Work Text:
art commission of the stable scene by the fantastic brilliant show stopping @meetingyourmaker
Devastated by civil war, Mandalore has been weakened by famine and population decline. Every clan for themselves, every family living by the blade to gain influence and fief. Amidst the conflict, a power vacuum allowed the Sith, an order of magic-wielding zealots, to seize control. They brought foresight. Trained healers. Slowed death and staved off plagues. Becoming a pivotal force in shaping the realm’s state of affairs seemed an eventuality.
By decree, every family must enlist one female to ensure the survival of critical bloodlines.
For rebuilding the world they lost must take precedence now.
Since the death of their great forebear, Duke Andonai, loss is all House Kryze has ever known. Countless sons stolen through vassal duty. Daughters taken by strange, incurable sickness or untimely ends. At eighteen, Lady Freya of the Kalevala region, the only child of the late Duchess Satine Kryze, senses her destiny is in peril. Her name (along with others who have come of age), scribbled upon a piece of parchment, shall be offered up for selection—for breeding.
The Harvest, as the Sith and their followers call it.
Once Freya is chosen, life as she knows it ends.
It’s only a matter of time.
When her betrothed touches her, it will form across her skin—a device of the Sith’s making—sweeping and delicate like brush strokes from an inkpot. Beginning from the centre of her palms, it will curl towards her shoulders, chest, and torso before interlacing down her spine. Not unlike the trading of livestock. Such branding mirrors what her husband—her future keeper—will have on the inside of his wrists.
And it is all but painless. They will carve and burn deep, down to the bones.
The mark of ownership.
The Mandalorians survived the shackles of warfare only to bind themselves to another. Such unions will ensure fresh dissent is stamped out, for the war’s victors to govern the political landscape for the coming generations.
“I understand it seems dreadful.”
In the dining hall of Kryze Castle, Freya looks up from her wine cup. Across the table, her mother’s younger sister, Lady Bo-Katan, glances at her with a strange expression—possibly a feigned attempt to commiserate on an inevitable doom.
“To pledge yourself to a stranger—such arrangements merit little appeal. But this task is ours to bear, Freya. The men cannot do this on their own.”
“They accomplish plenty of tasks without women. We’re reminded every second.”
“An honour, surely,” Korkie remarks, hacking away at his glazed meat, “to serve a higher purpose rather than your own needs. Your body is only a vessel for the greater good.”
“Careful, Cousin,” Freya hisses, “or your stupidity will surpass your father’s.”
For as long as Freya could remember, House Vizsla has been House Kryze’s ancient rival—the former leaning into the realm’s warrior heritage, clashing with the pacifist Kryzes. The feud came to a violent end after Duchess Satine and her council were executed in a coup while residing in the capital city, Sundari. To end the strife once and for all, Bo-Katan swore fealty to the leader of the revolt, Pre Vizsla. The first demand came as a marriage offer, and she wedded Tal Merrik, a liegeman of the Vizslas.
Today, Bo-Katan wears a branding mark on her back—in the shape of the enemy’s signet.
Another sign of their loyalty.
A reminder of their treachery.
“Rein in that tongue of yours, Freya!” Bo-Katan snaps with cold, clipped tones. “Your frustration is duly noted. But none of this in front of the children, at least.”
Freya looks at her aunt with a troubled expression. “I know you are frightened, but you have allowed them to twist your mind for so long until now—until we have become a mere husk of what House Kryze once was. In that, I give you no blame, Aunt Bo-Katan. Only anger on your behalf.”
“Don’t patronise me, Freya. Such arrangements have been the way of this world. The Mand’alor had foreseen it.”
Mand’alor.
An ancient title for the supreme military and political commander of Mandalore. A ruler who could compel enemy clans to make peace. As the term had its roots in transcendency, one who held such a position was believed to be chosen by the gods.
Throughout history, however, only one was granted such power—Tarre Vizsla.
Widely respected as an honourable warrior, he promised an impartial Mandalore with no single tyrant. Each clan would be free to govern their own lands. But he died before a new chain of command was appointed. The circumstances surrounding his abrupt death were kept a secret, fostering deep suspicion among the clans. Eventually, it led to House Kryze bearing the brunt of the blame. It was the very catalyst for House Vizsla’s war, avenging the head of their family by killing Duke Andonai Kryze.
“Perhaps our kind does deserve to die,” Freya says coldly, “if enslaving our sex is the only way.”
“Cousin Freya!”
An excited pattering of feet into the dining hall interrupts them. Koska, a tiny figure with a head full of thick curls, jumps onto Freya’s lap. A whoosh of air escapes Freya as small, slender arms lock around her neck.
“Oof—you’re growing too fast, Koska.”
“Old enough to ride Benedict?”
“Ah—” Freya hesitates. The image of a black stallion in their stables comes to mind. “Soon enough, pet. He can be a capricious force to steer.”
“When you were my age, you had ridden him around the compound dozens of times!”
