Shine Bright Til' We Burn

To make things worse, someone who had helped me by donating for her first surgery asked for the money back after everything was done. They deleted their account and stopped replying to my messages, but now I have to cover that $210 USD they had given me.

I can’t rely on that money anymore, and I urgently need it to be able to operate on her again. I’m doing everything I can, but it’s getting really hard.

If anyone could help with a small donation — or even by requesting a gifpack commission — it would truly help a lot.

I just ask for a bit of patience since I have many requests at the same time, but I’ll do my best to complete every one of them.

Any help, no matter how small, would mean the world to me and my dog. Thank you so much for reading and for sharing this post. Here's my Ko-fi. Thank you so much for reading this post.

“Sit down Mr. Stark. I’m sure Belle will be out soon with supper.” Rumple told him. “Now to begin you are in the kingdom of Misthaven. It is one of many lands surrounding. “I get this is quite a lot to take in so know you can ask a question at anytime.” Regina watched as Rumple explained. She was surveying Robb, scanning him. Analyzing him. Rumple on the other hand seemed vaguely exhausted but still straining for control.

Robb inclined his head politely toward the Queen. "I thank you for your kindness, Your Grace." The title was a formality, a custom from his lands to indicate respect and acknowledgment of rule. Robb was a king of his own land--though that was under contention with many kings popping up all around the country, all claiming their right to the throne. Though he did not much like being ordered by Rumple, he knew he owed the man for his hospitality. So he sat and listened to the explanation--though his eyes immediately fell toward Bell's the moment the woman stepped back into the room.

"It's true that I have some...unusual skills for a townie," Theda said carefully. "I suppose it was my jacket that gave it away? But if you're hungry, you're welcome to share my fish. I have enough to go around, and it's not as though they'll keep long enough to be tomorrow's dinner, too."

Crouching back down, she struck her flint and steel and watched as the dead leaves she'd collected for tinder ignited. Not for the first time, she thought with no small amount of bitter amusement that there probably wasn't a single wizard in all of the Mirador who would know how to start a fire without magic. It was a sterling example of one of the flaws of the Cabaline school: Cabaline wizards were soft. Deprive them of their magic and they turned into helpless children. By the names of all the saints, Theda would bet that two-thirds of them wouldn't be able to cope if they were merely deprived of their servants.

That was what happened when a group chose to populate their ranks only with the sons and daughters of the powerful and the wealthy. People could criticize the Bastion all they liked, and Kleidoukhos knew that Theda had plenty of criticisms of her own, but in this, at least, the Bastion's method was far superior. It was talent that mattered in a wizard, not birth. Wealth and status had no bearing on a person's magical power and potential.

She had cleaned, gutted, and prepared the fish before making a start on her campfire, and now she passed her new companion a thin, sharpened stick upon which two of them had been skewered. Theda couldn't have named the species, as she had no intimate knowledge of Nilfgaardian fauna, but they looked similar to the carp that swam in the Gorgopotamos back home.

It's not home anymore, she reminded herself. You defected. You can't go back.

"Thank you." Polite as the sorceress could muster. She took a seat on a nearby log, silently appraising the fire, extending her hands to warm them above the flames. The girl, whoever she might be, was at least capable. Yennefer was many things--unfair at times, certainly--but she was not one to turn her nose up at talent or to scoff when her approval was demanded. "You seem quite capable of caring for yourself." She took the offered fish and nodded toward the fire and, as a whole, this little camp the woman had set up. "That will do you well in these parts. I would like to say that those of us with, unusual skills, as you put it, stick together, but I'm afraid there is a lack of comradary as of late. It is every man and woman for themselves."

Her name. Yennefer considered the question. If this woman really was a stranger, as Yennefer suspected her to be, giving her true name would not matter. But if she were undercover, if she knew of the Lodge of Sorceresses or of the Emperor's plans, Yennefer's name did indeed carry a long history and a great deal of weight. She had been called many names in her life. Yen. Yennefer of Vengerberg. The Horsewoman of War. In a perfect world, Yennefer might have been able to trust this woman at her word alone. But this was not a perfect world. And Yennefer did not trust easily.

She reached through the woman's mind and immediately, strange names and words reached back: Mirador, Cabaline School, Gorgopotamos, It's not home anymore. You defected.

A stranger indeed.

He  felt  relief  pour  over  him  thanks  to  Yen's  sudden  certainty  of  leaving  the  subject  of  the  wish  behind.  She  was  like  that  —  probing  him  —  but  once  satisfied  for  the  time  being,  he  could  also  forget  about  it.  He  thought  time  would  come  to  prove  again  that  his  wish  didn't  dictate  their  relationship  —  he  did  what  he  did  for  her  out  of  love.  It  was  as  easy  as  breathing  when  his  pride  wasn't  in  the  way.

