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It is good like this: this light in our misery, this beauty near our death. Enough to keep on writing books, painting canvases, loving, and composing music. To try to hold the day against yourself.
Jean-Michel Mauloix, This blue belongs to no one
* * *
The Ancient Valyrian Freehold, the 27th
Brimstone seems to have carved a space for itself in Rhaenyra's lungs.
The mines of Valyria are scorching. The rocks are hot to the touch, but she keeps digging, keeps pushing a fistful of rock against the soil even if her palms are bloody and her nails are cracked and her knees are aching. Heat seeps into her skin; she can feel it--settling, sickly, scathing. Occasionally, she spots a piece of gold and places it in her makeshift pocket along with the other pieces she has gathered.
"Skoros gaomagon emā?"
What do you have?
Lilac meets purple. Silver and gold. Daemon's face is filthy, like hers. His hair sticks to his forehead, and Rhaenyra scrunches the bottom of her top and uses it to wipe the sweat off the side of his face. He rubs the bone of her wrist with his thumb in thanks and picks up his rock again.
"Iēdrosa keskydoso. Ao?" Still the same. You? She replies in a murmur, glancing at his own pile. He has quite the pile, too, with big pieces of silver and gold and a few jewels splattered in between. More than enough to satisfy the masters. Rhaenyra looks at her pitiful pile, and continues digging with renewed vigor. From behind her, Daemon chuckles quietly.
"Daor jorrāelagon syt bona, Rhaenyra." No need for that, Rhaenyra. He tuts, playful amidst the heat and the sulfur and the blood. "Kesi henujagon aderī. Ziry iksos bē bantis, sepār mirrī tolī." We will leave soon. It's almost night, just a little more.
Rhaenyra sighs and looks up. Walls of brown soil surround them from all corners, trapping them into the mines with no escape. A chorus of rocks thrusting into the earth echoes all around them and she glances at the other slaves next to her. They work almost methodically; continuous, no rests in between. It's jarring how they're still able to do this. "Nyke sepār jaelagon naejot tatagon bisa se henujagon. Iksan ēdrugī." I just want to finish this and leave. I'm tired.
Daemon takes her hand and drops a quick, barely there peck on the back of it and tucks a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. He's not good with words, she learned over the centuries; he prefers showing them, and Rhaenyra understands. She always does.
"Nyke gīmigon, byka mēre." I know, little one.
The time does come for them to halt their mining. The masters bark orders in their language, though their Valyrian sounds aggressive and rougher compared to Daemon's silky, caress-like delivery. By the time he pulls her up to high ground, darkness has already begun to smear through the sky, and the pit below has become a chasm of nothingness.
They hand in today's pile to a master, and in return, they receive their food ration for the night. Daemon takes hold of her hand and together they head home. Once they've arrived at the measly hut that he built mere moons ago, they place the food inside and take their clothing off by the shore.
It's a routine now, one that she knows by heart.
Rhaenyra plunges face first into the water, eager to be rid of today's labor from her skin. The salt water burns and hurts her wounded hands, but the pain has become a familiar company that she only hisses at the feeling. She senses Daemon swimming towards her, and she welcomes him with open arms, gently rubbing her nose against his.
The both of them stay like that for a while, basking under the night stars and in each other's presence.
Daemon rubs her back. "Let me wash your hair."
She brushes a kiss on his temple and turns around. His hand instantly goes to her locks and starts washing the strands, cupping handfuls of the water and pouring it over her scalp.
This familiarity between them--it makes her burn. So many years together, and yet it still feels all the same. Crackling, sizzling. The embers never-ending.
A sigh escapes her mouth. The day's labor just seem to wear her down. She has been a slave in a few of her lives, but this is the most taxing yet. Ever since the Valyrian masters discovered gold and other exotic rocks around the Fourteen Flames, they have been determined to acquire more, but are never willing to get their own hands dirty. Instead, they had to suffer the brunt of it. Rhaenyra and Daemon had just been in the wrong place and at the wrong time when they found them.
