So instead, Kazuha crafted a path for himself towards the far away lands of the north, to Mondstadt, city of freedom ruled by the one Archon who once blessed him with its powers. Not that he would meet them – he might have spent most of his life as a nameless wandered but even the most recluse of men knew of the Anemo archon's sparse visits to their homeland. Their last descension happened more than a millenium ago, at the very least, and Kazuha's lifetime was short, far too short to ever dream of encountering the divine.

As he grew closer to the City of Wind, Kazuha could feel the chant of the leaves born by the breeze, the echo of children's laughter's and whisper about their archon's return, rumors of a blessed one who could bend the dragon Dvalin to his lyre, but before he could reach its vicinity a song came to his ears, deep withing the forest of Springvale and Kazuha knew, felt it deep within his bones, ringing far too purely in his soul.

He missed it. He missed them, all these lives he had lived yet none of it ever remains, for all who spoke of or witnessed it laid in their burial far before Zeno could ever see the trace of age darkening his skin and it ate at him, the memories which were only his to claim, the grief which kept coldly reminding him he was the only Sacred One left in this world. That all the dragons had come to live and pass and ascend to the Heavens to witness the sight of one another once more, and Zeno was left with but the blurry memory of faces he once knew so deeply he could draw in the dark.

He couldn’t die. That was the end of it really, and after two thousands years lived in the sole company of his mind, nothing could light the flame of his aching heart.

Until one day, at the break of dawn the sky bore a crimson color humanity had long forgotten, one Zeno had seen for days on end carried by the hairs and eyes of his King; no matter the passing of time the sky remained as such from dawn to dusk and Zeno cried, let himself fall to the ground in earth-stained sobs because it was it, the one calling of his soul returning to him once more.

Hiryuu would return. Because it was the meaning of this vermillon sky, the promise of their Once King now reborn. 

Mikoto meets the other clansmen and thinks this might just be enough for him to relinquish his oath. Between a woman naked half of the time and a seemingly skilled swordman who was previously charged to kill his king yet insists to cook their food for every meal, it might just be the strangest mix of personalities he had the chance – or misfortune, he's not quite sure yet, to encounter.

But then, then he recalls his people, his former clansmen, and truly he had been no better, gathering a hoard of traumatized children to grow in the hearth of his smoldering flames as he had even though he knew his time was near.

So all in all, Mikoto will silence his words if he witnesses the black-haired swordman chase the apparent cat hybrid down the road for clinging to their king. Even if he deems it ridiculous, they remind him of Yata and Fushimi in their younger days, when the latter made fun of the former for offering Mikoto his blind and unying loyalty.

And if a laugh escapes him, just as the swordman finally takes hold of the lady, reminding her of their king’s greatness, if they all turn their heads to him in surprise, if Shiro looks at him with wonder in his eyes and suddenly join in an unrestrained laugh, Mikoto can’t find it in himself to hold it against any of them.

He wondered, at first, how the Silver King could call his clan a family, and yet how futile had his thoughts been, for it was it. A family, a sense of kinship he too had tied his clansmen with.

It is not something he's ashamed of, although he purposely makes it appear so. He does it because each time a friend or foe thinks themselves so smart and capable, picking up on his behaviour, and become all too embarrassed and promise they shan't speak of it no more, Yuri has to hold back his smile, or his thanks, for they took care of all the work for him.

Yuri wishes he didn't have to speak of his childhood, this bit had to be true. The reason as to, however, was not because of any sense of shame he could feel at having had to grovel on his knees between some old man's thighs, but rather than above all things, the nature of his childhood was the one he was to hide.

When Balthus gets too pressing about it, or Constance claims there's some dirty old secret about it, Yuri sighs with faux airs and raises his hands up like a white flag, claiming subtly to falsely give up. He tells them of a tale, old as time, of an old man who came to his village ages ago, sick and in need of nursing. He tells them he, the young and altruistic Yuri helped the man out of his misery, a blessing which was returned to him once the plague had seized their town and bled though their wounds. He tells them that, once he finally awoke, he rose as the bearer of a crest long forgotten, of Saint Aubin's long lost restored inheritance.

Yuri hides his name, not because he wanted to draw a harsh line between the past he suffered from living next to his prostitute mother, but because revealing his name would get him in far too restricting troubles with the archbishop.

Because he's certain that were she to understand Aubin still roamed the earth as the former adopted son of Count Rowe, she would put his liliac haired head on a spike for failing to bring the Goddess back to life centuries ago.