She  invaded  his  arms,  and  the  press  of  her  gorgeous  mouth  to  his  shaved  cheek  made  Geralt  forget  everything.  Why  argue  when  they  could  make  up  for  lost  time?  They  could  only  forgive  one  another  for  the  past  and  live  pleasantly  in  the  present.  He  rarely  dwelled  on  their  arguments  and  the  hurt  they  tried  to  inflict  on  one  another  —  thus  he  was  simple,  forgiving  her  of  cheating  and  lying  so  long  she  was  within  his  embrace  once  more.

His  arms  snaked  about  her  small  frame,  tempted  to  lift  her  before  and  after  her  sweet  kiss.  He  breathed  her  in  —  a  luxury  of  his  heightened  senses  —  and  found  himself  staring  at  her  oval  face,  for  she  was  yet  to  pull  away.  He  hoped  what  he  saw  in  those  stormy  violet  eyes  was  love.  Her  heart  slowed,  he  heard,  so  his  sped  up.  His  arms  bound  Yen  tight  to  him,  leaving  no  space  between  them,  yet  he  was  aware  of  their  surrounding.

"I'd  be  anything  if  I  got  to  be  yours."  That  night  on  Thanned,  when  she  paraded  him  around  the  other  mages,  their  last  happy  night,  he'd  truly  felt  hers,  and  it  had  been  a  high  he  couldn't  find  anywhere  else.  "I  also  prefer  this.  Much  more."  His  fingers  fiddled  with  the  strings  that  held  something  of  her  attire  and  he  could  imagine  the  satisfaction  of  pulling  each  knot  loose  —  it  was  better  if  he  didn't  right  there.

This  time,  as  she  set  on  her  heels,  the  Witcher  bent  his  neck  and  kissed  her,  hoping  she  wouldn't  mind  the  day  one  old  stubble  around  his  mouth.  He  held  her  delicate  fingers  in  his  palm.  "Lead  the  way,  Yen."  They'd  be  safe  anywhere  as  long  as  they  were  together.  He  had  learned  she  didn't  like  to  hear  grand  promises  of  protection,  for  he'd  jump  into  fire  for  her  before  even  speaking  it.

"You know," she said, running her fingertips over the stubble of his cheeks. "I quite like the beard." She was very used to Geralt being clean shaven; but she also knew what it meant to love a Witcher, a man on the road. Yen was prickly, it was true--and that was putting it lightly; she liked everything her way, to her exact specifications. She liked fine things: fine wines, fine clothes, and very large jewels. She liked their clothes to match, and she liked the elegance of a ball. But she also loved this man who was so often covered in the blood of monsters, reeking of the last hunt, and wearing clunky armor that did not at all appeal to her fashionable sensibilities. She would tease him, of course. Light jabs and jokes were essentially her love language with the Witcher. But deep down, she loved him just as he was. In fact, when he was away, she found herself craving that rougher nature. Course cheeks, calloused hands, and tarnished clothing.

She dragged him along so easily, but she was not unaware that it was his own bidding, his own patience that made him pliable. Her hand was far too small within his grip to forget that the Witcher was a dangerous man, a powerful man, and there was a reason much of their world feared his kind. Yennefer simply did not share their worries. She worried about many things: about the state of the world, about the deeply problematic politics of their land, about the future of magic, about her own longevity. But it had been a very, very long time since she worried that Geralt might hurt any more than her heart.

Yen was silently grateful he had not promised to protect her. She was not resistant to being protected, of course. She often allowed him to take the lead in a fight, especially when a monster was involved. But that was generally because she didn't wish to get her clothes dirty, not because she wasn't capable. As long as Geralt knew that--knew that she was quite capable of protecting herself without him, that she'd been doing it all her life--she did not mind, on rare occasion, playing the damsel in distress. No more than she minded playing the blushing virgin in the bedroom--which they both knew was far from the truth.

"Please forgive my ignorance," she continued. "I am a stranger to Westeros. I hail from Aigisthos, the capitol city of the Kekropian Empire." She realized that in all likelihood, Robb wouldn't know where Kekropia was; after all, Theda had never even heard of Westeros until last year. So she added, "It's six months west of here by sea, and another four months by land. I am also very far from home."

That last statement was probably unnecessary, Theda would admit. While she could understand the speech of the people of Westeros, their accents were like nothing she'd ever encountered before, and she was certain that her own Kekropian accent must sound equally alien to them.

Without conscious thought, she had fallen into the posture she'd been trained to assume when reporting to her commanding officers -- hands clasped behind her back, feet twelve inches apart, her weight evenly distributed between them. She said, "I arrived in Flint's Finger roughly five weeks ago on the Isabella, which was carrying goods from the city of Bernatha to trade for animal pelts. I found that the lord of Flint's Finger was raising an army in support of his king, who was at war, but I confess ignorance of the details. Do you know," she added, in tones of disbelief, "I couldn't find one single broadsheet seller in the entire city? And the news being spread among the people on the street was...somewhat incomprehensible to me, especially as I have very little knowledge of your country's history."

The lack of broadsheets had well and truly baffled her, because without them, how were the people of the city supposed to learn the news? Word of mouth was a notoriously unreliable way of gaining information, and the only possible explanations Theda had been able to come up with were that the war had caused a paper shortage, or that the metal in all the city's printing presses had been requisitioned for the war effort.