"I have a surprise for you," he suddenly speaks up, voice lilting.
"Daemon, if you're going to part another sea again, I will kill you."
The man has the audacity to guffaw. His laugh echoes around them, caught by the waves. The sound makes Rhaenyra smile as well, albeit secretly.
"Very funny, Rhaenyra," he remarks, gently combing her locks with his fingers, his body shaking with the remnants of silent laughter. "Though it was a fun experience, too. The Pharaoh almost shit himself."
She waves a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. I was there. What's the surprise?"
He snorts and moves away. Rhaenyra turns around to protest, but he only shushes her. "You have to wash my hair too if you want to know."
She groans.
After all the washing and drying, they quietly eat their food inside the hut. It's when Daemon is finished that he stands and picks up his bag by the corner. Rhaenyra stares at him in question, wiping her mouth with her fresh cotton shirt.
"What are you doing?"
Daemon casts her an unimpressed glance. Patience, he seems to say. He comes back and sits next to her with his hands behind his back, obviously hiding something. "Close your eyes."
She huffs, but does as he said. "Daemon, just do it quickly."
"Ever the impatient, aren't you, byka mēre," he drawls. "Now open them."
The first thing she sees is an egg. Though it isn't just any egg--no, this one is different. It's bigger, heavier, swirls and patterns of color decorated its shell. It's unlike any other.
Despite her best efforts, the urge to touch it grows stronger by the second.
The tip of her finger carefully brushes its surface. It's hard. Hot. "What's this?"
"The masters call this a dragon egg," Daemon answers, eyes stuck on the egg, almost as if in awe. "I heard them talking about it for days now. They have not found any, but this one I was able to hide."
"A dragon?" The word is foreign to her tongue. New.
"Creatures that breathe flames, they said," he responds, letting his knuckles graze over the egg's shell. "Fire made flesh."
Rhaenyra does not understand what he means, but she takes the dragon egg from his hands. She thinks she feels it pulsate under her touch.
The dragon hatches two days later.
"It looks like you," Daemon comments with an amused smile while the dragon waddles around in its unsteady steps, the sand flying everywhere as it attempts to flap its wings.
Rhaenyra frowns, looking at the creature and its sharp features. It reminds her of another sort, she thinks. One that is long gone and never to be seen again, though that one had legs and this one, curiously, had wings and two feet. "It does not."
"It does." He laughs and pinches her cheek, his touch lingering. "Nuha zaldrītsos." My little dragon.
She bites his finger, but it only makes him laugh more.
"Perzys prūmia." Fire heart.
The dragon suddenly breathes fire into Daemon's direction. It's a bright thing: an amalgam of reds and oranges, the color of blood when one's flesh bleeds, the sky when the sun snatches back its rays. Rhaenyra cackles, saying he deserves it, and he holds the creature against his chest to scold it. It purrs and wriggles, coiling around his arm.
Daemon is scowling, but even under the dim sky, Rhaenyra can see the fondness in his eyes.
They named it Ābrar.
Life.
* * *
They first met in the Garden.
Rhaenyra likes to call it the Garden, because that's what it truly was: a garden. Green hills sprawled in the horizon, lush grass carpeted every step their bare feet made. Animals of all kinds dwelled in that place, and trees unlike no other sprouted the sweetest fruits she had ever tasted.
Daemon prefers calling it paradise.
She supposes he's right. He'd already been there when she arrived, and had an ample time of exploring the hidden nooks and crannies the Garden offered. Rhaenyra couldn't remember most of what happened in that place, only that Daemon had been lonely, and that when she was brought forth, he was already waiting for her, face filled with wonder and hands inviting.
Blood of my blood, he had said when she took his hand. Bone of my bone. Flesh of my flesh.