Yoshiteru is born in a world where guns replace the sharp blades of his ancestors, where letters and the postman are deemed ‘too old’ and too inconvenient to fight against screens made of tender blue hues.

He is born in a world where demons ceased to exist, where only legends of them still hold, ones of a scaredy man who could make thunder yield to him and bore the same name as him. Yoshiteru thinks demons are jokes made up to make other feel good about themselves. To allow them to think they aren't so bad, after all, that there is worst out there.

Yoshiteru thinks demons are bullshit. They don't exist, which all in all makes the sudden intruder in his room in the middle of the night, kneeling on the windowsill with sharp ears and sharp claws, quite difficult to explain.

‘Who are you?’ he shivers through his stutter, standing proud despite the dreadful cold feeling his life might end right here and there.

The stranger's body shakes on a laugh while Yoshiteru's is overwhelmed out of his mind. They smile at him, all pointed teeth and are these fangs, and rest his head in the crook of his palm, putting on the show of a sigh as he pulls his sword out from his back.

“Your protector, I guess. Gods know you need one. Look at you, I could break you in half in a moment.”

Hello! I have actually been thinking for a few days about the tipping feature on tumblr, but for many reasons I decided to set up a Ko-fi instead.

So, from now on, if you wish to support me, you're free to visit for a coffee! There is no obligation to, however if you put a specific prompt you'd like to see updated, or a new one no matter the fandom, I'll priorize any demand made through Ko-fi over my usual planning and have it posted the same day!

Thank you for your support, and see you later for more prompts!

One day Arslân meets a boy. He's a few years older than him, with hair black as charcoal just as Arslân's bear the white of a cloud. He says he's a traveler, says he is Hilmes, son of Osroes, says they are bound to become one and only kin and Arslân trusts him; for he knows his fate. Knows he was sent to be raised in Maryam as their prince only to live with a sword of damocles over his head, singing funerals and promising far too bitterly that he shall soon leave his beloved lands to become the heir of Andragora’s barbaric kingdom. 

Arslân was born for this matter and this matter only. To fill the gap left after the death of the last prince of Pars, for he is the only son of Queen Tahamine after all. Or so he thought. 

Sylvain expected things to be difficult for him, because of his bearing of a crest. Especially of his mother's sharp warningsever since he was old enough to understand the words which were spoken to him. 

‘Your crest lays dangers on your feet, my child’, she had said. He once thought she spoke of it in regards to his brother because she knew how cold his heart had grown with resentment for his own blood but Sylvain couldn't help but sourly laugh, forced to face how it had and would always apply to both his father and the nobility's crawling, jealous gaze. 

And yet, Felix didn’t change. He would never have anyway, because Felix loathes his father and his father worries about him entertaining the company of the ‘likes of him’, so if anything, Felix made it a point to visit him whenever he was allowed to. Ingrid looked at him in awe demanding if it is true, and from the height of her young years she brilliantly laughed, recounting the story of a knight’s tale. She said they were both alike, discovering a powerful power hidden under their skin, and for the first time, Sylvain let himself warm up to the crest he despised more ardently than his brother ever could.

Dimitri was too far gone in his grief to say anything about it. He only warned him prestigious crests bear responsibilities who will weight upon him just as bitterly, and Sylvain listened attentively to the comforting words which followed, assuring him that no matter the nobles' vicious thoughts, Sylvain would always have the support of his one and only king.

So, Sylvain knows the danger he bears. He knows yet grows to embrace it, attend tea parties and the grandest of balls as expected from his position as Gautier’s heir - because despise his fury his father still named him so, being forced to witness his eldest’s rampages, and he does so with pride in his chest despite his own doubts. He does so because he is his mother’s son, and because if she faces the noblewomen head on despite the rumors about her, he will do no less.

It works, for quite a while. Until at one of these balls a man with hairs green as the forest greets him with a curtsy far too low for the son of a Margrave. He says he is Seteth, bearer of Cichol’s crest, aid to the holy Archbishop of Fódlan, and most surprising of all, claims he and Her both swear their undying support to him, Sylvain José Gautier, the heir of Macuil.

It throws a dart in his well-oiled gear, tears away the years spent making himself quiet, leaving the nobles to get used to the truth he bears. Because now, instead of the sight of his desk's rich wood, all Sylvain may yet ever see are letters spread in piles and piles, all but one inquiring about his wish to marry.

