#the plague... the dear one... the beloved...

But the sight of MC fast asleep, covered in white blankets like she’s decorated for her burial, pierces your chest. Hatred dissipates into a thing of the past, and realization replaces it. 

She’s dying.

Your fists shake with how hard you’re clenching them, as though they are weapons you can use to fight your way through this grief. But you’re only hurting yourself. You’re only seeing your inadequacy in comparison to the demons that plague you.

She’s dying, and there is nothing you can do to save her.

Tears stream down your face now. You still have time to leave. You didn’t even have to visit her as soon as you got a call detailing the severity of her condition. You still have time to run, to make sure this beloved woman doesn’t see the mess you have become.

But your feet are stuck to the ground, and she eventually wakes up from her slumber.

“Mmm…” she murmurs, absorbing the world around her, seemingly surprised that she’s still alive. Her hair decorates her face like curtains hiding the sight of her exhaustion, and the sliver of what you can see in-between strands is evidence of death looming over her. 

When you find your footing on this mountain of realization, you gently move strands of hair and tuck them in behind her ears, careful not to alter the tubes providing slivers of life into her body. Her eyes widen before she blinks. Once, twice.

“Oh, hi!”

Even though it’s soft, the afternoon sunlight spilling into the hospital room pales in comparison to her voice.

“Hello, MC.”

Your voice is colder in comparison. Like shards of ice sitting atop rooftops on snowy days, only melting when sunlight caresses them.

Despite that, a small smile appears on her face. You can see the battles she fights just to keep her eyes open, the efforts she places in keeping herself present in this conversation. You can see the happiness spilling out of her eyes at the sight of you.

If any drops of hatred still remained in your heart, then they all evaporated from the warmth of her compassion.

“You look familiar. H-have we met before?”

You can only nod because you have met her. It was during a dinner party celebrating the collaborations between Akso Hospital and the Hunter’s Association, and Zayne had introduced you to each other. You can still recall the smile on her face and her laughter that lit up the room. You can still recall how you were sitting on the table all night, sipping wine and conversing with almost nobody. You can still recall the jealousy that sprouted within you that night.

“Yes,” you manage to say. “We met at a dinner party.”

“Oh! You were the woman in the gold dress.” Her laugh is still so infectious, making a smile peek out of you despite the circumstances. “I was awestruck by you. I could hardly focus on anyone else that night.”

“Stop that,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand. “If any one of us was the light of that night, it would be you, MC.”

She shakes her head, her laugh still spilling out of her lips. You notice that her eyes have closed. “I highly doubt it. Was that the only time w-we met?”

In the literal sense, yes. That was the only time you’ve seen her, but it was enough for her to linger in your mind in every moment you shared with Zayne. When he comes home late from work. When he ends your calls abruptly with her as his excuse. When all of your dinner conversations are about treatments for Protocore Syndrome. When your relationship surrounded her needs and abandoned yours.

You swallow to push down the lump in your throat. “Yes. That was the only time we met.”

“Oh, I wish we could’ve talked more. I feel like we would’ve been great friends.” 

You stare at her saline bag as the liquid flows into her veins so you don’t have to see her expression when she hisses in pain. How does life consume a person so fully and manage to leave just as quickly?

And as you fix the blankets around her — still staring anywhere else but her face — you wonder how jealousy consumed you so fully yet managed to leave so quickly.

“Do I need to call a nurse-”

“No!” she exclaims, her breaths evening out into slow, painless waves. “I-I’m okay.”

You can finally look at her properly, but the sight of her small smile makes you wish you didn’t. You understand why Zayne would rather spend his time with her. While she can find the joys in everything, yours have died long before you met him, and who wouldn’t choose to bask in the light when given the chance?

Words perish in your throat. Everything and everybody seems to want to die today.

“How about you?” she interrupts. “Are you okay? You seem spaced out.”

You can only muster a small nod, because the words that refuse to spill out weigh too much for anyone to handle. 

“I don’t think you are. A penny for your thoughts?”

“I don’t have my coin purse at the moment,” you lie. The metaphorical bag sits in your heart, waiting to spill out, but MC is the last person you would want to open up to.

She simply hums and doesn’t push further, closing her eyes once more. If you allowed yourself to care more than you already do, you would comment on the sharpness of her breaths or soothe the lines of her forehead.

But weapons are more useful, so the elephant in the room is addressed.

“How has Zayne been treating you?” you ask.

She answers like she doesn’t notice the harshness in your tone. “Like a child. Always in my ass about things.”

I bet he is, you almost say, but you bite your tongue until you taste copper.

“He scolded me when my friend Tara bought me a plushie from the gift shop, saying my happiness would make my heart explode.”

“He did that?”

Zayne wouldn’t even notice if you brought home a plushie.

She nods, your heart almost as damaged as hers. “He’s also so stern and serious. You’d think he was the one dying with how cold he sounds. I don’t know how you deal with that.”

You don’t, not when he’s never home.

“And he’s very… smitten.”

That gets your attention. Your gaze shifts from her saline bag — half-empty, you note — to her face, her smile unsettling.

“Smitten by you, I assume?” you murmur. You clench your fists like a child about to cry, waiting for someone who can comfort you. 

The last thing you see before the loud flatline of the EKG is MC tilting her head, her brows furrowed.

Everything after that is a blur. Your voice echoes as you call for a nurse, a doctor, anybody to save her. The machine rings in your ears, quickly followed by voices, then by bodies, then…

“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” somebody assures, but it’s buried beneath harsh orders and beeping machines and everything that has weighed over you. You can only nod silently. You don’t know how you even managed that.

When you walk out of the room, the last thing you see is a familiar white coat bolting inside, and you almost wish you were the one dying.

“Water.”

Your hands are clammy under the bright hospital lights when you take the paper cup offered in front of your face. That familiar voice is here again, and if you were less disoriented, perhaps you would’ve addressed him nicely instead of saying nothing. 

You don’t drink the water. You don’t lift your head. You don’t do anything in hopes that Zayne would leave you alone.

But he doesn’t. He lingers like he doesn’t have ten thousand other things to do. Like he actually cares about you.

On another night, him staying this long would feel like a dream come true.

“Drink it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you retort, and you swear you hear him step back. Your voice is unrecognizable even to you, your anger familiar yet foreign in its current intensity. The water sloshes, close to being your next victim.

Zayne doesn’t say anything for a while, and neither do you. You finally take a sip of the water because your throat feels too constricted, and you need to speak if you’re going to tell him off.

The voices of passing nurses and wheeled IV poles are all the noises that sit between your silence. It reminds you that life is happening beyond your grudges, burdens, and anger.

It also reminds you that life can be taken away too, turning your grudges, burdens, and anger into regrets.

“Is she okay?” you ask, your voice just as soft as hers.

“Yes. The resuscitation was successful.”

You sigh of relief before taking another sip of water. Her heart is still beating. The woman you despise most is okay.

Good.

Your eyes are glued to his shoes. You’ve polished them thousands of times even though 24-hour shifts leave them dirty regardless. Such a Sisyphean curse to always care for someone who doesn’t feel the same.

But if he doesn’t care, why is he holding your hand?

Zayne’s touch lingers, only leaving when someone calls him, and even then you feel the remnants of it as he walks away with a soft “goodbye.”

You remind yourself that he doesn’t care. That he hasn’t put you first in forever. That he’s willing to leave you in your despair because there’s something and someone else more important to handle.

But as the water cools your burning tongue and your eyes dart from the ground to Zayne’s retreating back, you can’t get yourself to.

That night, you decide to leave.

Half-empty bags decorate your bedroom floor as you hastily shove anything and everything you might need for a future you don’t even want to live through. Shirts overflow from your backpack, dresses coat your luggage in pesky glitter, and the zipper works overtime as your items struggle to stay inside.

“Come on!” you scream when your zipper gives up, and you toss the damn thing across the room without considering where it may land.

And when it shatters one of Zayne’s ice sculptures, you find yourself too angry to care.

You’re leaving today. He won’t be able to break your heart anymore.

But as you throw your clothes onto a different luggage — one of his luggages, specifically — life seems to insult you even more. You find shirts that he never bothered to take out, his travel bag of toiletries that you packed for him, and a million other signs of your presence in his life.

They all get tossed on the bed that both of you are supposed to share as though they hold no value to you.

Your clothes fit the luggage this time, with even some room to add your thoughts and grievances you’ve carried in this entire relationship. How nice of the universe to grant you something so useless.

In the midst of tossing your toiletries in the spaces, your phone buzzes in your pocket. With frustration and no regard to whoever is on the other side of the line, you press the green button.

“Yes?”

The voice on the other side of the line, whom you recognize as Zayne’s coworker, asks if he’s calling the right person.

“That’s me. Why?”

“Dr. Zayne requests your presence.”

Your heart sinks, akin to the ice sculpture that fell from your nightstand. “Please tell him I’m occupied at the moment.”

Silence ensues for a few moments before the voice comes back.

“He would like a few seconds of your time, ma’am.”