But she remembers the running, though. Recalls the temptation; the hissing of a serpent while it whispered secrets into her ear. The burst of sweetness when she took a bite of the fruit, the fear as Daemon was forced to choose between her and the paradise they had grown to love.
He had chosen her.
They left the Garden in shame, humiliated, but they left it together.
Just as it was meant to be.
* * *
King's Landing, Westeros, the 100th
"No."
"My Queen, this decision is--
"Get out."
"Queen Rhaenyra, I--"
She throws the half-filled cup of wine across the table, not caring as to whom it will land on. "GET OUT!"
The Black Council quickly scurries out of the room, footsteps hushed and quick in fear. Rhaenyra does not let go of her steel grip of the meeting table until she hears the double doors close with a loud bang and only the sound of embers flickering penetrate the room.
"You will not go," she declares with finality.
"Zaldrītsos, you know I have to."
Daemon's voice is tired. Weary. The war has worn him out. It's not strange to them--the fighting, the blood. They have conquered empires before, have fought in battles together. And yet the complexities of war, of the deaths and the despair that it brings with it, comes an immensity of sorrow that does not seem to waver no matter how many times they've lived and died.
"I forbid it!"
"It's for our cause, Rhaenyra," he grits, growing frustrated. His fingers begin to dance against Dark Sister's pommel. "If I do not interfere, Aemond will burn everything in the Trident and we'll lose more of our allies. Your hold on the throne is already frail enough as it is. We need to strengthen it, rather than let it be weakened by the deaths of our men."
They thought they had been lucky to be born with royal blood in this period, but they realized too late that the crown came with a price. A price that they would not be willing to pay had they known it would result to this.
Rhaenyra shakes her head. "No. You will not go, Daemon."
They have already lost too much in this life. Aemma, Viserys, Harwin. Her three loves. Laena, Alyssa, Baelon. His own. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Viserys, Visenya--her bright-eyed, strong-willed babes, three slain in battle, one lost in the birthing bed. She cannot lose him, never him.
Her eyes burn at the mere thought. "If you leave, I'll be alone, Daemon. I'll be--" she exhales shakily, "Joffrey and Aegon and Baela and Rhaena, you can't--they're too young, Daemon--"
His movements are certain when he walks from across the room and takes her in his arms. She goes willingly, the fire in her chest snuffing out. He buries her face against his chest where she takes a lungful of his scent: sandalwood and bergamot and dragon fire, her favorite smell in the world.
"I'll come back to you, I swear it," he murmurs against her hair, embracing her tightly. She can hear his heart beat; steady, comforting. Alive. "To you and our hatchlings. I promise you this, perzys prūmia, I will. As I always have, in this life, and the next."
"Aemond has Vhagar." A sob escapes her at the thought of Caraxes battling the same dragon that killed her Luke and his Arrax. In the same heartbeat, her mind goes to Ābrar, their little dragon, the one that the masters have taken from them. "She's bigger than the Blood Wyrm, Daemon. Caraxes cannot--"
"Shh, my love." Daemon presses a long kiss on her forehead. They do not speak of Ābrar anymore, but Rhaenyra knows Daemon is thinking of the same thing. "I'll take Nettles with me, and with two of our dragons, we'll defeat Vhagar. I swear this to you."
Death has always loomed over both of them. Never near, always lurking around the corner. Follows them from one life to the next like a shadow save for this life. No, in this life, Death is a companion. It sits behind her eyelids whenever she blinks. It crouches in the corner of their chambers like a predator waiting to pounce. She sees it above his head, even now, dangling what's to come in its slick, oily hands.
A reminder of their numbered days, she supposes. But oh, how cruel of a reminder it is.
Daemon flies with Caraxes the next morning. Rhaenyra could only watch, her heart already grieving for the inevitable.
He may die a thousand deaths, but the grief she feels for him remains the same. All consuming, all blazing.
* * *
The genesis of a new lifetime begins with mourning.