Within just a few short months, he had seen this net of connections spread and grow, a spider web getting ever larger: every life under his command and every life they touched in turn. The family's they left at home. The cities they camped in. The bars they drank in. The fields they trampled with bodies and blood. Just the day before, Robb had had to execute one of his strongest supporters because the man had murdered an unarmed prisoner. It was justice, and Robb stood by his decision to enforce the law, yet that man's armed forces had abandoned him in recompense. He was losing numbers, and his men were losing faith.

"Of course." He set down the cup he'd poured for her and his own as well. If she would not drink, neither would he. It was impolite, as he'd been taught time and time again. Still, it was a curious choice, for in his lands, uncertain allies were all too eager to eat and drink with one another; once offered nourishment, the guest right was invoked. The gods would punish most severely anyone who harmed a guest. To offer food or drink was to offer peace.

His eyebrows raised. "You have traveled far." Farther than he had, and already, he felt out of his element. It was very warm here in the South where the grasses were emerald green and the trees thick with leaves. He was used to the snow, to an ever white landscape and pines stretching toward the gods.

For a moment, Robb was confused. There were no printing presses in Westeros. Broadsheets were not sold anywhere, nor were many aware of what they even were. But he understood letters and written history, understood that there was a great library in King's Landing, filled with the grandest and oldest stories in Westeros. He knew that learned men and scholars traveled there just to read the tomes, and that very few had ever walked through its hallowed doors.

"It is unfortunate," Robb agreed. "That reading and writing is not more prevalent in our lands. Your country must be very prosperous, for all to have learned the trade." In Westeros, literary was a luxury of the ruling class, and it was rarely questioned: what use did a farmer have in reading words on a piece of parchment when they had animals to tend to and land to keep? While Robb also preferred to work with his hands than to study old texts and had often found his lessons exhausting, he could appreciate how very difficult this war would be if he could not send and read letters sent on the wings of ravens. When this war was over, and if they won--if he really did become in practice, not just name, King in the North--perhaps he would make literacy more prominent, more valued.

But there was much else to worry about at the moment. It would not matter who could read or write if all the men of this land were dead. Robb considered her for a moment. The strange accent, the respectful stance, the clear address and motive. It was true that they needed more medical staff, that soldiers were dying on the field at an alarming rate from wounds that need not be fatal. Robb hardly had the largest army in this war, and he needed every single one of his men. And his heart ached each time he watched a man close his eyes for good, the moment he held their hands and watched their bodies go still and cold.

she  may  not  have  intended  it  this  way,  but  stang,  did  her  words  feel  an  awful  lot  like  rejection.  the  sudden  pang  he  felt  in  his  heart  was  so  intense  that  it  would  have  been  crippling,  had  anakin  not  made  it  a  point  to  remind  himself  that  ultimately,  padmé  was  right  —  she  always  was.  however  hard  it  was  for  them  to  maintain  this  secret  relationship,  it  was  something  that  he  had  agreed  to  do  nonetheless.  both  of  their  careers  and  ways  of  life  —  different  as  they  were  —  depended  on  it.  yet  that  didn’t  make  it  any  easier  to  swallow.

and  that  difficulty  seemed  to  rapidly  grow  in  its  intensity  as  time  passed.  especially  now,  as  they  stood  nearly  pinned  against  each  other  so  that  they  were  properly  concealed  from  any  wandering  eyes.  especially  as  he  stared  at  her  with  such  intensity,  tracing  every  contour  as  though  he  was  trying  to  etch  every  detail  of  her  face  into  his  memory.  the  way  that  he  let  her  scent  assault  him,  intoxicating  him  more  than  the  familiar  hum  of  his  lightsaber  ever  could.

and  when  he  said  that  she  was  beautiful,  he  meant  every  single  syllable.  in  fact,  those  words  weren’t  even  doing  it  a  glimmer  of  justice.  anakin  wanted  nothing  more  to  take  her  right  then;  to  pull  her  into  his  arms  and  hold  her  for  as  long  as  he  could.  the  desire  so  strong  that  he  closed  his  eyes  —  reminding  himself  that  he  couldn’t.

and  when  he  opened  them  after  what  felt  like  an  eternity,  his  blue  eyes  fell  into  a  pool  of  her  brown  pair,  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  sadness  visible  in  his.    ❝   who  cares  about  my  future  as  a  jedi?   ❞    he  voiced  his  thoughts  out  loud  without  meaning  to.  hoping  against  hope  that  padmé  hadn’t  been  able  to  make  them  out  through  the  mumble.  immature  as  they  were,  he  hadn’t  been  speaking  with  sense,  only  driven  by  emotion.  and  even  if  she  wasn’t  judging  him  for  them  right  now,  he  certainly  could  feel  obi-wan  doing  so.