“Because its ghastly nature is muted only with her, Sister,” Korkie says, rather irritably. “Possessive, too. That beast nearly chewed my arm off twice!”
“Must be your apples,” Freya says, giving him a sardonic look. “Benedict knows when something’s rotten.”
“A precious, loyal thing!” Koska insists. “Didn’t he save Cousin Freya’s life when she fell into a river? She cannot swim.”
Freya smiles. “He did so, yes.”
Korkie rolls his eyes. “A monster all the same.”
As Freya holds back a laugh, the truth remains that her affections for the four-legged creature runs deeper. In her mother’s private journals, an entry written before Freya’s birth mentioned a handsome, travelling abbot—a stranger she tenderly called ‘Ben Kenobi’—who gifted a horse to mark Freya’s coming into the world. Within the journals were fragments of the abbot’s poems—some decidedly intended as a lullaby. The pious man aided her mother’s escape from assassins in the past. For months, she hid in the wilderness, so very tempted to abandon House Kryze’s cause, to live in solitude with her lover instead. But it was not to be. Freya’s mother returned home, unknowingly with child, to continue a crusade that still torments Mandalore long after the duchess’s demise.
The large animal is all Freya has left of her parents, and thus, it was named after a father she’ll never meet.
“I shall conquer him one day,” Koska remarks, pouting.
“I believe you shall. Now, have you been keeping up with your lessons?”
“Of course. Sir Almec says the vault’s manuscripts are the only way to determine if we have evolved—if our people have risen above our ancestors, or have fallen into darkness along with them.”
Freya kisses the top of her head. “Very good.”
“Oh—I heard the most wonderful news this morning. Mama says you’re getting married!”
Freya’s eyes flick to Lady Bo-Katan who doesn’t meet her gaze. “Did she?”
“I’ve only read of such romantic celebrations. Your felicitous occasion shall be my proper first!”
Freya blinks. “Romantic?”
“Is that not the oath of a husband to his wife?”
Far from it.
Gar Saxon, the leader of a vassal clan of House Vizsla, has expressed interest in Freya since she was ten. A man old enough to be her father who boasts of his conquests and leaves tavern wenches walking bow-legged. But most importantly, he’s a brutish warrior who took part in executing the duchess. Their nuptials—everything from the reaping of Freya’s name to the one who’ll inherit the right to breed her—shall be contrived, ensuring House Kryze will never become a tangible opposition again.
And Lady Freya shall forever be at the mercy of her mother’s killers.
All that is to say, it’s far from the sanguine notions about love that young Koska imagines. A girl born after much of the bloodshed, still sheltered.
Still hopeful.
“I…” Freya swallows, not wishing to unleash her bitterness on the unsuspecting girl. “I suppose so.”
“How lovely, though, to be wooed by your betrothed!”
“Indeed.” A complicated ache courses through Freya’s body. The cloud of a painful memory shifts—someone's boyish smile, a flirtatious wink—scratching the surface of her mind. “To be seen and loved wholly by a soul that calls to your own—I wish for such joyous dreams to find you.”
“Mother had a dream, too,” Korkie unhelpfully chimes in again. “I am to have another sister, it seems.”
It’s no secret that Lady Bo-Katan is expecting a third child. But knowing it could be a girl—one more trapped in chains—shatters something within Freya. Bile rises to her throat. Along with rage—so much rage.
Undressed and clad in bed robes, Freya’s long, chestnut hair is brushed out till it tumbles down her back. Once her servants depart, she pulls out fresh parchment at her desk. She must get a message to the exiled Lord Fenn Rau—Freya’s long-time mentor and an ally of Duke Andonai’s ideologies—in the Concord Dawn region.
At the duchess’s burial, the elder man had a guilt-stricken exchange with Freya. “Pre Vizsla was a childhood acquaintance of your mother—my brother in arms when we defended our borders against bandit tribes. But I fear we made a grievous error in trusting him.”
Over the last two winters, they have been amassing armies for their rebellion against House Vizsla.
In five days, Freya will ride out to meet them.
Suddenly, there’s a burst of scorching heat behind her. She turns, staring at the fireplace. Had the maids placed far too much wood? But nothing seems out of place. It falls quiet again.
She frowns, lingering a moment, before returning to the letter. With the impending possibility of Gar Saxon taking me to wife, she writes, time is of the essence. Prudency commands us to assemble the army in the northwest provinces, far from Sundari. My journey to Concord Dawn shall be a treacherous road to avoid our enemies. She sets down her quill, deftly rolling up the parchment. Unlatching the birdcage by the window, she ties her letter to the messenger raven before setting it loose—
—but another sharp, crackling noise pierces through the silence of her chamber.
Unmistakable and purposeful now.
Something seeks her attention.
With well-honed reflexes, Freya reaches beneath her shift dress, where a sheath is strapped to her thigh, and draws out her dagger. Still, she whirls around to an empty room. A shard of ice slides down her spine. Lord Pre Vizsla has many spies in his service, and—after swearing allegiance to the Sith—some are not of this world.