When her soul finally settles into its new body, the first, foremost thought that rushes into the front of Rhaenyra's mind is the children they leave behind. The babies she had bled for to bring into this world, the ones she took care of, nurtured until they had become big enough to stay within their mother's embrace. The what if's and would'ves. All gone in the blink of an eye. Stuck in the past with no anchor, no tether to hold on to. Nothing to bring it back.
There had been a time once when she had borne 12 children. Hers and Daemon's, with brown hair and purple eyes. A travelling merchant from Mecca told her that the gods must have loved her so much they gave her a dozen children. She agreed.
And then the flood came.
Rhaenyra remembers being tucked inside a cramped space in an ark, her clothes wet and her hair a tangled mess of wet waves. A lion was growling somewhere in the corner. Beside her, she heard the distinct sound of chirping birds. In her arms was Daemon, curled up against her chest like a child. It had been the first time she'd seen him break.
“He was wrong,” she says as the waves lulled them to sleep, and a shaky exhale escaped Daemon's lips. “For surely the gods above loved my children more. They took all of them away from me."
That moment, she swore to never bear any children again. But what use is all the love in her heart, if she pours it wholly to only one person?
It had been painful the first time it occurred—death, but not dying. A new life, but with it comes the memories of her previous. Then it transpired again, and again, and again, and when she thinks she's used to the hurt, it only amplifies. A split-second thought of freckled cheeks will flash in her mind, violet eyes, green irises, puckered lips and dirt-caked hair, and she goes back to the starting point.
She misses them forever.
Maybe that's why babes cry when they first leave the womb, Daemon jokingly said one evening as they journeyed through the Khmer Mountains, the morning fog blanketing their exhausted bodies. They're in mourning.
(She thought she caught a tear glistening along the edges of his lashes, but it might just have been a mistake.)
Rhaenyra has tried to look for others. To seek out familiar faces in the crowd, skimming through different time periods in her mind to recollect even just the slightest bit of cognizance, but to no avail.
This phenomenon, she has come to learn through the years, only occurs to the both of them.
It's always been the two of us, zaldrītsos. Daemon had commented when she told him of her findings several lifetimes ago. We have always been meant to burn together.
On that, she agrees.
* * *
Sparta, Ancient Greece, the 563rd
Everywhere Rhaenyra goes, Daemon follows.
And when he bursts into her chambers after her husband leaves for Crete, it is not surprise that overtakes her face, but satisfaction.
It is long overdue.
Her handmaidens shriek, and one even accidentally rips her tunic in fear. Normally, she would berate the girl for doing such a thing, but Daemon is here. He is all that matters, not some flimsy little fabric that she barely cares about when she can easily have another.
"Daemon. It's been decades," Rhaenyra manages to say in their secret language, eyes still fixed on the mirror. High Valyrian has always been their favorite amongst all others. Latin is a close one, though.
"Perzys prūmia."
The sound of his voice sends a shiver down her spine.
Rhaenyra stands up so quickly her chair topples over. Her handmaidens flinch, and she gestures for them to leave the room.
"B-but my Lady, the King has told us not to--"
If there is anything she has perfectly mastered throughout the centuries, it's the art of adapting to new languages. The Greek rolls through her tongue naturally, velvet smooth. "He is my husband's guest, is he not? He is not a danger, not to me." She nods towards the door, eyes hard. "Now leave."
As soon as the door closes, she instantly goes to him and captures his mouth in a long kiss.
Daemon tastes of ambrosia and wine. Of home. Rhaenyra moans at the bruising way he takes her mouth; she has nearly forgotten how it felt to be under his mercy. He bites and he licks and he pulls, he takes, takes, takes, and his hands roam along her body like he's trying to map out every plane and curve.
She pulls away as his mouth begins to travel south. "What took you so long?" A flick of his tongue against her jaw. "You kept me waiting."