“Tell him I don’t have that much to spare.”

Your toothbrush peeks out from the luggage as you zip it up, and you bite your lip to prevent any profanities from escaping. God, why is leaving so hard when the universe has been pushing you to do so for a while now?

“Please ma’am, he really wants to speak to you.”

You exhale sharply, hanging up before he can say another word. Before Zayne can speak and undo your decision with his voice alone. Before your doubts can creep up and push you to make the decision you have regretted making for years.

Your luggage finally closes. Years and years of the same chapter finally ends. Now all you need to do is to leave.

But your phone rings again.

When you pick up, it’s not his colleague that answers. 

“Are you all right?”

Zayne’s voice is soft, exhaustion coating every syllable. It reminds you of MC minutes before her cardiac arrest — like death has come for him too.

How odd that he would go to you in that circumstance.

“Does it matter?” you blurt out.

“Very much. I… I need to hear your voice.”

“Listen to your patients. I’m sure their voices are perfectly fine.” 

Your thumb lingers on the red phone button, ready to push it and end this useless conversation, but he always finds a way to stop you.

“Please.”

A plea.

Zayne has asked something from you.

It’s the first time you were met with anything other than his indifference. Of course, it wasn’t always like this, but you can’t recall the last time he had actually shown any emotion towards you.

Quiet meals, expected tasks, a broken home.

Those are all you know now.

Not the past full of flowers, devotion, and sweet nothings.

You end the call before any word spills out of your lips, your legs succumbing to heartbreak’s hands. Tears spill out and caress your face. Your luggage is the only witness.

Just like life, time passes amidst your despair, unwilling to wait for you to stand up. By the time you push yourself, footsteps echo into your bedroom, a familiar duffel bag falling to the ground.

Zayne stands there, alarmed, as he carries a bouquet of jasmines.

a/n: I love this prompt, but I am so repulsed by my writing style here lmao 😭 The next two chapters will be longer, more in-depth, and better written!

Thank you for reading! Any form of interaction is appreciated. Take care :)

Alicent faced the window, her eyes cast upon the vast distance surrounding Dragonstone. Her hands clenched white against the stone scarred in war, enduring the weight of their impending defeat. Their power was slipping through their grasp, slowly seeping into Rhaenyra's hands. Each defeat singeing at the thread, slowly unravelling the tapestry she had woven for her children. In her desperation, salvation now lies in binding her last daughter to the soiled blood of Rhaenyra's bastard.

She prayed endlessly for their escape from this fate. How utterly deranged Rhaenyra was to propose a union between Helaena and Jacaerys. She assumed, with her hand taken by Aegon, that Rhaenyra would not dare another attempt at sullying another of her daughters' names. Surely not her sweet baby girl.

Disappointment gripped the room when her daughter was born. She lacked the violet eyes and the pale spill of white hair they had all hoped for. Her final babe was more a Hightower than she was a Targaryen. She thought the disappointment would follow her always. Yet as her daughter grew into her mother's features, it quickly faded. Her last girl morphed into the mirror of her mother. Alicent could not deny that as her babe grew, so did the resemblance. No one could deny she was hers.

Her dear girl was left untouched by the hardness of their name. Another different addition to the realm of violent eyes and white spun hair. A difference only they shared. She was not left to the mercy of her Targaryen blood. She followed her mother without a word. Each year, she moulded herself into the pride of Alicent's heart. She was different from her brothers. She did not indulge in debauchery like Aegon. Did not display signs of ruthlessness like Aemond. She clung to her mother's way. Refusing to succumb to the harshness of their world.

Tenderness proved futile when faced with duty. It was within the Sept, she announced the news to her darling girl. She watched as her beloved daughter struggled to rise from her knees. Struggled as she stumbled over her words. Alicent felt as though her heart could fracture into two as her daughter's face dropped. It was so seldom that the girl was anything but cheerful.

"Mother, no," her voice trembled, soft as a prayer. "This cannot be, mother."

Alicent's hand lingered on the cheek of her daughter. The warmth was momentary as her fist dropped to her side. "It must be done," Alicent straightened her back, diverting her eyes from the sorrow of her cherished daughter's face. "This union is the last thread keeping us from ruin.”

Alicent sensed the racing thoughts. Felt the thoughts plaguing her dear girl's mind. Offered like a lamb to the slaughter. Willfully handed over to soiled blood. Alicent felt the weight of guilt press upon her breastbone. Unable to watch as her baby suffered with the thought and was soon to suffer at the hands of their enemy.

"Marry him?" The girl whispered bitterly, but her voice lacked the vexation that her mother's voice carried. "You would bind me to Jacaerys? Son of the very woman you despise? Heir to the enemy you vowed to destroy?"

Alicent could not face her girl, turning as she pressed forward, "You will do your duty, as I have, as Helaena did."

"Helaena married a true Targaryen. Aegon is a true Targaryen. Jacaerys is a," The girl swallowed, and her mother sensed the hesitation. Watching as her daughter smoothed the fabric of her bodice. Her eyes were darting down to her nervous hands. Her softness prevented her from uttering the word bastard. A word she had heard Alicent use from the times before she could remember.

The girl could not even bring herself to say the word. It fed the guilt close to Alicent's heart. How was her daughter to survive this marriage if she could not even come to disgrace the bastard's name? Alicent gazed upon her girl for a moment, wishing to send her far from her inevitable fate. In time, she would learn to forgive her mother, that much Alicent was sure.

Scarlet banners adorned the walls of the Stone Keep. Their grandeur warred against the deep green of their gowns. Alicent saw to its creation. Her watchful eye guided every stitch, every sewn jewel. Ensuring every scrutinising eye would be reminded of the Hightower name. Of their power. Alicent drew the laces tight, each pull biting into her palms. Her daughter endured the ritual in silence. Her lips pressed into a mask of composure that betrayed nothing but the quiet storm coiled in the pit of her belly.

Resentment flared hot in Alicent's chest. She had to convince herself this was necessary for their survival. She wished for all to see it for what it truly was. A betrayal of their name, a disgrace to their house. This is not what she wished for her daughter. Not the union she had anticipated for so long. Alicent hoped for festivity. For her daughter's joy. To send her off with pride in her heart. Not this heaviness that bore at her chest.

"It is time, my girl." Alicent soothed her daughter's hair into place over and over.

Alicent saw her dear girl frozen in her seat. Her breath was uneven, and her eyes were darting between her mother and the door. Those sweet eyes glistened with unspoken words. "Mummy", her voice quivered. A silent plea for her mother's intervention. A silent plea for her mother to change her fate. Alicent's face twitched, her eyes weary, her face carved by years of battles fought in silence. She hoped her mother would falter in the face of her sorrow. To put up one more fight and whisk her away. To hide her from Rhaenyra's schemes.

Alicent could not yield to the plea. She shook her head and cleared the back of her throat. She could not do this. Could not watch as she handed her dear girl to the bastard. "Come, daughter." She ordered once more, voice taut with unspoken emotion.

The ground shook beneath her feet. No longer could she rely on the steadiness her mother had always provided. The door was impossibly too far, yet impossibly too close. The crowds, still distant, rang through her ears. Alicent sensed the turmoil but could do nothing to guard her poor girl from the horror awaiting.

"Mummy?" her voice clawed at Alicent's heart. Evident of her innocence. A flash of the girl as a babe crossed Alicent's mind. "Tonight," her voice faltered, dragging the word out. Alicent needed no more to understand.

Alicent rubbed at her hands, attempting to steady herself. "Do not fight him. That will make the occasion worse."

"Who will stand witness?"

Alicent urged her daughter to her feet, preparing her to leave. Hands soothing her baby girl's dress. "Fear not, I will be there. He cannot harm you with me near."

Alicent watched as her daughter's walk dragged beyond measure. She knew the girl must feel trapped. To flee meant capture, yet to stay was but another cage with no escape. She paid no mind to the anticipatory crowds. Did not know she was before the Septon. Not until she felt the hot hand leading hers. Jacaerys stood at the Altar. His face was carved in impartiality. Handsome as princes often are, despite his impure blood. His eyes were distant, unreadable as he helped her before the Septon. He did not regard her as a joyful man looking at his bride. Instead, he feigned a smile, accepting the union signed under duress. She could not help but feel he felt just as solemn.

The Septon's voice demanded the attention of the room. Solemn and steady. Spewing words of union. Blessings to the gods binding two souls together. His voice rang hollow. Each vow was simply another etch at her resolve. Another order to be followed.

Alicent contained the bile threatening the back of her throat. There was no softness in her daughter's gaze, only resignation. The kiss was brief. And in that moment, she hated Jacaerys more than she hated the Rhaenyra, more than she hated the conflict of their houses. More than she hated the gods who had abandoned them.

Alicent watched as her daughter mindlessly received the praise. Graciously accepting every celebratory speech. Smiling at every applause rippling through the hall. She appeared a blissful bride. Bitterness lingered in Alicent’s heart, yet beneath it stirred a reluctant pride. Proud that her daughter upheld the image of their house even when faced with a horrid fate. Even when the very union was an offence to their name.

