Fanfics and OC content.
Minors proceed with care.
Occasional mentions of violence and sexual themes.
Other than that, enjoy!
https://wolfsbane00.carrd.co/
"When you tell the truth you look different, your eyes change"
- "Thanks for the warning"
"What do you mean?"
- "I mean I better not do it again."
Atomic Blonde (2017) Dir. David Leitch
Movies watched in 2024
A highly volatile piece of technology had been stolen from an MI6 courier. Suspected involvement with highly trained counterintelligence warrants the presence of 007 and the recently appointed Quartermaster himself.
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Content: Multi-chapters, 18+, mentions of violence and probably smut down the line. :p
A/N: I recently rewatched James Bond again, and the love I have for this ship is beyond unhealthy so here's a treat for fellow 00Q fanatics.
This is set sometime after Skyfall.
In which Bond has the fattest crush ever, honestly.
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CHAPTER II.
This was the handiwork of FSB agent Zhenya K., the very same operative responsible for a seismic leak at Interpol some years back, whose monitoring since has been a colossal effort.
Put up against the natural course of time, this leak's harrowing consequences faded in the minds of ever-changing MI6 staff. New terrors manifest every other day, and eventually, the big bad wolf of now fades into the topic of casual chit-chat at the coolers until it resurfaces to give everyone a great big headache.
"CCTV surveillance last recorded her around here." Q looked up briefly to point out a lavish townhouse, then returned to his laptop, his fingers working the keyboard like a manic pianist. When he was certain the earbuds were in working order, he passed them to Bond like spare change, his mind already migrated to something else in his mental checklist.
As Bond watched the young Quartermaster, a piece of information returned to him. Moneypenny had mentioned in passing that this was Q's first time operating in the field. If Q hadn’t been less verbal than usual, Bond would've never guessed. He'd followed the ritual without a hitch since they left the hotel.
It is one thing to remain tethered in an office miles away from danger, and then there is the real threat of physically being in it. To someone without years of exposure to direct violence, even the potential alone could be a heavy load. Bond couldn’t sympathise fully anymore, but he can remember the first kills.
As Bond was putting in his earbud, he rested his other hand gently on the younger man's shoulder, which caused him to stiffen more than he already was. Q looked up for the first time since they entered the car with a puzzled look and was met with something tender.
That ice-capped gaze that made most people scurry and hide was saying something gentle without a sound, and briefly, the men exchanged the faintest of smiles before they returned to reality.
Back to business.
As smoothly as breathing, Bond checked the cartridge, then smoothed the fabric of his dark long sleeves; a brief run of his fingers through his hair as the final count before he opened the door.
"Good luck, 007"
Bond paused for a beat, then nodded at the young man. He always found Q's finishing touch comforting.
Bond enters the house through the back door with a deceptively small and efficient decryption device courtesy of the Q branch. The lights were off, the only sign of life being a faint tune humming from upstairs as if it was luring him in. He couldn't detect a voice amongst the sombre jazz, no footsteps either, only running water and his sturdy heartbeat.
So he followed the melody up to the third floor, positioned, poised to shoot all the while thanking the homeowner's aesthetic choice of carpeted floors for his muffled steps.
When he was finally pressed up behind a wall separating the corridor and the only room with lights switched on, he heard a window being pulled open harshly. Shit.
Bond rounded the corner, narrowly avoiding a bullet, during the brief seconds Bond took to recenter, she slipped through the opening with the case in hand. It seemed something tipped her off, but he didn't have time to analyse his mistake. The hunt was on, and he leapt out of the window onto a neighbouring ledge, an uneven terracotta roof that shook with every rushed step.
The target is remarkably fast considering the weight she's carrying. He is now running at top speed, the adrenaline pulsing in his veins, silencing everything else around him as he steps out of her bullet path one after the other. Bond is now 007; all that he is condensed into one objective, and he’s willing to bet his mortality to win.
After some daring stunts and high-speed home invasions, his lungs were beginning to seriously burn, a harsh reminder of his limits. His bad knee started to creak, pressuring him to end the pursuit.
He managed to close in on her, but just as he reached out, one of the tiles slipped from its place, sending Bond careening off the roof. He clung onto the rain grate seconds before falling off the edge. With that same momentum, he directed the swing up to fire his Walther and luckily managed to put a hole right in the middle of her right leg, subduing her.
He found her clinging to the edge with one hand, the other gripping the handle of the case so tightly he could tell by the look in her eyes she was fighting whether to protect the case or her own life. At her creative string of profanities, Bond only looked on completely vacant, with a hand outstretched, beckoning for the case.
He continued to watch her inner turmoil play out on her features, making no move to ease her situation.
"The case." He waited and waited; he had no reason to press her as it seemed like she was edging towards an answer, but as she lifted the case to him, the sound of a gunshot broke the air, iron and wetness everywhere as Bond fell back against the roof. He could feel the wetness sprayed across his face.
Someone shot her off the edge, and along with her body, the case fell to the ground with a gnarly sound upon impact.
"Fuck!"
Q, who'd remained silent over the comms since Bond entered the house, finally spoke.
"007, it seems we've got company-"
"Yes, I noticed Q." Bond bit back harshly as he picked himself up, eyes locked on the motorbike that appeared from nowhere to retrieve the case from the former target's lifeless clutch before speeding off.
"Are you seeing this?"
"Yes, I'm tracking him now, he's headed towards a highway leading out of the city he must be headed towards the airstrip."
Q's voice remained still despite Bond's gnashing. With new intel, Bond rushed down the narrow alley and not so politely annexed a retro-looking bike from a teenage boy preoccupied with a group of girls who only gaped wordlessly in Bond’s direction as he sped off.
For the next tense minutes, Q expertly relayed shortcuts after another, which required sheer luck and being James Bond himself to execute. (This man's pension for borderline suicidal athleticism will never cease to amaze.) Finally, he managed to deliver Bond right behind the shooter, and now it's the battle of motor strength.
"007, get him, if you miss him at the next turn we might lose him."
"Very helpful, Q. Don't suppose you've got magic words to make this bloody thing go faster than a geriatric donkey." Bond caught a sigh from Q.
"That's not very nice"
"Well, do you?"
Bond somehow jokes in his bout of adrenaline madness, as he does, Bond dodges a collision that sends a car flying in a pirouette mid-air as they speed closer and closer towards a line of cement barricade that would effectively cut him and the target into separate tunnels.
"007, you grab that case and I'll do more than recite magic spells." Q barks in an attempt to alleviate the pressure in his chest, which means that, unlike his usually filtered self, the mildly suggestive nature of his outburst was lost on him until it was too late.
Bond despite being under the kind of pressure that would send any normal man into shock honest to god smirked and not that Q could see his face but somehow he was more than sure the agent was absolutely mocking him in that silence.
"Is that a promise?" Bond said this as he sped the poor bike to its maximum, then leapt off onto an adjacent car that was steadily speeding to make the tunnel just behind the target.
He put a bullet into the shooter's hind wheel, sending the bike sliding off the side of the road mere seconds before the shooter made the tunnel. Bond then jumped off, landing quite roughly on his bad shoulder, but was too hopped up on adrenaline to notice.
He found the target in a gruesome position, confirming he did not survive the crash.
"007 status report"
"Target eliminated, I've got the case"
"Is it damaged?"
"No"
"Good, excellent, well done, 007. We are on our way to you now."
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They were driven outside of the city to a barren valley with no sign of civilisation. It was all rocky mounds with patches of green here and there, it looked apocalyptic and perhaps that's fitting for what they’re about to do.
The two men hurried to flat ground, Bond and Q dropped their respective rucksacks to the dirt and then swiftly began unpacking the items into separate groups.
Q made as many deductions as he could manage about the contents of the case and brought several sets of bomb diffusing kits tailored to various types of explosives. A separate set should it be a biological component and several decryption tools of his own making.
Beside Q is a vigilant James Bond. As the quartermaster got busy organising tools for the operation, he remained on his feet with a rifle sturdy in his hands. The clearing leaves them vulnerable, but it was the closest location to extract the contents without compromising on time.
Bond finally crouched when he could sense no threat but his eyes continued to sweep along the mounds. The extraction process frankly makes him nervous; the not being able to dictate the process is something he'll always have a hard time trusting. Q had never failed him throughout the few times they'd worked together, and he is undoubtedly one of the brightest minds currently living, but the threat of what's inside chafed at him regardless.
When Bond peered behind him, Q was finally starting the process. In the same way, he easily became the young man behind the moniker, Q switched on his genius to tackle the threat. His focus is singular, effectively erasing just about everything around him save for the screen embedded in the case.
Q reached for a box containing a cubic machine with several wires attached and began to plug it into the exposed sockets on the case. The screen in the case blinks to life displaying complex web pixels to which Q starts typing long numeral sequences attempting to untangle the abstract lock.
"Pandora, do be careful with that." Bond eager to assess the threat tried to draw out something from Q but his effort when wholly ignored.
Q’s rapid punching of numbers continued until eventually the screen lifted from its mechanism exposing a screwed lid, what Bond assumed is housing the chip powering the case’s elaborate lock mechanism. Q started to unscrew the impossibly tiny screws but as he did a beeping sound announced itself, this made the two men pale.
"Should I be saying my final words?" Bond joked again, but his face did not match the tone.
“If my little one here serves its purpose you might not have to" Bond frowned at this, noting the use of ‘might’
"Q, Is that you saying you're not sure?"
"Not unsure, just calibrating, the lock mechanism on this case is not something I’m familiar with" Too candid. Q delivered this in a cold, analytical, and uncaring tone, Bond’s inquiry more a nuisance than anything he could be bothered to explain in the face of this deadly puzzle.
"That's unsure" Q was determined to ignore this, but when Bond attempted to reach for his hand, Q swatted him away.
"Oh, for Christ's sake! No, Bond, calibrating means I'm still figuring the bloody thing out. Would you like to die arguing semantics, or would you like to not be vaporised? Let me do my fucking job!”
Loud and clear. Bond squinted at him, and it's remarkably communicative, not to casual acquaintances but to those who've been around him enough to see more than a smirk or his resting poker face. Experts would conclude: "You little shit"
"Yes, I much prefer the silent brooding." Despite the alarming beeps, the cubic toy, Q’s trump card, seemed to have finished its battle with the ominous pixels. It announced its task done with a beep and Q with clinical precision, unscrewed the lid to reveal sets upon sets of tiny wires connected to the central chip.
“Bond, I need your help” Bond assumed that the lack of beeping meant they were in the clear, but that was just the first layer because a countdown had started on the screen once again.
“Bond”, Q repeated. The agent quickly moved to the opposite end of the case, grabbing the equipment laid out and quickly familiarising them with his grip.
His heart rate felt prominent before, but now it’s hurling itself against his ribcage, fighting its way out of his chest. He could feel the wetness at the back of his shirt, and Q looked no less dishevelled.
"Alright, hold onto this wire", Bond complies, willing himself to do some meditative breathing only to make sure he is still in fact breathing. It won't do if his hands begin to shake.
"And?"
"Shut up, I'm thinking" Q was angling his wrist in different directions like he was choreographing the approach.
"This one here, Bond", Q points at one of the blue wires, and Bond cuts it swiftly, only for it to backfire. The two cocked their heads to the timer only to see it cut by half. They now have exactly 10 seconds to disable the bomb.
"Why is the timer down by half!" Bond roared.
"Fuck.." Q genuinely seemed stressed, and that was one of the most terrifying things to witness. His life is put completely at the Quartermaster’s will, and he’s being all too revealing.
"Which one do I cut!"
"...."
"Q!"
"Here the red one on three" The men's focus now clung to one another, They breathed in sequence 1...2...3...both wires were snipped, disabling the counter, and the screen that displayed their impending doom dimmed into nothing.
There were successions of clacking sounds, and then the contents were revealed to them. Three vials sit neatly in their casing, inside which is a clear liquid that seems harmless if not for the several layers of clear casing and a series of interlocking lids. Identification will have to be done at the headquarters' secure labs.
Q hurried to the task, reassembling the case back to its initial state, effectively lifting the thick sense of doom permeating between them both.
A gust of wind exited Q as he put his tongs down into the kit box, and Bond threw them away as if they were burning his hands. They were both so taken by the sheer relief of not being exploded to pieces that the contents of that case no longer mattered.
They were both panting, staring at one another wildly as their chemicals hijacked their central control. Nothing was processing, no signals were going in or out, only sensations.
If you asked Q, he would not be able to describe what happened in the seconds leading up to this. Bond seemed to lunge at him in slow motion with a look on his face like he was going to rip him in half, but it wasn't pain Q felt, no, he didn't get punched across the face for his life-threatening error.
He's now at this moment being kissed by James fucking Bond.
His eyes fluttered shut out of instinct and shock. He was stone still, and only after long seconds later did he notice Bond’s lips gliding against his own, and he was kissing him back without realising it.
It was a tangled mess, like all the stress translated into a heated momentum. Finally, shaking hands pushed at James’s chest, and Q stared at him wide-eyed, lips beet red, and his glasses lopsided.
"Bond wh-"
"Sorry- I" He looked no less puzzled, which is bizarre on Bond's usually unreadable face. Q could see Bond bare for a brief second before they went cold again. The agent turned away, suddenly packing up the tools scattered around them with a very telling efficiency.
As Bond ferociously packed, Q lagged slightly behind, starting on the kit closest to him, unable to process the situation. All things considered, Bond's intentions were not concealed despite the surprise; what bothered Q was that he wanted more. So far, he'd been denying any attraction to the man, deciding it's a surface-level appreciation considering the agent's appeal and, well, his own lack of sex life.
Do I want him?
Before Q could reach out to him, the agent got up from his spot on the ground, along with two rucksacks slung on one shoulder to avoid the one he landed on. He staggered a little as he rose and began to limp in the direction of the van without a single word.
The ride back to the hotel was in uncomfortable silence. Neither one of the men looked at the other as they quietly processed the events. This silence extended to their return flight that same evening, without so much as a look shared between the two men as they parted ways after a dispatch team retrieved the case from them at the airport.
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“Circe? That better not be you in the office!” Hearing no yowls in response to his call, Q sagged with the kind of exhaustion often seen on new mothers. The little witch in question had recently blossomed into an even more rambunctious teen, worse than she was as a kitten. Q is normally understanding to a fault, often spoiling Circe and Sybill the elder, but not today.
He’d had a particularly bad sleep, the source being the INCIDENT gnawing at him since it happened until now. So, there will be retribution for mugs knocked off tables this fine Saturday evening. And by retribution, he just means a particularly dirty stare at best.
He stared emptily at a piping hot tea in his hand and decided against thwarting Circe’s onslaught in his home office and made for the sofa where Sybilla, his eldest feline daughter, was curled up with a look of pure hatred at her father. “Your sister, your turn today, Sibi, now scoot.” That she did, but more so to get away from him rather than tend to her sisterly duties.
Q immediately fished for the remote somehow crammed beneath the slit in the sofa and flicked through the selections determined to settle on something as quickly as possible so he could ignore the gnawing bitterness in his chest.
Just when he was narrowing down on a sappy period drama, the doorbell sounded. Great. He reached for his phone and tapped on the surveillance app that connects all the cameras in and around his flat, ready to yell at a delivery man who did not deserve his temperament, but-
“Q, my darling!” Eve. Of course, it's Eve. He hesitated, wondering if he’d rather pretend to be asleep. In some way, he did expect this visit. The woman seems to have some mystical abilities, he’s concluded, despite being a firm man of science. The way she always seems to know exactly what to say or when to manifest cannot be explained by excellent spy craft and audacity alone.
This was his own doing, despite protocol which demands his presence at MI6 the minute he lands, he decided to take one out of Bond’s books and ignored his debrief meeting. He was too tired and too confused to pretend otherwise. So, seeing as the case got delivered safely, he dragged what was left of himself back into his flat and crashed face-first into deep sleep.
This, of course, tipped off his best friend, who no doubt waited very patiently for the past week to hear how it all went.
“Q I know you’re awake, If you pretend to be asleep and ignore me I will tell Mrs Copeland you’re feeling under the weather” This part she whispered into the microphone (hidden behind a wooden panel she should have no idea is there), Despite the volume, the effect is instantaneous Q is more than anything terrified to catch the lovely Mrs Copeland’s attention again.
There were several incidents he would very much not like repeated; his elderly neighbour simply would not leave him alone, and the minute Eve learned of this ammunition, she’d been exercising it too often for his liking.
Q groaned up at the ceiling and stomped his way to the door, and when he swung it open, there she was, dressed head to toe like she’d just walked off a runway. Q, however, is frowning at her behind his glasses that haven’t been wiped; he’s drowning in a large T-shirt that’s not his own, no doubt left by one of his one-night stands some century ago; oh, and his hair could rival Medusa’s.
“You look-” Eve did her best to look encouraging but that was the thing with Eve, despite her recent history as a field agent she would only pull up that mask when it was strictly business. Sometimes Q wished she’d extend the courtesy to their relationship, the woman is unrelentingly honest even if she pads them up nicely a lot of the time.
“Like I’ve been run over, yes, I know, are you coming in or not?”
“Alright, settle down this is supposed to be a lovely house call” She adjusts the shopping bags in her arms and makes her way inside sparing sickeningly sweet hellos to Q’s littlings that’ve come to the door.
“I heard the case made it back to the labs safe, no one got hurt, why are you…this-” She waved her hand at Q’s entirety as she settled the bag down on the table, and he had to stifle a bitter laugh.
“Did you come bearing gifts?”
Of course, she did bring something; she always did. Eve peeled away the shopping bags to reveal two bottles of his favourite Merlot, and that managed to brighten him up a bit. So they settled into his sofa, the TV show softly murmuring away as the two started with something rudimentary at first, office happenings he missed that week and eventually after the fourth glass they revisited the topic.
“You know, half the women on the top floor wanted to swap bodies with you”
“Why on earth would they want to be an ache-riddled scarecrow?” Q mused as he let himself sink further into the back cushion enough to almost fold his chin back into his chest, the wine glass atop the flat expanse of his chest.