In the months since that night, however, Padme's resolve had begun to slip. When she had thought they were going to die on Geonosis, she had kissed him, confessed her love for him. And now? Now, she did not know what they were doing, what they were to each other. There had been other kisses, stolen moments. Even now, Padme had to admit she was thinking about fumbling once more. Her eyes drifted again to his lips then got momentarily lost in his gaze. She hated herself for this weakness, this feeling like a magnet drawing her toward him despite her better judgement.

"Annie..." Padme's voice was soft now, the sternness she'd shown to him a moment before disappearing like a whisper on the wind. She stood on her toes so that she might reach him, brushing a strand of his hair back behind his ear. "You care," she reminded him. Hadn't he told her once that he would become the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy? Hadn't she seen him--a bright eyed child, all those years ago on Tatooine--nearly jumping for joy at the very idea of being a Jedi? "I will not allow you to put yourself in a position where you must choose between your calling and my affections. You have worked too hard. You have come too far."

It was a good thing she had no plans to tell him the casualty statistics of the current war, because the US troops were already well past that number just in the European Theater. Add in the casualties from the Pacific Theater, and the number of deaths became so large that even Bucky had a hard time wrapping her head around it.

Hearing Robb's declaration and seeing the determined tilt of his chin, Bucky patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and said, "That's the spirit. And for what it's worth, we ain't come across a problem yet that Howard couldn't fix. You'll be in good hands. Fella's a genius, and I don't use that word lightly."

She saw Colonel Phillips' subordinate flinch as Robb and the wolf disembarked from the APC, and from behind Robb's back, she briefly gestured for the man to stay calm. As calm as he could be, anyway; anyone, Bucky included, would be jumpy in the presence of a carnivore of that size. Still, spooking Grey Wind didn't seem to be a particularly wise move, no matter how much control Robb might claim to have over the creature.

"I dunno if Howard'll be there. Nobody's said," Bucky told Robb as they began walking towards Colonel Phillips' tent. Without needing to speak, she and Steve had taken up positions flanking the, to use the colonel's words, detainees -- Bucky to Robb's right and Steve to the wolf's left. She'd like to think that Robb had no ill intentions, because he seemed like a decent kid, but it paid to be careful, especially in times like these. Bucky was pretty sure that she could handle Robb Stark if it came to a fight, but Steve was probably the only person alive who would stand a chance against Grey Wind.

Steve, and maybe the Goddamn Red Skull. Bucky hadn't forgotten seeing that monster punch fist-shaped dents in Steve's first shield.

Howard, it turned out, was not present in the colonel's tent. Colonel Phillips was standing behind his portable desk, with one of his aides seated off to the side, hands poised over a typewriter. Clearly, the brass wanted a record of the upcoming conversation. The colonel acknowledged Bucky and Steve's salutes, and then gestured for Robb to be seated in a convenient chair. He had not gestured for Bucky or Steve to stand easy, however, so they took up posts on either side of and slightly behind the boy and his wolf.

"Captain Rogers, report," Colonel Phillips said.

Steve obeyed, giving Colonel Phillips the facts in the clear, concise way that the army expected of its officers. As he spoke, the colonel's eyebrows drew closer and closer together, until they were so sharply furrowed that the man resembled nothing so much as a hawk. He didn't like what he was hearing. That much was obvious. But Bucky had gotten pretty good at reading the man's expression over the past year, and she thought, too, that Colonel Phillips was reaching the same conclusion she and Steve had: Robb's story was so outrageous that if this was a trick, it was a stupid one.

When this war had started, Robb was, indeed, a teenager. Quick to anger and frustration, curious about the world, naive to the ways of war. It was his mother and her constant council that reminded him he no longer had the luxury to act like an impetuous teenager. He was a leader now, and a leader must be patient. Be kind. Be just. Be smart. He was learning to hold his tongue, learning to take insult without jumping quickly into action, learning to think beyond his own limited experience and emotions.

She means nothing by it, he thought.

So he remained polite. Polite but cautious, his hand buried in Grey Wind's fur, his eyes scanning the camp and the passing men as he looked from one new face to the other. He was not unaware of their trepidation. He knew what men saw when they looked at Grey Wind. It was the same in his own land, though at least there people had heard of the direwolves, even if they had never seen one in the flesh. The wolf, large and fast and ferocious, had created his own allure throughout Westeros, and by then, the stories were confused and disjointed, tales of Robb turning into a wolf himself and ripping out men's throats.

The  topic  of  Triss  brought  unwanted  tension,  the  last  thing  he  wanted  between  them.  Yet,  each  time  he  reminded  Yennefer  he'd  lost  his  memories,  she  rolled  her  eyes.  Now  he  felt  her  presence  within  his  skull,  and  he  let  out  a  level  sigh,  almost  a  soundless  whistle  between  his  teeth,  and  thought  about  the  mundane  things  Triss  had  asked  him  to  do.  Like  go  through  the  sewers,  attend  a  party,  and  particularly  the  part  where  she  tried  to  kiss  him,  but  he  pulled  away.  If  Yennefer  were  reading  his  mind,  she  perhaps  would  stumble  exactly  into  the  memories  he  replayed,  offering  them  as  a  peace  treaty.  He'd  have  plenty  of  chances  to  be  alone  with  Triss  and  take  her  up  on  her  attempted  advances.  Somewhere  in  the  past,  he  might  have,  but  not  while  Ciri  was  endangered,  and  he'd  spent  two  months  chasing  the  trail  of  the  sorceress  before  him,  and  she'd  asked  him  to  meet  her  Skellige.  In  one  part.

