Take the courses. Brace the main and mizzen aback. Haul in the guns. Close all the gun ports. You’re letting up? With the damage done to the rig, I can’t maneuver our broadside around fast enough to be of any effect. The sloops are too nimble. But hauling in the guns? They’ll board us easily.
Prompt fill for anonymous from the angst thing I reblogged the other day. Longer than anticipated (*sobs into my hands because i’m HOPELESS*) so it’s getting Formatted. As per, unplanned, unedited..have at it.
Title: Winter Stole Summer’s Thrill
Summary: prompt: “Remember when you promised we’d always be together? Because I remember when I thought you meant it.” Pain to follow. Elain’s POV.
Teaser: ‘She was going to hold him to that promise he had made to her, those words he had whispered the night before he had left. They had lain in bed together, naked, spent, their arms around one another, their chests heaving in time as they panted for breath, and he had whispered those words to her. “We will always be together, Elain. Always.”
She had fallen asleep with those words warming her heart. She had let him walk onto that battlefield with them ringing in her ears. They were the last words he had ever spoken to her and by the Mother and the Cauldron and whatever other forgotten gods stalk the heavens and play with the lives of men and fae alike, she will hold him to them.’
His hand is cold in hers. The room is quiet, unusually so. Even
when they had lain together here in the mornings there had always been the soft
sounds of birds singing outside, the breeze wafting through the trees, the
servants padding quietly up and down the halls.
The silence now seems an omen. The windows have all been shut up
tight, keeping the room as warm as possible. The birds and the breeze are
exiled from this place of cold death and dark shadows. They belong to the world
beyond, full of life and colour and hope, not here in this place. Elain has the
urge to run to the windows, to throw them open, let the sun and the sounds of
this place fill the room, lift her out of the dead feeling that’s sunk its
claws into her heart.
She doesn’t though, can’t bring herself to leave his side. The
servants have all been sent away. There is only her and him, a few others who
come and go. But this manor is big and they are far away, their footsteps and
voices not managing to echo this far through the empty corridors to break up
When she speaks, her voice sounds too loud, intrusive and
imposing, like a sudden rumble of thunder on a warm spring
day. “Remember,” she whispers to him, “Remember when you promised me
that we’d always be together?” A single tear slips down her cheek. The taste of
salt is like an explosion on her tongue, ripping her from the bland, empty
oasis she’s been stranded in since it happened.
Another tear but she brushes this one away with her free hand.
She shouldn’t cry in front of him, that would upset him. What would he think if
he woke and found her cry at his side? She has to be strong for him. She will be strong for him.
But she can’t help the words that fall from her lips, spilling
out of her along with a fresh wave of tears she can’t hold back no matter how
hard she tries. “Because I remember when I thought you meant it, when I
was sure that nothing could ever take you from me; or me from you.” They’re the
words of a child, that human girl she had been so long ago that’s been broken
by the things that she’s seen, the things she’s endured, the things that she’s
The next words are a plea, desperate and shattered, “My mate, my
mate, my mate…”
They had sealed the bond two years ago. In the middle of a war
but neither of them had cared about that. It was right. It was real. She had
found him again on a battlefield, on two different sides of this war. She
should never have been there, but they had needed everyone to fight they could
and she had refused to sit safely at home alone while everyone else went out to
do what they could.
She had regretted it from the first charge. The blood. The
chaos. The death. She had never been able to stand the sight of blood or gore.
Even after years of living with it, the sight of Feyre cleaning and dressing a
kill in their kitchen had made her feel sick. This had been a hundred times
worse than that. People screaming and crying and dying and killing all around
her, and she caught in the thick of it, like a doe with a shattered leg in the
eye of a storm.
Then he had been there. A blade in either hand. His red hair
flying around him like fire. Fire itself bursting from him, for the first time
in centuries, to protect her, his mate. They had looked at each other, standing
a foot apart, both armed, both spattered in blood and filth and gore, wearing
different colours. He in green and gold and she in black and red.
