreamed that she would come to him, beg for forgiveness–how she had wronged him!– to proclaim her dedication to right this wrong, to free him, to undo the damage she had done. Then, as the days dragged on into months, and despair, desperation, and regret–the hurt!–set in, his visions of her shifted. She was vengeance: her blades, her bow, her fists–the arbiters of a swift and terrible justice, acting on behalf of herself, her brother, her friends, and Morella. Some nights, he even begged–let it be quick. 

It is hatred, it must be, he thinks, that threatens the stability of his bones now. And fear of her, the woman who had been his undoing. Everything that has come for him after is well-deserved; this he cannot deny, no matter how much it stings. His betrayal and hers, they are wounds he will never heal from.

And yet, Aerin is not prepared for the way Iliana winces. She had deceived him so thoroughly in the Dreadlord’s throne room, he sometimes forgets that she was not trained as he was to hide her emotions. They flit across her face now, pain and grief. Then, anger.

“Apologies, prince,” she snaps, her black leather gloves groaning in protest as she clenches her hands into tight fists. “I’ve been a little busy this past year.”

Aerin scoffs. “I’m sure you were. Celebrations and banquets in your honor must be exhausting.” He rolls his eyes, flinging the words at her like knives. “That’s the price you must pay for leading the life of a hero, I suppose. A heavy burden, you poor thing.”

“That’s not what I–” Iliana cuts herself off, eyes narrowing. She tilts her head and, oh, Aerin does not like that one bit, the way she studies him, as if she is looking right through him. Then, shockingly, pity clouds her face. “No one told you.”

Unease, slick and oily rolls through him. If the words come out a little harsher than he intended—well. Word from the outside world has not breached these walls in months. He is tired of being kept in the dark. “Told me what?”

Iliana takes a deep breath and turns away, her attention straying to the small window of his cell as she folds her arms across her chest. The silence drags on long enough and Aerin feels tempted to shatter it, to demand that whatever information she withholds be released. But then her eyes slide to him and she breathes heavily again, fingers curling against her arms. It occurs to Aerin that her posture looks less guarded and meek almost, like she is embracing herself, comforting herself.

And, damn him, his voice goes soft and careful. “Tell me what? What happened?”

To you. What happened to you? 

Iliana drops her arms to her side, then lifts one hand to her hip, searching. But whatever she is looking for, she does not find it, and her hand hangs limply in the air. “I was gone. In the Shadow Realm.”

Fear, shock, intrigue–it is a heady blend that races through him. Aerin takes a shuffling step forward, then halts. He does not know what he intends to do. Go to her? Comfort her? She certainly does not want that, not from him, and he does not know if he can bear it either.

“Why?” he demands instead, drawing a line down the center of his cell, a boundary he will not cross while she remains. “How?”

“Valax,” she answers, and the name clangs around Aerin’s skull with no small amount of dread. He knows it and knows to be wary of it. “She captured me. Experimented on me.”

“To what end?” he breathes out, blinking rapidly as spots cloud the edge of his vision. The Empire of Ash, playing their hand already. “Why you?”

Iliana’s gaze sharpens. “You know her.”

“Know of her,” Aerin corrects, shaking his head. “I never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Iliana says shortly and turns away again. She drifts to the window, keeping her back to him as she says, “Before you ask again—I do not know why. I don’t remember much.”

Her falsehood rings clear in the air, Aerin can see it in her rigid posture, defensive and bracing. How? How had she ever deceived him, this orphaned elf from Riverbend, when she cannot even look him in the eye to lie?

He knows the answer: because he wanted to believe her.

Remember that night together in the forest glade? Our kiss? That was real, Aerin. And it’s still real.

He banishes the thought, grinds it under his boot, but something in him still aches, still yearns. She looks so unsettled that he decides to let her lie hold, something he will circle back to later. 

“Are you…” It is difficult, still, to force the words out. To ask this, it feels too much like an admission, an exposure of weakness. He swallows. “Are you well?”

Iliana whirls, and her eyes, glittering ores of emerald, cut through him. Whittling him down to the bone. “What do you care?”

Indignation flares up in him and he glares. “Do you think me incapable of compassion?”

She laughs, a cold and jagged thing, and slashes her hand through the air. She paces back to the entrance of his cell, her steps harsh. “Incapable? Perhaps. But I know better by now than to believe anything you do or say after you lied to us all.”

“Do not forget that you lied to me as well,” Aerin snaps, distantly aware of the guards shifting just beyond his cell. They are listening, he realizes. To report back to the king? To intervene and rescue Iliana if they deem him too dangerous, too volatile? They are listening, and political training be damned, he does not care. “That you would still have me. That we—it was real. You lied.”

He expects Iliana to shout at him, wants her to—her anger, he can bear—but she only sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth, her face at once stricken and furious. When she speaks, it is to the ground, the dusty slab of stone that spans the space between them. “It wasn’t a lie, Aerin.”

He barks out a laugh, full of anger and bitterness, because that is all he has, all he is, all that he can give. Anger, bitterness.

And regret. So much regret, he could drown in it.

“You don’t believe me, I don’t believe you,” he says coolly, forcing his voice to even out, despite how wildly his heart races. “Let us leave it at that.”

Iliana opens her mouth, then clamps it shut, looking for all the world like she might protest. But in the end, she only shakes her head, resigned, and leans back against the metal door of his cell. “Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoes and they lapse into an uneasy silence. It is the closest thing, perhaps, they will ever have to an accord.

Aerin takes their momentary cease-fire to truly study Iliana as she stands before him, glaring at her feet and refusing to meet his gaze. He still cannot believe that she is here, after all this time. Her black leather armor, he notes with grim consideration, is standard issue for Ashen warriors. Her blue skin is pale, but otherwise unmarred, save for the scars she already bore. No signs of physical abuse, or just the work of a really good healer.

An entire year in captivity. Gods… Despite it all, he is grateful that she does not remember much. There is no way to tell how she might have changed, how her spirit might have dimmed. No matter what he feels about her—hate, anger, sorrow—Aerin finds that he does not wish to see her harmed.

“When did you return?” he asks, breaking the silence between them with an easy question, a tentative olive branch.

Iliana eyes him warily. “This morning.”

“This morning?” Aerin starts at that, forgetting himself. For a stupid, pathetic moment, something flutters eagerly against his ribcage, although he squashes the feeling down. “I must be one of your first appointments, then,” he remarks dryly, tilting his head. “What brings you here?”

Iliana’s gaze hardens and her expression shifts into something like grim triumph. Aerin does not know where he misstepped but he gets the impression that they have entered a game and she already has the winning move.

“Tell me everything you know about the Ash Empire,” she demands, hands framing her hips. “And don’t pretend you don’t know anything. You already admitted to knowing about Valax.”

“Why should I?” Aerin waves a hand through the air, dismissive. “What would you offer me in return? You are clever enough, I’m sure you could find answers on your own.”

“Or I could get answers from you and stop wasting time,” Iliana bites out, pinching the bridge of her nose as she squeezes her eyes closed in frustration. Then, she drops her hand and fixes him with a look that speaks only to her exhaustion—with him, with the Shadow Realm, with everything. “You owe me. You owe me this much.”

He… supposes he does.

Aerin sighs heavily. Sharing knowledge is a task Aerin has always taken a shine to. Few things are more important than learning more, and helping others to learn. This attitude, he thinks, may be the best thing his tutors ever taught him. But the Ash Empire… The dark kingdom is a topic he does not relish remembering. 

Still, Aerin shares what he knows, some of it, at least. Foundational knowledge. The Ashen Empress is the true ruler of the Realm and the Shadow Court had been but a fledgling resistance to her reign, one whose hopes of success had been bashed repeatedly by failed attempts to take over the Realm of Light. He speaks briefly of his own role in the Dreadlord’s bid for power against the Empire, doing his best to tamper down any rancid feelings he still nurses about the entire ordeal.

Anything more, he must keep for himself. Future bargaining chips. Perhaps, if he can remain useful, well… Maybe not all is lost for him.

“With the Dreadlord dead, I imagine the Ash Empire is already hunting down any remaining members of the Shadow Court,” Aerin hedges as he wanders over to the window, drumming his fingers against the ledge.

He feels Iliana at his back, her attention heavy on him. “Sounds like the Empire will be coming for you next.”

She is right, he knows. It is a reality he has long since come to terms with, but still, the reminder sends a bolt of fear into his spine. His fingers go still against the stone.

“If the Ash Empire makes it to the Light Realm, they’ll probably take special care in how they eliminate you.”

What do you care? he wants to snap, spitting Iliana’s words back at her. Instead, he only shrugs, keeping his gaze trained on the city outside the window. Something like yearning tugs in his chest.

“So,” Iliana continues, her irritation with his disinterest bleeding into her voice. “It would be in your best interests to tell me everything.”

Aerin arches his brow, glancing over his shoulder. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Knowing you for more than five seconds.”

A dry laugh slips out of him and he turns around, leaning against the wall with his hands laced before him. “Planning to protect me, are you?”

“I’m planning to protect everyone,” Iliana corrects, rolling her eyes. “If I am to stand a chance protecting the Light Realm against the Empire, then I need to know everything.”

She is so… She is everything he read about, everything he dreamed of being as a child. A hero. 

He pities her. For her naïveté, for believing that she can fix every problem that comes her way. Almost as much as he envies it. She has never known true failure, not yet. When she does—and it is inevitable—then, she will understand. What she has now, her determination, her purpose—it cannot last.

Aerin looks away, running his hand through his hair. One more bit of information, he supposes, he can grant her. In his best interest, as she said. 

“There’s only one other thing, and to be honest, I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself,” he admits slowly, gauging her reaction. “The Empress has a terrible creature under her power. I caught a glimpse of it in the distance when I was bringing Nia to the Dreadlord.”

At the very mention of Nia’s name, Iliana’s expression looks almost murderous, like she might strike him down just for mentioning the priestess, but miraculously, she refrains. “What was it?”

Despite himself, Aerin shudders, recalling the undead creature, crafted of the seven hells itself. “Massive. Skeletal. A beast from nightmares.”

“How vague,” Iliana remarks, but Aerin knows the information has taken hold. She looks unsettled, certainly. Maybe even afraid. 

His answering smile is wry and almost apologetic. “I know. But it is unlike anything I have ever seen before.”

Iliana nods, seemingly satisfied with this information. “Thank you for telling me what you know.”

The look in her eyes makes it abundantly clear that they both know it is not everything, although for now it is enough. Maybe—Aerin curses himself for even entertaining the thought—she will come back for more. The idea lights something within him, although he does not want to think about what it means, what it says about his feelings toward her, everchanging and impossible to curb. It isn’t freedom, but it is something. How nice it would be, to have just a piece of the outside world come to him.

Desperation claws its way into Aerin’s chest and he hates himself for the way he caves, for how small his voice sounds as he throws out a lifeline, begging her to take it. “I don’t suppose… you might visit me again?”

Iliana’s expression is guarded, her response measured. “Maybe. I doubt I will even have a moment to breathe since the world needs saving. Again.”

That is… something.

Aerin tilts his head. Always playing the hero. “And must it always be you who saves it?”

He is not prepared for the way her shoulders slacken and she glances away. Gone are any traces of the bravery and determination she had brandished at him moments ago. What faces him now is only solemn acceptance, weary resignation to service. “Apparently.”

Aerin wants to tell her to stop, that it isn’t her problem to fix. But he would be a hypocrite. After all, didn’t he behave the same once, long ago? Believing that the realm’s problems were his to fix, if only he had the power.

And look where that thinking got him. Trapped in an old cell.