"My dear sister," The voice sliced through Alicent's momentary satisfaction. Rhaenyra raised her glass with a proud, sneering smile. A smile that chafed at Alicent's skin. Her daughter mirrored her mother. Her stoicism faltered at Rhaenyra's victory. Rhaenyra got what she wished for and seemed eager to deepen the wound.

Rhaenyra's voice was a delicate echo in her ears. A voice she focused on drowning out. She wished not to hear how Rhaenyra wished to disparage her so openly. Ridicule her house. Mock her family. Insult her mother, how no lord sensed the offence of her word. No one but her and her mother.

The hall erupted in cheer, but her daughter’s gaze remained fixed on the floor until Jacaerys approached "Do you wish to dance, my lady wife?" Jacaerys hopeful hand jolted her back to her senses. Rhaenyra was back in her seat, seemingly as she had been for quite a while. Still with a sneerful smile. A quiet thought stirred. How long had the feast carried on without her awareness? How long had she agonised in her dismay?

Her mother urged her on, slightly poking her side. She did not wish to dance. Did not wish to feed their defeat. Did not wish to rub salt into the wound. But today would grant none of her wishes. "Very much, my prince."

Alicent scowled, hands clawing at the wood of the table, enough to perhaps leave marks. She threw back the contents of her goblet, her eyes watching as the bastard boy swept her darling daughter to the floor. His tainted hands were guiding her in a smooth rhythm. His hands clasped upon the soft fabric enveloping her waist. An entirely inappropriate gesture had the boy not been her husband. His right to place his vile hand anywhere he pleased upon her dear girl.

She found no joy in the dance. It was not that her husband lacked grace. Sorrow had hollowed her spirit, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not claw herself from the pit of her own despair. Nor could she truthfully accept the fate laid before her. How could she? When the man before her was the very bastard her mother warned her about. When his kin had wronged her brother, and his mother’s schemes had poisoned trust beyond repair? What was she to do?

"Am I a poor dancer, my lady?" Jacaerys' voice tore her from thought. It was playful as though not scorned by the betrayal of their union. Her face flushed, warmth radiating from her cheeks. "You so enjoyed dancing in your youth. I remember." He led her through every step, eager to please, it seemed.

Her face subtly distorted. Displeased by the very thought that he knew anything of her. She refused to give him satisfaction that his mind was sound. She indeed enjoyed dancing in her youth. But she found no joy in the movement. Remembering her mother urged her to respect her husband. Surely Alicent had not imagined Jacaerys would be her husband when she urged respect for him. "Forgive me, husband. The joys of dance do not compel me as they once did."

It was evident to her that he easily picked up her displeasure. She scorned herself for not bettering her tone. For offending him, even as slight as it was. Her feet drifted away from him, but his grasp on her body kept him close. Too close.

"You are unhappy with the union?" It was not a question, as much as it felt like an accusation.

"You are?" Her tone improved, steering to a sweeter tone.

He was not pleased. Her tone was doing nothing to ease the situation. He continued to dance but gave her no space to step away. "I will not hurt you. Our grievances can be stored in the past."

She did not for a moment believe that she would face no harm. Not with what her mother taught her to be true. Not with a mother like his own. He could not possibly know the many ways in which he had already hurt her. "Men make promises they seldom keep." Her eyes sought her mother. A final plea to urge the end of the union before irreversible harm is done.

"I do not wish to worsen our conflict," He straightened his spine, glancing down upon his wife. "I would prefer a warless marriage."

She did not wish to wage war against her husband. It was not the life she imagined. Though not sure who she would marry, she was for a moment certain it would not be him. There was no use in dreaming now. She was past the age of girlish fantasies. Not when reality shows itself in its harshest form. Not when escape went hand in hand with death. Still, she yearned for this nightmare to fade and her mother to wake her. For them to have tea as she recounts this awful reality. For her mother to scowl at the thought of her and Jacaerys.

"Shall we retire? I am sure the festivities too do not compel you as they used to."

She ignored the mockery laced in his tone. Her mind suddenly focused on the growing dread flooding her senses. Her eyes bulged, and the grasp on his shoulders tightened. Her throat was impossibly dry. She spluttered, murmuring with uncertainty, "Must I inform the Septon and my mother of the ceremony?"

He stiffened beneath her hands. "Do you believe I would dishonour you openly before the prying eyes of depraved lords?" The unforeseen harshness in his voice jolted her.

Her bottom lip wavered, "It is custom, Mother-"

He sliced through her words, "Your mother taught you to bear public defilement?" His voice carried a mocking edge. A brash display of his disdain for her mother’s teachings. He sensed her sudden offence, the way her body tensed, desperate to be released from his clutch. She could tell he had remembered himself. Remembered where they were. "I apologise, wife. It is unbecoming to offend your mother on the day of our union."

Resentment seethed at every nerve. He pulled her flush to her chest. A futile attempt at consolation. She knew better than to accept a feigned apology. Knew better to deny her instinct. To fall further into her naivety. A flash of her mother's disdain plagued her thoughts. Her eyelids pressed tight as he pulled her head to his chest. Alicent would not forgive his brazen behaviour. Her mother would lecture her. Guide her to better decisions.

"Come, let us withdraw. To reacquaint without the prying eyes of our family." His voice was laced with sweetness. Feigned? She could not tell. She cursed her judgment.

She wished not to abide by his command. Preferring the humiliation of bearing her innocence before he mother. For she would not face harm. Not under the watchful eye of her mother. She nodded solemnly. There was no room to forsake his advance. Her mother was apparent. To deny him would sire a fate far worse than her surrender. She heeded his lead, head held low. Refusing to face the night.

Under Alicent’s watch, the castle knew no sleep. Not when festivities clouded her judgment. Not when, amongst the partying crowd, her darling girl no longer swayed with that bastard of a boy. Worry prickled at the base of her spine. She shot from her seat, rattling the goblets scattered amongst the table. Red stained the cloth, but she could not find herself to care. Sickened by the sudden vacant space. Only through Rhaenyra's irksome report did she learn her daughter was alone with her husband in their chamber. No ceremony would follow. How dare they deny the ceremony without consulting her?

She was blindsided. The betrayal dug its knife deeper into her side. How could she have been so clueless? Of course, they would do this. Of course, they were waiting until her gaze no longer lingered on her dear girl. Waiting patiently to whisk her away beyond the watchful eye of her mother.

Worry twisted into a knot in the pit of her stomach. The guards would not let her pass. It was entirely unbecoming to insist on entering the chamber of a newlywed couple. She forgot her courtly duties in the face of motherly duty. How frightened her poor baby must be. The guards guided her to her own chambers. A silent directive to no longer stir the night.

She paced the expanse of her room. She constantly clattered her heel on the stone. The night drew weary, but her body could not find rest. Not til she set her eyes on the safe form of her daughter. Not til she was sure he had not defiled her. But there was no immediate satisfaction. Not when day broke. Not when breakfast passed. Not when, despite the late hour, there was no sign of her girl. It was only once the sun was at its highest that her daughter returned. Slipping into the room with quiet steps, timid beneath the intense gaze of her mother.

She spoke no word, not even uttering a sound. Alicent was thankful for the silence, longed only to gather her close and shield her from the night’s terrors. "Oh, my sweet girl, what torment has he inflicted?" Her hands laced through the strands at the base of her daughter's neck, pulling her into a maternal hug. She mindlessly muttered a plethora of sinful words, "Their plots are endless. No line is sacred when it comes to defiling our name."

Her darling girl did not respond. Not as she let Alicent examine the expanse of her skin. Scrutinising the skin for bruises, blue and purple. A shaky breath rippled through her. She found nothing. No mark, no bruise. No indication that a fight ensued. "Come tell me. What has he done?" Alicent pulled her next to herself, intertwining her hand with her daughter's.

"We spoke for some time, then proceeded with the rest of the night." There was a flush to her cheeks, one Alicent could not ignore. Perhaps what she felt was shame or embarrassment. Alicent shook her head. She would not let the foul man disgrace her. "It is not what I anticipated, truthfully."

Alicent’s brow furrowed in confusion. Her daughter's voice held no indication of grievance. Rather, it was more her shy self. Of course, she must feel shy. The topic is unbecoming of ladies to discuss. "Of course not. He would not dare while I was so near." Alicent resigned. Of course, he would not show her dear girl the extent of his brutish nature, not while her mother stayed so close. She cleared her throat, smoothing the fabric of her bodice, "Still, it is done. Let's attend prayer." She urged her child to her feet. Wishing to return to the normalcy of her days with her daughter, "Beg the gods to favour you. Let you be with child so you do not have to endure another night."

Her sweet girl smiled, leaving Alicent baffled. Her demeanour was peculiar but not quite abnormal to question. Alicent assumed the adjustment of the night, still catching up to her. "Yes, let me be with child."

The Sept remained a shelter of solace. Just as it has been for so long between the two. They had frequented prayer as long as she could remember. Her children had not made time to attend prayer, all but her.