“I imagine the idea of getting to be in the same room as Bond for a few nights sounds like heaven to them” Eve turned to him with a knowing look that said: Bliss to those who've never had the pleasure, the man is actually a menace even if he is undeniably sexy.
“It’s hardly h- wait, how did they know we shared a room?!” Q's voice spiked, animated by the alcohol.
“One of your minions got cornered”, she smirked.
“Fucking Brian”
“Yeah- fucking Brian” Eve grinned in a suspiciously fond way, he’ll have to pry that out of her later.
“Exactly how much did ‘fucking Brian’ let slip” Q downed the remaining wine in his glass then pushed himself upright aiming for the opened bottle his eyes still glued on her determined to get to the bottom of this.
“He might’ve gotten threatened into snooping on you on the first night” Q crinkled his nose initially unfazed, but then it dawned on him.
“Oh-”
“So what was that late-night riverside stroll about, Q?”
“It’s not what you think it is” That sounded more believable in his head.
“Says every single person who’s about to lie” Eve is suddenly closer now, like she wasn't going to let the truth escape. Later, he will blame the wine, but Q relented.
“Listen, alright, yes, we did go for a walk. They were pulling the records, and we couldn’t work till then, and you know Bond being well, Bond”
“He wanted a drink”
“Yes, he wanted a drink"
“So you two went for a ‘walk’ and drinks," she squints.
“....” Oh, Eve, you bloody witch.
“It’s sounding a little like a date, sweetheart”
“I could go for a walk and drinks with you, I don’t know why you’re making this a thing”, he waved dismissively, suddenly interested in his very mundane glass.
“Yeah- well, I don’t happen to be someone you eat up with your eyes every time he appears” At this, Q frowned, defensive.
“That's silly, I don’t do that”
“You absolutely do”
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Think you’d be bored of me otherwise” They stared at one another challengingly but then they broke into a short fit of laughter at that sweet admission but no this did not erase the secret he's hiding. This is only an intermission.
After a knowing silence, Q cleared his throat.
“Oh fuck it-” He took a large gulp of the wine.
“....”
“Bond kissed me”
“WHAT!” He only nodded quietly at her explosive reaction.
“Are you joking?” He shook his head.
“Ok, so you’re not joking, how?”
“I don’t know, adrenaline?"
“I did not expect a nuke when I came through the door, this is too good”
“I’m glad this is amusing to you?"
"What is this reaction? This is exciting and sexy. Why do you look disturbed?" Eve is so close to him that their laps are almost stacked.
"I don't know, he looked disturbed by it. I know he kissed me, but why was that his reaction?"
Eve's head tilted, not following.
"He looked shocked and didn't speak to me the rest of the way back. I know rejection when I see it, but this is something else?"
"Alright, we're going on a mission"
"What- to unravel what that was?"
"Yes, I refuse to let this gnaw at you until you get over it"
"Oh—I mean," Q's glassy gaze trailed off into the distance. Eve is exactly right. He's not insecure about most things, but he is very much human, and rejection of him rather than his work often lingers way longer than it should.
He felt the warmth of Eve's hand atop his own, and when he turned to her, she already had an air about her like she was ready to hunt, and that was disturbingly comforting.
"Shall we open that third bottle?" Q asked, despite himself.
A highly volatile piece of technology had been stolen from an MI6 courier. Suspected involvement with highly trained counterintelligence warrants the presence of 007 and the recently appointed Quartermaster himself.
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Content: Multi-chapters, 18+, mentions of violence and probably smut down the line. :p
A/N: I recently rewatched James Bond again, and the love I have for this ship is beyond unhealthy so here's a treat for fellow 00Q fanatics.
This is set sometime after Skyfall.
In which Bond has the fattest crush ever, honestly.
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CHAPTER I.
Mallory’s den is often regarded by many MI6 underlings as Tartarus, not only because of the sheer dread permeating its air but because it is also where the king of the underworld (Yes, Gareth Mallory himself) presides guarded by Cerberus (Moneypenny), who instead of sporting three gnashing heads possesses the same deadly aura with just one and many would argue that going up against her might just be worse.
However, today it seemed to be too early for Cerberus, her usual colourful self was absent when she led Bond through the door to Mallory’s vacant office occupied only by a mop of chocolate curls whom he recognized instantly without the young man having to turn.
“Morning," said Bond. Q only blinked up at him tiredly from his seat, evidence of his disregard for reasonable work hours. He only managed a quick nod before returning to the screen in his hand, busying himself with what appeared to be several lines of code.
Up to this point Bond and the Quartermaster hadn’t had the chance to get closer acquainted. Since their initial meeting at the National Gallery and after the painful blur that was Skyfall, Bond got dispatched less frequently as ordained by psych (those wretched banshees in medical gowns). So, outside of the rare occasion that Bond gets summoned to test Q-branch’s latest inventions or to give professional input (which is also typically to Q’s underlings), the pair rarely interacts with one another.
Despite this, the younger man had been steadily climbing Bond’s list. What list you ask? The very much appropriate and not at all scandalous list of co-workers he’d like to shag of course. This revelation initially came as a shock to Bond, not because of Q’s maleness (He’s very much comfortably bisexual despite his womanising reputation and dating history) but more the person that he is.
Commander James Bond in his youth had tumblings with his mates with various striking qualities, now with age, he liked to think that he’s got his taste in men down to its minute details. He likes them athletic, brunette, easy smiles and not much to say. Now, Q could not be more different.
The minute they met, the two had a sparring, breakfast Earl Greys, triggers needed pulling, all that. Casual impudence isn’t something he encounters frequently (outside of his exercise of it on everyone else of course). He never imagined he’d be fed his own brand of medicine and end up liking it. The young Quartermaster wasn’t afraid to put Bond in his place and there’s the stillness in the face of Bond’s icy countenance that struck something wonderful.
Bond chalked this up as fascination over something new, an irrational bout of excitement he sometimes gets when he sees a particularly gorgeous sports car, but this compulsion to stop and stare never went away. He’s a lithe and intelligent apparition in hideous sweaters and glasses and for the life of him, Bond cannot solve this puzzle. It gnawed at him every time they’d pass one another at the office when Q would guide him in that deliciously eloquent voice, that one time during a staff party he unabashedly watched as Q danced with his disproportionately drunk colleagues. The list goes on.
“Apologies gents, It’s armageddon out there.” Mallory finally arrived a little more dishevelled than he’d normally allow himself at a reasonable hour. His coat still had droplets on it letting the men in on the appalling weather outside their bunker. As he made his way around the large desk, Q only straightened slightly with the look of a sleep-deprived teenager somehow on a man Bond assumes is in his thirties.
“Any reason you summoned us here while half of London is still asleep?” Bond started with a tone as he checked his watch not so much to discern the time but to give Mallory a rise.
“I am aware of the hour, Bond, if this wasn’t urgent I would have left you to whatever you get up to while half of London sleeps.” Mallory retorts with a brief look, something like pity flashes behind his eyes as he notes Bond’s misaligned tie, this would be a good time to mention Bond isn’t exactly sober at the moment and the tie is a rare mistake.
“There’s been an incident of a time-sensitive nature that needs to be addressed immediately.”
“M if I may-” Q interrupts gingerly as he adjusts his glasses like the gesture might trick his brain to spark some alertness into his being. It didn’t.
“I’m not sure why I’m being included in this briefing, I’ve received an e-mail regarding this mission. I think I'd better start preparing 007’s kit wh-”
“Will it kill you both to let me finish?” Mallory sighed, effectively ending Q’s line of questioning.
“After some deliberation, I’ve decided that you will accompany 007 on the field. We’ve been informed that our initial intel on the briefcase’s contents is unreliable. Now, I’m aware that this is beneath you, but with the volatile nature of it all, I think it’s only appropriate to put our best on it.”
The young man’s lips parted slightly as if he were computing the directive. He spared 007 a glance and only noticed the agent’s signature smirk like this was all funny and not very much inconvenient for Q.
Sidelining Q's reaction entirely, Mallory launches back into the details of the mission. Two days ago, MI6 received intel regarding a certain cargo, believed to be either a chemical weapon or a new range of explosives engineered by the Russians. A conflict broke out during an exchange between the engineers and an unidentified party, landing the briefcase in the hands of an MI6 operative based in Southeast Asia. A courier was sent from London to retrieve the package, but was intercepted during the last leg of the journey. The case was stolen in Istanbul, where luckily the tracker is still embedded and active, the courier, however, washed up that same evening beneath the Galata Bridge.
“So, I suggest you return home, pack your essentials, and your flight will be leaving at 16:00. Your travel documents have been arranged. Moneypenny will see you out.” As if summoned by her name uttered in the wind alone, Moneypenny appears with envelopes in hand and a flat smile that usually means they’d best move along. Bond and Q did not miss this signal naturally; they both rose to their feet, Bond buttoning his blazer and Q rubbing his temple as they went.
“Here you go, boys.” Moneypenny managed as they left Tartarus for the endless corridors once more. She handed them their files over her shoulders and pressed the button for the lift. As they waited, Q willed himself to speak again.
“Eve-” It almost sounded like a whine.
“No, darling if it were for just about anything else I would’ve flown across the world for you but some of us aren’t an evil genius”
“But I can’t-” Q looked utterly wrecked, and Bond was endlessly entertained at somehow being completely ignored by MI6’s infamous ‘besties’ as Tanner once referred to them before looking appalled by his own word choice. The two bickered for several minutes, forgetting Bond's existence entirely before he decided to chime in.
“So it’s true” Bond intercepted finally.
“What’s true?” The two turned to him questioningly, after a short moment Eve smiled in a sort of pitying way.
“Yes, Q is actually afraid of flying. You self-important bastard did you really think I made that up so I could play messenger to you in Macao?” outraged Eve smacked Bond’s bad shoulder which only made Bond shrug. Q is currently wishing the floor would swallow him, nothing good ever comes from leaving his subterranean lair. As they bickered the lift finally arrived and Q unceremoniously pushed and wedged himself between the two to get into the lift too exhausted at the moment to engage in anything that required more than a sigh.
“Take care of my best friend you old dog.” Eve left off warmly with enough firmness to imply her underlying sentiment. To this, Bond pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before joining Q in the lift.
───────────────────────────────────────────
“Do you always drink this much during flights?” Bond blinked at the sudden resurfacing of his flight companion. Q had been silent throughout the journey since their commute from MI6 and through the airport up to boarding.
“It lives”
“Sorry, I took some medication for-” Q trailed off his eyes flitting in different directions examining the cabin as the last boarding travellers made their way down the aisle. Despite what Q reported, his anxiety is still more obvious than ever painting the young man a sickly grey unlike his usual ivory glazed in pink. Bond could sympathise on some level, but expressing it would be ridiculous for someone who regularly treats his mortality like it's got a respawn cycle.
“Is it working?” Bond’s gaze follows the swirling motion of the chilled sphere in his whisky.
“Don’t think it’s kicked in just yet”
“Keen to try an alternative?” He tried to offer putting the glass on the leaning aisle between them but Q gently nudged the glass back in his direction.
“No, thank you, I doubt it's wise to mix”
“Some would call that a party”
“Or a touch suicidal”
Bond stared at him, amused, but kept his lips sealed. After the plane lifted off, Bond slid his glass back between them and then turned away for a brief shut-eye. When he woke again, the glass was empty and his Quartermaster was sound asleep.
───────────────────────────────────────────
They landed in Istanbul in the early evening and were escorted downtown to a lavish hotel that overlooked just about most of the interesting sites noted on any popular travelling websites. There would be time to properly appreciate this view, for now, something else is more pressing.
“I don’t see the necessity for this arrangement” Q voiced dryly as he examined the room, dim lights, beautiful ethnic ornaments, so spacious it could house a large family rather than two exhausted secret service agents; there were elaborate floral arrangements poised throughout the room. All this to say that it’s nauseatingly romantic for a work trip.
“A suite?” Bond responded with a clueless look already too amused by it all.
“A honeymoon suite” Q dropped his backpack onto the floor inelegantly along with his last syllable. It’s theatrical and boyish, Bond had to keep from outright chuckling at the face he was making.
“That would mean we’d be sharing a bed Q, there’s a separate room just there” Bond who already found a Champagne glass pointed to the room with the tip of the glass. The revelation didn’t ease the knot between the Quartermaster’s brows.
“....”
“Not that I mind the company of course” To this, Q squinted at him from his place in the middle of the room.
“R, that conniving little-” So that’s who Bond will be needing to send a souvenir to. He kept that thought to himself as he poured some of the Dom Perignon so thoughtfully chilled in an ice bath in anticipation of a-
‘Mr Arlington & Mr Ellis Beech' He pocketed the card of course like a cheeky little boy and not at all a man in his 40s whose occupation is to expire people semi-regularly.
Bond saunters over to Q passing a glass to the exasperated young man with a look of pure bliss.
“Perhaps if we’re better acquainted you might feel more comfortable?” All that charm from the agent and Q barely suppressed a snort.
“Oh- 007 spare me the routine” Q waved his hand about as he brisked past the agent towards the small dining table close by. He took a sip of the Champagne before setting it down, his arms firmly folded over his chest.
“What routine?” Bond’s eyes trailed after his every move, intrigued by his complete dismissal of his approach.
“I’m not a terrorist’s trophy wife, you don’t need to woo me for us to co-exist 007”
“That you’re not” Bond observed quietly recalibrating his approach. That’s right, he is after all unlike the sweet brunettes he usually favours. This was a new puzzle, a bratty one with all the smarts to justify it.
“But I don’t discriminate” This exasperated Q.
“Do you now,” Q’s lips pursed briefly like he was weighing on his next course of action, and it came.
“Look, 007, I’m sure this is very entertaining for you, but I’ve got a mortgage and two cats to feed. I’d like us to carry on as smoothly as possible and that means keeping this strictly professional.”
But as the Quartermaster was drawing a line in the sand between them, his eyes betrayed his resolve. Bond noticed his eyes drift downwards to his lips and fixed on them before they drew back up again. Checkmate. Bond schooled his expression back into something almost professional before he approached Q once again, taking the half-drunk Champagne out of his hand and pouring the remainder of it down, his eyes not once diverted from Q, who couldn’t keep from staring at Bond’s bobbing throat.
“Loud and clear. I’ll behave, for the sake of the cats” Bond then pivoted escaping the scene of the crime towards his bedroom with an air of victory. It seems his fascination isn’t one-sided after all.
───────────────────────────────────────────
Memories of his last traumatic visit to this city finally surfaced during his reading. The men got comfortable after their little sparring on arrival. Q unable to forego his routine for too long built a small Q-branch right on the dinner table surrounded by thin stacks of paper fencing him in like a fortress. While Q busied himself, Bond brought his book to a lovely lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the city and it was heavenly for a while until it wasn’t.
The pleasant dullness he sustained from that Champagne he finished hours ago finally waned and he’s left with the kind of clarity that’s infinitely useful in the field but not so much while he’s idle. His concentration officially gone, Bond does his best to recall the less ugly parts of his time in this city.
Istanbul is one of the cities he’s truly fallen in love with had always found himself yearning to be back in it each time he leaves. There’s something about the spirit in the streets, the way the lights come alive dotting the Bosporus, the beautiful chorus from various mosques throughout the city, the spice-rich delicacies and the people naturally. He had delayed his debrief back in cold wet Britain in favour of the men and women of this city almost every single visit.
He wondered if this trip would end in the same pleasures.
Bond tried to recall the couple he’d last fallen into bed with on the trip before Moneypenny’s marring on that train and the scenes came to him easily. He was busy between her thighs, drunk on the sheer sight of her writhing beneath as his accomplice, her husband, tended to the parts Bond couldn’t lavish. But then something happened, her olive complexion began to pale, her hips narrowed and contracted into a flat and wiry body; her plump breasts now a flat expanse leading up to a long elegant neck. A neck he remembers very well. Q looks back at him with dark eyes and-
"007, I've managed to set up everything, shall we begin?" Bond’s eyes squeeze shut at the interruption. Q is hovering above him, his laptop held sturdy in one hand as if the gadget is a part of his limb. He’s got a blank look about him that could not be more different than the Q of his imagination and for a moment Bond’s mind attempted to pair up the faces.
“Hello, earth to Bond?” the agent nodded solemnly before following Q to his ‘fortress’. Wait, did he refer to him as Bond just now?
“You do love your clutter,” Bond remarked cooly as he eyed the various files and loose documents, before he could reach for them though, Q glided the paper right from beneath his hand like a primary school teacher fending unmarked homework from grubby hands.
“It’s not clutter 007, it helps me think, have a seat” He waited for Bond to get comfortable before he swivelled his sticker-bombed laptop towards Bond. Before him, a handful of windows popped up overlapping one another. It was a jumbled mess, and this isn’t due to his age by any means rather the screen looked as if it had gained a life of its own, mimicking the no doubt chaotic mind of its owner.
“Am I supposed to understand any of this?” Bond turned to him blankly and Q rolled his eyes—little shit.
"So, the results came through a while ago. This is the forensics report retrieved directly from our courier. They've managed to get a hair sample from whoever stole the case. The operation must've been organized in a rush given several missteps, they're running the DNA sample through our internal archives and requesting additional profiles from our embedded sources offshore right now to see if it is somebody we've dealt with but it's taking some time."
"What's M's theory?" Bond listened intently, but also noted the speed at which the Quartermaster was typing. He must truly be losing his mind. When did being electronically inclined become something attractive to him?
"He's positive it's counterintelligence, he won't disclose why, but he's chosen not to contact the high commands for these profiles, as I've mentioned it's all through MI6 undercover channels under his direct authority of course.”
"That's vexing"
"Quite" They made eye contact briefly to comment on a pattern. Mallory in his position does not need to answer to anyone naturally, but withholding information directly related to his suspicions does leave those doing leg work in an uneasy position. It gnawed at the both of them.
Q continued to go through several extra documents with him detailing additional developments, but in conclusion, the two will effectively be in limbo until they can either find a match or additional investigating will have to proceed on Bond’s end. With any luck the case will still be somewhere in Istanbul and not halfway across the world extending their chase.
At this conclusion, Q sags into his seat staring blankly at the screen. Bond could see the cogwheels turning behind his eyes like he was recounting all the intel to see if he’d missed anything.