The last one is signed by the Archbishop herself, bearing the words of a polite invitation to participate in the Goddess rite of rebirth.

“Hide him.” Seteth gestures to Manuela, a frown settling on his face. “Do not let him leave his room until he's back to normal.”

It leaves the teaching corps in a shamble Seteth does not dare to report to Rhea just yet, so to Manuela he confides asking for her discretion which she offers on the sweet-and-sour condition of having a drink with her later this week.

Seteth begrudgingly agrees. Hopes it to be but a single occurrence yet still warns off Flayn to remain in her quarters from dusk to dawn and to never, under any circumstances, leave to the outsides once night has fallen, fears for his child and the rare blood she bears.

On the other side of the dormitories, Ferdinand wakes with the harsh sun rays on his pale skin, cursing at himself once he feels the blood sticking on his lips.

The legend of a demon guarding the Zenitsu bloodline fades away as soon as it once spread. It is surprising from those who spent a lifetime and many more hunting their specie down, but how else can it be if Kaigaku vanished the moment they were bound. After all, if Muzan’s death had called for the final burial of all of his kin, the once disciple of Jigoro Kuwajima could not be considered anything more than stone cold dead. He had been crafted by Muzan’s blood after all, and most figured that even if he was to return, for he couldn’t, he wouldn’t be able to do bring any harm along with his rage. None of the demon slayers were willing to hunt a ghost down, to open another book after what was meant to be the final chapter of their history made of blood and tears, and Zenitsu couldn’t blame them.

However, when Nezuko was with child, and their daughter after her, when Zenitsu’s hair turned to grey and his eyes became a blur, Zenitsu awoke his past.

He took his granddaughter away one day as she returned from the village with tears in her eyes because the other children mocked her grandmother who once lived as a demon and sat her on the edge of the stairs leading to his former mentor’s home, the one he had inherited from him, and told her all about the story of the mighty demon who could wield thunder, the lone child he once foolishly called brother, and the one who would come and protect his blood, were they to ever face danger.

Zenitsu hadn’t meant to share such white lie, but he figured if Kaigaku’s story ended with Muzan’s death, he could at least use it to cheer his granddaughter up. That letting her think a kind and powerful demon could come to her aid and sow unrest to the ones who wronged her could not truly hurt her.

And it worked, for a time. His granddaughter would join her hands over burning incense on days she felt resentful, demanding retribution. Her mother once caught her and asked what this was all about and laughed once she was told but still, she sat next to her child and prayed to the lonely demon for their health and home’s protection. 

It became a tradition. Each child born into the Zenitsu household would be entrusted with the thrilling tale of the mighty demon guarding their home, and Zenitsu had the chance to bear witness to his great-grandson’s early years before he left them all behind in the bed he once shared with his late wife.

On the day of his burial, after the ceremony was thoroughly held and many did travel to pay their last respects, once his ashes joined Jigoro’s in the family grave and all had left to comfort each other’s grief, a friend old as a lifetime came to stand above his grave.

No words were exchanged, and no gift was left, but it is said that on this very night Zenitsu’s once-retired nichirin sword disappeared.

It takes two months. A month for Tahamine to realize she did not suffer from her menstrual blood and blame it on her earlier pregnancy, and another to figure that she is in fact with child once more.

This is all it takes. Two months for her to mourn the only man she loved, two months to see her child ripped from her arms by her new groom once he was thorougly healed, sent to be raised as the common child of a maid. Two months she spents fearing for her son’s life, dreading Andragoras would change his mind and go back on his words, only to be met with the cold understanding she must hide another of her children.

Tahamine never laid with Andragoras. Not once, not ever since she started to be called his wife nor ever before. The only one who shared her sheet had been Osroes, Osroes the betrayed king, Osroes whose life had been stolen from the very man she is now wed to.

The one who could end her unborn child were he to ever hear of his mere existence.

What Tahamine choses to do next is as simple as the name it bears; motherhood. She sends away all her servants except for the dowry maid she brought with her from Maryam, a gift of her sister, and refuses to ever see eye to eye with Andragoras for months on ends. Pretends it is the custom from where she hails, that a husband and a wife shall not share a room for a year and her now buried youth serves as an example, for she did not lay with Osroes, Osroes who she loved and adored, so she shall not lay with his brother either. She has all her meals sent to her room, confines herself in it under the guise of bad health, and it is both a blessing and a curse that Andragoras drowns too much in his hunger for wealth and power to question her claims. That he sees her as nothing more than a conquered trophy but it does not matter, she will wield every tool she can lay her hand on and brandish it as the deadliest weapon if only it can assure the future of her children.