“Look, I can’t make any promises,” Iliana begins, her eyes flicking around the room as if she can’t quite look at him, but cannot settle her attention anywhere else. “Things between us are… I don’t know what they are. But I’ll try to visit again. I may need more information. So.” Her tone hardens, all business once more. “If you conveniently remember anything else?” She gestures to the guards outside. “Send word. Maybe I’ll come.” 

Aerin suppresses a smile, amused. “Sure. I hope you do.”

Iliana shoots him a look he can’t quite decipher, then turns away. As if expecting her, the guards unlock the door, revealing the torchlit corridor beyond. Aerin takes a steadying breath and is about to retreat to his cot when Iliana pauses in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at him. Aerin watches her hesitate, mouth opening and closing, and then—

“Do you regret what you have done?” she asks softly. “Wish that you hadn’t…”

Wish that you hadn’t betrayed me? Betrayed all of us?

Betrayed your brother?

Aerin’s breath is hard in his chest, something solid he cannot get out. Yes, he wants to scream. Yes to all of it.

“Would you even believe me?” Aerin asks earnestly, but he knows it is a fruitless endeavor.  “Whatever my answer.”

Iliana is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. But then she answers, “No. I suppose not.”

Aerin nods, closing his eyes as she slips out of the cell and the metal door slams shut behind her. He knew better than to hope for anything else. They did not trust each other. He did not think they ever would again.

The lock slides into place with a finality that quakes through his bones, sealing him back into this forgotten place, made for forgotten things.

[inlocusmads-deactivated20240606]

somewhere only we know ~ guinevere x artura

Artura takes Guinevere on a tour of the royal gallery (Characters from Guinevere, Choices)

No warnings | GA | 1.4k

A/N: I'm experimenting with a different format so it is cleaner and much nicer. This was just an excuse to write something very fluffy because once again, I was thinking about Artura.

There was something Guinevere had taken a keen notice to. It was rather minute, of course; something so small it couldn't be quantified with words, rather a feeling.

Artura led her to the large gallery in the palace in Camelot. It was something she was desperate to show Guinevere, but never had the time to - according to her. Dressed in her best just for the occasion; however small it might be, Artura let her hand find itself intertwined with Guinevere's palm; leading her from tapestry to paintings to the portraits the family had commissioned, the statues and idols the best craftsmen from all of Camelot had worked on.

"-- This is supposed to be the Royal Court." Artura said. "A bit of an artistic interpretation, really, with the gold ceilings. We do not actually have gold ceilings."

Guinevere could not focus on the portrait. Instead she took some time to appreciate Artura's golden curls. Short, rugged as if she was straight from a training session with her knights. Guinevere refused to entertain that thought more - Artura fighting with a sword, taking time to wipe her beautiful gorgeous hair off of her face, as she let out a deep battle cry; charging forward. Artura who sat down, a smile on her face as she tied up her wounds with such care and polished her sword; only to look up and have sopping wet curls on her face. Her laugh. Her beautiful laugh.

"This is a picture of the Royal Garden" Artura smiled up at the patch of roses and the trees that the artists had taken majestic creative liberties with. "We do have a strawberry garden that would go -- right there--" Artura pointed at the painting and Guinevere's eyes followed it. "We should have had it repainted but -- the costs are better used elsewhere, I think. However, I believe this is beautiful."

Guinevere did not realise she was supposed to be looking at the painting and not at Artura, explaining what it meant.

"Huh, oh yes." she hastily agreed.

She had a nice laugh. Artura. Her voice was nearly angelic. Guinevere felt her heart race a bit, as she took an even keener notice on how Artura explained things. She took such an interest. Her eyes lit up, almost angelically as she looked at the paintings with such fondness in her eyes. These gestures with her hands - they were almost sculpted. She loved it. She loved to tell stories; to tell someone about it and she poured in every ounce of her love for art into their conversation. Artura had the brightest smile. Guinevere observed how her lips curved a little, before she squinted with curiosity.

"Do I have something on my chin?"

"Huh? Oh no, not at all -- your Highness."

"Guinevere, my dear." Artura tch'ed. "You can call me Artura, you know that, I presume? Why should there be any formalities between us?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course. I knew that."

"Is something the matter? You seem -- nervous." Artura raised a hand and pressed it against Guinevere's cheek. "You are not running a fever, I hope. The Camelot winters can be -- rather treacherous."

"No -- I -- erm -- well, you see -- Artura -- the thing is -- oh perhaps you can tell me about this -- work of art! Yes, this one! The king with his -- beard! Who is this man? Was he the ruler before you ascended the throne?"

"I believe that is quite a mythical figure from the stories. You see, back in the--"

Artura was not completely oblivious to the fact that Guinevere liked looking at her. She knew. She had a little teasing smile too, while she went on to explain about the lore behind the artwork; giving Guinevere ample time to decide if she should or not. And Guinevere chose not to. Looking was best done from afar. Guinevere did not think about how it might feel to have Artura's lips against here, her tight warm embrace in the halls of the gallery. How it would feel if she called her a "work of art", how everything might feel - how if Guinevere pushed her luck, Artura might grow frustrated, grab her by her shoulders and kiss her. How Guinevere would finally have a chance to hold her head in her palms and look at her as if she were the only person in the whole universe; a masterpiece.

Artura knew.

Guinevere did not know that she knew.

Artura had always believed her Princess was just too tight. Too curt. Too modest.

"And -- my dear, were you listening? What did I tell you about the significance of the dragon in this painting?"

Guinevere swallowed. "That the king had it guard his treasury?"

"There is no dragon!"

"Ah yes -- it must be my eyesight. The doctors have always told me that I might be -- shortsighted and--"

"Guinevere, my love, you do not need my permission to kiss me."

Guinevere blinked.

"I -- I have -- no -- now let us not get too hasty -- the thing is -- I--" Guinevere rubbed the back of her neck, trying to come up with a coherent answer.

Artura folded her arms, the curves of her biceps tightening against the fabric of her dress. "Frankly, my dear, you have been staring quite too much."

"It is rather criminal there is no dragon." Guinevere inhaled a sharp breath. "I like them. Really. They have -- majestic scales and -- wings and the books, they do it rather well, do they not? It is --"

Guinevere couldn't finish that thought. The warmth of Artura's lips found hers. Without hesitation, Guinevere slipped her arms around Artura's waist, drawing her closer; not long before they found her hair, as she combed the golden ringlets off her face.

"See? It is simple." Artura broke off and smiled.

"I am --"

"It is just so new -- to see you so flustered. I cannot imagine the great mage, Guinevere of Cameliard -- glowing red in the cheeks!"

"I should be telling you that." Guinevere said, "Look at you. You are beautiful. Utterly handsome. Far from what these paintings can only aspire to capture - and -- I doubt I am any deserving of you, much less your love."

"Ah, my dear Guinevere. I must say the same, but we will be here for eternity if we were to play this game."

Artura tucked a stray strand of hair behind Guinevere's ear.

"And I could not help but stare."

"So improper."

"By the way, I do not get flustered."

"Of course, of course. You just turn red in the cheeks. A very common occurrence." Artura raised her eyebrows cheekily, throwing her head back and laughing.

"Only when I see you, of course."

"You are going to make this tour of the palace the most difficult task I have ever partaken, is it not?" Artura smiled softly, laughing as Guinevere stole another kiss.

"Very much." Guinevere mumbled, wrapping her arms around Artura's waist, drawing her closer.

***

Tagging:

Perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam

Guinevere: @cassie-thorne @mvalentine

[seashellsdiary]

Elhalas

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow

Characters: (F!Elf!MC) Raine Nightbloom x Tyril Starfury

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Fantasy violence, blood, death

Length: ~7k words

Summary: Raine and Tyril must journey to the Land of the Gods in order to defeat an impending threat.

Tags: @lawrencebarkley @watatsumi-island @lilyoffandoms @choicesficwriterscreations

A/N: Part one! This isn’t related to the plot of book two in any way and pretty much stands as its own thing.

She found herself in a world like death.

One where hellfire rained from the heavens, and ash drifted through the air like blackened snow. If there were any gods watching over this realm, then they had abandoned it long ago.

The charred earth splintered beneath her feet with each step she took, the only sign of a land that had once flourished with life but now lied in ruins, having crumbled in the wake of devastation and leaving only a distant memory behind.

Above her, the red sun stared down like a watchful eye, blazing with crimson fire as it followed her every move, as its hellish glow painted the sky in blood.

It had not spared anyone from its ire before, and she would be no different.

A horrific squawk cried from overhead, and through darkened clouds she could make out the faint shadow of a creature’s wings flapping high above. In a burst of flame it emerged from the sky, soaring directly towards her with gnarled claws ablaze.

It almost looked like a drake, though with dark and matted feathers in place of the vivid colours from those she had come to know, and a sharp beak that opened wide to breathe a column of scorching fire in her direction.

She raised her hands to summon her magic in defence, but where sparks of light usually flickered to life upon her fingertips, there was nothing. She was powerless in this place.

Instead she threw her body to the side as the blast sailed overhead, causing a wave of heat to ripple against the dry air. Her fingernails raked against black mud as she struggled to pull herself from the ground, but the drake was faster and she writhed in agony as its claws dug deep into her sides, the sharp talons drawing blood.

Its screeches rang in her ears as it took off to the skies once more, carrying her higher to where the smoke grew thick and putrid, and the acrid stench of sulphur tainted the air.

Below, the rivers of lava wound themselves into a labyrinth, emitting a faint amber glow barely visible through the dense haze. Sharp rocks jutted out of the ground like shards of black glass as the drake descended lower to where the scorched earth began to crack, forming a large fissure down the centre of the land.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream as it released its hold on her body, throwing her down into the wide chasm below.

The wind howled past her ears as she fell, its cries slowly morphing into anguished wails the further and faster she plummeted down. Grey rock faded into vast nothingness as darkness took hold, and still she remained falling through a pit of despair.

She didn’t know how much time had passed as minutes and hours merged into an endless blur. With no other options, she made one last attempt at calling for her magic. A final plea for something, anything to happen, for even the tiniest spark to ignite in the dark, but it was hopeless. The Light did not shine on her here.

Just as she thought she would spend an eternity falling to her demise, she hit the ground and tumbled down a hill of ash before rolling onto her back, gasping and unable to move.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that she was at the bottom of a cavern, the air cold and bleak deep beneath the lava’s surface. A dim glow faintly illuminated the space around her, but its source was weak and fading, and it didn’t offer the same comfort as the warmth she was used to.

She was curious to know where it was coming from, but couldn’t move her neck to follow it. A pool of blood stained the ash beneath her and specks of dust drifted through the air as she took a shaky breath.

All she could do was listen. She heard the faint trickling of water from a crack in the rocks nearby, no doubt tainted like the other remnants of this realm. Somewhere else in the cavern she could hear the sound of iron chains being dragged across the ground, and a pair of heavy footsteps edging closer and closer.

A shadow fell over her crumpled body in the form of two dark wings, slowly unfurling with a cold breeze that sent chills up her spine. Through blurred vision she caught a glimpse of obsidian eyes, harsh and cold as they bore into her own.

Except the figure seemed to see past her, turning instead towards the opening where she watched a young woman follow him further into the cave, and she froze at the sight.

It was her.

Or rather, someone who had once been her, but was now a different person entirely. Her skin was a pale shade of grey, and her eyes were turned pitch black. Dark tears spilled down her cheeks and her voice was laced with a bitter desperation she couldn’t place.

“I did what you asked,” she pleaded. “I sacrificed everything.”

When the winged figure spoke, it was with a voice like the rolling of distant thunder, echoing across the cavern walls and causing the earth beneath to tremble.

“V’eratis vos detrima,” he seethed behind clenched teeth in an ancient language she didn’t recognise nor understand, and a black spear glinted from where it appeared in his grip. “You have outlived your purpose.”