“That’s about everything” He turned to Bond after some minutes with an assuring smile. His glasses were then removed to be cleaned and Bond was treated to yet another rare sight. He’d never seen Q without those spectacles before and he’s reminded the frames aren’t a part of him. It’s baffling how differently people could look without a certain accessory. It felt all too intimate actually, like he got a glimpse of the man behind the single moniker. For a moment he felt an urge to reach out to him, to twirl his fingers around those curls that’s got a life of its own.
Realising he’s sat there vulnerable to his sensations suddenly, Bond does what he does best. Board it back up.
“Drink?”
“I swear it’s like you’ve got only that one word programmed into you, and they say spies are meant to be unpredictable” Q made to get up like the invitation alone was enough for him to flee.
“Is that a no?” Bond crossed his legs and decided to look directly into his moss greens, a sort of ‘puppy eyes’ but in the agent’s own more unnerving and piercing way. The tension he’s created seemed to chafe at Q a bit.
“Yes, it's a no-” Q clocked the contradicting turn of phrase he’d just done and frowned, let’s have another go.
“It’s a no, 007 have you been sober for more than an hour today?”
“Depends on what exactly you mean by sober” Bond smiled and it was disgustingly self-assured. To that, the Quartermaster was rendered speechless. His old title as the debate team captain took a hit, but to be fair it’s not easy going up against James Bond. Bond decided to break the stalemate.
“Come, let’s just say I’m taking you for a walk we just might stumble into a bar along the way”
“Tsk- alright, this is only because we probably won’t have time to sightsee at all the minute they stumble on something.”
“Good lad” Q's nose crinkled at that and Bond had to suppress yet another smile.
“Cheeky bastard”
════════════════════════════════════════════
♫ Crushed Velvet - Molly Lewis
Bond delivers as promised. The two meandered along scenic routes by the water, stopping to admire the occasional sculptures that lived amongst its vibrant people, discussing the stunning architecture that never failed to fascinate Q at every turn and of course, stopped to pet every single cat. Bond can’t say he shared the sentiment when it came to felines preferring the unwavering honesty of dogs but when he expressed this, he was immediately scolded by Q. Apparently Bond is shallow for preferring the easy enthusiasm of dogs and is willingly ignorant to a cat’s more complexed form of affection. Why did he sense a comparison here?
Despite the hour, there was still a steady stream of people making their way towards their haunts for the night. Bond had always felt uncomfortable around crowds, it always made him nervous that something apocalyptic might be underfoot, but his well-placed cynicism aside it’s always lovely to see many happy faces off to chase a memorable night. It reminds him that not everything is always careening towards destruction. Even Q, who was usually weighed down by the burden of national security seemed feather-light on his feet thousands of miles away from grim old London.
“We’re here” Bond announced before Q had the chance to bump right into him with how distracted he was. Q followed Bond’s eye line landing on a cosy bar that looked as if it predates the 20th century. The sign reads ‘Menekşe’ which translates to violet and like its name the place is decorated with subtle violet ornaments along with beautiful vintage lamps and furniture inviting its patrons to travel back in time with each visit.
Q turned to Bond baffled. “This is unexpected,”
“See, I can be both” Q suppressed a small smile at that callback.
“What will those posh hens at your usual haunts say when they find out you take young ‘impressionable’ men out to dark bars” Bond quirked his brows in amusement at ‘impressionable’ Q could not be further from it.
“What makes you think they’d disapprove?”
The pair strolled inside opting for a quiet corner by the window, the table is small the only reasonable capacity being one person and one person only but this meant the men’s legs were almost tangled beneath. Bond would never admit this was premeditated of course.
Q remained silent as they settled in, still captivated by the liveliness of the crowd just outside the window.
“Fancy the view?”
“An understatement, how many times have you been here?” As he asked it seemed as if Q had abandoned the ‘Q’ everyone knew. All the pronounced edge of intelligence softened into something more pliable, kind, and explorative.
“Several times after missions”
“I can see why you take your sweet time getting back to London”
“Well, this amongst other things” Bond in some ways is very much still boyish especially when there is an opportunity to turn something suggestive. As if queued, an outrageously beautiful waitress approaches them with a menu. She eyed the two men without any intention to conceal her interest, lingering especially on Bond before turning back behind the bar. At this comical turn of events, Bond flashed a grin, the full unrestrained kind that highlighted the many pronounced wrinkles on his face.
“I feel like I'm trapped in a rubbish sitcom” Q groaned.
“Not rubbish surely, you seem to be entertained”
“Not as much as you I don’t think, you double-00s”
“What about us?” Bond asked genuinely and that curiosity is left to brew as Q is suddenly very interested in the menu, the smirk on the edge of his lips, despite the lack of eye contact, is the only indication he’s still willing to engage in this topic.
He left Bond like that for some time before raising his hand to catch the same waitress’s attention and pointing to a picture of a beverage on the menu he held up with his other hand so she wouldn’t need to make her way over to them. Two he mouthed. Only then did Q graciously revert to Bond, hands folded over his lap. This was enough to prompt Bond to speak first.
“Our promiscuity serves a purpose it’s not just indulgence”
“Even off the clock?”
“Yes, even off” It’s hard to tell whether Q is convinced, there’s an attempt to seem agreeable but those eyes have a mischievous glint to them that's unmissable.
“Go on then, make your case”
“As you know, we don’t tend to last very long” Q suppressed a chuckle immediately which prompted an exasperated eye roll from Bond, he continues.
“Fewer reasons to be suppressed” He finished off with his glass raised and the two enjoyed a hefty drink between their banter. The unique blend of spice and alcohol prompted an endearingly skewed expression from Q which somehow made him seem even younger, or maybe it’s Bond’s hyperawareness.
“Not bullshit as justifications go”
“You disagree?”
“I don’t disagree, I just think it looks a lot like a vice”
“Sex is not my vice” They were suspended again briefly, at first the two were stone-faced but then they began to crack into a smile in unison like they’d just made a filthy inside joke and in a sense it was considering the handful of times Q has had to be a fly in his earwig during these encounters.
“Sure about that are you?” Q took another sip of his drink still very much suspicious.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go on”
“What exactly have they been saying about me at the office?” Bond delivered this with complete coolness despite the gnawing curiosity inside, he did his best not to seem eager. This inquiry in itself is an odd thing on his end, he never did care what stories were spun in his wake but recently he found himself wondering about the details. Couldn’t possibly have anything to do with a certain new head of the Q branch, could it?
“Oh- wouldn’t you like to know 007”
“One should stay informed-”
"Helene from medical has been quite vocal about your past trysts and terrible bedside manner, namely the disappearing acts.”
"That's not very nice"
"The disappearing isn't very nice, 007" Q said with a sternness that was meant to land as a joke but Bond received it differently.
"I don't always do that" Bond is feeling exposed suddenly, he’s not completely ashamed of the ways he has to cope with his own complex emotions when it comes to intimacy but with Q being someone he’s actively attracted to, it was beginning to feel like being stripped open in the middle of a crowd. If the place were any brighter Q might be able to spot the red flush at his ears. He allowed himself a moment before deciding on the offensive.
“If you won’t take my word for it I’m happy to show you?” Classic Bond deflection. This bluntness usually earns him a prominent flush from whoever he directed this to, but Q’s face seemed more puzzled than enticed.
“What do you get out of this 007?” Bond only cocked his head, confused. Q continues.
“This- flirting I know it’s your second nature but are you not straight?” It is mostly curiosity but Bond’s years in espionage also detected a hint of frustration, to his credit Q barely slipped up.
“What makes you think I am?”
“I live in your earpiece, I know where you like to be”
“Where do I like to be?” Bond’s voice drops an octave naturally and Q feels tension curl up in his feet.
“Inside beautiful widows and discontented wives,” Their eye contact that felt almost comfortable minutes ago now feels as if it’s attempting to burn one another in its intensity.
“Sometimes husbands too” Bond’s bottom lip lingered on the edge of his glass at that confession, the unabated coyness of it made Q shift in his seat.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes”
After a period of deliberation, Q withdraws from the staring contest, he’s a fool for trying. Nothing dims the intensity of Bond’s ice-blue gaze it seems, not even the darkness of this bar.
“I believe I owe you an apology”
“That you do,” Says Bond with a smile, atoning for this will mean something fun he decided.
════════════════════════════════════════════
Bond’s relationship with the concept of good sleep is rocky at best, the culprit being his choice of occupation. But, now and then the planets align and a dreamless sleep visits him. This is one of those nights, despite his conditioning, his biology won over for the best. It’s a shame should-
His bedroom door was thrown open and the banging of the precious wood against the door stop brutally yanked Bond from his sleep. His body reacted first, grabbing the Walther beneath his pillow, safety off and aiming directly at the intruder. The intruder in question did not even bother looking up to notice the threat of course.
“007 they’ve just got a hit, best get read-” He finally bothered to lift his head from the screen, after adjusting his glasses he jerked backwards slightly at the very much aggressive and ready-to-pounce stance Bond was in.
“Christ Q” Bond lowered his gun onto the bed with a frustrated huff, and Q cleared his throat nervously. Yes, of course, the ‘no shocking any field agents awake’ because they could very easily kill you where you stand.
“Sorry about that, " but that would not be the only shock to the Quartermaster’s processing this morning.
The drowsiness left Bond’s body so quickly that one would not be able to tell he’d been deep asleep just moments ago. As he pushed off the thick duvet, Q was given the full view of Bond’s pyjamas (in the loosest sense), the black underwear was so thin it left nothing to the imagination as he dragged himself towards the edge of the king bed. The dark colour is such a hard contrast against Bond’s golden tan that Q’s eyes focused there first (or that’s what he’s telling himself anyway), but then his gaze drifts to the very much erect shape obscured by the fabric, and it made his breath hitch. Fuck he’s big. The sight made his mouth dry and it was so instantaneous his body reminded him it had been months since he last bothered to put himself out there for a good fuck.
He’s spiralling now, any reservations about looking suddenly quieted as he mapped Bond’s pronounced abs, the rich gold hairs sparsely spread out across his chest reflecting soft gold by the stream of sunlight through the curtain. The way he’s perched on the edge made him look ridiculous, the way those sculpted models appear in expensive perfume advertisements. It’s completely absurd. Time had stopped, and Q committed every curve, every bend, every…bulge to memory.
It was only when Bond cleared his throat did Q snap from his trance. He had the same expression as a cookie burglar caught red-handed. His cheeks were flushed and there was a tightness building below his waistband, this is promptly remedied by inching the folders in his one hand to cover it hoping Bond did not notice.
“At least buy me dinner first”, Bond sighed with a nauseatingly seductive look as he slowly rose to his feet. His short-cropped hair is longer than they’re usually allowed to be and he noticed a patch of it out of its usual pattern, telling of how Bond slept the night before and it was all too intimate. Q felt an itch in the tips of his fingers like they were imagining what it might be like to touch.
“I-I’m sorry that was inappropriate-” Will you look at that, what a stunning overhead lamp.
Bond stalked over wordlessly and every second he took felt agonising for Q who was glued at the threshold holding his file and laptop all wrong suddenly. That big old lion came to a stop close to Q.
“I’ve never been one for proper”
“Oh- Bond” It’s Bond again, the agent noted and delightfully catalogued it. His arms come up to rest against the door frame, serving his body up on a platter and to this Q immediately took another half step back.
“What did you need to tell me so urgently you had to barge in on me?” Oh for fuck- there was a point to this Q remembered but now that the files were effectively covering the evidence of his deviancy, he opted for a rushed-
“They found the agent responsible for the missing case you should get dressed. I will tell you everything along the way. I’m currently tracking their location”
Bond nodded but did not shift from his ‘pose’ by the doorframe, to this Q quickly swivelled around back to his room wishing his entire body would implode just then to save himself from this embarrassment.
“They're called clothes, Bond-” he mumbled. Bond did not miss it.
“I think you're just wearing too many”, Bond laughed and shut the door.
・❥・ “If I am in love with you, it would be the most dangerous secret in my kingdom.”
*ೃ༄ P2: Undercurrent .ೃ࿐
They were alone at last.
The council had long since dissolved into whispers and retreating footsteps, leaving only the flicker of torchlight dancing across marble pillars and the two of them suspended in silence. The air still carried the residue of politics, but what lingered between them was something far more volatile.
Elenariel stood with her back to the carved table, fingers resting lightly on its edge. She didn’t look at him - not at first. She waited. Waited for him to speak. For him to move. For the silence to stretch long enough that he would feel the need to break it.
But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
So she did.
“Admit it,” she said, voice low, silken with amusement. “You’re in love with me.”
The words fell between them like a stone dropped into still water - disruptive, irreverent, impossible to ignore.
Thranduil’s expression didn’t falter, but his body stilled as if the words had rooted him to the floor. His gaze slid to her - cool, unreadable, the kind of look that might freeze lesser souls. But Elenariel had never been lesser.
He took a step forward. Then another. Measured. Purposeful. Predatory in its grace.
“You presume a great deal, my lady,” he said, his tone a polished blade. “Is that your nature? Or merely your latest attempt to provoke me?”
She turned toward him at last, the corner of her mouth curving upward. “You make it far too easy.”
He stopped before her. Close enough that she could see the faint shimmer of silver threading his robes, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.
“If my presumption is false,” she said, her voice quieter now, “you could correct me.”
Thranduil tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were a riddle carved in starlight. His silence was not hesitation - it was calculation.
“I do not explain myself to those who wear smugness like armor,” he replied, though there was no true venom in it. Only the practiced indifference of a king who rarely let his heart slip through his mask.
She leaned in just enough to make the air between them hum. “That’s not a no.”
Something shifted in his expression. Too subtle to name, too fleeting to hold. He didn’t step back. He didn’t break the gaze. Instead, he said, quietly, “And you think this… whatever this is… is love?”
“I think,” she said, “that if it were anything less, you would have shut me out long ago. You wouldn’t keep letting me in.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then - his voice, velvet and deliberate. “You crave answers more than you admit.”
“And you hide them more than you should.”
Thranduil’s smile - slow, cold, and devastating - spread like frost across a windowpane. “If I am in love with you, it would be the most dangerous secret in my kingdom.”
She raised a brow, eyes gleaming. “Then perhaps I should feel honored.”
He studied her one last time, gaze tracing her features like he meant to remember them - in case. Then, with practiced elegance, he turned, his cloak whispering against the stone floor.
“Perhaps,” he murmured as he walked away, “I shall grant you an answer… when you no longer need it.”
And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Elenariel standing in the golden hush, smiling to herself.
So if yall didn’t know, in The Hobbit book, Thranduil had the Dwarves locked up for approximately weeks, and Bilbo was just invisible and wandering in the palace the entire time, vibing miserably.
My headcanon, therefore, is that the Mirkwood Elves now have a local legend about a ghost haunting Thranduil’s palace, never seen but generally thought to be harmless. Thranduil scoffs at the idea, but has been seen glancing around at the dark corners of rooms. Legolas fully believes in it and is known to say hello out loud when he enters an empty room, in case the ghost is nearby.
It’s not until Legolas joins the Fellowship that he figures out that the supposed ghost was actually an invisible Bilbo the whole time. He never tells Thranduil, because he thinks it’s funny to see his regal father unnerved by the idea of a ghost.
✤ Summary: The elves of Mirkwood celebrate Tarnin Austa “passage into summer”, for years they celebrated without the presence of their king, but his love is determined to change that.
✤ Content: One-shot, pre-established relationship, mostly fluff
✤ A/N: This is a short featuring an established relationship between Thranduil and his captain of the guard, Arendil, that I’m trying to turn into an official series. But while that wheel turns, I decided to post bits and pieces for feels. Enjoy!
+ Also, the lake mentioned in the fic is based on this beautiful artwork! https://www.artstation.com/artwork/4X4kLn
+ I couldn't find much information on the festivities themselves so some of the elements are not true to the works.
The spring had come and gone as it always did, like the realm had been roused awake with Yavanna’s blessings, pouring abundance unto the lives of all who called Middle-earth home.
As his subjects took to the woods in honour of the new cycle, their reclusive sovereign remained hidden throughout all pivotal festivities. His absence did not stir talks or unsavoury rumours because the tragedy that’d befallen the king is well known to all of Mirkwood and beyond. They were content with his invisible hands, keeping them safe, providing and fighting for them. Arendil, however, is determined to water a 'dead husk'.
In the first moments of his waking, Arendil felt the comforting rise and fall beside him, the pattern that had brought immense and unexplainable comfort to him in the past six months since they’d found one another. The knowledge that Thranduil was only mere inches away brought a drowsy smile to his lips as he curled up into a fetal position, a good mass of the blanket clutched close to his chest as he determined to savour the last moments of comfort before the day begins. When he finally felt ready, his eyes slowly opened to find Thranduil’s true face.
The Elvenking in his presence now was not the one known to his subjects. The veneer had been drawn back, laying bare the gruesome result of dragon fire that will never mend. The first time he’d stumbled upon Thranduil in his private moment, the ruthlessness of it made him unbearably sad. His own father lived ages with the crippling consequence of his days on the battlefield and he remembers the look on his mother’s face every morning as she tended to him. It was hopefulness tinged with melancholy only desperation could elicit. The desperation of not being able to alleviate the pain that plagues their loved ones day by day.
Before his mind caught up with him, Arendil’s hand inched towards his slumbering love. When his fingertips ghosted over the singed edges of his scar, Thranduil's eyes shot open. The blind eye and his seeing one both bore into him with a mixture of shock behind the veil of his starlit strands. He'd triggered something and he watched unchanging as Thranduil's mind did its rounds, rode out the horrific subconscious instincts and eventually returned to himself. It was vacant, but it was him.
Through this, Arendil did not retract his hand. They remained suspended that way until the captain breached the invisible barrier. His cold fingers traced the burnt line at Thranduil's temple, which made the king’s breath hitch upon contact. His entire body went rigid, but under the tenderness of Arendil’s persistent gaze, he did his best to soften. It was all purely instinctive; they were both lost in the haze between sleep and it was earnest.