"Apologies, little one. Most of my time was spent playing shepherd in Mount Ida." He sucks a spot between the juncture of her neck and shoulder, teeth unrelenting until the patch of skin turns into a faded purple. His mark on her. His brand. "Lucky enough for me, a certain goddess owes me a debt."
Before she could even ask what he means by that, Daemon is gripping both of her legs and carrying her to her vanity, where he shoves all of its contents to the floor. Rhaenyra shrieks in surprise as he sets her down and pushes her tunic up to her stomach, baring her lower half.
"Why are you here?"
He hums, looming over her with mirth in his lilac gaze. Placing his hands on either side of her, he asks, "Do you not want me to be here, zaldrītsos?"
She raises a brow. "Maybe."
They both know it's not true.
"Mmm." Daemon gives her a once over, a stare that has her shuddering, and nods to himself. Rhaenyra's breath hitches as he cups her cunt, and suddenly, she's aware of the wet feeling between her thighs, the slick pooling in between his fingertips. “So if I were to open up this pretty little thing right now, I wouldn't find you dripping for me?”
“Daemon--"
A gasp leaves her lips as he nuzzles her temple, his mouth going downwards until he nips her ear. “Sweetling,” he murmurs as the pads of his fingers begin to rub her hole, spreading the wetness around her folds that has her clenching involuntarily. “I've come to take you away.”
“Take--" she tilts her head to the side to give him more access to her neck, “--take me away from what?”
He begins to rub her clit and she moans softly. “Your husband. Your kingdom. Everyone.”
"What?" It comes out as weak. Daemon's mouth licks and bites her collarbones, and soon he's pulling her tunic down to suck on one rosy nipple. "My husband's soldiers will come for you if you do that.”
He flicks the hard little nub a bit harder than intended, and her toes curl.
“I know.” It's said in such a casual way like they're talking about the weather, but Rhaenyra finds that she particularly doesn't care as his finger begins to prod at her entrance and gods--
A curse leaves her mouth as he plunges two fingers into her opening, all the way to the knuckle.
Daemon chuckles. “Aren't you eager.” Rhaenyra could only grip the edges of her vanity as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out, a low squelching sound following his every moment. “Feels good, little one?”
The sudden stretch stings, but it doesn't stop her from wrapping her legs around his waist as he curls his fingers just the right way, hitting that certain spot that makes her blood sing.
“’S good, Daemon, f-feels so good,” she stutters out, chest heaving as his thumb reaches up to rub her clit in tandem with his thrusts. “More, please, I want--"
“Yeah? Do you want me to make it even better?”
Rhaenyra nods. A bit too desperate, but she wants more of what he can give her. She wants everything.
His big hands travel along her thighs, squeezing the supple flesh before he places one of her legs on his shoulder.
“What a pretty cunt you have here, zaldrītsos.”
Rhaenyra tightens around nothing.
Two thumbs spread her folds, revealing the pink nub hidden in between. Daemon spits on it, and licks a fat stripe from her opening to her clit, swirling his tongue around it in a way that has her moaning loudly, uncaring if her handmaidens are nearby or not.
“There we go, lovely.” His voice sends a vibration that travels through her body. “Keep making those sounds for me, sweetling. That's right.”
Lewd noises echo throughout her chambers as he licks her thoroughly, languidly. His tongue finds her clit and teases the little bud again before sucking hard, and Rhaenyra could only grip his hair as she grinds against his mouth, desperate for friction.
A litany of ah, ah, ahs fall from her lips as he digs into every crevice and wet flesh. Rhaenyra feels two of his fingers prod at her entrance, teasing, and she keens when Daemon pumps them in and out along with his ministrations.
Rhaenyra throws her head back when she feels the all-too-familiar sensation in her limbs, eyes tightly shut as her tummy begins to spasm, pleasure so close as he continues to flick at her nub adamantly.
“Fuck, I'm close--Daemon, I'm coming--”
“Come on, zaldrītsos.” The vibration makes her clench on his fingers so hard that he groans. “Do it for me, come on.”