It  was  hard  to  think  about  Triss  when  Yen  had  always  been  on  his  mind,  always  the  true  object  of  his  desires.  "I  like  your  braid,"  Geralt  said  dryly.  It  was  either  that  tone  or  clumsy  professes  of  eternal  love  with  him.  This  was  a  genuine  compliment  —  he  liked  it  —  but  not  more  than  her  loose  hair.  Even  amidst  sea,  his  sensitive  nose  could  pick  up  her  scent  of  lilac  and  gooseberries.  Even  when  Yennefer  was  upset  with  him,  her  scent  was  a  comforting  part  of  her  that  caressed  Geralt.

He  focused  on  it,  holding  the  thin  thread,  till  she  spoke  and  snatched  back  his  attention.  Gerlt  felt  the  weight  her  words  brought,  saw  it  in  her  eyes,  and  how  she  tries  to  avoid  him  but  something  else  pushed.  Something  more.  The  silence  that  followed  was  longer  as  he  decided  to  delve  into  his  own  experiences.  Emotions  a  witcher  wasn't  supposed  to  have  but  yet  they  simmered  under  the  surface.  "I  know  what  you  mean,  Yen."  His  voice  raw  as  he  stared  at  her.

"Wasn't  easy  for  me.  Lots  of  people  knew  my  name,  friends  and  enemies,  while  I  didn't  know  how  to  make  a  single  elixir.  After  getting  to  Kaer  Morhen,  I  couldn't  even  fight  a  wild  dog,  let  alone  any  monster."  It  had  been  frustrating  but  Vesemir,  Eskel,  and  Lambert  did  what  they  could  to  help.  "My  memories  came  back  very  slowly.  For  months,  I  didn't  know  who  I  was  and  why  I  was  important.  I  remembered  Rivia  first,  the  massacre,  and  then  you.  Our  island,  you,  Ciri,  and  finally,  how  the  Wild  Hunt  took  you  from  me."  He  paused,  not  wanting  those  images  to  replay  again,  only  thinking  of  what  he  felt.  "I  knew  I  had  to  get  you  back  again.  Triss  refused  to  tell  me  much  about  you,  but  as  time  passed,  I  drew  my  own  conclusions."  He  fixed  his  glove  and  flexed  fingers.  "Eventually,  I  got  them  all  back.  Yet  you  and  Ciri  were  missing."  And  now  here  they  were,  on  the  way  to  catch  another  djinn.  What  would  she  wish  for?

Yennefer was not proud to admit that she searched Geralt's memories, probed through his mind for hints at his time with Triss. But she did. She could not help it. Sometimes, this was quite literal--her power getting the better of her, reaching out into other's minds before she had the conscious thought to real it back. It had shown her things she did not want to know on more than one occasion. Other times, like now, she simply could not fight the need. She needed to know, needed the confirmation, the truth unfiltered. And Geralt gave it to her. Thoughts rushed between them, images of he and Triss in a dusty little barn, setting out rat traps, at a party, a kiss he failed to return.

"You were gentle in your rejection," she offered. A strange sort of peace offering, a confusing compliment she did not yet know how to place. "Thank you for showing me." Though, technically, she had not asked for permission before looking. She always did appreciate that about Geralt: he might be irritated with her from time to time, might not always like her secrecy and her suspicions, but he knew better than anyone how her brain worked, what she needed to feel secure, and he offered reassurances so freely. It was what made it so difficult to ever stay mad at him for long.

A smile tugged at Yen's lips while her braided hair fluttered in the sea breeze. "I'll put it down for you later," she said. She could hear his true thoughts: a sweet compliment, the kind that only Geralt offered: so simple, so out of place, yet true and offered freely, no strings attached. But she could also hear his desires, knew all the ways he liked her. "Right now, this damned wind is driving me mad." It was clear that Yen did not spend much time on boats. She did not spend much time on any sort of transportation when conjuring portals was her specialty. But today's search was an exception. She needed the slow movement of the boat, the exploration, for she did not know exactly where they were going--nor did she think Geralt would come with her in the portal even if she did have an exact location.

"Geralt of Rivia, unable to fight a monster. I must admit: it's difficult to imagine." Yennefer leaned back against the bow of the boat, her smile still in place as her violet eyes roamed over Geralt's body. He was built like a monster hunter, all muscle and strength, yet she found herself deeply attracted to the gentler sides of him too. She could not help but wonder what his own sense of self must have been like in those moments. She believed in hear heart that she could love him even if he never slayed a monster again. But could he love himself? Did he truly know any way of life beside being a Witcher?