It is a few busy months, until she gives birth. She writes to her sister in Maryam hoping she will shelter her son, and she knows Andragoras reads them before they are sent away but his knowledge of their language is weak, he always chose to speak with battle cries rather than let the heavenly flow of her mother tongue consume him so he cannot understand it, shrugs it off as a woman’s affair once he decifers that his Queen will bitterly send her maid back to Maryam because she betrayed her and bore a child to a unknown soldier while she vowed to remain a maiden.

Andragoras doesn’t know it is false, nor does he need to. He doesn’t know the child her maid will bring to far away lands is hers and not her maid’s.

The day he is born, Tahamine names her child Arslân. Arslân the lion boy, Arslân, who bears the name of those who once were Kings of Pars. Because it his his legacy, his gods-given birthright, because he is Arslân, son of Queen Tahamine, heir of King Osroes and no one shall seize it from his grasp.

Especially not Andragoras.

During the Great Fire Tahamine stands in the ashes of her home, the sole of her feet bloodied by her husband’s passing. She stands in what was once their sacred bedroom and her tears leave ashen gray paths on her cheeks and she is nineteen when she is forced to see the man she once thought of as a brother seize the life out of her Osroes, moved by the remnants of the adoration he once gave her. 

She is nineteen when she is forced to kneel with burned nightclothes in the pool made of his blood, when she grovels at Andragoras’ feet and begs with crimson stains in her ivory hairs for him to let the child she bore to Osroes live, to spare the last piece of her once golden future. She begs despite the thundering fury which crowd her heart chanting it isn’t fair, she begs and cries and promise to be his bride before the sun rise if he would only see her son and not think of him as a threat.

Andragoras agrees. She will be his bride and he will be her groom despite how revulsing the idea is to her, because she is a mother before she is a woman. Because Angragoras allowed her child to live, because in the aftermath of the coup, when she sits at the edge of the marital bed she shared with Osroes and stares with disgust at the ivory ring on her finger, she can still see a maidservant applying balm on her son’s burned face next to her.

Osroes named him Hilmes the night he was born. Hilmes, the dweller on the hill. 

A tender way for a smitten man to echo the day of their first fateful meeting, on the hills of Pars. 

This, is the single most funny and cute thing I have read today, and I think, well I should perhaps clear it up?

So, the way prompts work on this blog is, every serie is recognisable by the same nametag, as for the Arslân-Tahamine-Osroe-Andragoras plot (will be shortening as ATOA in this ask for clarity purposes). So the ATOA plot is currently composed of three prompts all linked through by the ‘previous’ and ‘next’ buttons. The unnamed Arlsân-Daryûn-Kind Andragoras (unbelievable, I know) is a separate serie (bolded for comprehension purposes). So that's that! Two arslân stories!!!

Also, I will quickly resume the plot ATOA as I figured it could definitely get difficult to understand in a prompt format. But the next prompt will shed light! So don't worry too much.

I think it is also important to underline that I have not caught up with Arslân's story since it was first animated with Season One, which I am aware brings a huge chance of going against the source material in these series. I purposely did not catch up through spoils as I believe this makes the writing of these series more enjoyable, and written with the plot twists I would have set if I were the author.m, without any pretension of course.

In we who thrive in the heart of the desert (ATOA), Tahamine hails from Maryam (different from canon) and is the sister of the Queen consort of Maryam. She gets married to Osroes when she is quite certainly underage, as weddings were in antic days. (same as canon, as Osroes dies when she is only 20). So, she is very young when she marries him and he refuses to bed her until she is of age. Andragoras, on the other hand, wishes to have her for himself (same as canon). A few months Tahamine gives birth to her first child (relevant for the story), roughly 19 years old, Andragoras does not kill Osroes ‘quietly’ like in canon, but rather seizes power from him with an insurrection during what I call the Grand Fire of Pars. This is meant to underline his flawed character and push him toward the irredeemable path. He is NOT a good person in ATOA, compared to the second serie.

THEN. When Andragoras kills Osroes and forcefully marries Tahamine, she is already with child, her second son Arslân (the date of birth is different from canon, in 304-305 instead of 306). The identity of the first child is currently unknown. Fearing for her unborn child, Tahamine hides from Andragoras until she gives birth to Arlsân unbeknownst to him, and sends him with a trusted nanny to Myriam so he can be raised by her sister in safety.

