genre(s) - one-shot, fluff, angst, the regency era au, taboo relationship
description - she’s given her soul to you and this kingdom, even if she hides within the shadows to keep you safe.
warning(s) - fluff(?), angst, guilt themes, themes of grieving, pet name (my love), fixing injuries
word count - 1.1k
rules | arcane m.list | taglist
THE MANGO TREE HITS against the window, as the sunlight peaks through the leaning tree. Some of the mangos were scattered on the ground with ants and worms feasting on them. In the coolness of your room, the oak wooden chair creaks from the slight movements made by you. Your hand rests on the sun-orange cloth that covers on top of your desk. Your vanity hung on the wall with lipstick marks all over it.
Your fingers kept the binding of the book open by the end, skimming through the words written down. Your diary pages contained different sonnets, preserved marigold petals, and an engraved ring with your initials in your lover's handwriting.
Steam goes in the air from your hibiscus tea, the sweet-bitter taste still evident on your tongue, which waters whenever your eyes glances over at the pink and red porcelain cup.
Ravens call out to you, some landing on the mango tree, nipping at the treats you leave by your window. Turning your head to see them, your eyes gleam and soon the coolness in your room feels less empty.
One of the Ravens places another Marigold flower on the edge of the window before flying off north. A sigh comes out, resting your elbow on your desk as your chin leans on your knuckles.
Life cuts into your thoughts, reminding you, you may never be free like the birds that give you flowers and nuts. Within these walls of this castle, the eyes of your family and future citizens look down at you. Glaring red eyes like rubies, some waited for you to fumble and there were some with eyes so green, emerald could not compare. Complicit in your weariness, even if they assume they could rule the kingdom just as well as your mother.
Your body jerks at the knocks on your door, eyes darting to look at your diary, you then close it and exhale. Standing now, your hands run down your silk dress as your muscles tighten while you try to smile. Playing a jester in your own home.
The beats of your heart become rapid, almost feeling it in your throat as you make your way to the door. Opening it, your shoulders drop at the sight before you.
Your ancestors rode into war etched in the metal breastplate with black padding underneath. Your eyes are now focused on that very face that took away the despair in your life. The sun had highlighted the cool bronze undertones of her skin.
You smile, "Hi." Your tone comes out breathy.
Her grey eyes shine brighter seeing you now, if she could rename every star in the universe your name, she would. Stepping closer, her arms wrap around your waist, leaning her chin on your shoulder, and closing her eyes.
Her face goes warm and her throat tightens, the sounds of knights shouting and blood gushing out from their bodies replay in her ears. The sight of burning bodies torments her, even as she foolishly closes her eyes tighter this time. She pulls back, placing her hands onto your cheeks, misty-eyed with new scars on her face. One over her left eyelid that runs up to her eyebrow. More on her right hand, ones that needed a soak for better healing.
You stay quiet, swallowing harder, holding the tears and shaky breaths.
Moving your hand up to her cheek, you nod, pulling her closer. Her face stays in the crook of your neck, tears staining your dress. Your fingers itch her scalp, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "I'm here."
Sevika continues to weep, holding you tighter, one promise she could maintain was your safety. Even if it meant risking hers in the end, she could mourn and live without the knights but she could not live without her goddess.
She could and would not wake up to see another day if death took your laughter away from her.
What is life without giving your soul to someone in hopes of making eternity with them? An answer she hopes to never find out.
Sevika moves back, wiping her face, feeling warmer now. You stay still, catching her hand and looking at her left prosthetic forearm, damaged again. "I fixed the last one if you want to switch out right now?" You question and Sevika nods, her lips still in a pout. You step back into your room and Sevika follows behind.
The beige colored walls feel like home, shutting the door behind her. Sevika moves over to your desk and sits in the chair. You open your wooden closet doors, walking to the left, and grab the arm.
“Sorry about that.” She starts, her right hand plays with the desk, watching you make your way back to her. Your brows furrow, “Sorry for what?” You sit on the edge of your desk and Sevika comes in front of you. Shrugging, she begins unlocking the prosthetic with the armor, unlatching it, and hands it to you who then places it on the counter.
“Crying out of nowhere.” She whispers, keeping her eyes on her shoulder. “Hey.” Your fingers go under her chin, turning her head to you. Eyes you swore you could get lost in, “you’re grieving and you have every right to.” You begin, checking the arm to make sure it is clean and fully fixed. Sevika moves her shoulder up, looking at everything you do.
“I may not know what exactly happened out there but I know that weird feeling after accepting when someone’s gone.” You mutter, aligning the prosthetic, pushing it against Sevika’s skin and under the armor. Sevika then latches the armor and arm tightly before locking it.
“This is the time when you are at your most vulnerable. Which is okay and that’s normal, so don’t apologize for crying. Even if you didn’t, that’s still normal. Why would I ever judge you on how you grieve? How is that fair to you, my love?” Sevika wipes away her tears again and sighs. Getting closer she rests her head on your lap, your fingers play with her hair, your heart feeling heavy.