It's when his thumb presses at her perineum that Rhaenyra finally comes, bright streaks of light appearing beneath her eyelids. Daemon does not stop until she's begging him to, and only then when he's finally cleaned all her release does he stand up. He drops a soft peck on her nose, and she hums.
Weakened limbs, chest heaving, eyes drooped, Rhaenyra could only watch as Daemon opens the chest by the foot of the bed and rummages through her husband's wardrobe. Menelaus holds a fondness for regal colors, and is often seen wearing a variety of purple shades no matter how rare purple dye is. So when Daemon uses the very same chiton Menelaus wore for yesterday evening's feast to wipe the wetness on his chin and the come between her legs, Rhaenyra could only let out a weak laugh.
“Daemon, you cruel, cruel man.”
He unceremoniously drops the cloth on the middle of their bed.
“So I've been told,” he says, smirking.
She sits up straight, groaning softly at the ache of her back. “Do you want me to--"
Rhaenyra stops and stares. There, under Daemon's stomach, is a wet spot that wasn't in his chiton when he first entered. He only raises a brow at her stunned expression.
She licks her lips. “You came.”
“I saw, I conquered. What of it?”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes and stands up, Daemon instantly going to her side as she feels her knees weaken. He leads her to the bed and helps her settle down.
Attempting to smooth out her hair and her tunic, she asks, “What did you mean you wanted to take me away?”
Daemon straightens, as if waking up from a trance. “Ah, that.”
“Yes.”
He takes both of her hands and looks her in the eye. "Come to Troy with me, zaldrītsos.” She blinks. “I'll give you everything you want. Just say it and I will be your servant."
"My husband--" she starts, but Daemon visibly bristles at her words. "Menelaus is king, he would not take this betrayal kindly. Not after the agreement he and my father made.”
"He can go fuck himself with a donkey's cock for all I care.” He scoffs. Impulsive, but hers. “You're mine."
A corner of her mouth twitches. “That I am.”
Licking his lips, he continues, "Remember what you told me? ‘You and I are made of fire.’"
"I do.”
"We have always been meant to burn together.”
A thinly veiled promise made on a rocky beach years ago, the words nearly whispered to the sea and the sun. It's almost a parallel, really, to this plan of his. Abrupt, dangerous. Undeniably reckless. Daemon has always been the bane and the boon of her very existence, and Rhaenyra would be lying if she said she had tried to abate the raging fire that runs amok his veins. After all, she is blood of his blood, from his flesh she came, and did the same fire not run in her own body?
Rhaenyra grins. She quickly digs through her drawers for her jewelry and places them in a smaller chest suitable for travelling. Daemon chuckles as he observes her hurried movements, but takes another of Menelaus' chitons and replaces his dirtied one.
She does not need any convincing. Where he goes, she follows. With a mischievous laugh, she takes Daemon's hand and together, they leave Greece.
And thus, with their escape, the Trojan war begins.
* * *
Sometimes, the wait is too long.
In moments where Rhaenyra dies first, her soul sits in a chamber of nothingness. Everything feels like a haze; she's floating, her limbs are cloudy, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts. It stays like that until she senses Daemon's death: a tingling, warm feeling traverses through her body, and before she knows it, she's transported into another time period with a new body and a new life ahead of her.
The same thing happens to Daemon, too.
This is something they could not understand, but they know that in every lifetime, in every millennia or century or era, they will always find their way back to each other. It has always worked like this. She'd always recognize those lilac eyes anywhere; the only unchanging thing in their long, long lives.
But in a few of their lifetimes, they are not so lucky.
* * *
London, England, the 7,045th
In this life, the kitchen is her refuge. Her safe space. Nothing feels more secure than the rough texture of cloth as she scrubs the discarded ingredients of tonight's dinner off the work tables. The cold, slightly rusted metal handle of the water bucket brings her comfort more than anything while she dutifully swills the blackening steps of the kitchen's back door, letting the water soak through her shoes.