With bated breath, she waits.
And waits.
No louder than a whisper, she hears it. Her feet move before her mind does. Slowly, she approaches the fireplace, her gaze transfixed at the centre. Her heartbeats quicken, her palms clammy as they tremble around the hilt of her weapon. The gentle flame in the hearth flickers through the darkness, strangely inviting, casting shadows along the walls.
“Show yourself!” she demands, even as fear seizes her. “Who are you?”
At last, the flame speaks back. “You already know.”
Startled by the disembodied voice, Freya shrieks, staggering backwards sharply and falling flat on her rear. Her dagger flies from her grasp, clattering far away. She couldn’t scream again. An invisible weight wraps around her ankles, her wrists, her throat—not constricting to kill, but sufficiently firm to rob her of anything beyond a muffled whimper.
“Now, heed my words—”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gives voice to her capitulation with a gasping sob.
With only moonlight illuminating her path, Freya crosses the hallways of her family’s castle, exiting through the oak doors, and traversing the darkened plains. Ahead, the arched entrance of the stables remains locked—
—but the side door is wide open.
Almost taunting.
The groom would never have been so careless. This was another’s doing.
She swallows thickly, slipping inside the building to carry out what it wants—instructions given without words, and yet she could imagine the steps so clearly, as if the entity lives inside her head. The scent of sweet hay greets her. Going down the aisle, several horses—many of them mares—peer at her over their doors, ears pricked. Part of the Kryzes’ fortunes derive from breeding strong, work horses—particularly ones that could become chargers on battlefields.
How ironic, she thinks, that my fate is not unlike these creatures.
The voice in the fire had commanded her to this venue.
For what purpose, it did not say.
She could only guess her letters were intercepted. House Vizsla and its allies would soon descend upon Kalevala to punish her here, smothering her malcontent without delay. It wouldn’t be the first time they sent cutthroats after her.
Truthfully, she could flee, disappearing into the night with her treachery. But she could not let others suffer for her choices—especially not the kind, gentle Koska. Her cousin is nothing like her—no brokenness, no hatred. If obtaining mercy for her family required her to beg, Freya would. If she survives, she will live to fight another day. If she doesn’t, her sword is one of many—just like her mother’s—and the revolution would not fail if she died too soon.
Finally, she reaches the stall at the far end and sneaks in.
The largest one.
With the thickest bed of straw.
“Shh,” she croons, as Benedict turns towards her, his thick, silky mane swishing lightly. Placing a hand on his muzzle, she offers him an apple.
Even now, her steps when approaching the stallion are careful. He has always been an imperious, temperamental thing—so volatile that Freya, too, harboured an unease she told no one. At sixteen, she met the third son of a merchant, Lux Bonteri, who was a houseguest of Lady Bo-Katan. A man of letters. Brown waves of hair and a bright smile. He asked her opinions on literature, on politics reserved mostly for Mandalorian males—for rulers like her mother. Making her feel worthy of carrying the duchess’s name. Being wooed so flawlessly, Freya stole off to the stables—the very same one she now stands in—with the dashing male.
Alas, a passionate taking of her virtue never came to be.
No youthful, spirited love was born.
“There is a high bounty for your head, milady,” Bonteri all but sneered. “Lord Vizsla may have spared your family, but Clan Wren never forgets the duchess’s misdeeds.”
Another family who opposed Duchess Satine’s pacifist campaign.
Surrounded by bales of hay, Bonteri had restrained her to the floor with a knife to her throat. Mere seconds ago, she was seeking his mouth, chasing the full pressure of his fingers trailing up her thighs. Oh, how her entirety burned with shame. What a fool she was to think anyone truly desired her for matters of the heart! No, she would always be a pawn in this damn war.
But it did not stop there.
The scoundrel first wanted his fill of her. After gagging her with a hemmed square of fabric, he pawed at her dress. She fought hard not to cry, to keep thrashing around, the wildness in her refusing to give in—
—until loud, banging noises erupted around them.
Thundering gallops.
A deep, guttural roar in place of a horse’s neigh.
Bracing for the worst, Freya curled inwardly. Everything moved fast. The ground shook. She heard a scream followed by a sickening crack. By the time she came to her senses again, Bonteri was lying a few feet away, unmoving, bleeding profusely. His body was twisted beyond recognition, as if he’d been trampled down in the most violent manner.
Every animal had miraculously escaped their stall, trotting about the stable. Excitable, spooked horses often bolted and kicked.
Any of them could have slain the assassin.
But when Benedict circled her—his nose pressed against her trembling body and tear-streaked countenance, where he also attempted to bite the stable master who discovered them the next morning—she knew. The horse was a protector in her father’s name.
Good while it lasted.
Now, after burying that memory once more, Freya settles next to Benedict on the bed of straw—where she awaits her fate. The black stallion stirs a little, responding with a low whinny. Stroking the animal’s strong neck, his coat fine and soft, she rests her cheek against him.
“Papa?” she murmurs.