Thranduil finally sighed as the mild panic subsided replaced by the drowsiness. He then leaned against Arendil's touch, which made the captain's heart clench. It felt like acceptance without the complexity of speech, and they both mirrored one another’s unrestrained smiles.
"Aur mae, aran nîn." Thranduil’s large hand crept up from beneath the blanket to press warmly against the back of his own, still gently placed against his scars. The king mouthed his good morning back, before removing Arendil's hand from his face to hold instead against his lips. Then the violent sinewy makings of his face began to emit bright shimmers as the glamour rose over his face like a blanket of day arriving to overtake the waning night. He was pristine again, guarded again.
“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t be sorry, I was well on my way.” Thranduil’s thin lips brushed against the back of his palm, and the humidity against his skin felt so very lovely, like a misty reminder of the warmth that lives deep within him.
"Did you sleep well?" Thranduil rasped, his voice still heavy with sleep as he nipped at Arendil's knuckles and then trailed off to each finger mindlessly. There was something about the shape of it that fascinated him to no end, even with its collection of scars that never quite properly smoothed away.
"I did actually, I remembered something quite lovely." This instantly intrigued the king who gently bit at his fingertips which prompted a look from the captain he adores.
“Let’s hear it then”, Thranduil prompted. This is yet another one of the new routines they were both comfortably falling into. Before his perpetual grieving, dreams used to be a place full of wonder but after so much death and ruin of those closest to him, all he saw were cruel things that plagued his rest.
After a long and arduous battle against his psyche, the king eventually lost them. He no longer dreamed. So, Arendil took it upon himself to share his stories when the king could spare time before his duties for the day. It does help that it is Arendil's responsibility to escort him everywhere, if they needed extra time, they would have it.
Arendil scooted closer and was instantly enveloped by a strong arm. Against his chest, the captain told a colourful story of his resurfaced childhood, the mundaneness of his youth, including all the strange and delightful flavours of being young and normal, that managed to get his king close to laughing out of sheer absurdity. It was the kind of normalcy that Thranduil could not imagine being not only an only child but an heir to a race constantly under threat. It's a kind of easiness he never let himself yearn for.
This story reminded him of his dear Legolas and the adventures he would get up to when he was but an elfling. The boy was always spirited and adventurous to a fault, he couldn't count the number of times he would sneak away only to be brought back covered in all sorts of things or brought back creatures they simply could not keep within the walls. Let's not mention acrobatics at dinner.
“And here I thought you were the obedient one.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever hidden my taste for a little rebellion”
“That you don’t, I may have been willfully blind” Thranduil was now wearing that permanent smirk but not the mocking one his disappointing counsellors were used to, much warmer.
“I think you might be too fond of me”
“Eru would concur” Arendil was grinning up at him now, Thranduil sensing this shifted so he could capture his lips and his captain instantly melted into his tender affection. It was feather light before it caught wind, and what was a delicate dance of their lips turned into a passionate tumbling of limbs and sighs and entangled hair, white and raven black. Thranduil lifted himself to hover above his doting captain and did not wait to lavish his simmering need upon him. As Thranduil laid wet open-mouthed kisses against his pulse point, Arendil fought his rising need to remind his king they may not have the morning to themselves.
“Love, I think we might want to save this for another moment” To this, Thranduil grunted in protest and continued to suck at that delicate patch of skin that made his captain's hips buck up involuntarily. His hands were suddenly everywhere caressing his bare skin and lower it went.
“Thranduil-” Only when he used his 'stern voice' (It isn't) did The Elvenking’s hand that’d made its way to his thighs finally still, suddenly recalling why his captain was right.
“Ah- the preparations” He sagged against Arendil’s toned middle, and his chin came to rest on the divot at the middle of his captain's chest. He looked mildly irritated as he often did when it meant he'd have to be amongst more than a handful of beings.
“Yes, the preparations” Arendil did his best to calm himself, still feeling those hot trails at his neck where the king's hands had been.
“Must I?” Thranduil voiced, not feeling like complying with his own wisdom just yet, which was new. Before him, Thranduil delighted in busying himself in any way possible, often foregoing his rest in favour of endless reports. But when one denies their base instincts as hard as he has, when one is reminded of the pleasure again, it disrupts everything in the most delicious ways. Seven millennia of this same body, mind and soul, and it seemed he'd never truly understand the depths of it. Nevertheless, there are duties to attend, and this one demands him without compromise.
Arendil brushed a weft of his silver hair away from his left eye, the glamoured one, and smoothed his fingers into Thranduil's hairline. This brought the king back from the pit of his imagination, and he swallowed the strangeness coiling in his stomach.
"I know you would rather be alone, but I think the people would love to see you when the sun comes." Sometimes, he hated how kind Arendil's gaze became. How is this elf always accepting of his turmoils? Eventually, he says, burying his face in the crook of his captain's neck like a great big cat that's found a comfortable spot.
“Anything for you, mui tinu”
The perpetual darkness that co-exists alongside the elves under the mountain became less stifling on this special day. Streams of light were allowed through, illuminating the Elvenking's halls. Troves of servants can be seen tidying in every corner, and the sentinels assisted with heavy lifting and all kinds of other tasks. It is safe to say that everyone was busy with preparations for the night's feast.
Tarnin Austa is a truly wondrous time of year, happiness permeates the air as every elf anticipates the first day of summer and enjoys their celebrations out in the woods, which is normally discouraged due to Thranduil's rigid decree. But today, all will commune with the forest, they will all meet by the sacred lake, delight in one another's company until midnight before honouring the coming season in quiet reverence.
Customarily, the king would be expected to preside over the celebrations but Thranduil had been avoiding them more and more as years went by. It'd become harder and harder to bear the smiling faces around him, it reminded him of how wholly alone he'd ended up and eventually he stopped attending things that were not related to governing. But, recently he'd been reminded of these pleasures and refamiliarised himself with feelings he thought would be lost to him forever. So, as much as he felt forced a part of him wanted to see what the world was up to since he'd stopped living amongst them.
The last light of spring departs, and the stars take their place above the shimmering lake. Laughter echoed in the distance, goblets of precious wine held close to their chests as they received one another's stories. Soldiers stood with less alarm as they admired the woodland birds that had also come to celebrate the special day. All is right in the realm. Even the king who insisted earlier on in the day that he'd rather spend the night reading seemed to be enjoying himself.
Earlier at dusk when he entered to the forest, the gathered elves went completely silent but then smiles accompanied them. All bowed in unison as he took his place amongst the raised mounds that overlooked the small island at the heart of the lake where the ceremony would later take place. His speech was warmer than his usual, the words of an old friend who was glad to be amongst families and friends once again and it was received with bright applause.
After that, the celebrations officially began and Thranduil immediately got himself a goblet full of Dorwinian wine. The king had been sprawled on a carved throne like an open palanquin carved from dark wood and he's engaged in a conversation with favoured counsellors for what felt like hours. Arendil had been sneaking a look at him when he thought the counsellors may not notice, he simply couldn't look away.
To say the attire is intricate would be an understatement. Arendil's eyes were familiar with fabrics and exquisite threads as he used to sail the rivers trading; which meant he could identify the plants used to dye the rich burnt orange and know the painstaking efforts to create each thread. Thranduil is wearing his thorned crown adorned with beautiful summer flowers native to Mirkwood that bring out the best of his features. Every time Thranduil would turn, he'd catch the most beautiful scent of him and the oils intermingling and his heart would sigh over and over.
When the high elves took leave of his king, Arendil spoke from his place beside the throne.
"What a blessing" Thranduil smiled at no one in particular by the tree lines.
"Summer has always been my favourite" Arendil's hand runs gently against the pommel of his sheathed blade. His thumb follows the etched hummingbird on it.
"You never told me"
"Well- now you know" Thranduil seemed to ponder this, it took him some time to continue, long enough the captain thought they'd ended that subject.
"What do you like about it?" Thranduil turned to face him with an inquisitive look and Arendil was pleased to notice the faintest hint of pink beneath his alabaster skin. Restraint is Thranduil's strong suit with sole exception for wine.
"I feel happiness all around, days are brighter, the woods sing."
"They always do"
"Not this way" He smiled softly at the king, who no doubt grasped his meaning but will always be compelled to dissect. Thranduil's fingers twitched briefly suddenly aching to hold his captain, but they moved to cradle the bottom of his goblet instead. After a long beat, Thranduil turned to him again.
"Thank you"
"For what your Highness?" he blinked and was met with a tight smile, the softest kind he can manage out in public despite the softness intended.
"For convincing me it is still worth something." Thranduil's eyes swept over the gathered elves all busy with one another then his eyes landed on an elf girl with bright auburn hair who was already smiling at him. To his surprise, he returned her smile.
"Always, Thranduil. Always." Arendil's eyes closed briefly, if they were different elves they might be kissing amongst the trees after they share this special moment. But alas.
At midnight, silence overtook the clearing and the elves separated in groups to walk amongst the trees. Some remained by the clearing, simply gazing up at the sky, and some took this opportunity to rest. Thranduil returned to his tent and brought out some of his favourite volumes while the guards stood at their post with mugs of tea the women offered to prepare.
Before long, dawn slowly materialised and the first elf to sing was Nimrara who often sang at the ceremonies and during banquets. She started the first verse beautifully and would later be joined by a chorus of other elves harmonising the ancient song to welcome the first Sun of summer. They were bare at first, brought to life only by voices alone then the birds joined in and so did the wind.
He did not hear Thranduil appear at his side, captivated by the sight before him. Only when the king started to sing did he turn and was met with loving eyes staring back. This was the first time he'd heard Thranduil sing, and it was beautiful, not in the traditional sense, the charm did not derive from skill, but there was a rawness to it. His hand, shielded by a layer of silk, moved to ghost at his waist, still carefully hidden. It lingered there for a short time before he moved forth, leaving Arendil by the tent.
The crowd parted for their king as he made his way towards the water's edge. Thranduil took his first steps into the shallow water and the lords followed behind treading gracefully up to the floating island where prayer would take place. The sight of Thranduil there facing the now-risen sun he felt hope like he hadn't felt in a long time.
✤ Summary: The captain of the guard returns from his week-long border patrol, and they reunite.
✤ Content: One-shot, pre-established relationship, it's literally romantic porn
✤ Rating: 18+ sexual content
✤ A/N: I remember my obsession with Thranduil every now and then, and this manifested, I guess...enjoy!
He learned that the ever-elusive sovereign of the Silvan Elves is a creature of many delightful secrets, and he was privileged enough to be let into the furthest, most intimate reaches. When they began breaching the boundary so sacred, it was a silent agreement that they would never voice the nature of their union. Not because of its impropriety but to keep these affections as far away from the echoes of the late tári.
The all-encumbering silence extended to their every moment. When the torches were lit, he would become a shadow, slithering and winding behind the cavernous palace all the way to his king.
Arendil’s sentiment would be hidden from the world except for him, whose glacial gaze would penetrate his armour, secrets, and soul. Thranduil alone reigns over him. Of this, he is often reminded in the suspended moments as he slips through the secret door to his chambers.
Thranduil would often be found resting in the arched nook cradled by wild vines. He is now surrounded by manuscripts, books and even illustrations so precious only few eyes have seen. Draped in his rich crimson robe bearing delicate embroideries, he looked no different from the intricate paintings he loved. Arendil couldn’t help but delay his arrival, opting to lean against the archway, smiling at the sight of his king so at peace. Only short moments pass before the king breaks the silence.
“One must be privy to their weaknesses”
Knowing his queue, Arendil detached himself from one of the twined columns and took idle steps closer. A grin was barely kept at bay.
“Aran Meletyalda” He bowed gracefully at his lounging king, who did not part his gaze from the large book in his arm. The mere sight of him stirred a pleasant bloom deep in his stomach. It’d been days since he’d seen Thranduil last, and to find him so at ease, unburdened by courtly duties draped in his most comfortable robes, felt so domestic. There’s a handsomeness to him that’s wholly different out of his extravagant attire. He could simply be Thranduil and not his title or legacy.
“How do you mean?” Arendil lowered himself onto the half steps that led up to the nook and sat with his forearms folded atop a large cushion where Thranduil’s legs lay crossed. His fingers glided against the ivory whites of Thranduil’s ankle, a subtle greeting. To this touch, the elven king spared him a soft look from the edge of his eyes that did not match the rest of his face, which remained lifeless.
“I heard you before you reached the door” To anyone that might’ve been a scolding, but the faintest give in his tone is something Arendil understood well. They often started this way due to rigid elven traditions for social stratum. Regardless of the intimacy they enjoyed in private, it takes some time to completely shed their identities outside of one another.
Thranduil’s index finger glided against the side of the page like he was considering if he wanted to continue reading but he won’t, decades of observing and protecting him meant he’d catalogued Thranduil’s many traits, one being the need to create an illusion of passiveness even if the truth could not be further opposite.
“Perhaps you should join the patrols, I’m certain your keen hearing would be useful for hunting those wretched spiders your highness” This drew a pleased rumble from the elven king who promptly closed his book, set the large thing aside him and leaned further into his back cushions arms spread wide like he’d just been told something quite wonderful. The king delighted in exchanges like this, a wit that sought to entertain, a trait unique to his captain.
“If all my efforts are spent on spiders, who will make sure a certain disobedient captain won’t sneak into my chambers?” Thranduil ran his fingers through a weft of his hair, smiling at his busy hand rather than the actual recipient.
“Is it disobedience if I’m welcomed?” Arendil said with a mischievous look.
“When did you learn to be so impertinent, my dear?”
“I think you encourage me, your highness”
“To accuse me of such a thing” Thranduil feigned exasperation as he reached for his goblet nearby, taking a leisurely sip without parting his gaze from the captain at his feet. Arendil decided to indulge himself a little and lowered his lips to the skin at Thranduil’s ankle, placing a chaste kiss there, and the two continued to stare at one another silently tuning their disjointed familiarity.
“How was your week, your highness?” Despite his intimate knowledge of Thranduil’s unending agenda, he asked, nevertheless having missed being involved in every aspect of his day after a week on border duties. But it seemed the king wasn’t keen on launching into a detailed conversation just yet.
“Utterly dull; it stands to be improved by a certain captain resurfacing, however.” Thranduil pointed his gaze at the elf at his feet, and he wondered when the room suddenly got hotter. That's the mystery; how is it that those ice-capped gaze could elicit such an opposite effect?
“Can it now?” Arendil broke into another full grin as Thranduil’s legs unfolded, the right side that Arendil had been caressing inched closer. The fold of fabric that previously covered Thranduil’s right leg was caught in the rifts of silk pooled against the pillow, revealing more of his leg as he moved. The exposed stretch of skin and defined muscles captivated Arendil in an instant, and the captain, without missing a beat, leaned to brush the tip of his nose along the length of his shin, then his lips left hot trails in its wake.
Thranduil’s resolve finally crumbled; he broke into a full smile at such a doting act.
“You’re certainly compelling so far” Arendil’s eyes peered up momentarily between kisses, and what a sight, his king seemed content, more than that he dares say.
“I always endeavour to please”
“Mm- but I think you could do better” At this, Arendil paused his efforts. Thranduil patted his lap, and that was the signal he needed. He moved to stand, removing his boots and the double swords at his hip, letting them fall to the floor inelegantly, which made Thranduil’s brow twitch. He was given a softly pointed look, something resembling a tutor’s reprimand, but he couldn’t care less about decorum now.
The thrill of placing oneself firmly in that unspoken place only he and the highest order in the land now share is far sweeter. Like a stalking feline, he crawled on all fours up to bracket his arms between Thranduil’s head, careful to avoid his cascaded white hair that looked like moonlit rivers spread out so distinctly against velvety cushions.
Arendil finally settled straddling Thranduil’s lap, and that familiar pressure brought a spark to the king’s frigid blues, the same sparkle that would appear when he decided he would do something unspeakable to his captain during their coupling.
Arendil pretended not to notice this as he leaned in and brushed his lips against the king’s plush ones he’d been thinking about every hour he was sent away. The king immediately reciprocated with a long expulsion of his breath like he’d been waiting for this moment since the captain came through the door, and they were locked in something deeply passionate. Their lips conveyed more to one another than their words struggled to achieve.
Arendil made a soft sound deep in his throat out of sheer happiness at that familiar scent of wood mist and exotic tonics. The lustrous feel of his hair between the gaps of his calloused fingers as he mindlessly combed through them. The warmth of his skin against his own is the sweetest reminder that he is home.
“Is that better?” Arendil breathed against Thranduil’s temple, and after a stretch of silence, Thranduil trailed his nimble fingers against the laces at his captain’s thighs. He will need to find a discreet way to reward whoever decided they needed to be laced up this way; it's so very appetising. But the king did not stop there, he made his way up the back of his captain’s thighs, finally planting themselves firmly around his arse.
“Not quite” You could always count on him to be more honest through his touches than his words. Arendil chuckled softly at the suggestion and ground his hips down gently, and he could feel the king’s breath hitch. “That’s unacceptable, allow me-” Arendil’s voice dripped honey as he, ever dutiful, pried himself from Thranduil. As he made his way lower down the king’s middle, his shirt was thrown off, revealing rippling muscles brutally defined from centuries of service with a leanness present in all high elves.
Thranduil always delighted in the sight, even before their trysts. There had been times they’d had to stop along rivers to camp during long journeys, and well- Arendil was not always disciplined about keeping his garbs fastened when he thought none could see him. The king has his many dirty secrets and all-seeing eyes, literally.
The devotion in his captain’s eyes made Thranduil feel trapped in his rich silks, which was saying something as their only intended purpose was to be for lounging, hardly for modesty. His hands moved to unfasten the front panels, finally giving the younger elf a view he so missed. The king’s sheer size sprawled beneath him always felt like he’d conquered a great force. Like himself, the king was also honed by battle, evident in the sculpted perfection no less captivating than everything else about him. Sometimes, Arendil found himself breathless at the sight of him; how could it be that they were created by the same gods?
Arendil now rests his cheek against his king’s bulge, growing harder beneath him. Not once did he turn his gaze away from Thranduil as his teeth caught the hem of his loosely wrapped pants, dragging them down to finally reveal the length of him. As it sprang free to rest heavily against the edge of his lips, the captain broke into a sickeningly sweet smile as he whispered against his tip.