Alicent always ensured she had her moments with her girl. It proved increasingly hard to continue the tradition. Especially with the bastard requesting her darling girl's presence so often. Whisking her away at the break of light. Requesting her company alongside his midday flight. Worst of all, when he requested her presence at night.

Her daughter's absence greatly left her feeling jilted. Especially the days when she did not show up for prayer. How it was so unlike her daughter to miss prayer. How the poor girl must be hindered by her husband. Must be adhering to his foolish commands. How he must be attempting to plant cruel seeds into the sweetness of her mind. How her behaviour grew increasingly odd as the days progressed.

"You are late," Alicent reprimanded as she watched her daughter scurry to meet her.

"Forgive me, mother." She bowed her head before her mother.

Alicent knew the girl never wished to offend or disobey her. That it had to be the doing of her husband. "Oh, no bother. Come. Join me." She led her into the Sept, "I am taking my leave from Dragonstone, duty calls for me. Not for long, my girl, I will return in a few moons."

"Mother," her daughter smiled sweetly, arm linked around Alicent's, "I am married now. You need not worry. Heed the call, but do not rush for my sake."

Alicent did not think she would be so worried about leaving her daughter once she wed. But again, she thought she'd leave her sweet girl in the presence of an honourable lord. Not Rhaenyra's spawn. "You will write. Inform me of your worries. I will return within a moment if you wish."

"Mother-"

"No," her tone was harsh. Perhaps the harshest she ever spoke to her daughter. She would not let the boy alter her mind as part of another scheme of Rhaenyra's. "You will write. Every day, if you must. Do not test the bounds of my patience."

The girl bowed her head, eyes cast upon their feet, "Yes, mother."

Alicent could not wish the journey away, not when five long moons had passed since the last time she beheld her daughter. Only in the girl’s presence could she be certain that no shadow of suffering had touched her. How she longed to return to her only semblance of normalcy.

She wrote almost every day as promised. She did not doubt that her sweet girl would write. There was not much to her words for some time as her new life was slow to settle in. Once familiarity grew, so did her letters. Each letter detailed her life. Informing Alicent that Dragonstone was not the prison she believed it to be. That Jacaerys was not the man she ought to believe he was. Letter after letter, she recounted Jacaerys’ kindnesses.

It sickened Alicent to see how far they would go to tarnish her girl. It was a matter of time before she would see Rhaenyra and Jacaerys as they truly were. Their effort would be futile as her daughter would not fall for such schemes.

The moment she set foot on Dragonstone, her only thought was to find her daughter. She cared little for rest or ceremony. Her mind was set only for the reassurance that the girl was well. Word reached her that the princess had chosen to take her ease outdoors. She knew her darling girl preferred the breath of fresh air. Relief surged through her when her eyes finally fell upon her child, joy rising like warmth along her spine. It was only as she proceeded near the joy that was to be swiftly eclipsed by a shadow of dread.

To another's eye, it was easy to miss, but Alicent was not anyone. She was her mother. Her gown did little to conceal the gentle swell of her abdomen. In another life, Alicent would rush to her with joy. How wondrous the blessing. This was not another life. Alicent did not feel delight at the sight of her dear girl. Nor the parasitic life growing in her.

"Mother," Her daughter exclaimed, pure elation lacing her tone. She struggled to rise from her seat. Already, his babe was burdening her.

"All these letters, and you failed to mention this?" Alicent's voice wavered. Anger overcame her. How was she the last to know? How many times had she written without thought that her mother ought to know? Rhaenyra surely knew.

Her daughter's smile faltered as if knowing she had done wrong. But it did not drop. "This is news we ought to share when together, not over parchment, mother."

"Alas, you ought to have mentioned it, girl." Her daughter did not flinch at the vexation in Alicent's tone. So unlike the timid girl she knew. "I am sure Jacaerys is elated?" There was no need for the question. Alicent knew this must be another one of their victories.

Alicent saw as her daughter took the opportunity to bridge the tension between the two, "He is the most elated mother. For some time, we did not know. I was foolish not to piece the absence of my blood to being with child."

It was foolish. Alicent knew her girl knew what would happen after lying with a man. A lesson she personally ensured she was taught. Perhaps she had not accounted that she would have to remember such things in the house of their enemy. "There is still time, my girl." Alicent's voice dropped, a silent plea for her girl to come to her senses. "You do not have to endure this."

Alicent watched as her daughter's eyes widened. Her fist clenched at the edge of her sleeves. "You urged this marriage, Mother." Her voice surprised Alicent with its edge. She could sense the feeling of betrayal. "What did you expect? Surely you knew that the day would come when he wished for an heir?" Alicent searched her daughter's face, wishing to stumble on the sweet girl she once knew. Not this. Never had she faced the girl's wrath. She did not know her sweet girl was capable of such anger. "Do not urge me now to rid myself of the babe."

"My girl, I only wish to protect you."

Tenderness vanished from her daughter’s face as her hands instinctively shielded the swell of her belly "From what? Jacaerys? My husband?" Vexation laced the one sweet tone. "The babe will be no safer than with his mother and father. I will know no harm, especially now that I carry his child."

"That is for now. Before Rhaenyra-"

Her daughter rose to the challenge, "Rhaenyra has done me no wrong, mother." Her voice wavered, clinging to any chance of command before her mother. "Was this union not to end the bitter dispute? To be rid of this anomosity." Her resolve crumbled, her eyes glossy with unshed tears as she faced her mother, "How dare you stand before your daughter and offer such a thing? You would do well to sit within the Sept and ask for forgiveness for such suggestions, mother."

Alicent's mouth wavered in turn. To be chastised by her daughter felt humbling. Never had she been the cause of her daughter's distress. "My girl," Alicent wavered, head lowered as she fiddled with her fingers.

Alicent felt a sting at her pride. She watched as her dear girl gave her no mind, returning to her seat. She struggled to lower herself. Guilt warred at Alicent's chest. Her daughter's fragile state worsened because of her offence. She looked so sweet even when tense. Alicent could not help but see herself. Young and burdened by the weight of producing an heir. She knew she could not protect her girls from such a burden. That not many women could escape such a fate. That the time would come when she would progress from child to woman. But it is far too soon. She is far too young. Too young to worry. Too young to face motherhood. She was but a girl. Guilt pressed down on her chest, suffocating, more powerful than she thought a single emotion could be. Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, in time, would betray her sweet girl. Leave her without anyone by her side.

"Oh my girl," Alicent cooed, heart clenching in her chest at the sight of her poor girl, "Stress does not bode well in your condition." Her hands instinctively went to embrace her darling girl. "The babe is yours." Alicent acknowledged with momentary tenderness for the babe.

"And Jacaerys-"

"The babe is yours." Alicent asserted. If the child must come into being, let her be claimed as her mother’s own. Her daughter’s baby. Not Jacaerys'. Not Rhaenyra's. Hers alone. She would be her baby, as once she was Alicent’s. Her babe, hers to cradle, hers to name. Not another Targaryen, but hers, and hers only.

Alicent attempted not to be utterly rude to her daughter's husband, much for her daughter's sake. Her comments swallowed with each mouthful. Her anger was buried beneath each bite. Alicent's hands tightened around her cutlery, resisting the surge of emotion. Her husband noticed the hostility Alicent attempted to conceal, barely restraining himself from giving her the satisfaction. She urged her husband not to act, silently clasping his hand beneath the table.

The solitude of their chambers provided a reprieve from the tension of the evening. It was only once they retired that she was able to inform him of her earlier conversation with her mother. Jacaerys could no longer contain himself once alone with his wife.

"I will speak to my mother." Jacaerys spat, his vexation aimed at Alicent, not his poor wife.

"Do not do that, my love." She urged softly, not wishing to further the tension between her mother. Not while it was still so fragile. Despite her mother's tendencies, she did love her dearly. She reached for her hairbrush, preparing for sleep.

"She threatens my child? The heir? Her majesty will not take the threat lightly."

Her curls tumbled gracefully over her shoulders. A smile so sweet it warmed the cold stone walls. "You must not feed her rage."

He paced the chamber. "She grates at me, wife." He faced the hearth. The fire illuminated the red adornment on his chest. His voice wavered, clutching at the remainder of his pride. "I know what she had you believe about me." The crackle of the fire drowned out the drum of her heartbeat. She knew he struggled to face her. His body was lined with tension. "When you defend it so openly, it makes me feel as though you believe what she said."

She cooed softly, her hand reaching for his, guiding him back to her. He clasped her hand, gently raising her to her feet. She found her hands lacing themselves in his dark, soft curls. "I must repent." She whispered, placing a gentle kiss on the cheek of her husband. "My thoughts were severely unkind, and for that, I regret my part."

His eyes fluttered, unable to not fall into her warmth. "It is not what I believe, no more husband." She forced his attention to fall upon her. Voice laced with honey, impossible to resist. "Do you not recall the night of our union?"

He nodded, face still resting between her palms. "I wished not to urge conflict further. To not increase the divide."