Nothing but the cold, whistling wind answers. Rapidly blinking back tears, she gazes unseeing into the distance. She’s not sure what possesses her to say that. Perhaps she’s desperate, unable to hold it together and desires to shatter without judgement.
Perhaps, at the end of all things, she simply wishes not to die alone.
She’s awakened by a brush of something warm and pillowy against her cheek. Her eyelashes flutter as she rouses, the rustling of grain beneath her fingers fills the air as she sits up. The darkness tells her that the first light has yet to break.
Looking around, she’s confused by the stallion’s absence.
Did he escape to the paddock again?
A sharp noise of dry leaves crunching makes her flinch. All at once, the air around her goes dense and quiet—the sort of quiet where even the lightest breeze forsakes them. The night sky seems to pulse. The warrior instinct within her ignites—in the way her skin prickles, her blood soaring.
She’s being watched.
In the corner of the stall, Freya sees it.
Not a lone assassin, not an army.
Just a tall, single flickering shape—like a flame’s silhouette that dances and smoulder at the edges.
Even as her body shakes like a leaf, even as her heart thumps wildly in her chest, she unsheathes her dagger again. Never breaking her gaze, she rises to her feet, defiantly lifting her face in its direction. “Come out,” she says steadily. “I am not afraid.”
A chilling silence hangs in the air, and Freya nearly gives up, determining that any further attempts to communicate shall bear no fruit.
The answer comes softly to her ears. “But you will be.”
Clearer this time, the voice is a strange, jarring dichotomy. Distinctly male. Smooth like the most luxurious of silks yet thunderous as the gale that sweeps Kalevala’s oceans. A tenor steeped with contempt and compulsion, and yet something about it feels intimate.
The shadow moves.
Each stride echoes like the plodding clop of hooves—
—until it transforms into slow, heavy strides of leather boots. The swish of a thick cloak drags upon the stable floors. Frozen in place, she observes the arresting figure. Pale milk complexion. Prominent nose and lips. Dark, luscious hair. Even darker eyes. Every piece of clothing worn, black as ink. With a muscular torso and powerful shoulders thrown back, the presence before her wields a coarse, masculine beauty.
“My—where is my—” but her breath catches. “What have you done to my horse?”
“Oh, little one, Benedict has only ever been me.”
“No.” Shock and horror crashes into her. “No, my father bestowed Benedict to my mother—to me!”
“Did you not summon me earlier?”
Papa.
“I—” Her body shakes, anger and humiliation slicing through her. “I did no such thing, you—you fiend! Cease this besmirching of my intent. I seek solace in what my father left for me—in his affections, not yours!”
A smirk crosses the entity’s face. “I see no difference.”
Something about his smile, the wicked insinuation of his words, sends her pulse soaring. Enough! Her first instinct is to bristle at his behaviour—the same scornful arrogance she battles with, day after day, from her peers of the realm. She widens her stance, her dagger poised to attack.
He slants his head. “Do you believe that could withhold me from you?”
She licks her lips, an act that immediately draws his gaze. “Give me your name.”
“You think yourself worthy of it?”
“I know who you are. Your blight has haunted my steps since I was no more than a babe. That afternoon by the river was no coincidence—just as Lux Bonteri’s death was no accident.”
“You dare suggest I should have permitted him to take you instead?”
“Do not speak to me as if we are familiar.”
Hunger flickers across his expression, eyeing her like a nectar-laced blossom, ripe for plucking. He only needs to peel back the petals. “I can be as familiar as you desire, my lady. Just say the word.”
“Give me your name—” she bellows, cheeks burning, “and only your name, serpent!”
At this, he sets his jaw before surging forward in a fluid, gliding motion. Several horses in the stable let out frightened neighs. He leaves no distance between them, till the sheer breadth of him covers her entirety in shadow. He stares down at her haughtily—a look of someone who has lived too long, seen too much. An odd blend of dread and excitement pools at the base of her gut from his closeness.
“Do not shout, child,” he murmurs silkily. A warning. “It’s impolite.”
She says nothing, shooting him a glare that is most certainly stronger than she feels.
“What an impertinent little thing you are.” A low chuckle ensues. “My favourite kind.” He begins to circle her, predatory in every possible sense. “The Three have existed since the first dawn, weaving the threads of fate. Through the ages, I have been many things—Reaper of Souls, The Black Plague, A Herald of Misfortune, Harbinger of the Breaking of The World. And this?” He gestures a hand down the length of his body. “My mortal visage is called Kylo Ren.”
This gives Freya pause.
Long before the civil war, the Three were the central deities of Mandalore. The Spinner represents the first sunrise, birth of life, following which the Allotter determines the thread’s lifespan. But as the conflict brought destruction and a mountain of corpses—brother killing brother, sister betraying sister—the Sith’s creed gave them counsel. Nothing beyond victory and power mattered. The Three were eventually forgotten, lost in folktales and bygone myths.
And hence, the one standing before her now must be the third—The Unturnable, the decider of a thread’s end.
Death.