The mention of Triss and her refusal to speak of Yennefer made the sorceress grip a little tighter to the edge of the boat, that storm brewing in her eyes. The betrayal was difficult to bear, the knowledge that someone she had considered a friend thought her so inconsequential, simply a complication to be removed from her plan. Triss had not mourned her friends. She had taken advantage of one's absence.

Muggles had flown to the moon, too, without any magic at all, and there was a part of Theo -- the analytical part, the part that observed and cataloged and thought about things logically, because if she did that then perhaps someday the world would start making sense -- that simply couldn't discount any group of people who had accomplished something that impressive.

The trouble was, of course, that as much as she might privately disagree with her father on such matters, he was still her dad. He was the center of her world, and she couldn’t imagine life without him in it. He’d loved her and cherished her and cared for her since her birth, and after Theo’s mother’s death and the falling out with her mother’s siblings, he was the only family she had left. Losing him to Azkaban was destroying her from the inside out, one agonizing inch at a time.

Unlike Yennefer, Theo had always gone home for the holidays in the past. But this year would be different, because this year she didn't have a home to go to -- just the house of her mother's family, and it had become plain to Theo over the summer that she wasn't truly welcome there. Gwendolen and Iago might have said that they were happy to take her in, that they had wanted to reconnect with her for years and looked forward to doing so, but it had quickly become apparent that Theo was neither what they'd expected nor what they wanted.

They had wanted their dead sister back. Instead, they had received Leontius Nott's daughter, and for all that Iago Selwyn bore the same Dark Mark as Theo's father, he and Gwendolen Rosier had hated Leontius Nott for the past ten years. Theodora Nott, the Theodora Nott who actually existed, was unsatisfactory. Too much like her father; not enough like her mother. Sullen, Theo had heard Gwendolen call her once. Cold, too, and uncooperative. Not affectionate, not likeable, not willing to hide her distress at her father's imprisonment in order to make her uncle and aunts happy.

They would mourn when she died, but they wouldn't be mourning her. It would simply be a second round of mourning for her mother.

At any rate, she felt rather relieved when Yennefer chose to go her separate way, leaving Theo to continue her research in peace. Or so she thought, at least -- until Yennefer began speaking. But to Theo's surprise, the other girl wasn't actually looking to continue their argument. Instead she was offering Theo a book, one that might actually be useful. Was this a peace offering? If it was, it would be prudent to meet it with one of her own, so as she accepted the tome, Theo said, a little stiffly but still meaning it, "Thank you."

Flipping to page 245, she carefully read through the list of ingredients. Yennefer was right; Theo did know where she could procure them all, though a few would have to be acquired illicitly. But if she could successfully sneak into the Restricted Section, she could certainly take a few cuttings from Greenhouse Three without being detected. Chittering Chinese Lantern husks weren't the sort of thing Sprout would expect a student to steal in the first place. And hemlock grew wild on the school grounds.

Of course, a hemlock-based poison would kill via muscle paralysis, which meant suffocation, which was bound to be excruciating. Unless -- and Theo was surprised the idea hadn't occurred to her sooner -- she followed it with something to knock herself out. Dreamless Sleep would probably do the trick, and then she wouldn't feel a thing. She'd simply fall asleep and never wake up.

Legilimency was a different matter. Yennefer was curious to a fault--and nosy. Deeply distrusting. Suspicious at her core. It was only natural, then, that she'd wish to pry into other's innermost thoughts. That she'd need to see in order to believe, never taking anyone at their words. But minds were a tricky thing. At the moment, all she could get from Theo was a deep sense of distress. Frustration. Turmoil. And that could mean anything.

Yennefer hopped up onto a desk, where she sat, black boots dangling. She wore her Hogwarts uniform only in the strictest sense: the green of the Slytherin House was there, yes, but greatly obscured by the black cloak around her--and the charms she'd performed to darken the green and silver until they were only technically the shades they were meant to represent; in most lights, they seemed as inky black as her hair. Between this and the fact that she was spending her night in a library in the restricted section instead of mooching off of Slughorn's so-called "generosity," made it clear that Yennefer did not care much about fitting in or following rules. But she did value knowledge. To understand what vexed her.

"What is the point?" she asked Theo. "Sneaking in here? Hunting down these ingredients? I won't argue that there are a great many people in this hell hole who deserve to be poisoned, but what is the purpose? Are you trying to be reunited with your father in Azkaban? Because, Darling, there are much easier ways of landing yourself in a prison cell than poisoning your classmates."

She shouldn't care. She shouldn't even be talking to Theo. Yennefer had made it a goal early on that she would survive her school years simply by becoming an island. She would not make friends. She would not get caught up in the petty squabbles of her classmates. She would not care. But even she drew the line at sitting idly by while a classmate committed murder, for Yennefer still believed the poison was for someone else, not Theo herself.