"And that night you treated my body with the utmost kindness. I believe you did not wish harm upon me." She laced their hands, bringing them to the swell of her abdomen. "That you did not wish to etch away at the chasm between us but rather fill it." She peppered feathery light kisses upon the warmth of his cheek. "That you have, with love and loyalty. I will forever regret what I thought of you."

It was the night they wed that she learned how severely wrong her mother's beliefs were. How quickly he was able to prove Alicent wrong. Jacaerys was not a man to fear. Not when he proved so quickly how willing he was to love, to protect. How patient he was when faced with his wife's grievance. How loyal he was from the moment they wed. How day by day, he unravelled the teachings her mother had instilled. How, after a few moons, she could not believe how utterly in love she could be with the man she was taught to hate.

His shoulders lowered, body placid to her will. She kneaded the tension in his shoulders, "Please forgive me for my time in ignorance caused doubt to seep into your trust."

"I cannot blame you for her teachings." He placed a gentle kiss upon her brow.

"Patience, my love. She will come to see you for what you truly are."

It was a dull summer's night when Alicent was rudely awoken. There was no time to protest before she was ushered to her daughter's chambers. Before entering, she was made aware of the sounds of distress. Despite never having heard her daughter in such a state, there was no doubt it was her baby girl.

Alicent entered seeking her dear girl. She was splayed across her pillows. Sweat sat upon her brow as she grimaced through every wave of pain. Her hands attempted to soothe her prominent bump before clawing at the linen beneath her. Jacaerys perched himself beside his wife, uttering words Alicent could not make out. Now and then, Rhaenyra would offer words of encouragement from the foot of the bed.

Alicent pushed past the Maesters, settling on the other side of her poor girl. "Oh, sweetheart, breathe." She took hold of her daughter's hand. Her grip compressed her bones. Alicent could not help but grimace, not taking the pain as well as Jacaerys. Alicent glared at the boy. It was not customary for men to bear witness to birth.

"Princess, you must begin to push." The Midwife urged.

Her poor girl shook with resistance. Her head shook firmly. "No, no. no. I cannot."

"You must, my dear." Alicent encouraged, but it did little to comfort her girl, who just pleaded not to.

"My time was no easier," Rhaenyra consoled, her words soft and laced with understanding, "The pain agonising for one to bear. But you will." Alicent wished for her to hold her tongue, but could not focus as she bore witness to her daughter's pain.

"From the moment you lay your eyes upon your babe, you will wonder why you waited so long. The strength will find you." Her dear girl evidently found comfort in Rhaenyra's words, endeavouring a futile first attempt at a push.

The night dragged on without an end in sight. The room had no semblance of peace. The midwives tirelessly tended to her daughter. Alicent did not stop the plethora of encouragement. Jacaerys did not stop the abundance of declarations of pride and love. It was only once her dear girl's screams ceased that the room found its peace. All quiet but the marvellous wails of a babe.

The Midwives and Maesters incessantly inspected the babe for abnormalities, just as Alicent gazed at her daughter for the same. "It is a girl princess." The Midwives announced swaddling the infant in linen. They gently placed the baby upon her chest before going to examine her.

Alicent followed the midwives, wishing to hear their confirmation that birth had not caused issues with her dear daughter. Waiting as they furthered their examination. It was only once they confirmed her health that Alicent thought of the babe. Calm now as Jacaerys rocked the small girl in his arms. He could not help but be overcome by the influx of emotion. Finding it difficult not to be overcome by elation. His eyes were glossy as he cradled the babe.

Alicent sat beside her daughter, soothing her arm with gentle strokes. "Mother, she is perfect." She hummed her eyes glossy with weariness and triumph.

"I cannot wait to see her, my dear."

Jacaerys pulled himself to his senses and approached Alicent. It was with great reluctance that he passed his daughter to her arms. Alicent greatly accepted the sweet cooing babe. She could not help the pride pulling at her breastbone for her daughter's tremendous labour. She could not wait to peer upon her daughter's babe. How she anticipated similar features.

The babe weighed heavily in her arms. Alicent was used to the feeling. Understanding through her lengthy experience how to cradle a baby. She moved the linen, searching the babe's features. Her smile faltered at the sight. The babe, though beautiful, bore only her father’s likeness. The babe was entirely and unmistakably his child.

How cruel the gods must be? Alicent could not deprive herself of despair as it consumed her mind, body and soul. Had her darling girl not endured enough? How dare they rain such scorn upon her innocent child? Alicent could not quell the ache that tightened in her chest. She could not bite back the scorn. "The babe most certainly takes after her father."

Her sweet girl, wrapped in bliss, did not take the comment as it was intended. Did not sense her mother overcome with disdain. Just agreeing with an innocent smile. Alicent's contempt did not evade Jacaerys and Rhaenyra in the same way. He did not smooth over the contempt, his own contempt flooding through every nerve. He rushed to remove the infant from her clutch. Daring not to leave his sweet child in the arms of such hostility. Rhaenyra restrained her son. Now was not the space, not the time to act on such contempt.

He heeded to his mother's silent command, preferring the sweet space by his wife. Alicent watched as her daughter, blissfully unaware of the storm that gripped the room. The girl accepted the babe with eager hands. Her youthful face alight with relief as she pulled the child back into her arms. Jacaerys protectively hovered over his wife and child. Rhaenyra moved to their side. Her gaze was steady, watchful over both her son and the grandchild cradled near.

Alicent stood frozen at the foot of the bed. She felt impossibly far from her daughter. That her dear girl was no longer within her reach. Her mind disconnected from her body. She floated away from the dread that sat heavy in her chest. Struggling to attempt a painful smile only for the satisfaction of her daughter. Only for her baby girl's comfort. This was not what she hoped for her girl. Not as she watched them huddle close. Accepting her daughter and her babe into their fold. That would never be. She was Alicent's daughter. Not theirs to claim. Not even now, as they played the guise of a happy family.

This was never how it was meant to be. The babe should have borne her likeness. To wear the mark of a Hightower. Not the likeness of Rhaenyra's bastard. Not marked by his soiled traits. It was her daughter who carried the babe for the long, weary months without complaint. It was her daughter who suffered through the merciless hardships of pregnancy and birth. No matter his place at her side. No matter his assurances through the long months. It was not a pain the bastard could ever understand. Only Alicent could. Only her mother could understand the burden. The babe was hers and solely hers to claim. Hers to cherish. Not Jacaerys’s, not Rhaenyra’s.

A/N - Sorry, this was a quick one. I did not take the time to refine areas where I may have used poor tense or grammar. I did endure my writing spells into the depths of the night. Delirium is inevitable. There were moments I felt unsure, but truthfully, I just wish to write. If it is good or bad, that is up to you to decide. I am just happy to share

he becomes too impatient. daeron wants the whole world to know that he is in love. that he has someone who holds his heart in the palms of their hands and guards it fiercely, just as he does theirs. so, slowly, the pictures with you appear onto his socials. your face is not visible, at least for now. he does not want you to feel pressured or overwhelmed by the attention it might garner. his family name is well known after all. but he wants you there. craves the feeling of people scrolling through his pictures and seeing that he has someone he holds so dear to his heart.

things start getting more serious. it's been close to two years since you two have confessed your feelings to each other. daeron shows you off so proudly, always grinning ear to ear when he tells you to check his socials for his new updates. you are there so often, people start calling it a shared account. for your birthday, daeron changed his profile picture to his favorite candid of you. he forgot to revert it, or so he said. it has been his display picture for a good couple of months now. he does not seem to care. it makes him happy.

daeron jokes about marriage when he's had a bit to drink and his heart soars with things unsaid. things he wishes to whisper into your ear lovingly but is afraid it might scare you away, might be too soon for such big decisions. but what else is there to do when all he can think about is how pretty you would look in a wedding dress, with a pretty ring on your finger that he meticulously chose for you? the thoughts plague him constantly, but he will hold off for a bit longer. all that matters is having you next to him. his pretty girl. his sweetest treasure. his love. his future wife, if his most wistful thinking becomes true.

you reprimand him for sharing overly intimate pictures at times, for they seem like a window into daeron's most hidden desire. to show the world that you are his and his alone. that only he can have and keep you this way, and is not afraid to plaster it all over his account for the people to see and ogle at. this pretty woman you see in these pictures? yeah, his. only ever his.

Almost every night now you find yourself thinking of the bard you parted ways with oh so long ago. And throughout the days, if you find yourself behind closed eyes for more than a second, his smile appears, along with an echo of his pretty giggles.

It was haunting.

Never did you think you'd miss the presence of another so much. Especially when you so eagerly chose to escape it. It wasn’t that Venti didn’t care for you, it was completely the opposite. Back in Mondstadt, you grew burdened by his constant attention towards you, as if you were a wounded bird that needed more time rehabilitating in a new world you were shoved into. Venti was soft, caring and tender; he gave you a home in Mondstadt and made sure you were tended to, always. But you were ready to fly free - dare to dream and dare to find yourself amidst the vast world Teyvat has to offer.

