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a solitary wing no one enters.

candle light paints him in stuttering gold — broad shoulders slouched on the edge of the mattress, bruised knuckles resting against dark wool. he looks far too large for this fragile, silk draped chamber, like a storm trying to fold itself into a jewelry box. “may i?” he was strong she knew that, but torn skin on his knuckles had to still be an irritant. she waits until the smallest tilt of his head resembles consent, then gathers his injured fist into her palms. up close she sees the split in one knuckle, the purple bloom of impact. she fetches the little porcelain jar of sage salve — never imagining she’d soothe a warrior’s wounds on their wedding night. as she dabs the ointment, her throat tightens around words heavier than the jar. “loyalty is often thown at the feet of everyone in court. most of it's fake ... ” the salve smells of pine resin and pepper; it clings to her wrists. “they say you you burn bridges for pleasure and left your people chasing ashes. were they lies, all of them?”

he doesn’t flinch as she inspects the blossoming wounds.  drops of crimson peppered around purple pools.  he didn’t hurt anyone.  just himself and,  perhaps,  a chip off the old stone wall.  her hands are gentle,  soft,  small in comparison to his  –  but strong in their own way.  that much is proven as she moves to fetch the salve from it’s place amongst her other treasures.  his own things lost into oblivion,  nothing but the pack he traveled with to accompany him on this journey.  he didn’t mind starting over,  not really.  if anything,  he had been more resistant about this arrangement for her lack of benefit. ❛ would it matter if they were or weren’t? ❜  gus asks,  shaking his head to symbolize no.  pieces will always fall where they must.  ❛ nothing would change. ❜

there was a certainty in the way he claims her as his wife. so much so that her lungs almost forget how to work. a chilled tremor beneath her ribs, that came from deeper places, chambers of her heart she had kept locked since childhood, ever since a fever took both parents in the same night and left her with polite smiles and charity scraps. “i…” the word snagged, fragile as silk on thorn. she forced herself to breathe, to let honesty steady her voice. “i thought you might be miserable because everyone insisted you would be.” and because a quieter, more treacherous voice. her own — had insisted he could not possibly wish for her. her aunt prophesied catastrophe so often that mariana had begun wearing the prediction like an underskirt, hidden yet always brushing her skin.

his jaw tightens at her admittance.  the whispers that followed him wherever he went  –  he shouldn’t be surprised that they had made it all the way to her own castle.  a man so self indulgent that he would put himself and his own desires over his people  –  a man not fit to be king.  it was all rubbish,  lies scripted on the floor beneath him  –  written in shared blood and malice.  though,  he admits,  he hasn’t exactly been beaming with joy.  ❛ i am not miserable. ❜  he says,  taking a seat upon their shared mattress.  ❛ i may not be the royalty that you deserve  – ❜  rough around the edges,  scarred from betrayal.  ❛ but i am loyal.  i was loyal to my home,  to my people,  and now  –  i am loyal to you. ❜

055. in an enchanted glade where fairies dance in the moonlight .

the first time she witnessed their fury, it was not directed at her, but at a courtier who had made a sneering comment about mariana’s orphaned status, a calculated insult meant to diminish them both. in a flash of movement too quick to follow, they had the man pinned against a stone wall, voice a low, terrifying promise that echoed in the sudden stillness of the hall. mariana stood frozen, blood singing with a strange, fierce thrill that warred with her fear. later, her hands still trembling slightly, she approached them who was pacing their chambers like a caged wolf. "that was…" she started, searching for the right word, heart hammering against her breastbone. "no one has ever… why would you defend me? we are strangers, bound by a contract designed for our mutual misery."

it was an agreement designed to relieve his own kingdom of scandal  –  losing his title as king and enduring near banishment from his homeland,  a request had come forth.  a marriage to solidify an alliance and solidarity with a neighboring territory.  he was an offer,  one that they hadn’t expected the queen to accept.  knuckles bruised violet from the corridor's stone wall.  this was the reaction they had all expected hear in whispers,  his family,  proof that they had made the right decision in crowning his younger brother instead.  ❛ you think me to be miserable? ❜  he’s confused or oblivious  –  or both.  ❛ we may be strangers and we may be indifferent about our arrangement. ❜  eyes flicker from the shadow of the fire to her.  ❛ but,  nonetheless,  you are my wife and no one will speak to my wife in such a way. ❜

THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA: PRINCE CASPIAN 2008 | dir. Andrew Adamson

rainwater dripped from his matted curls onto the crate's corroded floor. her defiance should’ve been a red flag. raiders gutted defiance first. but her posture… shoulders squared clearly ready to die for a bag of broken trinkets. he’d seen that look before — on fools guarding canned peaches or antibiotics. never on someone clutching nostalgia. he crouched, ignoring the creak of his leathers, and unzipped the backpack with deliberate slowness. the contents glinted—junk, all of it. a snowglobe’s glass dome fractured, trapped glitter suspended around a skeletal ferris wheel. his thumb hovered over it. his own memory ambusing him -- his sister’s laugh, her small hands shaking a twin trinket stolen from a gas station countertop. before the sky turned jaundiced. before the world ate its young. "miles." he hadn’t spoken it aloud in years. raiders called him rook—like the bird, not the chess piece. survival required wings, not strategy. the snowglobe chilled his palm as he lifted it. "you really risking a bullet for landfill trophies?" his tone razored through the damp air, but his thumb traced the cracked base. he held it out to her, fingers brushing hers — a calculated risk.

her  jaw  clenched,    teeth  ripping  at  the  inside  of  her  cheek  as  he  unzipped  her  backpack    –    as  if  he  had  a  right.    ❛  piper.  ❜    her  name  after  his,    as  she  promised,    but  her  eyes  remained  trained  on  his  search    –    she  knows  what  she  has  is  worthless,    he  won’t  want  it.    but  her  fingers  twitch  at  her  side  with  the  urge  to  snatch  the  snowglobe  from  his  hands  anyway.    she  doesn’t.    brows  furrow  at  the  way  his  thumb  lingered  against  the  cracked  glass.    a  silent  understanding,    she  thinks.    like  maybe  she  wasn’t  the  only  fool  clinging  to  the  ghost  of  memories  that  weren’t  even  her  own.    ❛  call  it  what  you  want.  ❜    she  replies,    quiet  and  unflinching.    ❛  but  it’s  mine.  ❜    the  rain  lets  up  a  little,    as  if  it’s  listening  in  on  their  conversation.    she  reaches  for  the  snowglobe,    taking  it  back  into  her  own  palm    –    fingers  brushing  against  his.    ❛  food  runs  out,    ammo  jams,    but  this?    reminds  me  that  i’m  not  just  some  ghost  walking  around  waiting  to  starve.  ❜    she  hugs  it  to  her  chest,    as  if  to  protect  it  from  his  scrutiny.    ❛  so,    yeah.    i’d  risk  a  bullet    –    doesn’t  mean  you  have  to  understand  it.  ❜

“gus.” she repeated, voice honeyed with mockery that didn’t reach her eyes. " charming, but — you'll always be augustus to me." my augustus. she could already hear the guards’ boots edging closer beyond the salt crusted barrels — three more minutes, maybe four, before they’d breach this cramped alley stinking of brine and betrayal. she should have moved, but her body betrayed her, leaning into the heat radiating off him, drawn like a compass needle to true north. she felt like more of a fool than ever, to believe their lies ... shame flushed her neck. she’d wept that day, half drowned and heaving on the beach, sand grinding into her raw knees. her hand lifted again, drawn to the pulse beneath his jaw — then froze. “look at you ... ” she whispered, softer now, a secret for the space between their mouths. “no crown. no robe. just…” she swallowed. just the man i would’ve burned kingdoms for. “come with me.” she breathed, urgent, thumbs sweeping his cheekbones. she’d never confessed how deeply she’d doubted his death. how she’d found his brother’s hands too smooth, his lies too polished. how she’d bitten her tongue raw on their wedding night to keep from screaming his name into the canopy.