You look up at the painting over your bed frame that Sevika made, you are holding a basket of fruits while picking more for her. She captured your essence, the love in your eyes. The love you have for her which could never be replicated or replaced.
Your fingers continue to play with her hair, her eyes closed, her body going limp as gentle snores leave her lips. Unconsciously, her hand finds your other one that’s lying on the counter, intertwining her fingers with yours.
The chaos that moved like a tsunami in her brain shuts off for once, calming because of your scent and your soft hums.
listened to sade and slightly teared up while making this lol…
Spirits like Michael are replenish their energy through meditation. It's like a sleeping, but instead of dreams they see only memories from the past life.
One of my old, but favorite piece.
The only thing keeping Ivar alive in this hellhole was his desperate desire to kill Katherine Blackthorne.
It was a freezing November night and Ivar knew he was supposed to die here, trapped in this narrow kennel in the middle of the castle's courtyard.
During the day, he was on perfect display, stripped of his clothes and dignity for the English to gawk at. But now, the night engulfed him in darkness as thick as the northern sea during a night dive.
Pain pulsed through Ivar’s legs. They twitched, unable to straighten in the cramped space.
The kennel's icy bars warmed as they pressed into his shins and he leaned his clammy forehead against them. They felt almost good against the burn of his fever.
His back must have gotten infected after the last whipping. The soiled hay in his kennel stuck to the dried blood on his back, irritating the crisscross of partly crusted wounds. Every twitch pulled his skin painfully, and he trembled violently in the frigid air.
Somewhere to his right, a heavy metal door slammed shut. The servants’'s entrance? It was too loud for a wooden door and not loud enough for a castle gate. But this late at night?
A pair of heavy steps rushed towards the courtyard, joined by a couple lighter ones. Nervous whispers echoed through the cloister walk as they drew near.
“Does Lady Blackthorne know of this?” asked an older maid. Ivar strained to listen. Nothing ever happened in Blackthorn castle without the bitch’tes knowledge. And explicit permission.
“Not yet,” came the gruff reply.
“But- you can’t bring a stranger inside! Who even is this girl? Oh gods, what if she's a witch?”
“Doubtful. Found her out in the woods, totally out of it.”
“But- The woods? At this time? A girl shouldn’t be in the woods at night. And why- why is she naked?” The woman's voice pitched high within discomfort on the last question.
“Dunno. Should I have left her to freeze to death?”
“No! But- but I have nothing to do with this, you hear. Nothing.”
A lone lantern flame cast their long shadows onto the courtyard as they rounded a corner. Hissing, Ivar shifted onto his side to see them set foot on the wet cobblestones. They glittered in the light.
The head of housemaids hurried ahead, head turning hectic on her long neck to spot any possible witnesses lurking in the dark. Her bonnet sat askew on graying brown hair, thrown on in a rush no doubt, but her black servants dress fell straight down to her ankles, the dark linen pristine and bar any wrinkles. In stark contrast to the bulky, mud smeared appearance of the huntsman following her.
His boots and leather trousers were crusted in late autumn slush. A thick scarf and hat obscured half his face. Only his frostbitten red nose and grim eyes were visible, looking down at the person he carried bundled in his coat.
“By the gods, did you hear that?” Ivar could see the woman's face now, her sharp features drawn tight in displeasure. Her thin lips pursed as she spat out: “I think that Norse pig is awake.”
The huntsman didn’t answer. Instead he wrapped his brown leather coat tighter around the unconscious girl in his arms. Pale, dangling legs and a shock of blond hair stuck out of it.
“How can you be this calm?” The woman spat, black skirt swishing as she faced him. “What if he rats us out for some extra food?”
The huntsman's bushy brows furrowed. “The Norse are too proud to bargain for food scraps.”
Ivars dry lips cracked in a smile, when a sudden burst of wind whipped across the courtyard, its howl drowning out the servants' protests and extinguishing the lantern flame. When it hit him, his black salt-sweaty hair blew into his gray eyes, hay flying everywhere.
“A bad omen,” hissed the maid. Cloth rustled and a match scraped against a matchbox’s striking strip. Once. Twice. “I tell you all this is a bad omen.” It lit with a crackling sizzle.
The wind carried a smell that sent goosebumps down Ivar’s back.
The stench of angels.
The sweet decay of death hit him like a battering ram, catapulting his thoughts to abandoned battlefields full of angels sprouting from the ground, decomposing the corpses of his comrades.
Why would the huntsman haul an angel touched corpse from the woods? Ivar wondered, swallowing down bile.
After some fumbling the maid’s lantern flickered back to life and Ivar noticed the small puffs of warm breath escaping from the unconscious girl. So she wasn’t dead?
A draugr perhaps? No, Ivar doubted it. Never would the huntsman make such a mistake.
But angels only took the living. And never let go of the dead.
Whatever this girl was, a living corpse or a human, Ivar knew at least one thing for sure:
She was an unplanned disturbance in Katherine’s meticulously run machinery of a castle.
And during war, disturbances meant chances.
Ivar curled up in his frigid kennel, back burning at the stretch. For the first time since his capture, he smiled.