And though the travels enlightening, something always felt amiss.

You remember what Venti always said, "there’s no place like home".

You never understood what that meant. At least, not in regard to yourself. Where exactly was your home? You travelled to almost every space of land you could find, eagerly awaiting for the feeling of ‘home’, but you never truly felt it.

You sigh as you hear that haunting voice of his ringing inside your head once more - as if he was luring you back to the road bright green grass painted with Cecelia, those mesmerising eyes that glowed under the bright sun of Mondstadt.

You yearned for it. Maybe it was Mondstadt, after all.

Within the next few weeks, your glum expression lit up a little in the excitement and anticipation of returning back to Mondstadt. You wonder if you'll finally get the feeling of "home" when you return.

You wonder also if he will remember you.

From your travels abroad, you've encountered many citizens of Mondstadt- the first and last thing they mention is their most beloved Archon, Lord Barbatos. You can’t help but smile every time - Venti was a very pure soul. He cared for his people as if they were his own children.

Your existence was a testament to that.

When you step through the main gates of Mondstadt City, you feel a rush of wind brush past you, dandelion seeds flutter and flow through it. Your breath hitches at the feeling of it, it felt familiar, it felt comfortable, safe.

You smile, thinking about Venti – his prowess was with the wind, so you can’t help it. And you almost sense a figure behind you once the wind has passed.

You turn back, expecting someone, anyone, but no one awaits you.

You shake your head, attempting to ignore the small pang of hurt prodding at your chest as you continue along. A small sigh out, and you were on your way, exploring the new city – you haven’t been to Mondstadt for quite some time now, a lot has changed. Namely, the enormous statues of Barbatos, and the Cathedral that seemed larger than ever.

"Hm. You're a new face. Welcome dear one" you hear a deacon address your entrance to the Cathedral – he seemed friendly enough, pink hair and soft lilac eyes. He introduces himself as Dahlia, and you introduce yourself too, only the boy seems to lift his brows ever so slightly when you do. You don’t pay mind to it.

"I'm visiting" you manage. Though it wasn't true, it wasn’t a lie either. You didn’t know how long you'd stay. Perhaps a week, perhaps you'd settle back. You didn’t know yet.

"Well, it's certainly a delight to have you here. Tell me, do you have any troubles? I'll be sure to relay them to our lord and saviour, Barbatos"

"To Lord Barbatos?"

Dahlia nods earnestly, a smile overtaking his features, it seemed he liked to boast about this part quite a bit, "Yes, I'm his personal messenger, as some may say'

"Is he hard to reach?" you question, your lips pulling to a frown as you think about how you may find Venti. Usually he shows himself in front of you whenever he pleases – but perhaps times have changed.

"Oh of course, he’s a busy man" Dahlia speaks, not understanding that his words may have not been all too suited for the conversation.

"Oh."

At the sudden dimming of your light, Dahlia tries to recover some of your spirit, "If it’s truly something private, I assure you, if you stand by the oak tree in Windrise and whisper your prayers, he will hear."

You think to yourself. You wanted to meet Venti, but at the same time, you didn’t know what you would say to him. You wanted to thank him for taking care of you all those years ago, you wanted to apologise for leaving so long, you wanted to tell him how much you thought of him, even during your travels.

"What if... I don’t know what to say? I can’t think of anything, even now"

There’s a certain sadness in Dahlia’s smile, but you feel comforted by it – it’s almost as if he can see right through you, "Sometimes, we need not think of what to say. Instead, just be. Say what you feel, from the heart."

Dahlia has a certain warmth that radiated from him when he speaks, you don’t understand it, but you're glad he's the representative of Lord Barbatos.

Dahlia reaches to your hands and places a Cecelia flower in your grasp.

"To bless your travels"

You nod and thank the herald for his kindness and turn to leave.

"There's no place quite like home"

You stop in your tracks at the words, and you almost have to fight yourself to not turn back around.

But you can’t help it. You're met with the sight of Dahlia who smiles sweetly, waving his hand at you. You smile back awkwardly and turn back around to leave the Cathedral, cursing yourself for thinking something of his words.

As you leave the town centre you feel your eyes begin to sting.

The feeling you were aching for, home. It wasn’t here. You suddenly felt lonelier than ever.

What more, there was no sight of Venti. You didn’t know if he'd ever show up. Perhaps he didn’t want to see you.

You find yourself tearing up at the thought, your throat clogging up painfully before you finally decide to let it out. You sit in a ring of Dandelions, sobbing quietly to yourself till you feel the wind pick up.

You sniffle and look up, the seeds scattered all around you - it was a pretty picture, enough to make you stop and stare with a small smile. You giggle softly and wipe away at your cheeks.

With a steady breath out, you fix yourself and stand up, ready to give your last effort to search for Venti. That was until the Cecelia Dahlia had kindly gifted, drifts with the wind. You yelp and reach out for it, but it continues to float along the current of wind. And like a helpless boar, you storm towards the flower, find yourself further and further away from the town square.

The flower ultimately lands on the soft grass under a giant tree. Your eyes widen as you realise exactly where you were. Windrise.

Was this Dahlia's doing after all?

Biting onto your lip, you decide to take the omen and sit underneath it. Closing your eyes, you hold the flower loosely in your hand as you capture a memory of Venti in your mind. You're swept up in the moment and feel a gentle breeze; you open your eyes immediately only to see the Ceclia gone.

Perhaps this was all in your head anyway.

A few more moments in silence, and you’re back where you started – this felt unbearable. You keep your eyes closed, fighting off the urge to cry once more.

"Aww, why is my pretty Windblume crying again, hm?" You hear a pretty voice ring into your ears and you're a little scared to open them. Afraid he might not be in front of you, yet again.

You leave them closed, unyielding to the screams in your head to see what’s in front of you - but you refuse to be led astray into a void of disappointment once again.

But when you feel the softness of his fingers against you ear, your body takes control instead. Venti smiles at the sight of you finally opening your eyes, he's settled the Cecilia he had stolen from you moments ago, atop your ear.

"Hello, my Windblume, you're as still and as calm as the breeze" he hums, "you've come a long way, haven’t you?"

Your stuck in silence as you stare at him. He’s smiling from ear to ear, just like how you’ve always imagined. He crouches down in front of you, his palms cupping onto both his cheeks as he cheekily asks,

"Did you miss me?"

You nod your head, a little flustered, and still all too stunned that you’ve finally found him.

"Yeah?" he teases, a smirk on his lips as he crawls to sit beside you, leaning against the large trunk of the tree.

"Why... why didn’t you come earlier?" you finally say and he’s already giggling again,

"Where's the fun in that? I wanted you to explore each and every nook and cranny of our beautiful Mondstadt. It’s been far too long, I'm sure there are some things you notice are different, yes?"

You nod along with his words. Mondstadt was far more beautiful now than how it were when you left. You understand it is the citizens that made it that way – and their devoutness to their beloved Archon. Their love and faith is what has turned Mondstadt into the beauty it is today.

Though, you didn’t feel any different in the city, you do now.

"What’s wrong?" Venti leans in to scan at your face, blinking once, then twice before tilting his head to the side as if to inspect you closer.

"Nothing... I just. Theres a lot I want to say but I don’t have the right words yet"

Venti huffs, shaking his head, "Hm, then I suppose I'll just have to wait, huh?"

"Did you miss me?"

You know you’ve caught Venti by surprise when his smile falters. You almost feel like your heart has dropped, but he responds fast enough for you to feel a little more secure.

"Course I did" His voice is a little softer now, and their air around him is different, sombre even. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this.

"You don’t seem to. You look the same as you ever did" you say, and it’s your turn to lean in to watch his expression a little closely. He notices and chuckles, looking back at you with tender eyes.

Venti smiles softly, "If I show you a sad face, what would that make me, hm?"

No words need to be said, you understand what he means. Venti was always putting a front – whether it be for his people or his friends.

"I missed you, a lot" he sighs, his palm reaching out to cradle your cheek, “I didn’t expect you to come back so suddenly. I suppose I needed some time to compose myself. I'm sorry for worrying you"

"And… there's a lot on my mind, still" he confesses once more and you’re left breathless,

"Still?"

"Like how you've grown prettier, when I didn’t think it'd be possible" he huffs, the warmth of his palm on your cheek disappearing as he looks to the side, almost ashamed of his next words, "and how I... want to get closer. Closer than before"

You don’t know what overcomes you, but you know you’ve finally found the words to speak to him – from your heart.

“I feel the same way” you whisper before leaving a ghost of a kiss on his cheek. Venti’s eyes light up almost immediately, as his fingers reach up to the spot, staring wide eyed at you with his lips parted. He looks innocent for a whole second till his eyes narrow in at you and his lips twist into a small grin,

“Ooh you want to kiss me so bad” he muses, and you burst into a fit of giggles. When you lean in to shove him playfully, he’s already caught onto your hands and pulled you closer. You’re not shocked when he pulls you into him and places his lips against yours. Amidist giggles, you kiss him back – sweet and tender, as Venti always was with you.