There, Arslân grows as the adopted prince of Maryam. Andragoras invades Maryam roughly in 317 (same as canon), when Arslân is 13-14 years old. At this point, the king is killed and the Queen consort who fostered Arslân is demanded to sign a treaty in which she agrees to provide her own heir (Arlsân) were Pars to lack an heir. Andragoras has an heir (not with Tahamine), who dies, and prompts Arslân's return to Pars.

Another change from canon: in this série, Gieve is not a traveling musician (well, he is, but it is his cover) but Arlsân's retainer, which low-key translates to a knight-servant of hight rank. He is also Arslân’s cousin.

So, with how the story is set now, Arslân who is the biological son of Tahamine, will go to Pars to fulfill his duty as Maryam's heir and enter the palaca as the adopted son of Andragoras who is totally unaware that he is taking in the actual and legitimate heir to the throne he stone, save for the first child of Tahamine and Osroes (will be revealed in part V or VI). This is bound to be a very fun moment for dear old Andragoras.

In comparison, the Arslân-Daryûn-Kind Andragoras série is much less heavy-plotted and something I indulge in as character studies if I wish to write of the legend of arslân and not drown in the political drama. Hope this has been helpful! I will post a prompt today about Tahamine's view which will be inserted between part two and part three. I completely overlooked that this should happen sooner than later for clarity.

Arslân grows up in the beloved lands of Maryam. It’s an oasis compared to the arid lands of Pars for the sun is fierce but gentle, the wind blows yet sand does not follow and his people walk barefoot in the desert, treating it as nothing but a warm caress against their feet.

Arslân loves the seashore, the gentle, salted breeze, the soft melody of soaring birds in the infinite sky. He sits on the pontoon like a common man and soaks his feet in the cold water, feels the wind chilling his cheeks and tangling all of his hair, something he knows his dear cousin will complain about as soon as he returns.  

Gieve sits beside him, quietly. Arslân did not see him coming, but truthfully he never does. He looks at him from the corner of his eyes, smiles at the grief barely concealed under his face. His cousin has never been one to let despair court his joy away, prefering to shrug his duties away with a flirt of his lips or the hundred songs of his Dozaleh. There are not many reasons that would allow such gloom to overcome him. Arslân has a feeling he aleady knows which.

“What's wrong?” He still asks, if only to fend off the ineluctable for a few blessed moments.

“The prince of Pars died in the night.” Gieve answers him, his voice already mourning him.

And then, then Arslân sighs. He looks up to the horizon, the deep blue sky of Maryam. Balances his feet in the water, can feel it gently dripping from his ankles. 

“Is that so.”

Gieve clenches his hands around the soft fabric of his clothes. His rage is held solely by the respect he has for his cousin, and the selfish wish not to make it more painful than it oughts to be. Than it alrady is, with a cut far too deep. “An emissary will come in the following weeks.”

“Alright.” Arslân nods, and the strings which puppetted Gieve’s fury away break. 

“How can you be so calm?! ” He yells and cries out, seizing him with both of his arms. “They're stealing you from our home!”

“It's my duty.” He simply says. Not because he wishes to believe it, but because he must. “Our kingdom promised if the prince were to die, we would send an heir to replace him.”

“Still—”

“It's either that or they march in armor on our lands and burn our people to the ground.” Arslân snaps. “Pars' hunger for power has no limits, they already hold my mother as a prize for conquering our country. Do you want me to let them take everything else?”

Grieve's answer is but a long sigh. The silence falls along it, as if it had been the far sound of a horn.

“I don't want you to go. They're barbaric. Who knows what might happen to you.”

Arslân shrugs. It does not mean he dismisses the gentle care he hears in his retainer’s words, “I'll be fine as long as the king treats me as his heir, and it'll be easier since mother is the queen. I guess they will pretend I had a weak constitution and was only brought home after the tragedy. Really, it's as simple as this.”

His voice goes down in a whisper, escaping through smirking lips. 

“Who would feel threatened by a kingdom in ruins, anyway?” 

Gieve's mouth opens agape in awe. “You cannot be serious.”

“What if I am?” Arslân stands, fists clenched. “They expect a bird trapped in a golden cage, a fragile and scaredy prince from a nation long subdued. I will show them of which metal the people of Maryam are forged.” 

Arslân extends a hand toward his friend, his cousin, his retainer - his accolyte, even, a soft smile barely covering the anger, the determination under. “Will you help me?”