Still, Freya needs to be sure.
“If I am to die by House Vizsla’s hand—by the Sith’s design—”
“The Sith?” A snarl flashes across the shadow’s—on Kylo’s—mouth. “The audacity of you to reduce me to lesser beings! Abominations, the lot of them. They wish to be gods, poisoning you with fear—fear of darkness, fear of death. At the beginning of all things, death was a gift bestowed upon mortals—one that the Three would never be granted, would never taste the preciousness of time,” and his voice grows quieter, dismal, “only the infinite road of solitude, bound and unchanging, until the world slowly decays and breaks upon itself.”
Watching him closely, her mouth parts from the strangest sentiments.
The quietness in his demeanour, the crack in the tenebrous armour.
What is it in him that calls to her own loneliness?
Her hands drop to her side, the dagger falling with a soft thud onto the ground. “Why am I here?”
With an indecipherable expression, Kylo’s gaze stays fixed on her. When he speaks again, his voice is formal and terse. “As a rule, the Three never intervene directly with a mortal’s destiny. We see all paths, every road, but the choices are yours to make. There are exceptions, however.” He resumes pacing the stall, a hint of fury searing the atmosphere. “Duchess Satine perished before her allotted time. An unseemly Sith spell made short work of it. Understand this, Tarre Vizsla’s line should have died out decades ago,” and Kylo’s eyes flare crimson, narrowing into slits, “but the rodent made a bargain—my natural order wrecked as a consequence.”
At the mention of her mother’s death, something incendiary within Freya bursts and bubbles to the surface.
“Such has been the way of this world.”
“They—” She falters, her throat tightening from an untethered rage. “Are you saying the Mand’alor never intended to cede power?”
“The Sith’s deal was struck long before Tarre’s death. Allowing them The Harvest was part of it.”
“The Mand’alor had foreseen it.”
Lies.
Everything had been a lie to benefit his descendants.
Traitors.
Usurpers.
“Deep down, you know this—the branding enchantment weakens you, your resolve. Allows the other to gain your submission.”
“W-why?” she asks tremulously. “Why would Mandalore do this to its own people?”
“Because it is a distraction from the real enemy,” Kylo rumbles in her ears. At some point, he had snuck up behind her. She finds herself leaning in, feeling the weight of his chest, hard and unyielding against her back. “Because all of it leads back to the Sith—the occult’s need to subjugate the Mandalorians’ instinct for resistance. Your society has always been ahead of its time. Who wouldn't desire to own the reins?”
Freya gasps, winded from such truths. The bite of betrayal snatches her breath away.
“Why do you stop me from Concord Dawn, then?”
“The rebellion lacks the strength of arms. Your armies will be all but crushed before the first of the gold leaves fall.”
So soon, she thinks. To know they would fail before they had even begun claws something vital from her, tearing into her like talons. “I do not fear it. My death was meant on a battlefield, of that I’m certain.”
Slowly, she feels his large, gloved hands on her. One curls at her shoulder, the other spans her waist. More heat flows. Her reaction to him—a villainous darkness—is disgraceful. What a way to discover she still wants to be wanted. “Since your thread was first spun, I’ve counted the days, watching you grow and fill my great many needs. Oh—I have waited lifetimes for you to be my champion, Rey.”
Rey.
An endearing sobriquet her mother gave her.
Her little Rey of fire.
“What does thou offer?” she asks, her tone careful and in veneration for the Unturnable.
“Victory,” he answers, his breath warmed and tickled her nape. “To cheat Death is to anchor Death’s powers to you. I will grant you safe passage throughout your cause. The uprising will be a force like no other, a raging tempest—bringing justice against all who have wronged you. You will save so many lives—where innocents will escape a bleaker fate—that it is beyond counting. Because of you, Mandalore will begin to heal. The Sith and House Vizsla’s tyranny will never again hold dominion over your people’s lands.”
Everything she had wished for laid bare.
At the back of her mind, Freya realises she’s a pawn still—if not for a warlord, then for this otherworldly being’s wrath. But they share a common goal, and the enemy of her enemy could be her friend.
If this is truly her destiny, she would rather be a conduit of her choosing.
“Name thou price.”
Around them, everything has gone silent as if all else disappeared and the world stopped, holding its breath for this exact moment.
“Your existence,” he says, the tenderness in his voice leaves her no doubt of its meaning. “Once the war is won, once the last of winter melts and the first tree flowers, it ends. You will fade from memories, from the life you’ve known. The great Duchess Satine would have been childless, and Lady Bo-Katan and her offspring will carry the Kryze bloodline.” His touch turns soothing, trailing over the slope of her neck. As if he wishes to share in her sorrow. “Rest assured, history will remember your deeds—not as Lady Freya Kryze, but as a nameless warrior from nowhere, answering the call to break Mandalore’s chains.”
Tears slide down her cheeks from the unexpected slash of anguish.
No serenity, no white shores.
A steep price.
But the burden is only hers to bear. Perhaps that is worth the cost.