Throughout this time with him, you finally understand it.

This feeling. This was it.

"Well then, should we celebrate now you've made it back home?" Venti springs up, but he’s quick to quieten himself down at the expression you've made at the mention of the word "home".

"or... have you found it someplace else?" Venti asks, albeit awkward, you can tell there’s a hint of worry in his tone.

You shake your head silently and place your palm on his chest, "its right here"

Venti grins at the gesture, overjoyed at the news. He leans in to press his forehead against yours, "Welcome back home, my Windblume"

You smile softly when you feel him nudge his nose onto yours playfully.

𓏲 Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

Price

A man of his age and rank is no longer afraid of showing the obvious symptoms of missing his beloved, and the letter he received only go to amplify those already tender feelings

As he reads your letter over, it's not his voice but yours that resounds in his head, your hand moving the pen over the paper and stringing these sentences together, by the stroke of the ink he can tell on which lines you hesitated and which ones you wrote in a frenzy as if in a hurry to get them out of the brewing of your heart lest they fly away like a winged horse

He only wishes he could hear these words from you, to know what was the look on your face, or better yet to stare into those cherub eyes of yours and forget every responsibility ever, deep in your eyes you reflect what is dear in your heart and with your mouth you speak it

This letter is nothing but a small looking-glass through which he can catch a glimpse of you in

Ghost

A man like Simon who is usually so removed from his feelings when in company of others, feels his heart clench when opening your letter and feeling the now dried paper texture underneath his fingers where your tears have fallen and dried

He always came back, but somewhere within your heart you missed the warmth he reserved for you, and with words you conveyed those yearning feelings in this letter to him

You had not wanted to burden him, your hand hesitating as you wrote out the sentences, but you could not wait for a miracle to tell him how much his presence was missed by you

And he knew that your absence made his heart grow fonder as he lost himself in reminiscence

Perhaps he would not know of this pain of missing you if he had not known love at all, but then his heart would have been torn asunder, in place of those horrid feelings that plagued his early life; a light flicker known as hope warms him when in your presence

He keeps these concealed feelings pocketed alongside the letter; only taking it out to read when alone

Soap

In a previous hc I had mentioned how he would adore writing letters to you, exchanging them like how Napoleon wrote to Josephine at times, in a desperate manner and without pause

Was probably tracing your face with his finger on a photo he's folded and unfolded many times until he hears he's got correspondence, has a faster reaction time than when he receives orders and it lowkey annoys his superiors

If there is a windowsill nearby he prefers to read your letter while next to it, as he softly murmurs your written words to himself and with each line his grin grows wider until his eyes come across blurred ink where your tears have fallen

He can only twist the ring around his finger, fidget with it as his grin fades and a sense of guilt replaces the giddiness his heart had felt moments prior, he had promised a lifetime next to you, yet despite how cheerful and merry you had attempted to make this letter, your tears are inevitable proof of your pain

Gaz

Being incapable of wiping the tears left on this letter by you, he clenches his hands into fists as if holding all his feelings back from exploding into a tempest, his unspoken thoughts he would share with you at the end of each day go unheard

With this bubbling up within him, he has no choice but to shut it away and try his absolute hardest to focus on the little words he has from you, he stares at the letter long and hard as if it were a passionate poem in need of deconstructing and picking apart to examine

Rolling each of your words off of his tongue, he momentarily forgets the longing for you that is present in his heart, but as the words from your letter have been cast in the waters of his heart and sunk in, he feels the weight of your affections added to his

There is a stirring in his chest and if you were there you would see it in his eyes too, he flexes his hand as they become undone from the tight fist they were in earlier, no matter how much pressure he applies the empty feeling of your missing hand in his is still present

Roach

This anxiety carried within his chest was triggered by your absence, the letter you sent felt like a small ripple in a lake of memories of which he longed to submerge in, a flicker of your familiar form would flicker in his mind as he read your letter, holding it dear to him

The wear of the paper made it obvious this wasn't easy for you either, he wished to be by your side more than anything else in the world, if only wishing would grant him his wish of waking up beside you

He reads the letter once, twice, then a third and also a fourth time, after that he keeps repeating the words until he can mumble them to himself as a sort of comfort, but each time he chants your words he'll make sure one of his hands is in the pocket the letter is kept in

Assuring him that this letter is not imagined, you have truly sent it and are waiting for him

Alejandro

These letters he keeps with him as if secret incantations he recites when in his worst moments, he whispers your quiet declarations of love to himself, a beautiful melody in his ears he wishes to hear from your lips in place of his own

Will you call him delusional if he admits to sometimes recognizing your shadow casted on a wall as he imagines you writing this late at night when it's likely you do not sleep out of your heart yearning for him?

But a certain letter from you stays with him more than the others, in this one it seems you've scribbled in a frenzied, feverish sort of way compared to its much calmer and sweeter letter counterparts, the words had risen from your intense feelings at having to wait weeks after week with only a letter from him

For you it had felt like eternity and for him to have to realize that it is him to have caused you such pain, will it is rather unforgiveable and a grave sin on his part

Rudy

Lovers have no chance nor opportunity when it comes to expressing their tender feelings for one another, and in this cruel world that kept you from him, he held resentment for that which kept you apart, until that letter from your arrived

Your simple and honest words had a way of making the aching in his chest harder to contain, especially when he remembered how your eyes showed unshed tears as your parted, without asking him for the impossible you only place a hand upon his chest and your lips on his cheek

He gazes at the sky after reading your letter and is comforted by the fact that while you're at home, you're living and breathing under the same sky that overlooks the yearning of two lovers

Clutching the letter to his chest as he rests under a star-speckled sky, which shines brightly, he digs up memories of your face and voice to lull him into sleep because even if the stars aren't aligned in your favor at this moment so long as he remembers the warmth of your embrace and the sweet enticement of your voice then nothing else holds a bigger piece of his heart

Phillip Graves

He's used and even looks forward to reading how much you've missed him in the letters he receives from you, but it's obvious this letters is meant to convey a much deeper sensation, having unearthed the ugliness of what your reality is without him there next to you for such a long, extended period of time is opening his eyes and making him realize the truth

Haggard is the heart in matters of softness to the point that prolonged strain like this will start to wear even the strongest of patient lovers, you're falling into dark despair and sadness without being able to have him

You've fretted and worried beyond your capacity and your only wish is that these next few weeks that remain will fly by in a flash so that you may embrace his familiar form once again in your arms instead of relying on past sensations which are starting to feel like dreams instead, you want reassurance he is still around and for that he can't think of a solution other than wrapping things up to make it back to you safely

Makarov

A man who is so sure and confident in meeting your every need even when he is miles away falters for a moment upon reading your letter, it is obvious you have exposed your heart to him and that is something his eyes lock on to admire in astonishment

Like a timeless verse, the letter is something he spends a long time contemplating, he knows you understand his position and what being close to him implies for your relationship, yet the heart does not show mercy when not in presence of a kindred partner

Your feelings drift from the letter to his heart and take place there until he comes to understand the full extent how deep your feelings run, doing nothing when alone is frustrating enough for you to want you to spill your every feeling and thought onto paper

Keegan

Received your letter and stuffed it into his pocket, waiting for an opportunity to read it alone, and with barely contained restraint from now having heard you for weeks he tears open the letter and devours your sentences with his eyes as they travel across the pages

It's as if needles were being pinned into the tips of his fingers with the way he so slightly shook, he's got such levelheadedness to be carried away by simple follies

But this is no absurdity of his, for as strong as a man can be, in the soft inside of raw flesh he is nothing more but a thought formed out of dust and longing for his partner at his side

In your letter he can tell you've experienced a range of emotions; plunging headfirst into a strong sentiment of yours for having left you alone for so long, then how much you miss him, and finishing off with a threat of him better coming back

A laugh escapes him, deep from within his chest he can feel that painful affection only you can bring out; even when you're miles away

König

Frightened by the break of dawn which is inevitably to come, he clings to that wish of his to see you and for that sky to break soon, allowing him escape into your embrace, for that lonely sky to wave its' goodbye

You know the duty he carries is heavy and he takes it on with no complaint, you are sometimes pierced by the overwhelmingly deep meaning of this task he has, the resolution you carve into your letter reaches him like a severe flame upon opening the envelope

His fingers tremble upon tracing your dried tears across the paper like fragile scars, so pure yet strong are your honest words to him that they go through every part of his body and settle deep into his bones

He knows that if possible you'd want to share your fate with him if it comes to worst, you can't handle being without him and neither can he, wanting to trace your soft cheek with his rough fingers he attempts to wipe the dried tears on the paper

Horangi

The shrike flies east while the the swallow flies west; what a cruel, tragic separation of lovers that ripples across cultures no matter the era humanity is in, forever a pain that will be felt

Through many bitter days he remembers you, despite his letters to you convey none of that sadness it is still very much a present ache every day is further away from you, missing you in heartache

On one of your many lonely nights you write a letter to him, as your pen makes lines of ink across a page, two lines of tears also fall upon the paper; staining and engraving a feeling more powerful than any words you could've written

When your letter arrives safely in his hands, he internally wishes you would forgive his ignorance for he was not aware until now how much despair your heart was experiencing

You've given your love to him without regret, but while he had a fraction of a chance at controlling his fate, you could do nothing but spiral alone at home, and it's hard for a lonely shadow to form a pair

Nikto

Wishing you could whisper your feelings to the wind and have it carry them to him, you try your best to convey them as raw as possible in your letter to him, hoping this feeling reaches him you relay your desire to the moon

The night your letter finally is in his hands, a full moon is high in the sky and lets a sliver of her light through a window, it is that moonlight he uses to read your letter, it is as if the moon uses her magic and suddenly he has a clear vision of your facial expressions as you write the letter

Time is fleeting for Nikto but your resolution to show him the place you've reserved for him in your heart is strong, it has not yet been a lifetime for Nikto to understand the meaning of being loved but he feels the warmth of your words spreading across his chest

“Hmm, I need more blue.”