Her corrupted self’s eyes widened as she realised what his words meant. Still, she made no attempt to fight death, offering no resistance as he hurled the weapon towards her.

The sharp point pierced through her heart, embedding itself in the stone walls behind her. From the ground, she watched as her body slumped forward, pinned to the wall with black blood dripping from the hole in her chest.

With a blast of wind that stirred the ash and dust around them, the figure took off to the skies, leaving her alone in the darkness.

She was still paralysed on the ground where she had landed after falling, and her head began to spin as she felt herself fading. Using all the remaining strength she had left, she lifted her head weakly, only to find her corrupted self staring right back at her.

“Who are you?” She whispered, terrified.

The blood fell faster, dripping onto the ground as her gaze locked onto her own. “I’m who you’ll become, if you fail.”

Tendrils of shadow emerged from the darkness, like phantom hands reaching out to wrap themselves violently around her limbs before dragging her down to the depths that awaited below, leaving her real self truly alone in a world gone wrong.

Above, a crimson inferno blazed on the dark horizon.

And soon it would consume her too.

Raine woke with a scream spilling past her lips. Her heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage from where it felt trapped within her chest and a pale sheen of sweat coated her skin, glistening under the moonlight.

She took deep gasps of air, no longer tainted by ash or smoke but instead clean and fresh, filling her lungs with relief. It wasn’t until she felt a pair of warm arms pulling her into their protective embrace that she realised what had happened and where she was.

She was back in Undermount, safe in the chambers she shared with Tyril in the Starfury Manor. He held her close against his chest, his fingers softly stroking her hair as he murmured soothing words she couldn’t hear, her ears still ringing as she slowly adjusted to her surroundings.

There was still a lingering pain in her sides from where the drake’s sharp claws had delved deep into her flesh, and she raised a fist to her mouth as she held back a strangled sob while tossing aside the silken bedsheets.

Each of its talons had been the size of a small dagger embedding themselves into her skin, and despite the pain that thrummed there like the piercing edge of a blade, when she reached for her sides expecting to find jagged lacerations and seeping blood, there was nothing.

She pulled her hand away, taking a shaky breath. There was always nothing. Never so much as a single scratch marring her skin despite the pain that suggested otherwise. She almost wished there was, at least then she’d have evidence that what she had experienced was real, that these horrors didn’t just reside within her mind and were more than just a bad dream.

A hollow cave ached in her chest at the thought. It hadn’t been real, she knew that. But it had felt real, and so was the fear these nightmares left behind. Visions of anguish and suffering so vivid they etched themselves into her memory, haunting her rest whenever she closed her eyes and lurking in the shadows during the day.

She was slowly brought back to her senses as Tyril rubbed small circles into her back with his thumb, his presence alone tethering her to reality once more and guiding her awareness to the present, like an anchor of solace. He ran a hand through her soft curls, tilting her head back slightly. Even illuminated by the silver moonlight her face looked paler and dark shadows rested beneath her eyes, once vibrant but now turned dull with the heaviness of what she had seen.

“They’re getting worse,” he whispered, his brows pulled together in concern. She looked away, but not without guilt stirring in her heart as she did so. “Raine,” he frowned, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. “I want to help you, I—” Tyril held his tongue as he realised he was powerless against the situation, and the words died in the back of his throat. I want to help you and I can’t.

He had fought against them before, the battles that were not physical but instead lingered on unseen in the mind. A war that often seemed endless when the adversary knew every weakness to target, striking the gaps in the armour until it finally cracked. If he could fight them for her he would, but they both knew it wasn’t that simple.

Tyril sighed, pulling her even closer into his embrace. “How am I supposed to protect you from what I cannot fight?”

Raine wrapped her arms around his back, looking up to meet his worried gaze. “Just being here is enough.”

He wished it was.

These nightmares had been plaguing her sleep ever since the Dreadlord was defeated, but over the last few weeks they were slowly becoming increasingly more frequent and terrifying. At first, Tyril had tried to console her.

“I have them, too,” he had whispered in the dark when she woke with a pounding heart after they first began. “It’s to be expected, given what we have faced.”

She turned to him, then, the rise and fall of her chest slowing as her breathing steadied once more. “And what are yours?”

He was silent for a moment, and the only sound she could hear was the soft ticking of the pendulum clock in the hallway outside their shared room before he answered her, his voice low. “Losing you.”

Though as her nightmares began to grow more graphic and distressing, Raine wasn’t sure they were just dreams anymore. They were beginning to feel more like a warning she couldn’t heed, her mind whispering obscurities while she slept. It seemed to be her curse as of recent, being tormented by visions she didn’t understand.

All she knew was that in bringing Light to the Realm of Shadow, she had awakened an ancient and powerful enemy, and that despite defeating the Dreadlord and his court, the battle against darkness was not yet over.

When Tyril saw she had begun to calm down, he slowly laid her back onto the bed, her hair splaying against the silken pillows as she moved to rest her forehead against his neck. He threaded his fingers through hers and she turned the palm of his hand skyward, tracing her thumb along the smooth skin of his wrist as she searched for the comforting rhythm of his pulse.

A beam of moonlight shining through the arched windows cast a silver crescent on his face as he settled down beside her. His mind wasn’t at ease either, ever the strategic warrior, he was already considering their next options.

“We should gather our friends, and your brother. If there’s any form of threat on the horizon, they will be able to help.”

Raine shook her head. “I can’t ask them to risk their lives again. Not when this is my mistake.”

“I’d hardly call saving the realms a mistake.” A muscle in his jaw ticked, bitter at circumstance, but not at her.

Never at her.

A small crease formed between her brows as she frowned. “It would be unfair to them, Tyril. They already gave so much of themselves while helping us take down the shadow court, and they’ve finally found peace after everything that happened…”

A wave of sadness washed over him at her words. “You deserve that, too.”

She sighed, fiddling with a loose thread on her nightgown. “But what else can be done?”

“We should visit Claris,” he suggested while moving his thumb to stroke her cheek. “If anyone knows what’s causing these visions and what they mean, it will be her.”

Raine nodded hesitantly before curling back up beside him.

“I’m tired of war,” she whispered into his chest. All he could do was pull her closer and it made his heart ache. Tyril had felt helpless many times before in his life, but none stirred him so deeply as this.

He would give the stars and the earth to see her smile again, her eyes sparkling violet in the sunshine and a gentle breeze softly tousling her hair. But the stars that once shone in her eyes seemed so far away, and he was powerless to bring them back.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as she tried to keep the visions at bay, she knew she couldn’t let them consume her.

“Would you like me to cast the spell?” Tyril asked, and when she nodded he moved to rest his lips against the top of her head, murmuring a faint incantation into her hair.

As he spoke, a soft glow began to surround her, leaving a shimmering trail like delicate rays of golden starlight. Slowly, they began to weave and intertwine together as though they were ribbons, pulsing with magic until they burst in a radiant display of light and leaving only small embers fading in the air.

Raine closed her eyes as she was overcome with a wave of drowsiness, the spell already beginning to take effect. It was a simple dream spell, not strong enough to ward the nightmares off entirely, but enough to hold them at bay and guide her to slumber once more, providing a temporary solace until the two could find a more permanent solution.

“Rest, my love.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I will be here when you wake.”

With his arms wrapped around her waist and a faint smile on her lips, she slowly began drifting off to sleep.

Until her screams pierced the fragile silence once more.

When dawn finally gave way to early morning and the soft amber glow of sunrise slowly melted into a pale blue mist, the two stepped outside into the crisp air that surrounded the elven mountain city. A carriage was waiting for them there, the golden spokes of its wheels designed to resemble a sun flaring its rays of light outward.

Tyril lifted his hand out for Raine as he helped her up the steps, before they both settled comfortably on the plush velvet seats.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, seeing her face was still pallid and her cheeks held a grey tinge, lacking the rosiness they usually shone with.

“Nervous,” she admitted, pulling back the ornately woven curtain slightly to glance out the window, but quickly drawing it closed as a sudden wave of nausea added to the crawling feeling of unease already residing in her stomach. “It feels like everything depends on this visit.”

He reached across to take her hands in his, expression solemn. “No matter what information is revealed to us in there, I’ll be by your side.”

A small smile hinted at her lips. “I know you will.”

She rubbed her thumb against the back of his hand, hoping to distract herself. “Can you tell me more about Claris?”

Tyril nodded. “She’s a seer widely renowned within Undermount for her impressive foresight, and has been predicting which Great Houses will rise and fall for years without fail, much to the displeasure of certain political heads. For the most part she is exceedingly insightful and some even claim that her visions are sent from the Gods themselves, though she’s never confirmed or denied this.”

Raine’s eyes widened slightly. “Why would they be displeased with her?”

“They feel that they’ve been humiliated, and so seek a source to blame instead of looking to their own faults, as is the way of our people. It’s hardly her doing.” He continued to explain. “It is a seer’s duty to reveal the veiled truth, but there are many of us who would rather live in denial and are stubbornly resistant to change. Still, seers have always held a pivotal role in Undermount’s society and progression forward. They see the golden threads of destiny that bind us all.”

She nodded as she thought his words over, chewing on her lip as the carriage came to a halt.

“Ah, we’re here.” Tyril stood and she got up after him, stepping out onto the paved stone path.

Before them was the Scrying Hall, a large building carved from gold with a tall spire in the centre that reached skyward and glistened where it caught the morning sunlight. Two shorter towers were positioned on either side, with intricate markings etched into their surface and silver vines framing the arched windows.

The pair climbed a curved set of stairs that led up to the open entryway and headed inside, where the high ceiling formed a pointed arch overhead, and a circular window at the far end of the hall had been cast in stained glass. It formed a brilliant sun, made up of vivid shades of yellow and orange that flooded the room with light and reflected shifting patterns that danced across the polished floors below.

“I’ve been expecting your arrival.” An elven woman approached them, with smooth, hazel skin and eyes the pale gold of the sun at dawn. She wore a set of amber robes with flowing sleeves accentuated with gilded thread, and long skirts that swept across the floor as she walked. Her auburn hair was woven around her head in a sunlit coronet, resembling the deep reds of the sky at sunset, and a light circlet rested upon her brow.

Tyril stepped forward, bowing his head in greeting. “Claris, of House Sunscryer.”

She returned the gesture politely before turning her attention towards Raine. “I’ve heard much about you, Champion of the Light.”

Raine took a surprised step back. “I’m no champion.”

Claris watched her reaction carefully, and a faint glimmer twinkled in the seer’s eyes that she couldn’t quite place. “Not yet, perhaps. Though those rare few blessed by the Light seldom shy away from uprooting corruption and conquering darkness where it stands, should they choose to rise to the challenge.”

From beside her, Tyril cleared his throat. “I assume you know why we’re here?”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “If you could follow me, please.”

Claris led them to a concealed part of the hall where a swaying curtain next to a series of ivory pillars obscured the large object behind it from view.

“How long ago did your visions begin?” She asked, rearranging a cluster of small crystalline vials filled with various elixirs, catching the sunlight from where they sat on a polished tray upon a silver cart.

“Since the Dreadlord was defeated, though they’ve been getting worse for the past month.” Raine answered, trying to keep her voice steady as she focused on the seer’s actions. “At first they seemed hazy and I could barely make out what was happening, so I assumed they were connected to our fight against the Shadow Court since we were all still recovering from what happened.”

She shifted her attention towards Tyril. “But over time they grew more vivid and strange, like the world was warped around me. I’d see strange figures emerging from the dust, the world on fire and the sky wreathed in darkness.”

She was about to tell them about what she saw last night, but stopped herself. Perhaps it was better to keep that one to herself for now. Or at least until she gained a better understanding of what it had meant.