“How shall thou will this from me?” she asks, barely a whisper now.
Dipping his head, his eyes bore into hers. Whatever she scents there—an ancient hunger of a predator—corroborates her suspicions. Consent through flesh. Heat, delicate and welcoming, suffuses her body. The pounding in her chest is a warning ignored.
In this moment, only want—the grief and gravity of what she stands to lose and gain in return—drives her.
“Remove your shift,” he orders, intimately soft.
The sheath around her thighs goes first. Then, the soft fabric eases over her shoulders, slipping down her arms, past her hips till it’s pooling around her ankles. Beneath, she wears nothing else. For a fraction of a second, she stands there shyly, wondering where such need to be ravaged by him like a virginal maiden came from. She watches him watch her, his eyes sliding across her bare skin.
He lifts an arm towards her. “May I?”
She nods at him in surprise.
He laces his fingers in her hair, a glossy splendour, before switching between kneading the full weight of her breast and stroking the soft underside with his thumb—as if he wishes to savour something within her he could not define. Mandalorian females—particularly those due for The Harvest—being inspected so blatantly is not unusual. Still, she’s uncertain if she’s shivering because she’s naked or because of what he wants to do.
Finally, finally, he leans towards her.
Her breaths are coming out shaky, his nonexistent.
Maybe it’s the longing gentleness in his tone, his touch—perhaps the knowledge of his great and terrible power, and yet he’s using none of it to have her in every which way—that makes her tip her mouth up under his.
It is in this very moment that Freya has another revelation.
Death tastes sweet.
A little tart, even, and peppered with pleasurable hints of cinnamon and honey from the cook’s jar. Something else surfaces—floral traces in the crisp, summer air of an apple orchard.
At first, his tongue brushes against her bottom lip. Tentative. Her mouth opens to give him access. Somehow, someway, they flow in a perfect rhythm. She sighs into the kiss, coasting her hands across his gambeson—an act which makes him groan. As she burrows into his towering frame, tiny tremors erupt atop her skin and mount between her thighs.
Other than feeling the fullness of his mouth, there’s no thought.
No sensibilities.
Catching her face in his hands to deepen the kiss, she’s herded backwards, her spine pressed up in a corner. She exhales sharply, feeling the roughness of the stall’s partitions, the wood creaking as he pushes her against it. It would scratch and scar, but she could not reason beyond wanting him, wanting to know how he would feel like inside her.
Another gruff noise climbs from his throat. He grabs her hands, pinning her wrists against the wall as he shoves a thigh between hers.
The kiss grows and grows, spiralling beyond her control.
More, more, harder, all the way.
His grip shifts again, clamping over her bottom to hitch her up against the solid planes of his stomach.
And all at once, she feels it coursing through her veins—a torrential wave that fractures into smaller rivers, planting roots, coiling vines beneath her skin and swirling in her fingers. A tyrannous, unforgiving power. And yet, the cold doesn’t come. She’s submerged in light instead, a sharp, radiant beauty that breaks the horizon. Scorching. Blinding. As if a great pair of wings that carried the sun unfurled, now placed upon the very fabric of Freya’s body.
How wonderous it is, to feel the Unturnable’s strength this way.
How strange it seems, that she touched his darkness only to be gifted this.
But she could see more, see past the curtain of time that’s been parted. In the coming months, the clash will happen on Sundari’s field. The heavy cavalry is crucial to the rebellion’s war hammer, and Lord Fenn Rau will use them to shatter the opponent’s frontlines. Overcoming any disadvantages depends upon speed and mobility. An opportunity exploitable by smaller armed movements. And in spite of House Vizsla’s army outnumbering theirs, most are old and weary, undisciplined, incapable of adapting to the impetuousness of Freya and her allies.
And they will call her The Long Summer, brighter than any wildfire, where she rides into battle on the back of an enormous charger—a black stallion with blood-red eyes.
They will say the ground burns beneath her feet.
They will say she cannot be killed.
From afar, she could hear Kylo’s voice pulling her back to the present.
“Forgive me,” he rasps. “I forgot myself.”
Once he presses his forehead against hers, an aching sense of finality creeps in.
It is done.
He’s got what he came for, the agreement made. Other concerning matters for the Three will soon lure him away. Still, his fingers are fastened at her wrists, flattening her hands against his chest. He feels warm. Deceptively human. With renewed clarity, she knows now what she covets—this feeling he gives her cannot end, not yet.
Be with me.
Please.
Rising to her toes, she thrust her fingers into his soft hair and recaptures his lips. He freezes. Undeterred, she loosens his cloak, letting it fall to the ground before unbuckling his gambeson so her hands could slip up to his bare chest. Every one of his muscles is pulled taut. It’s easy to forget he isn’t like her. That he wears a different armour, a mask to walk among the living. She could drown in him. She could get drunk on his leashed malignance.
By now, he’s angled her head back, kissing her in deep, desperate strokes. Pushing every boundary with brutal effectiveness. Their tongues wrestle, slick and possessive, and she loses balance in the frenzy.