her  touch  scorched  his  skin  far more  than  a  flame  ever  could.    he  should  have  stepped  back,    placed  even  more  space  between  them,    but  he  remained  centered  in  her  orbit  like  a  tether  he  hadn’t  known  he  still  wore.    he  thought  of  her  frequently    –    when  the  sun  rose,    when  the  waves  crashed,    when  memories  of  who  he  once  was  played  like  a  film  reel behind his eyelids  during  the  quietest  hours  of  the  night.    but  he  was  not  that  man  any  more.    he  was  no  longer  the  heir  prepped  to  be  king    –    he  was  bloody,    bruised,    and  calloused.    he  no  longer  belonged  beneath  her  touch.    augustus  was  the  ghost  his  brother  buried,    gus  was  who  he  was  now.    still,    he  could  not  deny  her  plea.    come  with  me.    how  he’d  dreamed  those  words  in  her  voice  for  so  long    –    he  practically  floated  toward  her  involuntarily.    ❛  you  think  i  can  just  walk  at  your  side?    as  if  my  brother  wouldn’t  gut  us  both  to  keep  his  crown  clean?  ❜    the  words  taste  far  more  bitter  than  he  had  intended.    the  noise  of  the  guards  sharpening  in  the  distance,    each  second  growing  more  fragile  than  the  last.    her  temptation  was  far  too  potent  to  resist    –    so  he  nods.    ❛  wherever  you  go,    i  will  follow.  ❜

Crimson Peak (2015) dir. Guillermo del Toro

he couldn’t admit he’d watched her that final evening before her disappearance — how she’d stood at the chapel doors, spine rigid as a sword, eyes glazed with something far worse than fear. he’d toasted his mates impending nuptials with bourbon and bile, both burning his throat. the lie was velvet, but her eyes were blades. “fevered delirium. tragic, really.” she’d always been porcelain in candlelight at court; now she was a cracked chalice, still holding wine. his thumb traced the rim of his glass. why her? his mate was a prig, but safe. predictable. everything cassian’s own bloodline demanded and everything he’d carved himself raw escaping. "they're offering a king’s ransom for your safe return." he added casually, too casually, flagging down the barmaid for another round, already. a hound’s price. he’d heard it hissed in the tavern’s backrooms, where the ashford name meant less than the dirt beneath a mercenary’s nail. "why run, gwen?" the name slipped out unbidden — too intimate for this den of thieves. voice hardened to compensate. "not every highborn girl gets to play the blushing bride to a man who’ll let her collect porcelain and pretend at happiness..."

a king’s ransom? ❛ for me? ❜ her eyes widen, suddenly well - aware of the pretty penny placed on her head. the tavern felt smaller, as if every eye had turned to look at her in that very moment. she shrinks into herself, pulling her glass of ale closer before taking a small sip. she’d learned to tolerate it, an attempt to reduce suspicion. she’d need to go elsewhere come morning. ❛ do you wish to claim it, cassian? ❜ she asks, licking the bubbles from her top lip. ❛ march me back in ribbons and bows? ❜ maybe there was a bit of madness in her, a fury that had turned into partial insanity. perhaps she was delirious. ❛ do you know what happens to porcelain? ❜ she asks, she had contemplated her future over and over and over again. each time it was the very same ending. ❛ it cracks. it shatters — and no matter how well you glue it back together, the fractures will show. that’s what marriage to your friend would have been. ❜ she doesn’t expect him to understand.

the chandeliers’ light caught the gold embroidery on his borrowed doublet—a facade of finery, stitched for a noble son, not a bastard soldier paraded tonight to amuse the masses. he didn’t mean to linger on the woman, but each glance at her made the churning within him more profound. “and you serve her well ... ” his grin came slow, crooked as a rusted hinge, disarming in its lack of polish. he’d spent years learning how to break men’s bones, not how to make a woman’s breath catch — yet here he was. "i think your lady is more, interested in a title, where as im ... interested in what's in front of me." the admission hovered, too vulnerable. he covered it with a smirk. "walk with me? "

it wasn’t until her hard work was acknowledged that she finally allowed her eyes to meet his. in part, it felt akin to a betrayal — but otherwise, a peaceful calm in the chaos surrounding them and the one currently brewing across the room. she knows that her cheeks have flushed because she feels the heat radiating down her neck, a hand moving to brush a piece of fallen hair and disguise her enchantment. her job was to stay invisible, remain alert, keep an eye on the situation at hand to make sure it was going in the right direction. but who was she to decline the guest of honor? ❛ i would be delighted to. ❜ she nods, arm linking with his as she allows him to take the lead. ❛ but only for a moment. if my lady asks where we’ve gone, you’ll have to come up with something clever to tell her. ❜