Claris nodded as she turned back towards them, and lifted her hand to withdraw the curtain. Above a sturdy podium was a large, spinning altar, emitting a golden light and surrounded by shining rays that resembled the midday sun.

“Is this similar to the celestial altar?” Raine asked, noticing it shared a resemblance to the one in the Grand Library.

“Similar, but not the same.” Claris replied, carrying a few scrolls over towards the closest table. “This is a sun altar, so where the celestial altar draws its power from the cosmos, this one harnesses the energy of the solar light above us.”

She paused for a moment in thought. “They also serve different purposes. The celestial altar specialises in the past and that which has already been preserved, showing us memories that have long since passed. The sun altar focuses on the future, showing us what has yet to come, or what may be.”

Raine exhaled with relief at her words. If the visions from her nightmares were not yet set in stone, then perhaps she could still prevent the horrors she had seen from taking hold in reality.

“Now,” Claris smiled, her eyes gentle. “If you could place your hands on the altar’s surface?”

Tyril gave her a reassuring nod and she stepped forward, doing as Claris instructed. The sun altar was warm beneath her touch, exuding a light heat that she could feel pulsing with life and energy beneath her fingertips. She took a deep breath in, preparing herself for what might happen next.

“This spell will allow me to gain further insight into your visions and what they mean, which will hopefully provide me with the information I need to guide you.” Claris said as she moved to the opposite side of the altar. “Since I’m casting as the recipient, you shouldn’t experience much on your end, if anything at all. If you do see anything let me know once we’ve finished, whatever we see here will determine your next course of action.”

Raine nodded and closed her eyes while Claris tucked a loose strand of hair behind a tapered ear. She murmured an incantation under breath that was too low to hear, before her eyes turned a vibrant gold that soon lit up the whole area and flooded the room with light.

Several minutes passed as Raine kept concentrating on the warmth surging through her hands. At this point she hadn’t experienced anything unusual, until an image began to flicker behind her eyes, wavering like a reflection in a pond.

She saw a series of marble pillars engraved with gold lining a grand staircase, at the top of which stood a pair of imposing, gilded gates. Just as quickly as it appeared, the image dissipated like smoke and she opened her eyes to find herself standing in front of Claris once more.

“You saw them as well.” The seer observed her reaction. “The Gates of Elhalas.”

With the spell complete, Tyril stepped up beside them. “The Land of the Gods? Why would Raine’s visions be connected to the realm of the ancients?”

“Morella is not the only realm under threat.” Claris spoke solemnly. “But it soon will be. Your dreams are more than warnings, Raine. They are a glimpse of what is to come if we do not take immediate action, or else the world will collapse at our peril.”

Raine looked towards Tyril. “We’re ready, we’ll do what needs to be done.”

Claris nodded. “Then if you wish to save this world, you will need guidance from the gods, and that means travelling directly into their realm.”

“But how?” She asked. “I thought Elhalas was where the spirits of the ancestors lived after passing on, and we’re…very much alive.”

“Under regular circumstances, you would be correct. But you are a Realm-walker, Raine. You’ve been infused by the Light and are capable of far more than you can even begin to imagine.”

Tyril placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “Think of what you did in the Realm of Shadow, that great feat was only the beginning. If the Gods have granted you a vision of the Gates to Elhalas, then that is where we must begin.”

Raine entwined her fingers with his, taking a moment to savour their shared strength. As long as he was by her side, uncertainty didn’t dare stir within her heart. “I’m ready.”

Closing her eyes, she focused solely on conjuring the image of the gates in her mind, envisioning them with clarity until she felt a strong heat radiating from in front of her. When she looked up, a shimmering portal had appeared before them.

It looked different than the one that had led to the shadow realm. Where that portal had been a swirling vortex of red lightning and dark energy, this one burst with light. A golden mist surrounded them, like the sun peering through the clouds after rainfall, emitting a soft, hazy glow that felt warm against her skin.

“Is that really…” Raine trailed off as she stood entranced, and when she reached her fingertips out to touch the portal, it rippled and a shower of vapour lightly poured down around them.

Tyril beamed at her, his eyes shining with pride. “I never had any doubt in my heart.”

“The portal will lead you to Elhalas.” Claris said. “I must be on my way, as should the two of you.”

“Wait,” Raine turned towards her. “What about—”

“Another will be able to answer your questions in further depth.” She interrupted with a knowing smile. “I was merely a stepping stone in your path ahead.”

Raine nodded. “I can’t thank you enough, for all your help.”

“Be careful,” Claris warned. “The gods play chess, and we are the pawns they wield.”

With a dip of her head, the seer turned and departed from the room, leaving the two of them standing alone in front of the portal.

“Are all seers so mysterious?” Raine asked and Tyril chuckled, before the weight of what lied before them began to settle in.

“I can’t believe we’re really going to Elhalas,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “This is bigger than just the two of us now.”

Tyril reached for her hand, and the warmth of his touch made her stomach flutter. “Nothing is too big for the two of us,” he breathed. “We’ve conquered more darkness than anyone will ever know, and we will do it again, together.”

Raine smiled down at their interlaced fingers. “Together,” she repeated, and hand-in-hand they stepped through the portal, determined to face the unknown that awaited them.

Stepping through the portal had felt like passing through a fine veil of fog, and when they emerged on the other side they were met with a great, blinding surge of light until it slowly faded and they found themselves in the middle of a grand courtyard.

Around them, pale crystals embedded in the white stone walls pulsed with a faint glow, illuminating the golden flowers that bloomed along lush green vines in the sunshine.

The Gates of Elhalas loomed overhead, casting a tall shadow on the staircase below, and bringing attention to the two figures who descended it.

“The glittering stars above and shifting sands below have long been awaiting this moment,” a lilting voice spoke. “If only we could be meeting under more fortunate circumstances.”

Though Raine had not met them before outside of stories and songs, there was no mistaking the two courageous warriors from Kade’s tales who had led the charge against the Shadow Court’s forces; the elven king Xaius and battlemage Ellara.

The pair looked even more valiant than she had imagined. Ellara, no longer a battlemage but instead now a goddess, wore a shimmering pale blue dress adorned with silver beads strung together like moonlit pearls. She still wore the sapphire circlet from her days as Xaius’ second-in-command nestled among her red-brown hair, falling in waves over her shoulders.

The former elven king stood tall beside her with the imposing stature only a noble could possess, his golden robes lined with jewels any human would envy and his long, pale hair was swept back. Raine assumed godhood was not so different from leading an empire, with people singing your praises and a duty to guide and serve them during times of need.

Next to her, Tyril stammered for a brief moment before bowing lowly, and she swiftly did the same.

“Heroes of the great empire, we are most honoured by in your presence.” He spoke with great reverence, but Ellara quickly ushered them both back up, her silver bracelets chiming with the motion.

She smiled, though it looked almost sad. “Thank you, but while our legend still carries on, very few remember that we were mortal, once.” She shook her head. “It was difficult for us to adjust to our new positions. An honour, of course, but with eternity at your fingertips it can be challenging to discern between what is and what once was.”

“As reigning king when the empire fell, I felt as though I had failed my people.” Xaius spoke. “I often contemplated the faults in my rule, thinking I could have prevented the war if I had guided my people better. Ultimately, it’s those who turned their backs on us in search of greater power that are to blame.”

Ellara frowned. “They were a blight on our people’s legacy and everything we stood for. It only takes the selfish misdeeds of a few to cause a millennia’s worth of destruction and strife.” She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. “We cannot thank you enough for succeeding where we failed, but unfortunately the war is not yet over.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Raine said. “To end it for good, so no one suffers further.”

Ellara dipped her head before moving aside to allow them both up the staircase. “Then it is our honour to welcome you, saviours of the realm, to Elhalas.”

With a sweep of her arm, the gates behind them slowly began to open at her command. Raine had never even dared to imagine what the land of the gods may have looked like, but if the Golden City was the jewel of the ancient elven empire, then Elhalas was its treasury.

Aureate towers and ivory spires arched high into the sky and the sunlight above turned everything a glistening pale gold, as though the city had been carved from the first rays of light at dawn. Expansive gardens harboured marble temples with vibrant flowers and trees bearing silver fruit, while shimmering turquoise waterfalls fell into vast, flowing rivers.

The rolling emerald hills in the distance seemed as though they could stretch onward forever if it weren’t for the hazy golden mist barring their path on the far horizon, capturing the entire city in its glow like a magnificent spell.

“It’s hard to believe places like this once actually existed in Morella.” Raine said to Tyril in awe while gazing out at the breathtaking view. “It looks like something from a painting.”

“More beautiful, even.” He glanced towards her and smiled before turning his attention back to the view. “Unfortunately, paintings are the only way they now live on in our memories, but I believe it is better to preserve than to forget.”

Ellara and Xaius led them down into the city, where a golden path led them past towering statues, flowering bushes and water fountains. Around them, the elven spirits that inhabited Elhalas barely even acknowledged each other in passing, drifting by without so much glancing towards anyone.

As lovely as their surroundings were, Raine noticed how Tyril’s expression slowly filled with sorrow the further they ventured through the city.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, reaching for his hand.

“I thought…” He trailed off. “I thought perhaps things would be different here, that our people would have learned from the sacrifices made during the Great War. I hoped they would grow past their prejudices and mistakes,” he sighed, “but perhaps there are some things even death cannot change.”

“Many have been here since before the war and know only selfishness.” Xaius said. “Though even those who gave their lives on the forefront did not necessarily have noble intentions.”

Raine tilted her head. “What’s more honourable than sacrifice?”

“You misunderstand,” he spoke gently, “most of our people were not willing to give their lives out of duty, but pride.”

“Deshana el zentana.” Tyril spoke solemnly. “Death before dishonour.”

His words hung heavy in the air until Ellara spoke. “Although our empire may have met a dark end, there were many bright moments during its time as well.”

“What was it like?” Raine asked, and for a moment Tyril could see a glimpse of her usual self there, ever curious and unburdened by restraint, eager to learn more about their shared culture. He could not deny his own curiosity as well, having grown up in awe of such legendary heroes and tales.

“It was an age of glory,” Xaius said with pride. “Magic flowed through the air, festivals lasted for weeks at a time and banquet halls the size of ballrooms hosted towers of food plentiful enough to feed an army.”

Raine realised how strange it was knowing how others had seen the fall of civilisations she had never even known, and his words made her realise just how young she and Tyril were, for elves.

Though Xaius spoke about the elven empire with pride, she felt a sense of guilt in knowing that while her people had been living prosperously during those times, their empire had been built on the backs of human labour and the orcs had been forced to hide away in the continent’s farthest corners.

She dropped her voice low so only Tyril could hear her. “I mean no disrespect to the empire, but it’s always our people, our legacy. I know the Great War was a tragedy, but what steps had our civilisation taken to get there? They weren’t respected by the other races of Morella, they were feared.”

“They wanted too much.” He said solemnly. “I wonder, when would it ever have been enough for them? To live with an eternal longing that can never be sated casts a heavy shadow on the soul. It is avid greed that leads to everlasting misery, and it’s a difficult cycle to return from.”

Tyril shook his head. “Still, you are not wrong for questioning the principles of the empire. Even before the uprising of the Shadow Court our people had been under the allure of power for centuries, without change their downfall was inevitable.”

They continued onward in silence, until Raine was struck with a question. “I never really thought about it before,” she whispered, “but what did Ellara and Xaius become gods of after their ascension?”

“Xaius became known for his wisdom and clarity, and as such has often been called upon during times of counsel, particularly within debates or concerning political matters.” Tyril explained. “Ellara has become associated with the subconscious realm, the power of dreams and prophecy.”