To her astonishment, he responds in kind.
Kylo gathers her into his arms, bringing her onto the ground so she’s on top of him. Between her legs, she feels his promising thickness. Only the finest silks drape around him, assuring her it won’t hurt—not like that. She notices how his eyes trace her naked, lithe form, down to where the barrier of fabric between them is soaked.
“Go on,” he whispers, presenting an invisible chalice. “Take charge.”
But she’s already there, clinging to his broad shoulders and grinding down.
It’s fast.
Searing.
Hips snapping and bucking. Chasing the delicious friction on his hardness, his thighs—all to unravel a tightness that has grown to an unbearable degree. She wants to bite him—lick him—make him taste her come when she finishes on his tongue. The sounds are loud, indecently so. Slapping and harsh panting. Wet sucking of his lips meeting her rosy nipples. Garments rustling atop dry, straw-covered floors.
The truth is, she likes how he watches her—how he’s been watching all this time, her whole life. His parted lips are shiny and plush, seemingly spellbound by the way her breasts bounce. That thought alone makes a crescendo soar, building so quickly through her sweat-ladened body that she’s dizzy.
“So beautiful,” he breathes, softly like a caress. “There is not a thing in all of creation like you.”
Her breath hitches at that, eliciting another high-pitched whimper from her.
“Soon,” he growls, sending another tremble up her spine. A vow to keep her on her back, on her front, on all fours, her hair tangled from rough pulling while his body ruts against hers like wolves amidst breeding season. “Very soon there will not be an instance when I'm not inside you.”
She should pace herself.
She wants this to last.
When his hands dig into her waist, however, thrusting himself up into her hard and swift—like he, too, is overwhelmed with a horrible need to fuck her—sparks burst behind her eyes. Almost, almost. She bites her lip, her eyebrows furrowed, trying to hold on, trying to bask in him like rain after a punishing dry spell. But once his hand trails down her centre—the sensation of his leather gauntlets teasing her warm, wet cunt behind her modest curls—she comes undone.
“Oh—” she cries out.
“Look at me,” he commands hoarsely, making her eyes fly open. “Let me see you, Rey, my sweet child—”
Seeing how lust has stripped away his composure, she careens over the edge. White-hot heat hurtles through her senses. Here, she forgets who she is—that she’s a lady of House Kryze and at any moment, a servant could enter the stables—and rides out her climax in a string of loud, spluttering screams of passion.
Her wetness, its scent feminine and imitable, leaks between her thighs.
On him.
All over his gloves, his trousers.
She slumps over him, and he makes a soothing sound, placing his cloak beneath her to lay her down beside him. Sprawled over his chest, she likes the way he clasps the back of her head. Such a natural sentiment. As if they have done this before. Already, tiredness tugs at her like sinking marshes. The heavy, warm limbs around her are so easy to welcome—so deceivingly kind—that for a heartbeat, she would abandon everything for this belonging to stay evergreen.
“Thank you,” she whispers with a yawn.
“It may not appear so, but the pleasure was entirely mine.”
“No—” she laughs, recognising he’d misunderstood. “That as well—but what I meant was…” She hesitates, taking a deep, measured breath, tilting her head to face him. “You’ve spared my life more than once.”
Through her droopy eyelids, she sees his brows fly up, gaze going wide. She smiles as her eyes fall close, exhaustion taking her. Perhaps she's already dreaming, but there is a murmur, a balmy rumble rocking her to sleep—
“I would do it again, my Lady Freya. Always.”
Sounds of daybreak drags Rey out of slumber. She stares up at the rafters, eyes heavy with sleep still, as she listens to the castle’s staff shouting orders in the distance. Somewhere further, a bell tower begins to toll.
Noises of rough chewing and animal grunts, however, makes her spring up.
She looks down to see she’s wearing her shift, her sheath and dagger restored to their rightful spot. As if the memory from last night was all but a dream, another nightmare. But she could feel it—the soreness that dug deep and burned in her limbs, in the tender skin between her legs, down to the faint, purplish bruising of large fingers at her waist.
Across the stall, she could see the horses crowding the manger, seeking oats and corn along with Benedict.
The dark stallion chomps on some hay before lifting its head to look at her, ears twitching back and forth with mild curiosity, before returning to feed from the trough.
She straightens herself, shaking off stray grain and straws from her clothing and hair. Without looking back, she departs through the main archway and walks into sunlight—
—because now, the work begins.
One year later...
“Lady Freya?”
Pouring through stacks of scrolls, Freya hums in acknowledgement at the young page by her chamber’s door. “You may enter, Bobby.”
“Is there something I may help you find?”
“No, no, I think—ah!” She claps her hands in delight, pulling out a parchment that’s been wedged between dusty, tightly bound manuscripts of yesteryears. “There it is.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing.” She smiles to herself, her fingers tracing the faded grooves of where a quill’s nib etched the lullaby’s verses. After the duchess’s execution in Sundari, much of her possessions from the lodgings were irretrievable. Branded as traitors, House Kryze was never permitted to step foot in the capital ever again—until now. “Just poems by my father. I wanted to read it properly, you see. Hold it in my hands.”