“I have been thinking about this” His warm hand took hold of Thranduil’s girth, and the king beneath him sucked the inner corner of his lips unknowingly communicating what’s on his mind.
“About me taking your mouth, Arendil?” The way his king rolled the ‘r’ in his name, a way distinct to him made his cock twitch and only then did he notice how hard he’d been, so distracted by his lover to notice his own need. His hot tongue dragged from the base impossibly slow, which made Thranduil gasp. The warmth of his lips and his breath was nothing compared to the toe-curling intensity of that first lick. When Arendil opened his mouth again, the king traced the tip of his thumb adoringly along his reddened bottom lip, gathering the collected spit to bring it back to his mouth.
“About you taking everything”, Arendil said between rounds, and the king’s eyes flashed at that candid confession but quickly succumbed the minute the captain took his entire length into his mouth without warning. So much for pacing, having Thranduil's full cock deep in his mouth always felt too enticing to resist. Thranduil’s restraint is famed amongst his enemies and subjects alike; few have seen him fall prey to his own emotions, so when he manages to make the king himself moan, it’s a kind of pride that intoxicates him.
He bobbed at an even pace, skillfully working his fingers as he went, mimicking the movements that’d pleased him time and time again. It was tamed at first, but then it grew increasingly debauched, the wetness smeared past the edge of his lips. His eyes fluttered every time he’d take Thranduil as far down his throat as he could, and what once were faint sighs from Thranduil began to materialise into deep moans that echoed off the vined walls.
“That’s it- fuck” That was another delightful thing. Thranduil, ever eloquent, would turn to cruder words when he was getting sucked. He threw his head back now, determined to keep himself intact as Arendil worked his wonderful mouth all over him. His fingers were now laced between his captain’s ink black strands, gripping to keep himself from thrusting up into his throat.
“Arendil", He gritted.
“Mm?” He hummed to respond, seeing no reason to pause and how attractive that was it tore yet another thread of Thranduil’s attempt to keep this somewhat paced. He tugged his captain’s hair to remove the man from his cock and that was met with a small frown. The king remedied this with a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, tasting himself on the younger elf’s tongue. The intensity of it turned his captain pliable once more, and he obediently followed when Thranduil slipped from beneath him to stand, letting what remained of his robe fall to the floor.
He lifted Arendil from the bed, carrying him wrapped around his hip and off they went. The starved kisses continued as Thranduil blindly meandered along the columns to his bedroom. The captain was thrown onto the bed, and his king moved quickly to pull off his pants. Thranduil was suddenly so impatient that it made him chuckle.
“Did your high-”
“Call me by my name” Arendil stared at him, amused at first, not immediately complying. Thranduil liked being referred to by his name, but it always felt all too much to his captain. Only in the intense throes of passion did all his sense of propriety fall away. But, since he asked so very nicely in that needy look on his usually unreadable face. Arendil sat back, slowly dragging seconds out, making sure the king could see every lithe movement. He then spreads his legs open. His free hand then slid from the base of his neck to his own leaking cock as he said-
“Did you miss me, Thranduil?” Something snapped at the last syllable because the king immediately pounced onto the bed in between his legs. Strong hands folded his captain’s legs up to his chest, which drew a surprised yelp. Thranduil sucked and kissed the inner corners of his thighs so much he thought they might bruise, but before he could make another smart remark. Thranduil smirked, a milisecond warning of an impending attack, and then a moan erupted from his captain when he felt his wet tongue glide over his entrance.
“I don’t know, you tell me.” His king feasted upon him like someone starved, like the taste of his skin was his lifeline. His thumbs part the cleft of his arse so taught to further open him. Obscene sounds come in rapid succession the deeper he went. His tongue is now inside of him, prodding and swirling. He felt soaked digits inch closer to his entrance and was surprised how Thranduil managed to lubricate them without him noticing. Had he been anticipating this, he saw no ointment on the bed when they came bursting in through the door. But his thoughts were interrupted when a finger glided into him, pumping slowly as his tongue continued to ravish what it could reach.
“Thranduil, slow down. I’m going-”
“No, do not, that’s an order” He commanded in that charming authoritative tone as he inserted another finger and then another now pumping steadily as he mouth against Arendil’s cock.
“Please your highness-” This only made his fingers move faster, curling and pushing at his prostate. This went on for what felt like an eternity of torture. He felt his eyes well up with uncontrollable pleasure and he looked at his king, face reddened through to his ears, mouth agape wordlessly begging to be fucked and only then did it work. Thranduil's fingers were removed slowly; he wanted his captain to feel the absence of it, and the way he gaped was more than telling.
Thranduil graciously came to hover over his panting captain with a dark look. He lowered onto his forearms, and this menace of an elf, he rolled his hips positioning the tip of his cock at his entrance dragging faint touches there but still refusing to give Arendil sweet absolution.
“Say it”
“Aran, what-”
“Tell me how often I linger in your mind when I’m not there” There was an unexpected vulnerability as he said this. His eyes shone so beautifully, framed by his hair like streams of the most beautiful waterfalls. Arendil felt a tug at his heart so abrupt it almost felt painful. It was achingly honest of Thranduil, and both his hands reached to caress his king’s face.
“I miss you between every breath I take-”, Arendil started, his lips drunkenly kissing Thranduil’s sculpted jaw, reinforcing his words into skin.
“I miss you when I see beauty I could not bring back to you” Thranduil’s smile widened at this, encouraging his captain to keep speaking as he prodded again gently at his entrance.
“I miss you when the stars come, and I lie there alone” He almost couldn’t finish the last word as Thranduil began to push into him, stretching him open as their foreheads touched. The tightness around him almost sucked the air out of his lungs.
“I miss you when I fuck myself-” At this Thranduil moaned and their lips clash. Thranduil sheathed himself in completely, his grip at Arendil's waist so tight it pinched his skin. He drank the captain's half scream at the sudden wave of pleasure that shot deep within him.
Arendil could not quite get used to the girth of him, no matter how many times they’d gone to bed together. There was always that precipice between pain and mind-numbing pleasure, and it stupefied him.
As his lover clutched and dug into his back, Thranduil’s hands grasped at the constructed twines of his headboard and began to thrust. It was hard and rhythmic, like a dance. His sexual prowess had always left Arendil utterly speechless because, like everything about him, it was impeccable. Arendil’s back arched off the bed, combating the eruptions of pleasure, singeing his nerves to dust.
Somewhere between his own outrageously erotic sounds, Arendil managed. “Is this you telling me you miss me?”
Thranduil, unbelievably, chuckled as he hammered himself into his captain, and suddenly, he was flipped. Thranduil’s strength is formidable, and it announces itself at the most unexpected times. While his face remained pressed against the pillow, Thranduil lowered to his ear.
A deal was made that day that unshackled her from the hook that kept her for a week. It was a way forward but hardly ideal, she'll have to earn her way out, which as much as it is unfair considering her dismal involvement in all of this, either she runs again and does everything in her power to avoid capture or toil hard enough to prove her innocence. Given the torment of trying to survive that wretched woman the last time, she's inclined to give the second option a try, at least until she can't anyway.
She was relocated to a smaller room attached to Eivor’s but was still a prisoner despite her newly granted privacy. At the break of dawn, the door opens and Eivor is there in the doorway beckoning her wordlessly to come along and she would follow without protest each day to the heart of the settlement and underground where the other prisoners were kept.
She found that her 'cage' was a luxury compared to the conditions beneath the ground. Each day, they meandered through dimly lit paths to The Saxon’s cell, a dark pit at the very end of the tunnel where he was shackled to the wall. In front of him was a clean stool that looked as if it did not belong there—Eivor’s seat.
Rúna was made to observe each day the same torture put upon herself but the methods were far more unpleasant. She was not harmed to draw answers but this man would see cuts laid upon him even for a suspected lie. The cuts were administered by the guards accompanying them but if he tested her, Eivor would be the one to carve him and that’s when true fear surfaces.
She’s not senselessly cruel but there is a reason she’s feared and respected. Eivor is willing to play until the evidence proves otherwise and when your luck runs out, she is absolute. After some particularly rough days that made even Rúna who had some stomach for torment nauseous, he gave in.
Ælfgar (The Saxon) revealed that he was a merchant before his current harvesting business. He was a renowned man trading from England’s coast to Northern shores. His ambitions eventually ruled him leading him to betray a dangerous organisation for his own profit. He was approached to acquire certain herbs and other delights in large quantities, treasures so rare it required his kind of manpower and affluence.
To whip him to his knees, the shadow men pried into his life and learned of his appetite for cruelty often inflicted upon the women and children serving under him. So why not task him with something he’s good at? He was coerced into harvesting and selling to keep his business and livelihood from burning to ash.
Blackmail created a worse monster.
The more the man revealed the more disgusted she felt about having been involved even if it was unknowingly. During the confessions, Eivor turned to glance at her no doubt reading for any signs of sympathy towards the monster but she found nothing. It irritated her to no end how persistently cautious she was but there was nothing she could do but prove herself useful, which she’s hardly done so far. She’s made to be a fly on the wall to something she knows nothing of and no way out.
It was when Eivor was slicing open his tendons when he gave up the motherload. Through screams, he spouted the name of a cave where they operate and Eivor could not scribble that name down fast enough. As the man bled out, she tossed the knife to the floor and hurriedly found her map unfolding them in front of his bruised eyes.
“Mark it.” The Saxon complied staining the exact spot with his bloody finger and things were finally set in motion.
“Eivor-” She hurried one foot after the other behind Eivor who was moving so quickly she almost had to start jogging behind. Curse those long legs of hers.
“Eivor wait”
“You can say what you have to say as we ride.” She commanded without looking at her but Rúna grabbed her wrist forcing herself in front of the Drengr.
“How do we know they’d still be there? Ælfgar vanished for two weeks surely they noticed something was off” The ice-blue gaze bore into her. This isn’t something she hadn’t thought of but this lead is too important to be delayed.
“You’re not being helpful, *mus” Runa’s mouth gaped open at the nickname (This isn't the first but it's starting to stick) but before she could delay them any further, Eivor spun her around and gave her a nudge to keep walking.
This isn’t the first time she’s been handled by this woman and she has a feeling this won’t be the last. They barely speak save for her interrogations where she'd pivot back and forth from being a pain in the ass, to almost tolerable and then asking to be socked in the jaw again. Then when she does decide to properly communicate she emphasizes with her hands either nudging her a certain way or pointing.
Like it would kill her to speak like a regular person.
The proximity and sheer amount of time they spend with one another even if the circumstances are unfortunate has created an odd dynamic between them. She wouldn't call it friendly, far from it but they have gotten used to each other's presence.
She saw the way Eivor would speak to everyone else, despite the hard demeanour she kept in front of her when Randvi would appear or her fellow Drengr she'd soften and she found herself wondering what it might be like to be on the receiving end of that treatment.
They rode for the cave and just as she suspected, the cave had already been abandoned. She was following behind Eivor and a handful of guards when this revelation struck them. All that was left were tables, chairs, boxes and other items they could not take along with them. Inside the abandoned cages were dark stains and pieces of something she did not want to identify. Nightmarish tools hung from every corner and she was beginning to feel lightheaded.
Eivor was consumed by wrath. She was completely silent at first, completely ignoring her subordinate's questions only staring ahead like a woman possessed. A month of chasing gone just like that. She poured all her anger out in that cave kicking and tossing what was left and none stopped her. She didn't know what to do with the unrestrained scene before her nor did the rest of the men and so they turned away allowing Eivor this release, but she remained watching.
If she was being honest she did feel empathetic towards the woman even if she did not spare her an ounce of kindness since they met. This unbridled chaos is something she understands. Disappointment is a hard emotion no matter how many times.
She trashed the place until she had her fill, finally leaning a single hand against the cave's ice-cold wall, her head hanging. After some minutes she collected herself shifting her attention to a new resolve. She began to explore.
Rúna was instructed to return to the entrance of the cave along with the guards as she ransacked the place for any clues as to where the men vanished only leaving the cave an hour later with a scroll in hand. She and the men exchanged quick glances and the party rode again back to Fornburg, back to her prison.
From that day, the grip on her freedom loosened slightly what that meant she wasn’t sure but Eivor made herself scarce no doubt on the hunt for any trails.
She would watch from a small window hidden in a corner of the long house pointed straight to the gates of Fornburg and Eivor would return each day with a look of disappointment. She must be stuck, The Saxon did not have more to share and they had nothing to go on. They’re in limbo and she’s restless.
What if this doesn’t unravel?
What happens to my freedom?
Days went on without development. She was permitted to roam the grounds but what was the point? The settlement looked at her with suspicion and although the illusion of freedom was given to her, she could still feel the shackles.
All she wanted to do was see a familiar face and even that idea is incredibly sad considering Eivor is her jailor. All she wanted to do was pry any news out of the woman but that was impossible considering the odd times she kept. Here at night and gone the next unpredictable like the wind.
Things finally changed one night during a feast.
She was naturally not invited but the promise of anything to alleviate her boredom was enough, even if it meant listening in on the conversations floating and mingling some paces away from her door. But unlike the usual gossip, children hollering or drunken singing a visitor came. With her one ear by the slit of the door, she could hear a small group of men interrupting the gathering
“Might we warm ourselves by the fire Jarl Styrbjörn?” Then there was collective silence before a handful of men erupted in a gleeful cheer. It seems a friendly face had come to visit. The men were revealed to be sentries from a neighbouring settlement who’ve fought alongside Fornburg from what she gathered. There is to be a visit from their Jarl in Fornburg and a party was sent in advance to inform them. This was met with excitement and so the preparations began the next morning.
By sunrise, she had already woken up, she was hoping to take a stroll to quiet the thoughts gnawing at her and perhaps 'accidentally' run into Eivor but turns out she didn't need to. She hurried over to the door recognising the signature knock she hadn't heard in days and sure enough it was Eivor towering behind the door. She's got a different look on her today almost like she was in a good mood?
"You're not dead after all."
Eivor only quirked her eyebrows in response, typical.
"Get your cloak"
"Where are we going?"
She didn't respond but jutted her chin towards where her furs were and she knows better than to prod. She tailed behind Drengr out of the long house and around her the settlement seemed to have taken on a different energy. Decorations were being put up, and every inch of the place was being cleaned or organised. Everyone was looking forward to the gathering and she didn't have to ask anyone to feel it.
Eivor finally stopped at the hunting cabin and this excited her. She'd been wondering what this place might look like on the inside. There were so many hides hung out front and bones from creatures she couldn't make out; it almost had a mystical quality to it. She followed the Drengr inside while doing her best to seem present.
"Hello, Eivor and-" The woman trailed off unsure of how to refer to her and all she did was stare blankly in return.
"Petra, Wallace" Eivor greeted warmly extending the sentiment to the man hidden away in the opposite corner of the cabin busy with something.
"I've prepared your things give me a moment to pack them." The huntress's tone was syrup sweet and so was her gaze and she caught a reciprocating smile from the Drengr beside her. Interesting.
As Petra vanished behind the cabin, she stepped closer no longer able to handle the suspense.
"What things? What are you doing?"
"We are going hunting," Eivor emphasized at 'we' with a brief look and what a surprise...she didn't hide that relaxed expression away from her this time. The shorter woman blinked at the statement and she explained.
"Jarl Torben will be visiting us tomorrow and we'll need a trophy."
"Like a deer?"
"Like an elk."
"That's extravagant-" Eivor scoffed at that.
"What?"
"You really are far from home aren't you mus?" Again with that nickname. But she was right, she is well versed with the names of many rulers with her profession but that tends to change often. Power uproots people faster than any sickness could hope to achieve.
"Who is he?" She looked at her wordlessly and she could see Eivor decide she was going to be civil today.
"Our very very wealthy neighbor." No doubt there is more to it than that but they were interrupted. Petra returned with several rucksacks packed with supplies which Eivor instantly began to inspect, then when she saw everything was in order she turned her attention towards the bow rack.
"I assume you're familiar?" She asked as she turned to her and this made her perk up. She imagined she'd be relegated to the boring tasks like watching the horses or carrying everything but it looks like she might get to hunt after all? That would be nice, some semblance of normalcy.
"Yes."
"How familiar?"
"I've eaten a mountain lion," Eivor smirked with a curious look on her face before her attention shifted back to one of the yew wood bows. She chose one after some inspection before stepping towards her.
"Try not to aim at me?" she joked with a dead face.
"I can't promise that"
"I'm taking you out and this is the attitude I get?"
"This is hardly going to be a stroll"
"No, it isn't"
She closed the distance between them and suddenly hung an arrow sling over her head, she then reached over to grab a handful of arrows slotting it into the column. Both her arms were hovering beside her head, it was eerily close to being held and she couldn't help but feel a little flustered by the sudden proximity. What am I a child?
"But, be good and you might get to." She assured with a hushed tone that sent another confusing rush of warmth through her. Had she been deprived of any casual kindness for so long this had an effect? How embarrassing.
The gate pulled open and along with it a fresh gust of wind that felt as if it'd cleansed her as it blew past. All her worries were tucked away so she could admire the way light reflected on the redding leaves and the way the mountain seemed to sing at them. The beauty of the wilderness always found a way to cease her. She smiled earnestly for the first time in a while and it almost felt foreign.
The hunting party is comprised of Eivor, Petra, two young warriors and herself. Petra was assigned to lead at the head with rest right behind. If Eivor was keeping an eye on her she could not feel it. She seemed to be just as invested in the scenery as she was and for some reason, she was compelled to make a conversation. The loneliness was nipping at her a little although she won't admit it.
"I haven't seen you around the settlement."
"You've been watching me?" Eivor smirked a little her eyes glued onto the path.
"No, I- well yes I have been" She felt caught even if it wasn't against any rules for her to observe. The woman remained quiet no doubt letting her brew in that odd silence on purpose before she continued.
"Yes, I travel often"
"Where to?"
"I can't tell you that"
"What can you tell me?"