Dreams. Raine found the word echoing in her mind before she raised her voice enough for Ellara to hear. “Was it you? Who sent me those dreams?”

The goddess turned to face her, surprised by the suddenness of her question before a flicker of respect shone in her gaze. “You’ve always been a clever one, Raine.”

“But why?”

Ellara frowned. “I would have conveyed my messages to you differently if I could, but unfortunately dreams were the only means I had of connecting with you. It was the only way I could warn you of the danger we all face, and for that you needed to see it for yourself.” Her expression filled with sorrow. “I’m truly sorry, for all the pain they caused you.”

“And the winged figure in the shadows?” She asked. “Who was that?”

Ellara exchanged a worried glance with Xaius before turning her attention back towards Raine. “I never sent a dream like that.”

“So you mean…it came from somewhere else?”

Ellara opened her mouth to answer but before she could speak, the ground beneath them began to quake, trembling the land and knocking both Raine and Tyril off their feet.

It passed as suddenly as it had arrived, but neither Xaius nor Ellara seemed to react to it, as though it were a regular occurrence.

“What was that?” Tyril asked as he helped Raine back up from the ground.

Xaius cleared his throat and turned away. “Elhalas has been suffering from…tremors as of recent, but I assure you, everything is under control.”

Raine couldn’t shake the feeling that everything wasn’t under control, and glanced out towards the hills, where the golden mist shimmered far beyond.

“That mist on the horizon,” Tyril said as he followed her gaze. “It serves as a barrier of sorts, doesn’t it?”

“What would you need protecting from here?” She asked.

“The mist is a type of protective shield that surrounds the city, it has been in place ever since Elhalas came into existence.” Xaius waved their concerns aside. “It merely serves as a precaution.”

More questions flittered through Raine’s mind but, getting the impression she wouldn’t be able to coax any further information on the matter from either of them, she kept her mouth shut until the group reached the end of the path.

Before them was a glistening tower that rose high above the rest of the city, watching over it as a divine protector. A golden staircase led to a plateau lined with evergreen trees that swayed in the gentle breeze, and a row of silver fountains adorned the gardens near the entryway, sunlit waters spilling over the edges.

“I’m afraid this is as far as we can lead you,” Ellara said. “The Old Gods will guide you from here.”

Raine frowned. “You’re not coming with us?”

“The Old Gods possess far more knowledge on the threat before us than we are familiar with.” She explained. “They’ll be able to ensure you’re prepared for what is to come. Since we once had a connection to the mortal realm, we were entrusted with bringing you here to begin your journey.”

Tyril bowed his head. “We thank you for all you’ve done to guide us.”

“Please, be careful.” Ellara’s brows furrowed in sorrow. “Our people have suffered enough.”

Xaius and Ellara bid them farewell before turning back down the path, leaving them to gaze up at the looming tower.

All Raine knew was that with a mysterious winged figure lurking in the shadows, sudden earthquakes and a protective barrier warding the city, something was coming for Elhalas.

Something even the gods themselves feared.

[seashellsdiary]

Dark Fire

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow

Characters: Tyril Starfury (no pairing)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Fantasy violence, blood

Length: 4k words

Summary: Kaya returns to Undermount from her research expedition, but Tyril quickly realises that not all is as it seems.

Characters and lore belong to Pixelberry Studios.

@choicesficwriterscreations

A/N: Aaaah it’s the Kaya duel! I wanted to write this so badly and it took a little longer than expected and parts of it were a bit challenging but I’m pretty proud with how it turned out!

(Image from Pinterest)

The Starfury Manor was crowded with elves from all over Undermount in anticipation for the annual Ancestral Masquerade. They filled the gilded halls, murmuring amongst themselves in excitement and exchanging pleasantries along with gossip under more hushed tones, as large social gatherings always brought.

A hush rippled across the crowd as Tyril Starfury rose to the dais, his silken cape flaring behind him as he walked. He lifted a glass in his hand as he stood overlooking the guests. It was his duty as host of the masquerade to make the first speech.

“It is my personal privilege to welcome you, esteemed guests, to this year’s Ancestral Masquerade. Tonight we shall honour the memory of those who came before us as we partake in ceremonial revelry and reflect on the great battles and sacrifices our race has made in order for us to be standing here today.” He paused for a brief moment as his words took hold, before raising his glass skyward. “Most of all, remember to enjoy yourselves, and may the spirits of our ancestors shine bright upon you.”

“May they shine bright always.” The elves murmured, lifting their own glasses in toast. Tyril stepped back down, feeling pleased with himself and taking a moment to gaze across the ballroom as the guests slowly returned to their conversations.

“That was a truly inspiring speech, brother.” Adrina slipped alongside him, eyes sparkling with mischief. Her white hair had been tied into an elegant braid that draped over her shoulder, and a silver mask that matched his own adorned her face. “How long did you spend rehearsing this time, I wonder?”

Longer than he would like to admit. The Ancestral Masquerade was the most anticipated social event of the year, and as host it was his responsibility to ensure everything was perfect. House Starfury had a legacy to uphold, after all.

Tyril felt his face begin to flush at his little sister’s teasing and took a quick sip of honey wine. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the festivities?”

She gave a light laugh, nudging him gently with her elbow. “You worry too much, Tyril. Remember to enjoy yourself tonight as well, you deserve it after going to all this trouble.”

He spared a glance toward the silver signet ring on his finger, catching in the moonlight. Despite being light in weight, it felt heavier as his mind drifted towards his duties as heir to such an esteemed and powerful house. “Of course I will.”

Adrina gave a playful smile before leaving his side to flounce off down the staircase, disappearing among the crowd. Tyril let out a quiet laugh at his sister’s antics before striding down the corridor, the siblings parting their separate ways.

Neither of them knew it at the time, but it would be the last conversation the two would share for an entire year.

An hour passed and the band began to play their instruments, orchestral music filling the halls as the elves made their way towards the dance floor. The guests were dressed in colourful gowns and robes, resembling a kaleidoscope of butterflies as they twirled around the ballroom with natural grace.

Tyril seized the opportunity to take a moment to rest, finding a place among the tables lined with silver wine chalices and golden candelabras, the flames flickering lightly whenever someone passed by. He had spent the past hour greeting the guests and could feel himself beginning to grow weary from all the idle pleasantries and exhausting small talk.

It seemed as though everyone in the city was in attendance, everyone except...

Kaya.

At the thought of his friend Tyril felt his heart ache, he had not heard any news from her since she had left Undermount. She had gone on a research expedition to visit the major archives of Morella in order to gather more knowledge on the Shadow Court and their demise, far beyond the safety of Undermount’s stone walls.

Several months had passed since her departure and he had not received a single letter. He only prayed to his stars that she was well.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay?”

The two elves stood outside in the gardens, colourful flowers blooming in every direction, a cool night breeze softly tousling their hair.

Kaya laughed and the flowers swayed in unison. “I have already made up my mind, Tyril, and all the arrangements have been made for my departure.” She reached down to run a gentle hand across their delicate petals. “Tomorrow I will be leaving Undermount.”

Tyril was silent for a moment as they walked further down the path, the distant humming of crickets doing nothing to ease his worries.

“Are you not afraid?” He asked eventually, his voice gentle.

Her shoulders rose in an elegant shrug. “I find it exciting, to finally be able to see all the beautiful places we’ve only heard stories about.”

Despite his concern, Tyril’s lips pressed into a smile. “Of course you would say that.” Kaya possessed an adventurous spirit, her tenacity and courage greater than anyone he had ever met. He often believed her to be braver than he was.

His smile quickly faded and she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tyril. Just think of all the wonderful stories I’ll be able to tell you once I return.” Kaya’s eyes lit up with excitement. “And all the new discoveries I can share with the Chronicler’s Society! You may have to drag me out of the library when I get back, I fear I will be there for weeks.”

Tyril chuckled softly and they reached the centre of the gardens, sitting on the ledge of a silver fountain. The two sat for a moment wordlessly, watching as fireflies nestled themselves among the twisted vines like golden stars.

“Do you not think it dangerous to go off chasing legends?”

“Dangerous? Perhaps, but sometimes pursuing knowledge is worth that risk.” She dipped her fingers carefully into the moonlit water, ripples forming along the surface as she did so. “And what are legends if not stories? History is but an incomplete narrative, Tyril.”

He looked down solemnly. “History can also repeat itself.”

“It can, but in the end we decide our own fates.” She smiled warmly at him before standing back to her feet, the fabric of her pink dress trailing along the grass as she did so.

He did the same not long after, and they walked back down the garden path. Tyril sighed, having seen that gleam in her eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do to sway her mind, but sometimes her curiosity unnerved him.

They reached the garden’s edge, the arched golden rooftops of the manors slightly visible through the trees. Kaya brushed her hand against his arm, still seeing him on edge. “I will be back before you know it, my friend.”

Tyril nodded. “And you promise to be careful?”

She arched a dark brow, hands on her hips. “Do you not find me capable of defending myself?”

His eyes immediately widened. “That is not what I—“

Kaya laughed again, and he relaxed. “You’re so easy to tease.” She pulled him in for a quick embrace. “But I promise.”

Tyril was ascending the stairwell when he heard a familiar voice from the opposite side of the ballroom. Resting his hands on the cold, iron railing, his gaze drifted over the guests waltzing below until it landed on her.

Even though she wore a mask, Tyril could not mistake the appearance of his best friend. Kaya stood to the side of the room with her back facing him, wearing an elegant dark orange dress that contrasted well with her onyx skin, her jet black hair styled in an elaborate up-do.

He could not conceal the grin that spread across his face, overjoyed to see his friend returned safe. Though he couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t informed him of her arrival, or answered any of his letters. He pushed the thoughts aside as he wove through the crowd, deftly stepping around the dancing couples until he finally reached her side.

She appeared to be engaging in heated discussion with a small cluster of elves, crowded around a statue depicting one of his ancestors.

“Kaya!” His eyes lit up as he placed a careful hand on her arm, smile brightening his face. “I’m so glad to see you home safe, how was your—”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt private conversations?” She snapped, amber eyes ablaze.

Tyril was taken aback by her sudden rudeness and briefly glanced toward the elves she had been speaking to, but they took Kaya’s distraction as a chance to quickly hurry away. “I...apologise.”

She eyed him up and down before giving a disapproving sniff. “You should. I hadn’t even finished telling them how hideous their outfits were, truly an insult to the eyes.”

She shoved her shoulder past his before continuing off down the corridor, leaving him to recollect himself.

Tyril found a whirlwind of thoughts gathering in his mind. Why had Kaya acted out in such a manner? He thought she would have been happy to be back in Undermount, bursting with excitement and ready to regale him with tales of her adventures. Maybe she had gotten hurt during her travels, perhaps she had hit her head? Or maybe she had seen something horrifying that had changed her? With a shake of his head he followed her down the halls, determined to make sure she was okay.

He assumed she was still insulting the guests, if the harsh whispers and angry glares pointed in her direction were any indication. Tyril could make out snippets of their conversations as he breezed past.

“Well I never!”

“After everything we’ve done for her-”

“To show her nothing but kindness all those years and this is how she thanks us?”

He turned the corner just in time to see her take a chalice of blood red wine from the serving tray of a passing waiter, raising the glass briefly to her mouth for a sip before spilling its contents all over a young elven woman’s previously silver gown.

“You—” she spluttered, “you ruined my dress!”

Kaya tilted her head to the side, a vicious smirk playing on her dark lips. “Ruined? If anything I did you a favour, darling, it looks far better with the stain.” She paused for a moment to observe the large, red mark. “Almost like a rose.” The glint in her eyes implied her words held a secret meaning, but Tyril couldn’t understand what.