She'd spent a harrowing few months avoiding the witch hunters of the Northern Kingdoms, and now she was doing the same to the witch hunters of the Nilfgaardian Empire, because as backwards as she'd thought Marathat was, the countries up here were even worse. At least in Marathat you'd get a trial before they burned you, even if it was likely to be little more than a sham. Here, the madmen in charge had obviously given any old ruffian carte blanche to toss people on the pyres as they saw fit.

Back home, Theda had always felt a measure of sympathy for annemer, as they were so often at the mercy of wizards, many of whom could be capricious and cruel. But it was hard to find fellow feeling with the annemer here, hard to put herself in their shoes when they seemed to be gleefully and enthusiastically in favor of killing her and those like her. It reminded her of the stories told by the Eusebians who hailed from the Southern Duchies, a region of Kekropia where the emperor's control was sometimes tenuous and where the local officials often turned a blind eye to -- or even endorsed -- the murder-by-mob of non-Eusebian wizards, as well as the occasional falsely-accused annemer who was unpopular with his or her neighbors. Wizards in the Duchies went to the Bastion if they could, and if they weren't powerful enough to interest the Bastion, they either left the Duchies as soon as possible or kept their powers carefully hidden.

Theda wasn't used to keeping her powers concealed, but now that she was stuck in Nilfgaard, she was taking a leaf out of the southern wizards' book. Better to hide than to be burned to ash.

Of course, wizards had a harder time hiding from other wizards, but Theda had yet to encounter any other wizards, or at least any that weren't already bound in chains and on their way to the stake. Any wizards still at large in these lands were likely doing the same thing Theda was -- keeping on the move and passing as refugees. After all, war gave rise to refugees in the same way that stagnant water gave rise to mosquitos.

She'd kept her quilted jacket, worn though it was after all her time spent traveling the globe, but when she'd first arrived in the Northern Kingdoms, she'd also invested in a hooded cape made of oiled leather as proof against the rain and snow. Snow! Theda had heard of it, of course, but she'd never seen it until she'd arrived here; in Kekropia and in Marathat, snow only fell up north in the mountains, and she'd made certain to cross the Perblanches long before winter had set in. But while her coat and her cape would keep her warm, they wouldn't cook the fish she'd managed to net from the nearby stream. For that, she needed fire, and to make a fire, she needed wood.

Silently blessing Colonel Eumenides -- something Theda never would have imagined herself doing four years ago, because for all that the woman had been past ninety and blind as a bat, Arsinoë Eumenides had still been a holy terror -- she laid down the armful of fuelwood she'd gathered and set about building her fire, stacking the wood like the log cabins found in the forests of Northeast Kekropia. If it hadn't been for Colonel Eumenides, Theda wouldn't have had the slightest idea as to how to go about doing so, but the old wizard had been fond of telling tales about her time spent on campaign in Lunness Point, many decades before Theda's birth, and Theda had always made a habit of remembering any knowledge imparted to her, no matter how obscure it might seem. How to build a fire, how to trap birds and other small animals -- those skills had helped her survive in this barbaric madhouse of a country she now found herself in.

She was squatting down beside her fire, just about to strike her flint and steel, when she became aware that someone had approached her makeshift camp. Not just someone, either -- a wizard, the first she'd seen who wasn't in captivity. It was a woman, perhaps a few inches taller than Theda, pale-skinned, dark haired, and dressed in dramatic black and white -- that last detail putting Theda in mind of a magpie. And if Theda had spotted this woman for what she was, then she'd surely been spotted in turn. Best, then, to be polite.

"I am," she confirmed. The area was clearing out now, but the witch hunters never really left for good. They strode up and down the roadway, talking quietly. A few had made camp not more than fifty feet away, their bodies turned to shadows in the growing dusk, looking more like monsters in their bulky armor than human men. "And I am generally not the type to stop and smell the roses with strangers, but I can...feel your talents from a mile away." She doubted the guards could hear them from here, but you could never be too careful. Their enemies had ears everywhere and eyes in the trees. Yennefer should know; her own birds--ravens she'd crafted by magic--hovered in the trees even now, ready to fly into her hand and warn her of any impending dangers they might have witnessed.

Her eyes fell upon the fire in progress. Normally, she'd have lit it with a wave of her hand. It was a simple spell, really. One that came most naturally to her. Fire had always come easily, even when it was forbidden by the guild of her fellow sorceresses. Now, even such a tiny spell was unwise, more dangerous than its convenience was worth.

The irony was not lost on Danaerys that she was taking advice from a man who came from the very same family she wished to eliminate, but admittedly, she respected Tyrion. He was knowledgeable and insightful on things she unfortunately was not, but most of all, he too saw the corrupt ways of his family. Or at the very least, his sister and father. He had tried many times to sway her opinion on his brother, but Danaerys had yet to soften towards the idea of the man who slayed her father, deserved as she was beginning to learn it was.

But this marriage made sense. She had been warned about his previous failure in a marriage pact, but for some reason, Danaerys had no concerns over the same thing happening again. There was something about Robb Stark that she could admire and respect, and even she knew of the honor of the Starks. The two would benefit greatly from this, and it was as she said - they needed each other, and when all was said and done, they could retreat to their own little corners of the Kingdom.