They had both known what should follow. They had both know that
honour, duty, loyalty, love to all those they followed, demanded their next
actions. They were to take up arms against one another, fight, hurt, kill. This
male…This male had helped drown her and Nesta in that Cauldron, had held
Feyre under while Tamlin drowned her in his own selfish trauma after what
they’d endured. He was on the other side. He had chosen. She had chosen. She
owed him nothing. She didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t feel
anything for him but…
But she had met those mismatched eyes, full of all the pain and
terror and sadness she’s come to know so intimately, and she hadn’t been able
to do it. Their swords had faltered at the same time, their power dulling, a
hurricane turned to a quiet shower of rain in the face of this one they could
not hurt. She had taken his arm, had begged him to do something, to rally his
forces. They would listen to him, they would follow him, he could end this, end
He had. They had.
At least that day, that one battle, they had managed to stop.
She had brought him before Feyre and Rhys and he had spoken for Spring, had
told them he wanted this pointless slaughter to end. The men they had saved
that day had simply died the next but for that moment…She had seen something
in his eyes. She had seen a hatred for this battle and bloodshed that everyone
else seemed to accept as inevitable and right. She had seen a desire for peace,
for true peace, what she longed for more than anything. She had seen hope. And
she had never looked back.
Still they fight. The first War had raged for seven year, she
had been told. This one has lasted five already and everyone involved believes
it might easily double that. More and more peoples from across the sea are
getting pulled into this, taking sides, summoning armies, dragging this on and
on and on, filling the world with death and pain and screams.
Already she has worn so many faces in this game of chance they
play with people’s lives, where the roll of dice sends them to fight, to kill,
to die. She’s been a victim; fresh from the Cauldron, in shock, in pain, with
nothing left but her skin and her sisters.
A hope. Her powers could change this war, could give them
an edge, but she doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to hurt, doesn’t want to
kill, just wants to hide.
A soldier. Despite her feeble protests she had still been
trained to fight - just so you can protect yourself- they had told her, but she
knew, even then, that protecting herself would come at the cost of harming
others and she had hated every second of it.
A spy. She was his mate, ready made, she could get close,
could make him trust her, he would never hurt her, never, never, never.
A traitor. They knew he wouldn’t hurt her, knew he wouldn’t
hurt them, not while they held her. They had never suspected she might turn on
them, that her love for a stranger might be more than her lust for war and
deceit. They had never suspected that might not be able to hurt him,
A High Lady. The power came to her when Tamlin had fallen and
Lucien had smiled and sworn his blade to Spring once more. To her. She had
allied them again with Night, with her fierce sisters who found ways to thrive
in this war while she felt sometimes she was barely surviving it. She and
Lucien had fought and strived, turned former enemies to allies; turned former
friends to dust and ash.
The scene with Captain Swan last night was yet another firm reminder (for me, at least) that ships like Captain Swan DO NOT come around all that often. This is a once in a lifetime type ship where we are blessed with so much, so often, and their LOVE is a focal point to the story instead of some audience-baiting side-story that the showrunners mock or find more annoying than anything. Captain Swan is being portrayed in a healthy, realistic sorta of way (in the midst of a fantasy drama, which is even wilder), where we get huge milestones at a good pace (again, IMO), and get content that’s emotional and lovely. Captain Swan is allowed to be a couple in love, and that drives such a big part of the overall story. It’s a damn blessing.
Okay hating the Rey Kenobi theory because its a reylo fave is ignoring a lot of the hints in the movie like? Story wise how fucking predictable would it be for Rey to be a Skywalker. Yay! More Skywalker Drama!Honestly. Maybe she has no connection whatsoever! But she can do mind tricks with no formal training, who else was good at that? Kenobi. Who else had a British accent? Kenobi. A Kenobi trained a Skywalker and helped another, it would make sense for a Skywalker to in turn train a Kenobi. It would bring a sense of balance. If accents weren’t important why didn’t they let John keep his? I’m so tired of seeing people be like “if you believe Rey is a Kenobi you probably ship reylo!” like no i think shes a kenobi because it fucking makes sense.
edit since apparently im not ~upfront~ about hating reylo: I posted this because i was being mislabeled as a reylo shipper because I believe rey is a Kenobi. I cannot stand Reylo.