One last time.
“Very good, milady. One other thing, a rider from Kalevala came today.”
At that, she whirls around sharply, her arm outstretched to receive the letter.
Dearest Lady Freya,
I trust your stay in Sundari remains well and you have found what it is you are looking for.
Lord Fenn Rau tells us the treaty’s negotiations have turned. The rebellion will continue engaging the perimeters of Concordia, but he expects Lord Pre Vizsla will relinquish his sword in the coming weeks. The Sith and their acolytes have taken flight into the mountains. I believe their sway over Mandalore will be much diminished with The Harvest now outlawed. You and our allies have fought long and hard, and Mandalorians owe you a great debt.
As we have gained, however, we have equally lost. There are days where it grows too great to bear. Some who lived the darkness may never return from such places. My only hope is with all that we have sacrificed, our people may still prosper. I hope we are granted our era of peace, a realm without wars.
Mama says Mandalore will survive.
We always survive.
To close this letter, I bring glorious news. The new babe is in good health and spirits. Pardon my absentmindedness on this matter in our last correspondence. My sister is the most beautiful thing imaginable, a force to be reckoned with, and unreservedly eager to meet you.
We named her Satine.
Come home, Cousin. You are terribly missed.
Yours faithfully,
Koska Kryze
“Will you be needing a raven, milady?”
Hot tears sting her eyes, even as she wipes them away with haste. “First thing in the morning.”
“Shall I call for maids to assist—”
“Nothing else will be necessary, Bobby. Off to bed now.”
Once the red-headed child bows and leaves, Freya gets up to bolt the door. Earlier, she had arranged a rider for Benedict—having served her well and ready for retirement—to accompany a wagon back to Kalevala with the remainder of Duchess Satine’s personal effects. And now, after soaking in a long, lavender-scented bath, Freya knows it is time.
Spring has come.
The earliest blooms have already sprouted from the thawing earth.
All she has to do is wait.
The fires will not burn in the room’s hearth tonight. Every candle is carefully lit, the curtains closed. Each of her clothing is shucked off to the cold stone floor. Upon stepping into the linen bed sheets, she unravels her hair, sweeping them over the left shoulder like chestnut rivers. Barely three breaths later, her chamber is changing, the very air disturbed and alight with an unseen, whispering vigour that caresses the naked skin on her back before every flaming wick goes out.
Freya’s room is plunged into darkness.
Faint moonlight spills through the draperies’ gaps.
“You have returned,” she says at last.
“I never left.”
Hearing his voice again, her frantic heartbeats throb in her ears. All those long, bitter months of skirmishes and spartan conditions, she tried not to think of him. The days were harsh, and the nights turned dangerous. Too many mouths depended on the rebellion’s greatest minds. But when she was alone, having a moment of rest, Kylo claimed his place—in her thoughts, her dreams, her bed, and eventually, her heart.
Clasping her hands together, she speaks down at them. “May I ask one last question?”
“Anything.”
“Will it hurt?”
She wrinkles her nose, sniffling. The idea of the impending, solitary voyage being filled with suffering had burrowed in her heart ever since their deal. For no power to change the course of the future is given freely to mortals. Winning the war was the easiest part. And now, a payment is due. Being lonely her whole life, she thought she would be accustomed to it by now. Still, incurable wounds do arise.
Long, thick fingers hook at her chin, thumb tracing her lower lip as the Unturnable tilts her gaze up to his. She’s never forgotten how strangely beautiful he is, that his gentleness for her belied his menacing appearance—and yet, glancing at him now steals her breath away like the first time did.
“Such beauty has no place in the netherworld, Rey. You belong with me.”
Her lips part. “With…you?”
“You are not the first champion of the Three,” Kylo murmurs. He gives her an appraising look, eyes glinting in the dark. Somewhere in its depths, a drawbridge lowers. A hand is offered. “But you are the only one I wish to keep.”
Her heart swells at this, so quick and fierce, that it’s an unbridled ache.
Without taking his eyes off her, he divests himself of his robe, his tunic shrugged down his long, corded arms while striding forward. He lowers his head and presses his mouth to hers, fingers stroking over her jaw—and she’s struck by how pleased he seems, almost paternally proud of his treasured little girl.
As another night envelops the starry skies, in a tangled mess of limbs and breathy moans, he faultlessly moulds her body to his over and over again, carrying her away into an eternity of bliss.
As if they have always, always been built from the very same tree bark.
Come morning, the servants will break down the door, unable to fathom how an unoccupied guest chamber became bolted from the inside. The lodging’s owner will find a single name, Rey—devoid of a family name, bearing no crest of any kind—scribbled in the guest logs.
To add to their bewilderment, they would discover a noblewoman’s fine clothes, neatly bundled on the bed—
—and atop the garments, a glossy, red apple that's been bitten.