He watched in horror as Kaya only laughed when the woman gripped her skirts, seething with fury as she stormed towards the open doors of the manor. Something was surely amiss. The Kaya he had grown up with was kind-hearted, filled with warmth and spreading her compassion everywhere she went. He had never seen her behave so cruelly before.

“Kaya,” he placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, dark brows furrowing in concern. “Is everything alright? Are you feeling unwell?”

She turned on her heel abruptly to face him, slapping away his hand, her amber eyes filled with a rage he had never before seen and could not comprehend.

“You again,” Kaya hissed. “Have you nothing better to do than traipse after me like a lost puppy?” A wicked gleam entered her eyes. “Should I find a bone to throw for you, is that it? Would the little lord like to play fetch?”

Tyril took a shaken step back, eyes widening at her outburst. The elves nearby who had witnessed the confrontation were now watching with unveiled interest, whispering excitedly from where they stood by the ivory pillars.

He pulled her aside, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “I don’t know why you’re acting this way. Is something wrong? Do you need to go outside for some fresh air?”

She scowled. “The only thing that’s wrong is your inability to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

Tyril’s eyes narrowed. “I’m only trying to help you, Kaya. The way you’re treating everyone is wrong, and if this rampant behaviour continues I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

She laughed and the sound felt unfamiliar to his ears, devoid of its usual lilting warmth. “You think you can have me escorted from this pitiful event?”

He frowned. “As host of this masquerade and heir to House Starfury I can not only have you removed from the manor, but also excused from any galas or social affairs in the future. You seem to be forgetting that.”

Kaya drummed a fingernail against her lip for a moment, glancing towards the large audience that had gathered around them, clinging to their every word. Tyril hadn’t even noticed them until now, too busy hoping she would snap out of this unseemly behaviour at any moment and come back to her senses.

Instead, he found her taking advantage of their situation, her mouth curling upward in a cruel smirk as a new opportunity presented itself.

She rose her voice louder, so that every elf gathered around could hear what she had to say next. “Well, if you think you’re so much higher than me why don’t we find out first-hand who wields true power?” Kaya took a step forward, eyes daring him. “I challenge you to a duel, for the honour of House Starfury.”

The crowd gasped, and Tyril felt his jaw drop, dread settling in his stomach. “What do you think you’re doing? I don’t want to fight you.”

She shrugged, flicking out a bejewelled hand to inspect her painted nails. “You don’t have a choice, unless you want to watch your house fall into shame at your own cowardice.”

Tyril swallowed, panic seizing his heart. Duels meant everything in Undermount, not merely a form of entertainment but a display of power, strength and superiority. To refuse her challenge would bring shame not only upon him and his House but also everything his family had worked to achieve. Fighting Kaya was the last thing he ever wanted to do, but as much as it hurt he couldn’t allow his house to be jeopardised.

She smiled deviously, watching him ponder her words. The elves watched on in anticipation, awaiting eagerly for his response.

He looked her in the eyes, hand reaching for his sword. “I accept.”

An eerie silence took hold over the manor. Tyril could feel its suffocating presence in the air like a phantom hand grasping his throat, threatening to choke him.

The guests hastily cleared the dance floor, moving to form a large circle around the ballroom so the two duellists had a large enough space to fight.

“Call off the duel and I won’t have to fight you.” Tyril’s sword flashed silver under the moonlight. The thought of fighting Kaya made his heart sting, and he especially didn’t want her to be hurt by his own hand.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Kaya said, stepping forward onto the marbled floor. She held no weapon of her own which only unnerved him further. “But your reluctance to fight is almost pathetic, I thought House Starfury was supposed to be valorous.”

“Please, Kaya.” Tyril frowned, his eyes filled with remorse. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She gave a wicked smile, spreading her arms wide in an expansive, grandiose gesture, as if this was nothing more than a show. “I won’t be the one wounded by the end of this fight, lordling.”

Tyril could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest. His friend seemed like a stranger to him now. “Kaya,” he pleaded again, his gaze sorrowful. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You don’t have to do this.” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Go ahead and forfeit, see where your weakness gets you.”

Tyril’s breath hitched in his throat, and he gave a slight shake of his head. He had been forced into a corner, but he couldn’t back down now. So he squared his shoulders, straightening his back. “Very well, then.”

With that, they began to circle each other slowly. The onlooking elves watched with bated breath as they waited to see which one of them would dare make the first strike.

Time felt like it slowed and then stopped as even the stars watched on from above, ever silent, ever knowing.

Kaya stepped forward, onyx skin bathed in silver moonlight. “This will be over swiftly.”

Before Tyril had time to process what was happening, she summoned a dozen sharp daggers of ice into the air, hurling them towards him with no hesitation. He barely had time to step out of the way, but not before one of the shards nicked his neck on its way past. It sliced through his flesh and he hissed as red blood began to seep out, dripping down his light blue skin.

With the summoning of his magic, amber tendrils of fire coated the sword in his grip as he charged towards her, swinging upright only to be blocked as she suddenly conjured a lance of her own, one made of cold, hardened ice. In one swift movement, she jerked the weapon from his hand and sent it clattering across the floor.

Tyril’s shoulders rose and fell with his heavy breathing. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Intelligent as she was, he knew that Kaya had never studied battle magic in her life. And yet there she stood, wielding her magic as though she were a seasoned warrior.

She gave a sadistic grin, already riling up for her next attack. He could feel the anger coiling around her, tension like a snake preparing to strike.

Weaponless, he brought forth a ball of fire to his hand. The flames lapped harmlessly against his skin and the golden glow reflected in the sky blue fury of his eyes.

He pulled his arm back before casting the fireball towards her, but she deftly sidestepped and it hit the ground with a sizzle.

Kaya laughed coldly as ice crystals danced upon her fingertips. “Is that the best you’ve got? I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

She sent forward another barrage of ice shards, and this time he wasn’t able to dodge fast enough, a dagger piercing through the back of his knee.

He groaned, shifting his weight as he sent a wave of dark fire to block her next attack. And then the next, and the next. It was taking him all his strength just to defend himself, while her flawless midnight skin had not even broken into a sweat.

Eventually the pain in his knee caused his legs to give out, and he groaned weakly, stumbling to the ground.

A dark silhouette fell over him as Kaya loomed above, and she reached forward to stroke his cheek condescendingly, her voice laced with venom and fire. “Had enough?”

Tyril felt himself grow dizzy as something clicked into place, as two words found themselves ringing in his head over and over again.

Shadow Court.

It was the only explanation for why his kind-hearted friend was suddenly behaving so harshly, and for how she had grown so unnaturally and suddenly powerful.

He clenched his jaw, frustrated with himself for not having figured it out sooner. He had always been worried by her fascination with them, even if her intentions were good. It appeared he was right to have been concerned, she must have been corrupted by them while she was away.

He lifted his head from the floor, raven hair falling around his face as he forced himself to meet her gaze, his own filled with terror.

“What happened to you?” He asked, voice quiet as he frantically looked into her eyes, trying desperately to recognise any small semblance of Kaya in them. Trying to see if she was still in there, somewhere. But her eyes that had once been filled with such warmth now only contained unfamiliar hostility and malice.

Kaya did not answer him, merely giving a smug grin as she turned to face the audience, raising her arms skyward in triumph.

“So it appears the esteemed House Starfury isn’t as powerful as they claim to be.” She glared down at him, disapproval burning in her eyes and the crowd began to jeer.

Tyril’s expression was filled with horror as hot tears threatened to spill from his eyes, his cheeks burning violet with shame. Never once had he been defeated in a duel until today, and he cursed himself for allowing himself to be so clumsy, so weak.

His vision blurred as he staggered to his feet, blood soaking through his pants. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Kaya one last time as she leaned forward to seethe a final insult in his ear.

“Run along weakling, you’ve embarrassed yourself enough already.”

Her harsh words pierced him like a lance through the chest. Never in his life had he felt so ashamed, so pathetic.

A sob escaped his throat and he shielded his face with his hands, letting the shameful tears pour down his cheeks like rain as he did the only thing he could.

He ran.

Tyril didn’t stop until he reached the top of the mountain before collapsing with exhaustion. He sat alone in the dust, painful tears streaking his face, the rocky earth hard beneath his knees.

He lifted his head to the night sky and the stars stared back, unblinking.

“Why did you lead me here?” He asked them, his voice coming out in broken fragments, choked out sobs.

He was only met with painstaking silence as the cold caress of an unrelenting wind further dishevelled his already rumpled hair.

His throat tightened as new tears threatened to spill. He had humiliated himself and his House, and now his closest friend was corrupted by darkness, being manipulated as a puppet for the Shadow Court’s own cruel ambitions.

He was the heir to House Starfury, a son of the stars. He could feel their fire burning in his bones, the stardust surging through his veins. In times of doubt he had always looked to them for guidance.

Had his stars abandoned him too?

His entire life he had followed their counsel devotedly, unquestionably. Never once had they led him astray. If this was to be his path then he would walk it in their honour.

He reached a hand upward, trailing a burning path across the sky. Stars weren’t meant to fall or break, they turned their pain into cosmic fire to fuel them onward, blazing until it consumed them alive. That is what his ancestors had done, so he must do the same. To learn to wield his fury as a weapon of destruction and seek justice against those who had wronged him.

His thoughts turned to Kaya, who had been nothing but caring and showed kindness to everyone she met. He wouldn’t allow himself to give up, not while she was being used as a pawn in their vicious cycle of bloodshed, not while darkness tainted the Light she breathed.

He could hear the rumbling of thunder in the far distance, a flash of lightning streaking across the sky beyond the familiar mountains he called home. For a fleeting moment he wondered what the world outside Undermount was like.

He had the chance now to find out.

“To be a blazing light in dark times,” the stars finally whispered, “and let our fury consume any who would harm us...”

All his life he had followed the path the stars had mapped out before him. He stared back at the night sky, eyes burning with newfound resolve. All those constellations that stared back at him, all the legendary heroes he often felt he paled in comparison to, they had forged their own destinies. They had gripped the velvety blanket of the night sky and moulded a path of their own.

He gripped his sword in hand, the muscles in his legs trembling as he hauled himself to his feet.

He would destroy the Shadow Court.

He would restore the honour of his house.

And he would get Kaya back, no matter the cost.

[chikuto]

when you see a calendar do you flip to your birth month to make sure your associated image slaps or are you some sort of freak

[inlocusmads-deactivated20240606]

Supper For Two

When Princess Guinevere is troubled with the oncoming storm of a future, Queen Artura is quick to remind her that certain things will never change.

Pairing: Queen Artura, Princess Guinevere from Guinevere, Choices.

No Warnings/General/WC:895

A/N: So I finally read Guinevere and I'm in..the fourth chapter (non-VIP here lol) AND I JUST FRICKIN LOVE ARTURA OKAY AND SHE'S SO PRETTY. Anyway, this is just pure self-indulgent nonsense I've got going on here.

It was a long and tiring journey to Camelot and Princess Guinevere was quite frankly, exhausted from meeting and greeting aristocrats of various noble ranks. She'd observed that it had something to do with the visions that wore her out so often. In Carmelide, she had servants and helpers who'd listen to her woes as if she were a human being. They'd all mistaken her worries as normal quips; which was common in her case because she'd just been betrothed to the ruler of Camelot and it was a deep and sudden change she must deal with. 

Camelot sang a different song. Here, she couldn't speak up. No. Not when she'd just arrived. What would they think of her? That their Queen Artura was due to wed a wicked witch with horrible nightmarish scenes acting in her head? It wasn't the grandest impression she'd wanted to make. 