Orange sunlight streamed through the window of a tranquil art room, casting a soft glow upon a half-finished canvas. Its painter, you, were busy mixing two primary colors to create the perfect shade of purple you had envisioned. Your tongue sticking out in concentration, and soon your lips formed a triumphant smile once you achieved your desired result.

You hummed as you continued your painting, occasionally muttering to yourself in the process.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Oh yeah, I’m such a genius!”

“This is the most horrendous piece of art I have ever created in my entire life. I have shamed my entire bloodline.”

Hours passed, and with each intentional brushstroke, the painting was finally finished. You were satisfied with your hard work and took a couple of pictures of it to post later. Then, you carefully moved the canvas to the back of the room to let the paint dry overnight. Since you were planning to bring it home tomorrow, you made a mental note to prepare a large tote bag to carry it in.

Art had always been your life’s calling, your ultimate passion. It all began in childhood, when the walls of your home became the first victims of your budding talent. You earned quite an earful from your mother, but your father only laughed it off. Until now, he had never allowed anyone to paint over your messy scribbles, forever treasuring his beloved daughter’s initial masterpiece.

Truthfully, it was your father’s heartfelt laugh and the sentimental way he looked at your drawings after a tiresome day at work that kept you going all these years. You remembered thinking you wanted to keep making him happy. If that was what it took, so be it. You’d create a thousand and one paintings solely for him.

Therefore, your love for art blossomed even more.

Instead of begging for toys, the younger version of you would cry for a set of 48 colored pencils. Rather than excelling in science competitions, you were collecting trophies and certificates from prestigious art contests.

Unfortunately, you were soon faced with a serious predicament.

Every artist's worst nightmare: art block.

You couldn’t seem to finish a single painting lately, always scrapping everything midway.

You despised it because it was such a waste of your time and your art supplies.

“What is wrong with me?” Your pent-up frustration manifested in a freshly made, bloody red ‘X’ on your sketchbook. The next thing you knew, you tore out that paper, crumpled it, and threw it into the trash bin.

Some people would say you were spiralling, and you’d agree.

After all, the deadline for your national art contest was in a week, and you absolutely had no clue what to present. Not to mention, you had to compete against hundreds of other applicants to meet the judges’ high standards.

Only the best could win.

There was no room for imperfection.

“I must not fail,” You massaged your trembling right hand, applying pressure to your paint-covered palm over and over again.

One single thought blared internally: If you failed at the one thing you did best, then what value did you have left?

It was a new day, but the same problem still plagued you.

You scribbled absentmindedly on your sketchbook, letting your pencil move aimlessly. You barely registered what your boyfriend had been yapping on for the past thirty minutes.

You heard Jungwon call your name from time to time to check on your attention, and you’d respond to him with a simple nod. Meanwhile, your eyes were glued to your sketchbook.

You were not aware of the exact moment he went silent, but you did notice his grip on your wrist. It snapped you back to reality, and you sheepishly made eye contact with him.

Jungwon was unamused, evident in the way he raised an eyebrow and the slight downturn of his lips. Yet, his hold on you remained steady and careful, never harsh.

“What are you thinking so deeply about when I’m right in front of you?” His gentle caress felt hot and tingling against your skin. Your grip on your pencil weakened, and he removed it with ease so he could intertwine his hand with yours.

Jungwon was never capable of being angry with you.

But he was so needy.

“Is that sketchbook more interesting than me?” You took a deep breath to calm your heart before replying to your adorable boyfriend.

“What are you saying? How can a sketchbook even compare with you?”

“Well, you seem to love it more than me.”

You shook your head lightly, a small laugh escaping your mouth. “I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike me, that’s all. I’m sorry for not attentively listening to you.”

“But do you at least understand what I was talking about?”

“Yes, I do! Obviously…”

“Then tell me what you think of it.”

You stalled before answering, your eyes drifting to the side of the classroom as you searched for an excuse to leave. He sighed before guiding your face back toward him by the chin. He disliked the way your focus kept drifting away from him when he had been missing you so much. With how busy the two of you had been lately, it was hard to spare time for each other.

Still, his irritation swiftly melted away at the sight of your rosy cheeks. A mischievous smirk was formed once he realized he still had that much of an effect on you, even after years of being together.

“Honestly, if I made you that awestruck, you should just use me as your inspiration.”

It was as if a switch had been flipped in your head, and now everything was crystal clear. You suddenly stood up with fierce determination, radiating strongly which surprised even him.

“Thank you, I love you, see you later!” You rapidly said and kissed him on the cheek before he could protest. That earned him a chorus of teasing giggles from his classmates.

“Good job today, everyone!” Once the music studio emptied out after the band practice session, Jungwon’s cheerful demeanour dropped instantly.

Being the frontman was never easy, especially when the band's spirit was at its lowest after a recent defeat. He had to push himself even harder to keep everyone moving forward. Because if he gave up, everything would eventually fall apart.

The role of a frontman came with immense responsibilities. He was the beacon of sound that guided his bandmates while also shaping the public's perception of the group. During times of crises, everybody sought him to settle matters with dignity and composure, believing he always had all the solutions.  

That was why he stayed for another hour afterwards to train his vocal once more. He was struggling to reach a certain high note for the past few days and it made him grow restless. There was a certain expectation that people set upon him and he was driven to fulfil it.

A harsh cough echoed through the music studio, signalling that Jungwon was pushing himself past his limits. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he cleared his sore throat. Still, when he pictured the audience eagerly waiting for his band's performance, he decided to continue practicing for a few more minutes.

When he exited the music studio, the sun had already set. There were barely any students around, so he didn’t expect you to rush towards him with a bright smile on your face.

Jungwon naturally forgot how tired he was.

“What is this? Why is my girlfriend so excited to see me?”  He narrowed his eyes at you playfully like a wild cat. A wide grin on his charming face, his iconic dimples showing.

“You’re acting as if it’s not normal for me to do so.”

“Well, you have been avoiding me for the past few days.” It baffled Jungwon at first when you had been secretive around him for unknown reasons lately. But you constantly assured him that you would explain everything once the timing was right. It didn’t stop him from being excessively curious though.

“Are you finally going to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

“Yup,” you laughed, amused by how quickly his eyes lit up. “Come with me.” You tugged him along by the hand toward the art room.

Once the two of you were inside, Jungwon was faced with a large canvas hidden by a thick white cloth. He looked back and forth between you and the canvas, as if doing so would magically reveal its content.

“Wait! Cover your eyes first for dramatic effect.” Jungwon rolled his eyes but followed along at the end. You made an enthusiastic ‘dun-dun-dun-dun’ as you pulled the cloth away, ending it with a loud ‘tadaa’.

Jungwon was left in awe. He reached out tentatively to the remarkable piece before him, feeling its rough texture underneath his fingertips. He took a few moments of silence to appreciate its beauty.

“Is this… me?”

This painting that was titled ‘Twinkling Garden’ showed the image of a young man performing in front of his audience underneath the blinding spotlight. His devotion was highlighted through the small details that could be missed at first glance, in the way his veins rose beneath his skin as he gripped the microphone with unwavering intensity.

But what captivated his attention the most was his expression.

He didn’t simply look happy- no, his stage presence made it look like he belonged there. As if singing wasn't merely something he did, but something he needed, as essential as breathing itself.

“I’m worried that you try too hard sometimes, and you lose sight of what’s the most important for you,” you stood next to him, resting your head on his slightly shaky shoulder. “Your happiness. You shine the most when you perform earnestly, Jungwon. You’re enough and nothing can ever change that.”

He sniffled and erased the tear that was trailing down his cheek. If it weren't for you, he would have lost himself to the pressure that had been weighing on him lately. He tore his gaze from the painting to tenderly kiss the top of your head.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“Always.”

‘Twinkling Garden’ had helped you bring home the gold medal from your national art competition. Therefore, you gifted it to him in the hope that it would help him too, either giving him comfort or becoming his lucky charm.