"That I hope you're as interested in finding this beast as you are about my comings and goings" There it is, that attitude of hers. She could hear the men chuckling behind and if she wasn't on horseback she'd have half a mind to toss something at them. She was really growing tired of being so outnumbered but she wasn't going to let this spoil her day out.
"I hope you're not planning to run again" Eivor teased but she only shot her a look speeding off slightly to be closer to Petra. No, what use is running? She had thought about it numerous times but the conclusion was always the same, better suffering than being accused of those heinous crimes. She was willing to help as long as she got off truly free.
They finally halted on the edge of the woods two hours away from the settlement. Petra suggested they go west on foot and together they went with a rucksack each. To cover a larger area, they split up into two with her and Eivor sent to the furthest west. They'd been stalking for hours to no avail.
"Anything?" Eivor whispered as she approached, she shook her head. Like the criminal they'd been chasing for the past month this elk is just as elusive. There are fresh droppings and hoof prints here and there but none leading to the creature itself.
"Do you think they'd settle for hare?" she voiced mindlessly almost to herself rather than Eivor as she parted some branches in their way.
"If that hare had horns perhaps-" It made Runa smile just a bit, any lift in morale is appreciated right now. She was beginning to feel a little weary by the harsh terrain and she could sense it in Eivor as well. For one, she doesn't seem to want to take a jab at her anymore or was it performative earlier?
She slowed to a stop near a small clearing allowing an unobscured view of the sky and was met with disappointing news.
"We don't have long before the sun sets..." she turned to Eivor tailing behind her and she seemed to realize this as well. She bit her lips no doubt frustrated.
"I hope Petra managed.."
"I didn't hear a horn"
They remained in that silence until rustling was heard close by.
"Did you hear that?" Eivor covered the distance between them instantly their backs almost against one another as they scanned the area. Nothing. Eivor broke off towards one of the bushes that rustled earlier and before she could grab the Drengr an enormous boar charged out of nowhere.
"Eivor!!!" She ran towards her but was slower than the creature. The boar clashed right into her, blood spattered all over the ground beneath then a loud roar of pain before she fell to the ground clutching her side.
"Fuck-" She spotted the boar, luckily it made a mistake tearing its way towards the clearing to prepare a charge. She could see it from a mile away and as the creature rushed with all its might back for another attack she aimed right between its eyes. She took a deep breath and knocked. Two arrows pierced the creature's skull sending it sliding lifelessly to a halt bleeding out only a few paces away from Eivor.
"Shit-" She threw her bow to the side immediately crouching next to Eivor who was grimacing, low growls emitting through her teeth more like a wounded wolf than a woman.
"Eivor let me see." The Drengr stifled another pained growl as she released her trembling hands and Rúna immediately started parting the ripped fabric at her side trying her best not to touch the flesh but it was unavoidable considering the damage. It isn't a small gash but luckily the wounds aren't too deep, it is still a gnarly sight that's seeping through her tunic but she won't have to bid goodbye to this woman just yet.
She turned her attention to the rucksack nearby and rummaged through it to find a box precisely for these kinds of situations.
"I'm going to have to sew this." She turned to her with a box in hand. But as she's attempting to open the box Eivor leans forth putting her bloodied hand on hers clamped on the lid.
"I can walk-" she made an effort to get up but the pain made itself known on her face, before she could protest Eivor somehow managed onto her feet then immediately stumbled back against the trunk of a nearby tree.
"The hell you can." She scolded half frustrated and worried as she followed with the scraps of cloth. Eivor made an effort to move again as if to prove to her this was no big deal but was pushed at her shoulder to lean back against the tree with a mean look to go with it. Defy me or else.
"Stop moving!" She scolded once again before beginning to work wrapping the cloth around her so tight hopefully it would slow the bleeding until they could find a suitable place to camp. Perhaps after she's treated her wounds she might ride back to their rendezvous to get help. But the light was dimming fast...chances were not looking good.
They stumbled upon a small cave along a different route back about halfway before they hit the edge of the woods. She'd resigned the idea of dragging Eivor through the dark considering her state in the past few hours. Her face had taken on a paler shade and she couldn't afford to have this woman fainting in the middle of the forest as the temperature rapidly dropped. It was risky, ideally a healer should have a look at her as soon as they can but she will have to stick out the night.
She settled her against the most comfortable nook she could find before rushing off to find some firewood. By the time she returned, The Drengr had fallen asleep. She managed to start a fire and immediately got to work. She turned Eivor with some effort then began to cut through her tunic with a knife.
She unfurled a part of her undershirt covering her midriff revealing solid muscles beneath, for a split second she wondered what it might be like to press her cheek up against it...the imagination made her cheeks sting. I must be cold, cheeks get...cold. She brushed away the thoughts steadying her fingers to properly thread the needle before beginning to sew. Luckily Eivor doesn't twitch at all throughout and she managed to seal the wound nicely. Now to wrap...
She turned to see her face, and despite the horrible accident, she was sleeping soundly. Her face relaxed, lips slightly parted and her breathing steady. She looked so peaceful she didn't have the heart to interrupt it. Maybe she could attempt this without waking her?
Rúna straddled her to find balance before sliding her arm under her body to slide the cloth under her to wrap the wound but as she did, Eivor blinked awake staring sleepily only inches from her face.
"What are you doing?" She rasped. Startled, she drops Eivor held slightly aloft in her arm drawing a hiss from the woman beneath her.
"Shit- I'm sorry" Her hand immediately went to shield the freshly sutured wound from Eivor's instinctive need to touch it.
"Don't touch it I'm almost done, let me wrap you," she mumbled turning away from the Drengr's gaze. But Eivor reached for the roll in her hand prying it away.
"I'll do it."
"mm.." She didn't protest. That proximity was not easy and well, she is quite heavy.
Eivor winced as she made a single move to sit herself up against the stone wall. She then began to untie latches and clasps holding her tunic together and Rúna's eyes followed every movement absently until she was beginning to lift the hem of her undershirt.
"Do you mind?"
"Oh right-" She quickly turned mentally smacking herself for getting caught staring so absentmindedly. She listened to the sound of cloth unfurling and tightening over and over until there was silence again.
"Mus-"
She turned ready to chastise the woman, she'd had it with the pet name but before she could string together something scathing-
"Thank you." Rúna bit the insides of her lips embarrassed. She only managed a nod before turning back around.
"Shame, I think you would've made an interesting addition to the feast." This made the Drengr laugh outright and although it was interrupted by a hiss she was still chuckling softly after. She felt relieved to see that she could still laugh and what an interesting sound at that. She found herself fascinated by it, the natural hoarseness of her tone had an unexplainable warmth.
"You're morbid" She offered a small smile in return.
"How are you feeling?"
"Unpleasant, but I'll manage."
"I'm sure you've gotten out of worse?" Being someone of her rank that must come with an extraordinary amount of risk. Judging from her visible scars, no doubt there's more hidden beneath...in places she hadn't seen at least.
"Oh yes-"
"Tell me about them?" She didn't mean to pry, but Eivor was a walking mystery and now that she'd gained some footing she was determined to uncover something about her.
"....." Eivor hesitated still visibly restrained by the idea of getting familiar with her but she had no choice. You owe me now.
"We have nothing better to do, humour me."
"Where do I start?" She heaved a sigh.
"That one..." she pointed towards a slash on her arm, but it was not actually the one she was curious about. The one at her neck drew her attention towards it since the first time she'd seen it but that no doubt had a violent story and a personal one she didn't quite feel comfortable asking just yet.
"I was sparring with this boy...Ulrik was his name. He didn't like me very much." Eivor busied her hands with a weft of blonde that'd fallen away from its place braiding it carefully into a new one that branched off like a small vine.
"You're a colourful storyteller" She couldn't help it, you'll find an opportunity to get back at Eivor is so few and far between.
"You want me to finish this or not?" She looked up from her braid only slightly with that authoritative voice she effortlessly switched on and she kept her mouth shut, keeping the small smile only out of spite.
"He was bigger than me but he was always much slower. All his weight it's in his feet, not so much up here-" Her hand hovered around the front of her head as she explained.
"Usually he might win a round or two, but that day he just kept losing and losing so he decided to pick up something sharper than a stick." She had a faint smile on her lips like it's a fond memory despite the cruelty of the story. She remained quiet like that for a minute, blending into the crackling sounds of the fire.
"...."
"There, now you know something about me." She shot her a knowing look.
"You forced me to talk every day for the past month, the least you could do was give me something in return." She argued lightly which made the woman some distance beside her nod along even if she didn't entirely agree.
"So what happened to him after?"
"His father dragged him home by the ear."
"Did you see him again after that?"
"You've had your story Mus" She cut her attempt to continue the conversation short, but what irked her more was that nickname. Finally, she voices her irritation. Why mock her over and over with the memory of that night? She can still remember the way Eivor announced it as she's trapped in that net...'It seems we caught ourselves a mouse'
"Why do you keep calling me that?" Eivor only shrugged not reacting to her simmering agitation at all.
"Do you always have to be a pain to speak to?"
"Only for you." Eivor retorted but the suggestive phrasing she slipped by accident suspended them both in yet another awkward silence. Flustered, Eivor turned her attention towards her rucksack moving it the best she could to an empty space behind her and quietly lowered herself to the floor.
"Lucky me..." was all Rúna could manage stunned.
"...."
"What are we going to do about the elk we don't have?"
She always found solace in ritual and at this moment her chosen mantra is the colour and the corresponding families they represent. The day has arrived when her pageantry is expected to secure her family's dominion over the court and to say she's nervous is a grave understatement.
She was woken up at the break of dawn to start preparing for a banquet that wouldn't begin until later in the evening. It was all very elaborate in ways she never expected. From morning till noon was a series of surprises like a great big scented bath, special ampoules poured and rubbed into her like a she's a delicacy and then there were special meals that would 'lift her spirits' as her mother explained. She remembers taking a bite hoping it would ease the anxiety simmering in her with every hour they get closer to the banquet. The next thing she realizes she's already tailing behind her parents to the inner quarters. No time to think, no time to dwell.
Her family were seated closest to the king's seat which drew some displeased looks from the other families in attendance. This wasn't the first time she'd experienced such outward expressions of jealousy, but she'd always felt somewhat detached from it. This time, however, she is public enemy number one and she does not blame them. She's more than blessed to be in this position but why does she feel as if she's being tied to a chair and tossed backwards into the roiling sea? She could feel everyone's gaze like needle pricks like she was being surrounded by vultures who hadn't decided whether or not she's dinner just yet.
A funny thing to be so miserable in a place so beautiful. They were all seated at a long table stretched along the length of the gallery. The food on the table was displayed in such a way they looked more like sculptures than anything edible. Delicacies from the furthest corner of The Nine Realms at hand reach. The gallery's walls were painted with exquisite moving murals chronicling legends older than some stars over Asgard. This is power.
Sigrid shifts in her seat beside her mother and father who quickly dominate the table's conversation as they wait for The All Father's arrival. To her parents, this was life, the theatrics of it all are what they live and breathe and although she was raised in the way, she never took to it as happily as her sisters, preferring to be a silent observer rather than regale people who often don't become a part of her life. So, she kept to herself as the families exchanged their veiled pleasantries. As the adults engage in a combat of prose, she takes in the rest of the girls at the table. Some of the girls she knew from lessons they sometimes shared and to those girls smiles were exchanged but there were also foreign princesses who looked to her with some intensity no doubt fueled by the rumours of a rigged affair.
"She was raised with the princes what chance do we have?"
"Those snakes, they have The All Father's ears, will they have everything they can get their hands on?"
As the harsh speculations she'd heard over the week leading to this gathering began to gnaw at her, a thunderous beat sounded and the large golden door pulled open to reveal The All-Father, The goddess Frigga followed by her golden son. Everybody rose to their feet as per tradition but reverence soon turned to awe at the sight of Thor. She could feel the surge of energy shift as if he was now commanding the room and he knew it. He's basking in the admiration and you can't blame him. As much as she dreads seeing his face, she must admit he looks as if he's made of the final moments before night, that sweeping golden glow emanating from just him. It could be him or the amount of gold woven into his attire.
"Welcome, you have all made an admirable effort to be here today and I'm sure my son is just as appreciative seeing the beautiful faces who will not only become the future queen of Asgard, but a part of our family as well. Sit, dine, and enjoy yourselves. To the future, to continued peace across The Nine Realms, to you all and to our future king, Thor. Skål!"
The table erupted in sound as the toast concluded but she barely registered it. The speech multiplied her guilt exponentially. It was one thing to be in conflict with the brothers but this coming from the lips of The Protector of The Nine Realms himself suddenly feels far larger than her. This chaffed at her resolve. She did not want to be married to Thor but in the days leading she'd been compliant. She couldn't bring herself to sour the glow in her parent's faces or interrupt their fantasies expressed whenever they got a moment with her.
What if I did this for them never mind my choices?
As the universe threatened to fold into itself, she turned to Thor, who was already looking at her. It's a neutral smile, but those blue eyes tell a different story. They had something like gloom in them. She could be wrong, but he was never talented at hiding his emotions. She smiled back hesitantly and then turned her attention towards the wine. Thank the gods.
It had been a while since she crossed paths with any of the brothers. It's no mystery they've all been avoiding one another with all that's going on and as much as it is a relief not to have to navigate any more heart-wrenching fights, the suffocating limbo is just as miserable. All she could do was repeat the events between her and the brothers and where anger is prominent with the thought of Thor, she found she could not describe how she feels towards Loki. The more she could not define it the more suffocating it became.
He left her with strange new sensations and as hard as that small part is telling her it is a crush, she refuses to believe it. Not the snivelly bastard she's had to compete with all her life, not the bastard who breaks all the rules and lives however he pleases, not the bastard she's not promised to...but her mind keeps stirring back to the sensations.
His breath, his skin, his fingers laced with hers...the way he leaned in...
These puzzling and intimate emotions remained coiled around her every minute since and she's praying its effects would wane away somehow. Just weeks ago her life was completely peaceful. How did it all get uprooted so quickly?
After what felt like the longest banquet in existence, the families were escorted to the main hall where the remaining courtiers and other members of the palace were invited to join in on the celebration. The unparalleled opulence of the Aesirs is in full display if not more in honour of the crown prince and this is only to announce the beginning of the hunt. The royal wedding must be something...the thought made all her insides grow ice cold.
After the royal family's entrance, it was her family to follow. She descended first and the applause (or the wine?) made her light-headed, despite that she held her head high with the brightest smile she could manage. She's wearing an impossibly intricate dress of silver embroidery, shimmering gossamer and delicate pleats that hug her figure like she is made of mist and moon dust. Her hair cascaded long behind her with silver accents in her hair. Like the maidens from the old tales as her handmaid remarked.
She arrived at their table shortly and with a single look, one of the servants immediately found her glass of something. While her parents were preoccupied, she emptied the glass deciding now she might persevere. Lightning struck as she was mid-conversation with some elder ladies at the table. Thor arrived with the kind of smile that'll make any mother surrender their daughters.
"May I?" she took his hand with a little less grace than she'd like and they both wade their way through the crowd towards the dance floor. It all felt immediately wrong she could still feel the horrible sting of what he said to her the last they met but the way he was holding her was so gentle, it made everything feel like a mirage. The adoring crowd parted as they made their way to the centre and the world began to spin.
"You're cheery for someone who'd rather strangle me." Thor mocked, his arms caged around her tenderly despite the tone. They're trapped in this dance with one another and while all the courtiers looked on with syrup-sweet smiles and cheery whispers, the truth is the 'happy pair' are one misphrase away from tearing one another apart. She has the most fake happy expression permanently painted on her and the prince couldn't help prodding her in irritation.
"Unlike you, I don't throw a tantrum when things don't go my way."
"And you're absolved of this Sig? Denying your birthright for some fantasy... "
"Stop belittling what I want."
"What about what I want?" he spun her a little faster than the rhythm called for but that didn't phase her. Her nails dug into her shoulder as she continued.
"Have you given any thought to what I said?" She asked a little more desperately than she intended.
"I have" Their eyes locked in a wordless battle and the outcome of it...It seemed he wasn't going to make it easy for her.
"You don't want me, Thor."
"Stop telling me that!" he snapped raising his voice slightly but only just enough to stir curiosity from a couple beside them who quickly scurried away. They've stopped dead in their tracks in the middle surrounded by twirling bodies like the heart of a storm. Again that sadness in the ice-blue made her stomach knot up. It's all so deeply uncomfortable that she wants to disappear. She couldn't even remain in denial about this anymore. His eyes aren't lying. He wants this.
She turned her gaze away despite still being held in his loose embrace. She hates this she wishes she could rewind time, all of this is spiralling out of control and she has no say in even the slightest. It's all unfurling and she's trying to keep what's left. The world is moving right by her and she feels like a helpless spectator to her own downfall.
Before any more words were exchanged, someone approached them and like clockwork, they both assumed their rehearsed smile as they turned to greet an oncoming lord like they hadn't just fought.
As the two prattled on about something she did not understand, her eyes wandered over the aristocrat's shoulder to someone making an entrance. As the golden arches parted, The emerald prince appeared before her for the first time in what felt like forever and as much as she was furious about how things were left, a large part of her felt relieved? Like she is no longer outnumbered in this hall.
He's wearing that signature debonair smile as he sauntered down the flight of stairs leaving no court ladies ungreeted. Loki had always been meticulously put together even at his worst and now is no different. He's dressed in his favourite colours, black and green with gold accents here and there; his short hair swept back neatly for a full view of his sharp features. You never could miss him if you tried. The room seemingly gravitated towards him the same way Thor commanded, a habit of the Odinssons.
She felt an odd tightness at how generous he was with his greetings, every time he'd feign an excited look she felt nauseated. He scanned the room and just before he got to her she weaned herself off the sight. Great timing. The man finally took his leave of Thor and they're carelessly swirling once again. Doesn't he have any other women to sweep off their feet?
"I think you should go over there. You stay here any longer I think Lady Brynhild might slit me open." It was an honest statement but also a peace offering to make this situation a little more palatable and he understood this.
"But she's a bore-" She shot him a mocking look.