"Princess, is everything quite up to your liking?" Queen Artura asked, as they sat at the table for dinner. The Queen being extremely observant had already noticed some visible discomfort. She recalled the events of the day - from their run-in to Sir Lancelot, introducing the Princess to the knights and fixing the Princess' accomodations within the palace. Perhaps it was something to do with an experience; an uncomfortable happening she refused to talk about and hence, caused her to abandon her plate. 

"Yes, everything is just fine."

"Are you not hungry?"

Now, this was a tough question to answer because dare Guinevere respond with, "Yes", she'd be facing quite a strange look from the Queen. And if she responded with a resounding "No", then it would be impolite. The food was more than enough - both for the eyes and the stomach. She took a sip of her wine, before setting the goblet down, as carefully as she could. 

The supper room was calm. Peaceful. Queen Artura was more than willing to arrange a secluded supper for just the both of them to get properly acquainted. It must've broken her; to not eat with her Knights as she'd always intended it to be. After all, she wouldn't eat until everyone else was served. Guinevere had heard of Queen Artura's hospitality but was never lucky enough to watch it firsthand. 

Once again, silence fell between them. 

It was mocking her. Mocking her and her visions because someday they'd all be ablaze. Someday Guinevere would walk through the fire and the burned stones and look at the dead with no remorse in her eyes and none in her heart. And perhaps, a part of her wanted to stop it. To put an end to everything. But it wasn't as easy as her conscience made it sound like. 

"Here -- please let me." 

Queen Artura didn't wait for a response. She took hold of a silver spoon, gathered some of the finest cooked meat and raised it until the spoon was just inches away from the Princess' mouth. Guinevere didn't understand. Her body became numb and a sudden rush of blood made the residual shock hard to digest. 

Queen Artura was holding a spoon to her. She was feeding her. A gesture that could've made even a court jester shake their head with disbelief and would've made the most uptight of ministers shrug their shoulders with disappointment. 

"I can understand how long and tiresome the journey to Camelot might have been. I believe you might require some time to get some adequate rest. Until then, I insist you eat. At least a little."

Guinevere nodded, too polite to eat it right out of the spoon but too impolite to refuse it kindly. She opened her mouth and chewed on the spoonful, grasping reality with each bite. Queen Artura continued to feed her bits of her supper, while Princess Guinevere, turned to the ceiling and the marbled columns and the intricate paintings, as a way to distract herself. She couldn't bear to maintain a proper eye-to-eye contact with the Queen herself. What would she even do? Bearing a smile would be childish, if not an assault to courtly decorum.

 But they weren't at court, were they? She didn't have to avert her eyes. 

Slowly, Guinevere's newfound confidence caused her to look deeply at her betrothed; fascinated with her greenish-blue eyes and her hair - as bright as the Sun would be - tied into an elegant style. It was difficult to look away and of course, of course, she was here as a political arrangement; to bring about peace and change. Perhaps it was all neatly laid out for her, but that didn't mean she had to look away, put her head down and never look back again and bedridden by her visions. 

"A little better now?" Queen Artura's voice was akin to a melodious song that was welcome to disrupt the Princess from her grievances and longing for home again; a harp playing in the middle of destruction and bloodshed. Guinevere was certain her heart had stopped. Though she was a well-to-do royal, it didn't exactly subtract the torments she'd undergone and didn't negate a tumultuous life after her mother's passing and all that talk about war and peace and things she was coerced into. 

Guinevere turned to Artura and nodded a "Yes"; a new sense of adoration in her eyes. She was happy, just for a moment and hoped that it would never end. 

___

A/N: I'm tagging my Perma, so here you go people:

Perma: @trappedinfanfiction @tessa-liam @writing-not @peonierose @quixoticdreamer16

So.. I guess I'm writing for Guinevere now?

Honestly I did not expect it to be anything. PB and historical/mythological fiction was an unfamiliar combination and I was afraid they were going to handle it in a very.. PB-way. But I was just blown away! And that's not just because of Artura, all right? And so far, so good! I like this retelling and it is absolutely fascinating and the fact that the characters already have been established and introduced in this really efficient way is just.. top notch writing from PB's part.

I also had to write this because, y'know.. it was a three AM idea and now it's five in the morning.

Anyway if you'd like to be tagged for Guinevere (boy it is hard to spell her name!), please let me know! Keep in mind that I don't have VIP, so I'll only be writing about chapters that are released to the public.

Cheers, Mads.

[masonsbfgaming]

trystan is the type of person to get second place in a trystan thorne lookalike contest

[memewhore]

[collidedscope]

the “bad guys” in hallmark movies end up always being the most respectful men ever.

because they will find out their girlfriend of 3 years (that they were about to propose to) went off to a random farm in minnesota, hours away from were the two of them built a life together, and she decided to just… stay there without even consulting him.

and then he decides to take a trip to make sure she’s okay, because this is generally alarming behavior, and then sees that she literally fell in love with her ex within one (1) week- and he wasn’t there, but you can TELL that they’ve made out a couple times.

and then she just strings him along for a few days, until fucking christmas eve, when she just breaks up with him and is like “i know we used to have the same values, but i’ve never loved you. mark makes me happier than you ever did. and you ONLY care about work, whereas i like christmas and fun, like a Good Person.”

and then, after finding out his entire relationship was a lie and he had his life turned upside down in a week and he got dumped on christmas, this guy’s just like “ok yeah that makes sense. i only wish you the best of happiness with mark. i hope you guys build a great life together in christmastreefarmville. thank you for everything.”

[teashoesandhair]

An AU where two Hallmark Christmas Bad Guys are both getting flights back to New York after being dumped by their respective Smalltown Blonde Girlfriends, and they bond over their shared experiences and fall in love in the departures lounge

[ghostcasket]

@teashoesandhair your wish is my command :)

Probably, Levi should be more upset.

Probably he is still in shock. Right? He looks out of his taxi window (it's not technically a taxi, just some guy named Corey who offered him a ride to the airport, because Uber doesn't operate in fucking Tinyville, Bumfuck Middle-Of-Nowhere, Utah) and tracks water droplets racing each other down the glass, because of course it's raining, and his bad knee is killing him. 

Levi sniffs and rubs at his eyes and then pulls out his phone and books a ticket back to New York, wincing as four hundred and twenty-six dollars are deducted from his bank account. 

And, like, he should definitely be more upset.

He just got broken up with. He was engaged, for God's sake. A four-year relationship… over. Just like that. 

Corey says, "Ten minutes to the station." 

Probably he'll be more upset once he's home. When he starts packing up Anika's stuff into boxes so she can come collect them after New Year's. He'll have to do all that processing and he'll put away all the pictures that are up and probably he'll remember all the good times they had together and flashes of their relationship will play out in slow motion in his mind. Like a movie montage.

Levi catches his reflection in the passenger side window and starts, pulling his thumb out of his mouth. He hadn't even noticed he'd started biting the nail.

Corey drops him off at the train station and he books a ticket to Salt Lake City and Levi wants to tip him for the ride but when he turns back the car's gone, and it's started snowing again.

He re-wraps his scarf so it covers his ears and turns back. He has to jog—ow ow ow—to catch his train.

Once arrived at the airport, Levi's gotten over being baffled and has started being mildly pissed. 

You're obsessed with work, Anika told him. You barely make time for us anymore. Yeah, he'd had to pull some long hours for the last few months, but for good reason—he'd been working towards a huge promotion and a raise and he thought she'd be happy for him.

He'd gotten the promotion, by the way. Editor in chief. He'd tried calling her first, a whole bunch of times, and then she hadn't picked up, so he'd decided Well, fuck it, and flew out to Doodootown, Utah to break the news himself.

He thought it would be nice. Spend the few remaining days before Christmas with Anika and her family in their hometown, then flying back home for Christmas and New Year's and starting 2023 off with renewed vigour and excitement. 

Then, of course, Anika told him that she wouldn't be flying back with him for Christmas. Or at all. 

Which, well. Okay. 

She didn't even congratulate him.

He checks in, and the lady at the desk asks him whether he wants to drop off his carry-on luggage for free, since the plane is very full, and Levi shrugs and says okay and watches his suitcase disappear behind black rubber flaps.

His flight leaves in four hours. 

Levi decides to pay the extra fee so he can stay in the fancy lounge, because he thinks he probably deserves that at this point. It's quiet here, though, so he orders a tea and claims a table over by the window, stretching out his right leg with a contented sigh. 

There's an empty table in front of him, but at the next one sits a man who looks so miserable it's impressive.

The man is slouched in his chair, dark hair mussed and suit a little ruffled. The cuffs of his slacks are damp, and so are his knees. He's leaning his head against the window, eyes closed, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. A purple bruise is starting to form on his cheekbone.

Levi stares.

Damn. And he thought he was having a rough day. 

Should he say something? Probably not, right. Like, that would be weird, right? 

Then he notices the small, black velvet ring box the man is fiddling with and it's like all the air's punched right out of his lungs.

Damn. 

Levi looks down and takes a sip of his tea, then hisses and curses under his breath because it's still way too hot and he's an idiot. 

When he looks up again, the man is eyeing him with mild amusement.

And there are a hundred thousand ways that Levi could have handled the situation, but before he can think about ways to not embarrass himself further he hears himself say, "Ouch. Haha."

Somebody please shoot him. 

The man raises an eyebrow. Levi gives an awkward cough, then takes another sip of tea and somehow feels betrayed when it burns his tongue again.

"Maybe you should give it a second," the man says. 

"Maybe," Levi says, "I should." His ears are burning. 

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas plays over the speakers. 

Levi desperately wants to ask about the ring box. And the bloody nose. And whether there's a correlation. But then again it is so definitely not his business, so he just stares down at his tea and watches steam rise. 

There's a sharp sigh from across the table. "She said no." 

Levi's head snaps up, ready to defend himself, because it's not like he actually asked, but then the guy looks so tired and bitter that he immediately deflates and feels both like an asshole and an idiot.

"I'm sorry," he offers, which still feels lame but better than whatever he had going on before.

The guy gives a wry smile. "Gonna, you know. Return this. She, uh, said no to the whole relationship. So."

Ah. 

"I'm sorry," he says, running a hand over his face, "I don't mean to dump all this on you."

"Oh, no, it's okay," Levi says quickly, and then before he can think about it too much, he adds, "I get it."

The other guy looks immediately doubtful. 

Levi bites the inside of his cheek. "Four years," he says with a shrug. "Engaged and everything." He gives a thumbs down and blows a raspberry. 

"Aw, shit, dude," he says, sitting up straight. He removes the tissue from his face, and seeing as he's no longer bleeding, stuffs it in his pocket. "That sucks."

Levi shrugs again, suddenly weirdly self-conscious. He traces the rim of his teacup with a finger. "Yeah, well. I didn't get beat up about it." There's a moment of silence, then he sneaks another glance. "Levi, by the way."

A corner of the guy's mouth twitches. "Xavier Ortega." 

Levi gives a half-hearted salute. "Fuckin', enchanté. Or whatever."

Again, Xavier almost smiles. Levi thinks—Levi thinks he'd like to see Xavier smile. Properly. 

And then he thinks, What. 

No, he's just—Xavier just looks like he could do with a cheer-up. That's it. And, well, so could he, really. They're both in similar boats. Although it looks like Xavier got the shorter end of the straw here, Levi thinks, considering his ruined suit and, you know, face. Still a nice face, though. Symmetrical. Strong cheekbones. Dark eyebrows over dark eyes and a straight nose and—whatever. 

Whatever.

He just got broken up with. 

God, why's he trying to justify this to himself? Why is he feeling weird about this? He's not even gay. And even if he—even if he was, it's not gay to acknowledge that a guy is good-looking. 

But, like, it's fine. He's not—whatever.