There was a part of Robb--the reckless, hotheaded, stubborn part of him that he'd been fighting to subdue ever since they'd placed the Northern crown on his head--that thought it best to get the wedding ceremony done here and now. A quick event, vows stated, promises made, and they would be able to go back to the wars that had consumed them both for so many years. It was not a romantic endeavor--and he would always regret that fault of his birth, that he must marry for strategy rather than love--but they would do what they must, and they would save a great many lives in the process. Yet the more rational, coolheaded part of him knew that, desperate as he was to settle this deal and return to the North, it would be a poor start to an alliance and to his kingdom if there were no Northern witnesses to the marriage.

Most King and Queens married in elaborate, expensive ceremonies. The parties might go on for weeks, a celebration that spared no expense. It was meant to be a spectacle, the promise of a future for the kingdom, for a marriage meant heirs, and heirs meant stability. That sort of celebration was simply not in the cards for them, but that did not mean there weren't still expectations, and that they needed to make a good impression. This marriage would change everything--would unite the seven kingdoms and could, very soon, end the war entirely. It did deserve at least some fanfare, enough to spread hope and relief through the kingdoms, to reassure the people who had lived in fear for so long that plans were being made to assure their prosperity.

they had done this dance a few times now and knew the way out of winterfell without being caught. there was still a thrill - a feeling, a knowing, that they were doing something they shouldn't. that to be caught would be the start of some punishment or another - the kind that would be worse for theon and yet still met with smiles and laughter. the way theon did when he wanted to cover up his fear and sadness.

arm rests easy on robb's shoulders. as if the older boy will always, in presence, even if not in reality, be bigger. of course, robb was quickly out growing him. the beginnings of a strong, honorable man. theon was proud - but not so much that he would say so.

a hum in response, like he hadn't quite caught robb's words at first. "in love with ros?" he echoes, voice a soft laugh in the dark and loneliness of the night. a snicker, as if he's remembering that robb is younger and almost shaming him for it. ( robb, by now, should know that theon would not shame him. the reaction is simply how he always reacts, and it comes with the expectation that robb sees through it. ) "no," he answers, head shaking, "i'm not in love with ros. she's company, that's all. company with a good cunt. why should a greyjoy prince love a whore?" its that same cockiness he fakes normally. theon grins. if it were anyone but robb, he would tease them for the question.

"Don't call her that," Robb said at once. He knew it was her job, that she sold her body for money, that 'whore' was, to many, just an accurate description. But she was still a woman with feelings and desires--or at least, he thought she was. In truth, he'd never met her. Even in the dark, the blush on Robb's cheeks was evident. He always got this way when it came to conversations involving sex or romance. He had been kissed before--and quite enjoyed it--but otherwise, he had very little experience. Other boys his age were known to sleep with the kitchen girls and handmaidens, to begin 'exploring' those desires long before they were expected to marry. Robb had had the opportunity, women who would have said yes--who had even offered themselves to him--but he had never gone further than a chaste kiss on the lips.

please  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  (from  Padme) transmission  received  from  @burnnouts

what  could  he  do  but  not  continue  to  stare?  to  continue  doing  the  exact  thing  that  she  had  asked  him  not  to  do?  not  to  intentionally  undermine  her,  of  course.  padmé’s  own  heart  lived  in  his;  it  was  often  hard  for  anakin  to  differentiate  her  wants  and  his  own.  the  last  thing  that  he  ever  wanted  to  do  was  to  make  her  feel  any  kind  of  pain  or  discomfort.  but  still;  what  else  could  he  do?

❝   don’t  look  at  you  like  what?   ❞    he  tilted  his  head  to  the  side,  feigning  innocence  as  if  he  didn’t  realize  exactly  how  he  was  looking  at  her;  as  if  every  single  star  in  the  entire  galaxy  went  dull,  and  she  outshined  them  with  such  supernatural  ease.  as  if  she  was  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  entire  galaxy  —  and  to  anakin,  she  was  exactly  that.

so,  no.  he  couldn’t  not  look  at  her  like  that.  no  matter  how  much  she  asked.  not  even  if  he  wanted  to.  to  her,  and  the  love  that  radiated  around  her,  anakin  skywalker  never  felt  so  blissfully  powerless.

But feelings did always have a bad habit of getting in the way of logic, of being irrational and irritating, and all consuming.

She glared at Anakin, but this did not stop the pink flush from creeping up her collar and settling into her cheeks. "You know exactly what you're doing. Anyone could see you." She grabbed his hand and tugged him behind the nearest pillar. It was hardly a failsafe solution, and the moment she'd done it, she regretted it. Where before, they had been standing feet away in the courtyard, they were now pressed nearly chest to chest in order to fit behind the impromptu barrier. Suddenly aware of the proximity, Padme looked up into Anakin's eyes, her breath quickening, and her hand fell away from his as if she'd been burned. For a brief moment, she glanced at his lips, imagining what they might taste like--but no.