"Not that you're any better." He couldn't help but have a swipe at her but she didn't mind it. Something about this brought back a sense of familiarity between them like a glimpse back to what they were before this entire ordeal and even if it was for just a second it felt nice. But before she could find a way to an easier ground with him, she caught a familiar scent of wood mist and from the slight frown on Thor's face there was no doubt. The world fell away leaving the three of them strung together by an invisible cord.
"Brother, you look dashing." Loki greeted first with a warm smile that did not falter despite it not being reciprocated. He then turned down to her but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. There's still too much to untangle even if she is pleased to see him.
"You missed the banquet."
"Oh spare me, those things are tedious."
Thor shot him a single look that made him sour just a bit.
"And watch them fawn over you for hours, that's every day for me brother I hardly missed anything." Loki put an arm playfully around his older brother and this softened Thor a little. She'd witnessed years upon years of rivalry between them and even if at times it got tedious to be roped into the theatrics, them finding their way back to one another was always something that warmed her to see.
But you are a rift between them are you not?
The prickly conversation continued and eventually, the brothers fell into their usual rhythm neither one of them addressing the elephant in the room named Sigrid. So, she slowly peeled away hoping neither of them would notice. As she angled behind both of them aiming for more wine to quiet her guilt, she felt a touch at the back of her hand that stopped her dead in her tracks. He's signalling her to stay close without looking behind but she honestly needed a break from them both so she she makes a move again only to feel his index finger curl around her pinky. All this is happening as he continues to speak with Thor. What are you doing?
Before the elder prince noticed their little conversation away from him, Lady Brynhild finally found her way over and imposed herself just enough to steal Thor away and Loki made no attempts to stop her, even waving with a small smirk that would irk anyone.
They're left alone now. He finally turned to her with a subtle smile.
"You look beautiful." she blinked up at him and for some reason she curtsied out of spite. No, flattery isn't going to explain your disappearance. He must've got the hint and immediately urged her along with him away from the dance floor.
They rounded a large column and walked onwards past the hall to the terrace which is significantly less noisy. Thankfully there is no one around as they're all consumed with the entertainment inside. Good, because she cannot begin to predict the direction of the conversation they're about to have.
"So, where were you?" for a week I waited to see if you would come. She frowned at the sounds in her mind sighing as she turned her attention towards him, the cause of an unforgiving storm she'd been lost in for days and days.
"I'm sorry I needed to think." Loki turned to an abandoned table behind them and took an unattended glass downing its contents in the blink of an eye. Damn the fool, he's looking past a single weft of hair that's fallen into his face. His pale skin almost looked luminescent with only the nearby lanterns illuminating them. He's carved by the kindest artist and she wonders if he realizes.
"About?" she pressed on not wanting to materialize her actual questions to risk discovering some truth she was not prepared for.
"You." It's as if he's looking right through her. The greens of his eyes danced with unsaid words which made her stomach flutter. Again with that weightlessness. She found her eyes wandering against his face again. She can't seem to get used to the newness of it, this new way he looks at her.
"What about me?"
"I wasn't sure I understood what I felt until now. I couldn't say it then, back at the library but I know now."
"..."
"I'm not angry with Thor, well, I am but that was not the reason I mistreated you." He never once deviated his gaze she could see each word reflected from his innermost corners and this made her heart pound against her chest out of nervousness, fear, all there is in between.
"..."
"I...have feelings for you." He delivered this with such vulnerability it felt taboo to be experiencing it so out in the open. She felt as if the air in her lungs had been sucked out of her body. The shock of it made her cheeks burn and any crude idea she had of what to say died in her mouth.
"Sig?"
"I heard you..." Barely over the pounding inside her chest.
Loki shifted a little where he was standing and he hesitantly inched closer to her. "I know this must be odd for you this being Thor's day and you're-" He did his best to fill in the silence but as he spoke himself in circles something broke within her. She'd been hounding her own feelings around for days, pounded reasons and logic into herself mercilessly until she couldn't anymore. She fell asleep each night wondering if she was losing her mind or if this was some messed up way her mind wanted to rebel against the helplessness she felt against the arrangement but maybe there was a way to go forward. She's tried the deductions there's only one other way to settle this once and for all...
One...Two...Three...
She clutched Loki's sleeve tightly and pulled him to a hidden corner. They were now tucked behind a statue and before he could say another word, she closed the distance between them; cutting the tension that's had its grip on her for what felt like an eternity.
That relief was almost euphoric. He was stunned at first but quickly reciprocated. Her hands remain clutched tight at his lapel and his both hands move to caress her face as their lips lock in a passionate rhythm neither one of them was aware was hidden within.
She could feel his lips curl into a small smile and this encouraged her. Her hands slid up to hold at his wrist and this was how they remained for some time. He'd deepen the kiss and so would she, for once reason and allegiances aren't dictating either of them.
They were panting when they parted, their foreheads pressed against one another mourning the sensation mere minutes ago. He leaned in again but only so that his lips could brush against hers and they traced up the slope of her nose to her forehead and there he left another kiss. As he does he whispers.
"Does this mean you feel it too?" this felt like a bucket of cold water. She kissed Loki, but what of everything else that's expected of her? Her hands slowly removed themselves from him. Why does it feel wrong to say yes?
Desperate to communicate despite her inability to verbalise her feelings she seized him into another kiss that confused him, and then she did what she'd never done before in her life. She ran.
"Sig!"
That night she stole the largest bottle of something from the pantry and drank herself into a stupor. Everything is fucked.
A skull-splitting headache woke her and just as she was beginning to acclimatise to the squeezing pain in her head, memories of the night before came flooding back.
The talking to herself as she wobbled around her bedroom with a bottle in hand. The forcing her hand maids to dance with her. The re-enacting her fight with Thor (as both her and Thor) and then the cry laughing as she was helped out of her gown. All of it.
She groaned and pulled the thick layers of her blanket over her face. She will need to apologize for this later when no one is home, the twins will never let her live this down. She was in the middle of tossing and turning when she got interrupted by a voice.
"Good, you're awake."
She pulled the blankets from her face and propped herself up on her elbows scanning the room in shock. Everything is in its place no one is in here except...oh. There's a black cat perched on her windowsill, the green tint of its eyes an immediate giveaway. She turned to grab a small throw pillow beside her and launched it directly at the four-legged intruder. She heard a yelp as he leapt from the spot then tendrils of green tugged and wove the cat back into the real him.
"That's no way to greet someone." He bent down to grab the pillow as he made his way over.
"Maybe if you knocked like everyone else I might've been more welcoming. What are you doing here?" she took the small pillow from his hand squishing it into a comfortable shape so she could rest on her side, her head leaned up against it.
"We have unfinished business." Her eyebrows quirked in feigned confusion, of course, she knew exactly what he was referring to. The kiss...the kind of kiss that made her toes curl at the thought. Her cheeks were beginning to sting a little but she made sure not to let her nervousness show.
He stared at her momentarily in disbelief before he settled down on the edge of her bed. This is the first time he's ever visited her room, it's forbidden to cross one another's threshold, a rule cemented into their minds so young she cannot even remember who told them in the first place but here he is now. She's suddenly conscious of how much of a mess her room is at the moment after the other lady (her drunken self) tore through it the night before.
"Why did you run off?"
"I didn't run off-" she tugged at the shoulder of her chemise that was beginning to slip off her and mostly to find something for her hands to do.
"Alright, walked very very quickly away from me then." She kept her gaze on him and again she shook her head which drew an exasperated sigh from him and then he ran out of patience. A mischievous little smile appeared on his face as he slowly inched towards her like a stalking predator.
"What are you doing?" She asked confused, too confused to realize she should probably scoot away.
"Doing what?" Great, feeding her her own medicine. He advanced closer and closer until he was hovering over her his hands supporting his body above.
"Alright! Alright..." He tilted his head with a triumphant look.
"I was...drunk-" It's the stupidest approach she could have gone for but this is the best she's got with a searing headache, an ocean of guilt and an undecided course.
This struck a chord with Loki.
"Not good enough." He frowned as he lowered pressing his lips against her. She was hesitant but only for a brief moment, the scent of him, that demanding look on his face, the way he was so worked up over her actions was such a commanding force she was not prepared for first thing in the morning. Against better judgement she let herself have it.
This was not like the gentle passion of last night, this is Loki's frustration expressed through the way his lips glided swift and keen. His tongue prodded against her and she relented easily to the drunken momentum. His body is no longer hovering above her but pressed firmly to her separated only by the thick blanket between them.
He pried and pried into her like he was going to draw her confession out with his lips alone. It was all so chaotic suddenly, her fingers were getting braver, and she allowed herself to comb her fingers into his hair. Sighs slipped between them as they were both beginning to struggle. There's no air, it's suffocating, it's pleading, it's yearning.
She pushed at his chest parting them. Their ragged breaths intermingled as they stared at one another in shock. Then a small smile began to form on his lips.
Her fate for the next few days reminded her of when she found a wounded finch by the foot of a large tree she often played. She played nurse for the little bird, feeding and mending its wings for days until it regained strength to flitter away. Hopefully, she too would find her way out of this predicament.
When she was deemed healthy again, some guards came to the healer’s cottage and she was relocated once again to a far less peaceful lodging. The structure sits atop a mound embraced by ice-cold streams on each side creating something similar to an island. The ‘house’ is a less elegant kin of the longhouse, not used for grand feasts and important affairs, but to house training warriors and fighters without homes of their own. She’s had to make do with worse.
The guards escorted her to her bed at the end of the hall and shoved a set of clothes along with a letter atop the pile and that was their task done. She expected something barbaric upon entry, some crude remarks or hateful eyes but all she received were puzzled looks followed by avoidance. What were they told? Rúna’s eyes were drawn to the new clothes she was given but that will have to wait as the letter likely contains an explanation. She broke the seal with ease and immediately began to read.
‘You are to remain in Fornburg until proven innocent. Until then, you will fight alongside our brothers and sisters. Any attempts to flee will be a grave mistake. You are at my mercy.’
She scoffed at the message staring back at her, not exactly a warm welcome and left her with more questions than answers. If she is a fugitive why bother letting her out of the cage? Why bother mending what was going to heal itself in a few weeks? Perhaps it's a way to test her, that woman did seem to have a pension for games. She grits her teeth remembering all the infuriating advances that almost got her murdered.
So it begins, the assassin falls back onto the surprisingly stiff bed while making note of every single pair of curious eyes that may become a threat. She hardly slept the night or the next.
Labour is not something foreign to her. Having been raised in the harshness of the forest by a woman of significant age, she’s had to put in the work since she was young. It was torturous at first and then it got easier with every time she bled or bruised. Her ability to silently toil away meant her fellow warriors weren’t keen on picking and prodding her despite her mysterious origins.
Rúna was almost petite compared to her fellow Drengrs. Outwardly speaking she's easy on the eyes in all the traditional sense, with delicate features, skin like moonlight and waves of raven-coloured curls that seemed to have a life of its own. She could excite any roaming bard with her resemblance to the women of the Sagas had all this not been shadowed by the dark unexplainable air around her. She is breathtaking but in the same way, a serpent could charm you at first. The only person who dared speak to her in the past days is Gyda.
You cannot miss this woman even if you tried, her height rivals the biggest men in the clan with a fight in her that's foolish to challenge. She was tasked to show her the ropes like a glorified jailor but as far as jailors go she's almost irresponsible. If she is guarding her at all Rúna did not feel it. For days she was kept on a suspiciously loose collar. Perhaps it is their plan, but she could not dwell on it long. Whatever game they wanted to play, she would try to avoid it altogether. You can’t corner a mouse that isn’t there.
Tasks would look different each day and with the advantage of Gyda’s misplaced trust (?), she got to survey the camp and its people. This place is heavily guarded but without its blind spots, in this case, it’s hidden in Fornburg’s infrastructure. She finally discovered her way to freedom during one of the days she was tasked to patrol one of the many interior gates. A small tunnel was exposed carved under one of the walls shielded by a makeshift tent with tools scattered about. She snuck out in the dead of night to that exact spot and squeezed herself down into the tunnel which led to the surrounding forest.
Thank the gods! Tomorrow will be her last day as a prisoner. She will return to her life and spend the next months trying to forget this close call and definitely reconsider her usual patrons.
The next day could not have gone by any slower. She moved through the motions, hardly registering her surroundings as her mind was occupied by her promise of freedom that was imminent. She managed to steal weapons, knives and some arrows for the journey; a satchel of bread and cheese tucked away beneath her bed for the road. The second the bell rang announcing dinner, she waited for all the warriors to gather at the mess hall before she silently gathered her things, she would have to make way before Gyda noticed her absence.
It begins. The assassin becomes one with the shadows, tucking herself behind one cottage after the other and she makes her way towards the tunnel. She became the billowing bush, the cascading form on the wooden walls and the footsteps of wild cats on roofs. She managed to get to the entrance undetected and the moment she successfully lowered herself into the tunnel she picked up speed. Now that she didn’t need to be mindful of her steps now that she was hidden underground, she sprinted nonstop for the next few moments almost smiling as she neared the forest opening.
The second she felt the cold wind against her face was like being welcomed home. She ran and ran as if her legs weren’t her own and it may as well be, as she could no longer feel them. She felt no dull aches or unpleasant cuts sustained from the past week and a half. The taste of freedom is so sweet she dances with the whistling leaves welcomed once again back to her own world.
But her happiness was cut short.
Rúna felt a piercing pain against her ankle, something had snatched her. In the following seconds, she registers that the pain was from the woven spider web of ropes tightening itself around her ankle piercing the surface of her skin as it latched onto her. She screamed shocked at how quickly the world began to flip upside down as she lost her balance knocking onto the floor covered in a suspicious amount of leaves but before she could work that mystery, she was hoisted high up into the air, her limbs slipping uncomfortably through the gaps between each knot.
“Fuck!” she cussed at nothing in particular as she struggled only to find herself in an even worse position. These traps are typically used to catch mountain lions and occasionally bears. She used to watch them get hoisted up, the genius of man forcing formidable beasts to surrender. But she’s no mountain lion, just a woman caught.
As she frantically tries to gain a sense of control, below her, torches lit up one by one revealing familiar faces from the camp she’d just run away from. One by one until the very last…that blonde woman. “Friends, it looks like we’ve caught a mouse!” roaring laughter erupted from all around her and Rúna growled like a feral animal at her once again captors. “I did warn you, but I had a feeling you don't take orders very well.” The raven woman taunted with a straight face.
Rúna sagged in the trap, eyes clouded with fury as she stared down at the woman below. She didn’t have a clever remark for the raven woman as she was too busy mourning her plottings over the last week, even worse she looked behind to see none other than Gyda smiling up at her. Of course.
The guards broke off from their trained position lured by dangling prey they may now get to play with. Some of the men hoist up their spears and begin to tap at her through the net but then they turn into jabs, just enough to feel unpleasant but not enough to break skin.
They didn't bleed her but It was still deeply degrading and Rúna thrashed in her trap like a crazed animal. She shot her eyes at their leader whom she expected to be laughing at her misfortune but the reality was different.
She’s looking up at her in the net with eyes less sure than when she taunted her moments before. It seems the men's actions don't align with her own ideas for Rúna’s punishment. Does she pity me?
She could feel an even more intense wave of anger within her threatening to break to the surface. Pent-up emotions from weeks of fleeing and fighting every possible outcome to remain alive combined with all the injuries she’d sustained for the past however long was beginning to affect her and the raven woman must’ve caught it.
“That’s enough.” She did not have to repeat herself for the men to halt entirely. She turned to speak in hushed tones to her right hand who promptly nodded before ordering the men to take down the trap. Rúna couldn’t focus on anything else but the blonde witch.
I don’t need your pity.
Things will be done differently now, she understood that much. Her new home isn’t a wooden post out in the square where the entire town could ogle at her like how common criminals were treated but inside the longhouse. Gyda, who since the reveal did not so much as speak to her dragged her in shackles like a straw puppet past the threshold of the menacing structure she’d been eyeing every single day since the moment she left her initial prison.
Warm air caressed her face as they crossed the entrance, the scent of oak, warm bread and mead bombarded her senses as she took in the residents. Handmaidens weaving, earls and their attendants in tow and some villagers enjoying each other’s company before they noticed her being carried like a wounded pup through the hall.
None of the ruling lords were at their post but even without its authority, the throne looked menacing with its bones and runes and ornaments. Every corner of this structure is a feast for the eyes, if she wasn’t a prisoner at this moment she’d take her time exploring every inch of its majesty.
She was taken behind a corner and tossed into a large connecting room. From the looks of it, this isn’t a cell, for one it's got a large bed with a headboard too extravagant for any common person to own. Earthy blues and greens can be found everywhere painted into the wooden walls and edges of armchairs. Blood-red tapestries hung like waterfalls and in between were deer heads, and other trophies from hunting. Their soulless eyes Rúna found to be a little unnerving. Trinkets hung high and low and on tables giving the space a vibrant story of the owner she’s yet to meet. Books are scattered about along with half-read scrolls and letters. She was carried away analysing her surroundings. She barely heard the door shutting very loudly behind her and she whipped back to see…her again.
“If your idea of punishment is to force me to bed you, I'm disappointed,” Rúna said mockingly but they weren’t baseless. Men have similarly captured her trying to make her offer herself in exchange for freedom, thank the gods she’s always managed to get out of it unscathed. She said that out of pettiness, resolved to be a pain in this woman’s neck so long as she was sure she could not be murdered. She wanted a reaction even if it didn’t mean anything, she was caught, humiliated like an animal and she needed to stab her even if it was with words.
The raven woman scoffed, there was a mixture of coldness and mischief behind those eyes. “I don't bed murderers.” Silence followed as she analysed her situation, while the woman began to remove her winter layers unbothered as if she’d now become one of the items in the room. The audacity.
Fury is still very much blazing within her but the endlessly curious part of her nature could not ignore the sight before her. So far every single time she’d been in the presence of this woman she was cloaked in thick furs, leathers, straps upon straps and weapons fastened in so many different places they look a part of her but not anymore. Her long pale locks adorn her like a lion’s mane, they’re split into several braids, the tidiness needed for someone who no doubt is constantly on the move. It’s cleanly shaven on one side of her head giving way to an intricate black tattoo in the shape of a raven. But as she followed the ink trail downwards it led to a violent pattern of scarred skin behind her ear leading down her neck, a true mark of a Drengr, ugly trophies worn forever.