Xavier has a split lip, he notices now that the tissue's not hiding half his face. "Got you good, huh?" 

Xavier rolls his eyes. He looks away for a moment, hesitating, then stands up and pulls the chair from the table between them, spinning it around and flopping back down at Levi's table. 

Levi thinks he must look quite surprised, because Xavier says, "I mean, this is easier for conversation purposes. Unless you're fine with the yelling across tables situation—"

"No, no," Levi protests. "No, you're right, this is—easier." He clears his throat and says, "So, what was her name?" before mentally kicking himself, but Xavier just looks at him weird.

"Well, her name is Chloe. We just broke up, she didn't die."

Levi nods, puckering his lips. Right, yeah. Yes. "Is she… nice?"

"Well, she cheated on me."

"Ha," Levi says with no humour. "Samesies."

Xavier lets out a dry chuckle at this, then rubs at his eyes. "Wow. Happy Christmas to us, right?" 

Levi raises his teacup and gives a ghost toast. "Merry Christmas to us." He downs his tea, which is at a palatable temperature now, then says, "Do you want a drink?" 

-

So Chloe and Xavier had been together for almost five years. The whole story is… disturbingly similar to Levi's whole deal, actually. Chloe decides, two weeks before Christmas, to take a trip back to her hometown, gets pissed when Xavier can't just take ten days off work to come with her, goes anyway on her sister's advice, meets up with her childhood nemesis who turns out not to be so bad after all and also cleaned up unfair nice, and then when Xavier went after her because hey, she hadn't been answering his texts and he was planning to pop the question over the holidays, she decided to dump him.

"She looked me in the face," Xavier says, head in hands, "and told me she was happier there than she'd ever been with me." He looks up and runs his fingers through his hair. "And I mean, sure, we'd had our rough patches, but, you know. We were gonna work it out."

Levi hums. "Yeah, no. I get it."

"So I said, Are you fucking serious right now, and I guess I raised my voice a bit, and then Mr Goddamn Farm Guy comes storming out and squares up to me and I don't even know who this dude is, and I tell him to get out of my face, and he fucking decks me. Like, completely unprompted."

"Rough," Levi says solemnly. 

"Yeah," Xavier says, exasperated. "And he didn't even apologise."

Levi whistles low. It's quiet for a moment while they both nurse their drinks, then Xavier vaguely gestures at him and says, "So what's your Christmas Tragedy?"

Levi gives a lopsided grin. "Well. Anika goes home to Middle Of Nowhere, Utah, 'cause she said she wasn't feeling great. Wants me to go with her, I can't 'cause I'm pulling long hours for an upcoming promotion, she's pissed. When she gets back there she rekindles things with her ex—"

"Augh," Xavier says. "Brutal."

"—and last I heard the plan was for them to start a combination bakery and tearoom together. So." Levi grits his teeth. "Hope that works out for them."

Xavier looks at him over his glass, then, after a moment of careful silence, says, "You're allowed to be mad at her, you know."

"Fuck her," Levi says immediately. "Like, seriously. Why even get engaged to me if she was so miserable? Just break up with me instead of, fuckin', cheating, and then acting like I'm insane for going to check on her after she just ignores all my calls and texts and goddamn emails. We were going to get married in February, for fuck's sake. Fuck her." He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes til he sees stars. 

There it is. The upset. Figures that it's the saying it out loud that really drives home how betrayed Levi feels. Especially when he's talking to someone whom he doesn't have to explain it to, because Xavier gets it. Xavier gets it better than anyone ever will, probably. 

It's not quite the movie montage Levi had been preparing for. Rather, what Levi remembers now are all the moments that Anika said things that cut, or did things that bruised. How she'd roll her eyes when Levi got so excited he got the wiggles. How she refused to entertain the idea of getting a dog, even after he begged. How she'd get annoyed with him when his knee acted up and told him to suck it up and stop being such a crybaby. How she'd give him the cold shoulder when she was upset with him and he couldn't read her mind about it and let it build until she exploded out of nowhere. 

Little things that didn't seem like such a big deal in the time, but that added up to something like a balm for the sharp sting of betrayal.

Because that's what it is, at its core. That's why Levi is angry.

More betrayal than heartbreak.

And even though it will hurt for a while still, there's something that tastes oddly like relief at the centre of his chest, cool and welcome like a breeze on a suffocating July afternoon.

Xavier stays silent. After a moment Levi blinks hard and opens his eyes and finds Xavier looking at him strangely. 

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Fuck 'em." 

Levi's stomach squeezes.

He glances wildly around, trying to find anything to look at that isn't Xavier's face, and settles for the screen hanging from the ceiling that displays flight information. 

"Oh, look at that," he says. "I should get to my gate." 

"Right," Xavier agrees quickly. "Yeah, of course, so should I." He picks up his leather briefcase. "Where are you going, by the way?"

Levi laughs. "How wild would it be if we were on the same flight, huh?" He stands up and winces, ignoring Xavier's questioning look. "New York City. The 9:15. You?"

Xavier's eyebrows shoot up. Levi's jaw drops. "You're fucking kidding."

They make their way over to gate B9 mostly in silence, a general air of What the fuck is happening hanging between them. Not quite uncomfortable, but definitely baffled. 

"So this is weird, right," Levi says, dropping into a boarding zone chair. "Like, really weird."

"Right," Xavier says softly. Then, eyes trained on the huge Christmas tree and determinedly not looking at Levi, he adds, "Cool, though."

Levi is—Levi is a little speechless. "Yeah." He feels kind of floaty. He can't stop looking at Xavier's ears, because the tips have gone red. "Yeah. Pretty cool."

God. Fuck.

-

Their seats aren't next to each other, because that would have been crossing the line from freaky coincidence into absolutely fucking insane, but Levi pulls some strings and switches seats with the nice lady who’s next to Xavier, because it’s an exit row seat with more leg room and he has a bad knee. He tries not to look too pleased with himself as he sits down. 

Xavier gives him a look. “So do you actually have a bad knee, or…”

Levi slaps a scandalised hand to his chest. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such a thing. You think I’d lie about being disabled?” 

“I don’t know you that well.” 

“And here I thought we had something.” Levi sighs. “I broke my kneecap when I was a teenager. Never healed right.” 

“Ah. Sports? Don’t tell me you were a football kid.” 

Levi doesn’t know why he feels suddenly bashful. He always feels kind of stupid telling people how he got his injury; the reactions usually range somewhere between mild disapproval and straight up judgment. “Uh, no. Parkour. Actually.” 

Xavier’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline. 

After a moment of questioning silence, Levi shrugs. “I misjudged the distance between ledges. Fractured my kneecap. But I was stupid and an idiot, also, so I didn’t wait for it to fully heal before going back out, and now I am a human weather antennae.” 

“Huh.” Levi would say Xavier looks almost impressed. Mostly sort of exasperated, though. “You know what, now that you say it, I feel like that checks out.” 

Levi narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you look like the type who would break his kneecap doing parkour.”

“And what kind of type is that?” Levi is halfway to miffed and sort of offended, but then Xavier grins wide and he forgets to be annoyed. 

“You tell me.” 

It sounds too much like an invitation to be a coincidence. 

Levi can’t remember the last time he spent so many hours talking uninterrupted. Or, well, talking to someone who was actually listening to him and actively engaging in conversation. Someone who was interested in him. 

Levi can’t remember the last time he enjoyed talking to someone this much. 

He cracks a joke that makes Xavier laugh softly, and the noise goes straight through his spinal cord like an electric shock, and then it becomes a game, a challenge, trying to make Xavier laugh like that again. 

Xavier shows him pictures of his dog, a wonderfully fluffy brown-and-grey mutt named Captain, and Levi thinks he might actually pass away over how cute he is. 

“I always wanted a dog,” he says after cooing over a picture of Captain showing his belly for ten minutes. “Like, really bad. I want a dog so bad. But Anika doesn’t, so it never happened.” 

“Well,” Xavier says loftily, “Nothing’s stopping you now, is there?” 

That is an excellent point. Levi tells him so. 

Then he starts thinking about how nice it will be to have the apartment to himself for a while, and then he feels guilty for being relieved about it, about Anika not being there, and then he ponders how weird it’ll be to be alone for Christmas. 

Levi's never been alone for Christmas before. 

His family lives in Alberta, and he can't really afford another short notice round flight, and anyway the plan this year had been just him and Anika, and they'd had a reservation for brunch on Christmas day, and Levi thinks he should probably cancel that, and that's just a fucking bummer.

After a moment of thinky silence, Levi quietly asks, "What are you gonna do for Christmas?" 

Xavier blows out a long breath. "I don't know. I think I'll try to see my sisters. They live a state over, though, and it's all very last minute, I—we—were supposed to spend it at Chloe's, and I'm not big on Christmas celebrations myself, you know, my family's culturally Jewish, so… I'm not sure."

Most of the rest of the flight is quiet, and a little sad, but also nice, and when the seatbelt light flicks on and the crew announces the imminent descent Levi can't help but feel a pang of disappointment.

The plane lands. Impatience in the cabin spikes; everyone wants to get home, it's the holidays, it's cold. Levi gets up and winces, catches Xavier's eye as he reaches for his bag and hands it to him. 

Xavier is gonna call a cab. Levi is as well. 

They're standing outside.

Levi shoves his hands in his pockets. 

"Well," Xavier says.

"Right."

"It was nice meeting you, Levi. The circumstances were… less than ideal, maybe, but…" 

Levi looks at him. A purple bruise is blossoming on his cheekbone, crawling up around his eye. The tip of his nose is red from the cold. His eyes are dark but if he pays very close attention he can tell where the iris ends and the pupil begins. 

And okay. Okay.

He might be a little gay.

"But nice," he whispers.

Xavier smiles, looks down. Is it—would it be totally weird to ask for his number?

But then Xavier's cab is there, and he tips an imaginary hat at Levi before turning away. He hands the driver his luggage.

The sharp stab of panic between his ribs takes Levi totally by surprise. As does the fact that when he blinks he's closed the distance between him and the cab and is holding onto the door.

Xavier looks at him, eyebrows raised.

Levi didn't plan this far ahead, or at all. He blinks, feeling rather sheepish, then when Xavier's eyebrows start disappearing into his hairline he blusters, all at once, "So I have a brunch reservation. On Christmas Day. I was, you know, supposed to go with Anika, but, you know. And it would suck to have to cancel. And it doesn't have to be weird, or anything, we're just two guys being dudes, getting brunch." He snaps his mouth shut, absolutely horrified. What the fuck was that?

Xavier's mouth parts a little. 

God. Shitballs. Fuck. Abort. "But that would be weird, right? You know what, never mind, it's fine, forget I said anything, it's—"

"Levi," Xavier says, exasperated. He covers his face with his hands. Then he says, muffled, "Yeah, okay. That sounds nice. I'd like that." 

Oh. 

"Are you—are you sure?" 

He must sound really incredulous, because Xavier snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure." 

Slowly, Levi grins. "Okay."

"Okay." They stand there for a moment, and then Xavier's eyes go wide and he says, "Wait, I should—hold on." He digs in his pocket and pulls out his wallet, hesitates, then pulls out a small rectangular object and holds it out.

Levi's grin goes lopsided. "Xavier Ortega. Are you handing me your business card right now?"

To his credit, Xavier looks away sheepishly. "My phone number's on there."

Levi accepts the card, hoping passionately that Xavier doesn't notice his hand is shaking. "Okay. I'll text you, then."

"Okay," Xavier says. Then, tentatively, "See you soon, then?"

Levi takes a deep breath and steps back, cheeks burning, and probably not just because of the bite of winter chill. Something in his stomach twinges, and he says, "Yeah. See you soon."