Rúna has several of her own, such is the nature of what they do but these two women could not be more different. Her ruggedness did not overshadow the undeniable beauty but accentuated it. Rúna felt as if she’d been trapped in a cage with a beast and she is endlessly curious despite the potential danger. She’s a majestic creature wrapped in cotton and thread and earthly things that don’t belong on her. The subject of her curious staring finally turned with a vacant look on her face, that ice-blue gaze fell upon the assassin again and it made her feel nervous.
“Why am I here?” she finally asked, ignoring the confusing urge to keep taking in this woman before her.
“I gave you freedom and you defied my orders, so now we will do this differently.” She doesn’t like the sound of this, that innocent fascination dissipated and replaced by caution. Her captor walked over to a round hook with a lock built into the side of her bed, what she imagines is a kind of contraption used to store her weapons within close reach, it will now keep her. Without explanation, she knew. This is to be her new cell and what better way to pressure a suspect than tying her up like a pet to her interrogator?
“No.” The assassin growled with a disgusted look.
“No?”
“No.”
“I thought as much.” The raven woman mumbled to herself before she bolted towards Rúna by the door. Her shackled wrist was impossible to shake off so her chances are next to none against this larger Drengr and yet she tried.
She kicked and hit the woman but was met with harder blows to her stomach causing her to fall to the floor out of breath. It’s like fighting a boulder. “I’m going to fucking slit your throat!” She forced through grit teeth as the Drengr dragged her by the chains to the hook.
“I’d like to see you try.” She almost laughed at the threat. Before the woman could lock the chains up to the hook, she gathered another burst of strength she lunged and headbutted the large woman followed by a hit to her face with her two hands clamped together like a fleshy bat, she managed to knock her back but could not get herself up off the floor fast enough. The Drengr growled having lost her patience and the last thing Rúna saw was the woman’s face coming at her so fast, and then a hard knock to the head and she was out..cold.
Her freedom was stripped from her in an agonisingly sudden transition. She went from performing duties freely along with other Drengrs to a prisoner once again, the only upside being this new cell does not reek. She is subjected to hours upon hours of isolation each day save from the guards delivering her food and her evening interrogations with Eivor. Her name was revealed when one of their ‘chats’ was interrupted by a guard informing her of something urgent that needed her attention. Something about learning her name made her situation slightly more bearable like she was finally dealing with a human instead of this entity she was chained to.
She would wake up each morning and Eivor would be long gone, it was like waking up in a time loop. The woman would appear as night approaches and their daily questioning would begin and last well into the night.
Sometimes she rested right in that bed beside the hook like a guard dog and sometimes she didn't show at all leaving Sýnin as a jailor. She could sleep better when the woman wasn’t around but the raven was obedient and something in those pitch black eyes says she’s wiser than a common animal which was unnerving.
Each night Eivor would return from her day with new sets of questions, even the ones she thought she’d proven to be innocent of. Her fleeing had backfired so terribly they had to begin from square one. Her methods weren’t cruel but they were consistent, threatening to pressure anything useful to the surface. She thought nothing of it at first, but it got more and more irritating and eventually the persistence became too much. It’d been a week of answering the same set of questions framed differently to try and corner her and Rúna was beginning to lose. Not to any truth she was hiding but to exhaustion.
“Rúna.” Eivor pressured, her fingers tapped against a small table in a steady rhythm as if she were attempting to hypnotise the assassin. The coarseness of her voice was interesting at first but they soon turned into a grating knife against the panels of her mind.
“I have nothing more to say,” she answered wearily, having lost the bite she initially came in with. She flexed her hands which were tightly wound in shackles, and immediately regretted it. Her wrists were bruised and stung with every tiny movement. The fight was drained from her after so many days of circling the same matters in the same room...same woman. She’d gone over the particulars so many times they were beginning to blur into one another.
The Drengr’s response was complete silence which was new. Usually, this prompted more questioning or a statement that didn’t sit well with the assassin’s short temper. But this time she could truly sense that Eivor too was running out of ideas. It’s becoming strikingly clear to both of them that there is simply nothing to be gained, and yet you’d have to be an idiot to see her involvement and not think she is a pawn in a bigger game. So what is there to do? Even if Rúna was not the one weaving the operation she’s the closest Eivor could get to her target.
She could feel her ice-cold gaze against her skin which made her look up only to see something familiar, pity. How she hated that look, the woman chooses to be ruthless but sometimes the facade betrays her.
“I can’t let you go.” She spoke finally.
“…..”
“But you can earn your freedom.”
If Rúna had any energy left she’d bare her teeth at the offer but was getting desperate at this rate. This is the only path to her freedom and she’ll take anything for the shackles to come off. After a long moment of silence, long enough for Eivor to wonder if she needed to repeat herself, she responded.
I will recognize you in total darkness, were you mute and deaf. I will recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times and I will love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion.
He knew it was coming. He'd harboured this mysterious sense of foreboding the second he heard about the betrothal without a clue as to why this was making him miserable.
He feels betrayed, as if he is losing her but it makes no sense. This sense of loss contradicts everything he understands of what they have between them. It's not as if this was never going to happen.
Perhaps it's jealousy, this he understands. It must be. This is a declaration that Thor's ascension is in motion and everything will change forever.
Of course, Thor gets all the glory, Thor gets to uproot my life, Thor gets to have her...
"Congratulations Sigrid!" If his mouth listened to his heart for once things would be different, but it feels inevitable. This is who I am, this is who she thinks I am, I didn't say anything she does not already know. But why does his chest feel like an aching pit when he sees the way her eyes weld up?
He remained on that branch as he watched her become smaller and smaller and when the treeline shrouded her he knew he made a grave mistake. Every part of him was screaming that this was right, she deserved this for flaunting her betrothal in his face but he found it hard to swallow or breathe or not see her disappointed face etched into his mind.
His cheek still stung but it was nothing compared to the suffocating feeling he was drowning in. He closed his eyes, both hands pressed firmly to his face hoping the coolness of his skin would bring some relief but it didn't.
He was barely tethered to reality for the rest of that day. The weight of hurting her kept making itself known. Eventually, he decided he was going to see her. Maybe if he saw her and not the imagined 'her; sobbing behind the walls of his mind this guilt would feel bearable.
As the last lights swept golden along the hallway ebbing for the night's arrival, the prince raced along the palace with resolve but then it suddenly vanished just as he got to an intersection. Several more turns and he'll have reached her door...she wouldn't want to see your face.
So, he resorted to something he's more comfortable with even if it is cowardly. He promised to do the right thing and apologise when he got to see her. He just needs some time as he always does every time he's upset her.
With that, his limbs shortened, and his face morphed into something else entirely until he was unrecognisable. He took the shape of a Starling with deep green feathers, the same shade he's always adorned in.
He took off riding a mild breeze, his wings tucked and carved through the currents until he reached her window. He settled close by the nook she often reads and just then he wished he hadn't come.
Sigrid's presence is the image of quiet strength. She protected her own fiercely and always stood tall. Banter is something they often exchange, and quarrels too, but a full-blown outburst is rare. He credits this artful restraint to her father. He'd seen firsthand how rigid that man could be and how she'd bend herself backwards to please him even if there was a hidden rebelliousness in her.
But right now, what he sees before him is completely foreign. He didn't think she was even capable of looking this stripped down and vulnerable with how well she managed her composure all these years they'd known one another. He made a truly horrible mistake.
What do I say to her?
What can I possibly say to undo this?
I can't do this...
He ran.
By the time he worked up his courage and made his way back to her, he was beaten. His glistening brother was already speaking to her and by the looks of it pleasant. The familiar sting hurts much more than it usually does today, but he couldn't take his eyes off them. So, he followed, slithering this time. He was twined to a branch over the courtyard taking in their conversation like some kind of torture he couldn't look away from. But then...
"I don't want to." He'd played this scenario countless times in days since he found out, but he never dared to imagine she'd flat-out reject him this way. This was supposed to be another loss on his end but...it isn't?
He was latched onto their every word before and more so now that this has taken an unexpected turn. Why did he feel a flutter deep in his stomach? Perhaps it's satisfaction. You don't see Thor getting rejected every day.
That glee dissipated however seeing his brother levy harsh words after another and suddenly it all made sense. This is exactly how he treated her in the meadows. He was so sure of himself before he got to see the same scene play out before him. You are no different. Like a shattered window, new waves of guilt poured in steadily.
Why was I so ready to belittle her?
No more hiding like a coward.
“Is it because of Loki?”
“You think him better, you’d prefer to be with him.”
This came from Thor's lips. This is madness. He suddenly felt exposed. How had he been looking at Sigrid? That's not true he doesn't see her as anything but his friend. The only person who truly understands him...I don't see her that way...
Do I fancy her?
He forgot to breathe. The idea blew apart his mind and suddenly nothing else existed but a cascade of memories of each time he took quiet notice of her beauty and immediately excused them as a platonic observation. The way her hair curls just at her temple, the faintest crease by the edges of her lips from all the smiling...her fingertips as she flipped through the pages.
Oh.
By the time he came to his senses, she was already gone.
Loki rose the next morning with resolve. He could no longer handle all the questions gnawing at him and he was going to get all the answers. He practically threw himself out of bed and waved away any distractions on his way to her. A mountain could be erected in his path and the boy prince would cleave through it. Nothing fills him with a sense of urgency more than unravelling a puzzle...it might also mean this knot in his chest would go away. Where are you Sig?
*
She was rounding a corner when she collided with a wall of warmth and pine and mist. Loki. She stifled any sound and averted her eyes intent on ignoring his existence but she felt him hook an arm around hers, he tightened their looped arms against his side. Their momentum swung in his favour and suddenly she was being led in a completely different direction. How dare he?
"Don't touch me." She tugged hard. After yesterday, she really could do him in with an axe, even if her face didn't show it. She's tired. Yesterday was one of the worst days she'd had in years, and just before she fell asleep last night, she swore not to speak to the Odinsons for as long as she could avoid it for her own sanity. But clearly, the trickster has different ideas.
This isn't unusual for Loki. After a fight between them (especially if he finally comes to a conclusion he's in the wrong) his approach is becoming as sweet as can be to help him deliver his intended apology. Bite first and then 'Look at me am I not the most precious thing you've ever seen?'. But she wasn't going to make this easy. He hurt her deeply and he was going to have to try very hard for her to consider being civil again so soon.
"I'm not" His voice raised a pitch higher. He's fully committed to his act dragging her along and ignoring her resistance.
"I don't have time for your games."
"Of course you do, we don't have lessons today."
"Yes, we do-" In fact, they're now heading in the opposite direction of said lesson she tried very hard to get herself to.
"Not anymore we don't" She turned to him frowning, point to Loki for chipping the wall of ice she built to keep him out. She always did have a soft spot for this fool.
"Let go of me-" His progress did irritate her, however, and she resorted to shoving harshly now. They were now visibly struggling, and she noticed a few servants hurrying out of the way.
"Sig- listen" He turned to her finally with a worried look.
"No, you listen. You will not treat this like a joke." She sighed mostly at how pathetic she was, even the tugging was taking a lot of energy out of her courtesy of yesterday.
He finally relented and unhooked them but then he swivelled her around to face him directly. She kept her focus anywhere else for a minute but it started to feel childish.
"Then will you talk to Frode?" He smiled again but this time it felt sincere like he wasn't mucking about in hopes she'd be less angry.
"Frode..." It took her a minute to recall what he was referring to.
"The...Frode." He nodded.
"Let's hear what he has to say at least if you will not hear me." She squinted at him hard but he grinned and her stunned silence was taken as a yes. Got to give it to him he does find a way to get what he wants even if it's by audacity alone.
They are now deep in the great library on the lower floors of the spiral structure hundreds of floors below the surface. There is a unique charm to the lower floors as they belong to the older archives and ancient texts. Some of their lessons as children used to take place here in the wood-panelled rooms built by the earlier dynasties before the opulent golds favoured by Odin and his father before him.
The prince led her silently along the path she hadn’t visited for so long that it felt as if she was revisiting a distant dream. Has he been coming here?
Her eyes softened as he pushed open the arched door. He tugged at her wrist quietly signalling she entered first, his grip loosening as she wandered further within. The fog clouding her mind no longer existed, now replaced with something warm as she noticed the details of their time spent here.
The small tables they sat in when they were much smaller...
Splotches of paint on the one specific wall by the reading nook...
The dent in the shelf from that one time Thor swung a stolen helmet around and lost his grip...
Even the portraits they made were still gathered nicely in the corner...
But her favourite had always been the messily carved snake on the side of one of the chairs that Loki apparently did not do. They all made their mark here but her eyes always wandered to this specific one with its lopsided eyes and its twisted worm-like body. He was not the artist out of the brood.
“I don’t see Frode,” she murmured careful not to disturb the peace of this room full of sweet memories. Why did you bring me here?
But he was way ahead of her. Loki cleared his throat and she didn't have to look behind her to notice he was nervous. He reached behind one of the shelves to open a hidden compartment and inside is their old mediator.
Frode is a wooden statue carved to resemble an anthropomorphic bear. It's got a head of a bear wearing light armour with a small sword in its paw. The thing of wood is the size of a small child initially intended for decoration but seeing as it used to be larger than the children their clever tutor used this to mediate between the two in a desperate attempt to prevent them from launching at one another.
She remembers that day well. Loki kept tugging at her braids no doubt bored out of his mind as he always is and this eventually escalated into a full-blown tussle where he stepped on her dress by accident causing a massive rip in her favourite blue gown.
The boy was laughing at her at first but the torn dress was not his intention. Their tutor (having abandoned all hope of teaching anything anymore for the day) came between them but no matter how much he tried convincing them to handle this gently, it fell on deaf ears.
“I’m not talking to that stupid beast!” she wailed tears staining her reddened cheeks while Loki was hidden behind the tutor's robe snickering.
So, to get around Sigrid’s wrath he turned to the lovely ornament standing by the entrance. The statue was positioned where Loki stood previously and the prince was told to move behind the statue with his back against it. If she refuses to speak to the prince, then this might just do the trick?
It worked. Loki had always been a creature of contradiction. Any kind of attention is better than none and this often ends in a prank that's gone further than he intended. Instead of apologising, he found it easier to simply embrace all the mean things hurled his way. But this gave the boy some help. He found it easier to apologise and he was earnest with his words hidden behind the bear.
He seems to want to re-enact this and childish as it is she didn't want to interrupt his honest effort. Loki pulled the small chair for her and she sat down tossing the volumes of her skirt off to the side.
He then adjusted Frode before he retreated behind the bear. He has to sit now to be the same height he was when this first happened. The prince looks small and vulnerable with his back turned from her. She's staring directly at the bear.
Hello old friend, this fool needs your help again it seems.
“So-" she urged him.
He took a deep breath as he slowly brought his knees to his chest.
“Well?”
"...I didn't mean what I said yesterday."
"..."
"About you and Thor. I know none of this is your choice. You've voiced how trapped you feel sometimes and I shouldn't have mocked you the way I did." Her lips twisted with each sentence, the wound from yesterday still fresh but it felt...tended.
"..."
"Sig- I shouldn't have said those things to you. I...don't know why I said it. I don't know-" He may be conflicted about the source of his pain but she knows deep down he recognises it he simply refuses to outwardly admit it. Normally she may keep her honest opinion to save his feelings but she wanted a boundary drawn. This isn't the first time he's lashed out at her with Thor as the cause.
"I think I know why you did it.”
"..." Now it's his turn to fall silent. She took a deep breath as her fingers busied themselves with an embroidered patch at her sleeve.
"You should know when it is someone else you're angry with and not me."
"Why do you think I said what I said?" he turned to his side, his head leaning against Frode's shoulder but not quite looking back at her just yet.
"I think you're angry with Thor. You think he’s finally getting something you won’t get to have but that's not true. You're a-"
"That's not why I said it." he interrupted, he's worked up enough courage he no longer needed Frode to shield his discomfort. Her brows furrowed slightly upon seeing the expression on his face. Loki began to move forward still close to the floor until he finally stopped crouching by her knees. The sight of him vulnerable below her stirred a cluster of emotions she did not understand.
"Why did you?" He sucked biting the insides of his lips as if he was unsure, but then he reached out to her closing his hand over hers. It's suddenly intimate but she didn't feel the urge to remove it. It's new, it's strange but pleasant? They are suddenly suspended, her breath hitched as he slowly pulled her hand towards him and the next thing she realized was when he brought her palm to his cheek. His eyes fluttered as he looked downwards and away from her.
"Loki?" She inched closer to him confused about this new vulnerability but then he turned up to meet her gaze, their faces so close to each other and suddenly everything else fell away leaving her with the deep greens of his eyes with a fleck of something new she'd never seen before. She could feel his breath against her lips and it made her heart squeeze in anticipation.
"Can I-" His face turned slightly in her hand and he guided her fingers slowly to his lips. All the thoughts in her mind vanished. They're soft and delicate against her fingertips she couldn't believe they belonged to someone she so despised just moments ago.
"Can you what..?" His eyes deepened and the space between them was getting closer and closer. The tip of his nose grazed hers...Is he going to kiss me? She's stunned but not one part of her wants to pull away.
"Your Highness is-" The door suddenly swung open snapping the tension between them in two. They flung away from one another so quickly she fell over her chair and the prince knocked into the shelf behind him so hard some books fell to the floor in several deafening thuds.
A librarian had interrupted them and apologised profusely as he swung the door shut leaving the two in a confusing silence neither one of them knew how to address.
"What were you-" she managed from the opposite end of the room.
He's visibly flushed, his slick back hair now with a strand out of place and he seemed to be breathing harder than she remembers a second ago. "N-no it's nothing forget it. I'm sorry about yesterday let's- uh Have a wonderful day."
They both left separately in a rush (Loki even faster) ignoring the librarian in front of the door completely. Have a wonderful day??
Chapter 3.
He's figuring things out okay :p
Do I just hate my brother or have I always had a small crush on her let's go.
snowghoul
vaporwave
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