With the back of her hand, she wipes a patch of sweat off her forehead. She adjusts her small head cap firmly and trudges to the kitchen again, her mind already set on the utensils and how many she'll be cleaning tonight. The Duke and the Duchess conducted a feast earlier this evening in celebration for their son's marriage to the Marquess' daughter on the morrow. Muriel, the housekeeper, had been fussing for weeks on end; the magnitude of the feast was more than the household could manage, but the Duchess was insistent.
Rhaenyra recalls a time in her life when she had been a princess. She was beloved then, she remembers. Always swathed in silks and jewels, her every request fulfilled with just a flick of a finger. Nowadays, she was not even allowed to handle fine china, let alone silver or stemware. The softness of her bed in Goryeo was exchanged for a hard mattress shared with four other scullery maids, cocooned in the cramped part of the attic with barely any space for herself.
By the time she finishes all of her nightly chores, she heads to the stairs, eager to go to her little corner by the attic and put her drained body to sleep.
But before she can even take the first step, a hand grabs her arm and pulls her to the nearby broom closet.
"What--?"
"Rhaenyra, shh, shh, it's me, calm down."
"Daemon, you shouldn't be here! Your mother--"
"Run away with me."
She stares at him, stunned. Daemon is in his suit, his silver hair perfectly styled. He paints a perfect image of a true Lord, every inch of him a product of high society.
Daemon takes her silence as a chance to continue. "It does not matter where. Let's run away together."
Suddenly, she feels so small. She can feel her soaked shoes, dripping water into the carpet. Her sweat-stained uniform clings to her body, and she's more than aware of the dirt in her hands. This body of hers is fatigued by work in this lifetime, while Daemon's has the making of a future Duke. Lean, strong, perfect. As he always has been.
The disparity in their social status has never been more glaringly obvious.
"We can't, Daemon," Rhaenyra finally answers.
Even he is rendered speechless.
"Why?"
"Your bride--" His mouth opens to argue, but she perseveres, "--your bride is backed by a powerful family. She is nobility. Your parents promised you both to each other, and that promise is not to be broken, lest there'll be a scandal and your family will forever be shunned by the ton."
He's quiet, but she can see the fire burning in his eyes. Rhaenyra knows he's thinking.
Besides, his bride-to-be is a pretty thing. She had seen her in passing during her family's first visit to the Duke's manor. Chocolate curls fell like a waterfall against her back, her eyes as green as trees in the Garden. The Lady Clarice will be good for him, she thinks. An innocent face. A fresh beauty. Better suited for him than someone from her lot.
"You don't want to be embroiled with a scullery maid, do you?"
His nostrils flare in anger. "You know I don't care about that, Rhaenyra."
"But I do, Daemon." She allows herself to touch his arm, if only a little. Just to feel him against her fingertips one last time. "I do."
Daemon shocks her by pulling her body in his embrace, his arms wrapping around her dirty form. Rhaenyra tries to push him away for fear of staining his garments, but he only nuzzles his face against her neck and presses a kiss on her skin.
Eventually, she stops fighting back. He's always been stubborn, her warrior. She circles her arms around him; sandalwood, bergamot. No dragonfire, not this time, but she swears she can still smell that distinct scent of smoke and flame and dragon.
"Run away with me, zaldrītsos."
Tomorrow, she will be forced to witness Daemon bind himself to another.
But as she tightens her arms around him, for now, she thinks, this is enough.
* * *
My life has been the awaiting of you,
/ Your footfall was my own heart's beat.
Paul Valéry, The Footsteps
* * *
Los Angeles, California, the 60,000th
Being burnt at the witch trials in Germany is a much better alternative than standing under the Los Angeles heat, Rhaenyra thinks.
Her young, 22-year old body should be able to keep up with all this bullshit, especially since she's lathered on three handfuls of Cerave Hydrating Mineral Sunscreen for protection. But when you're running after a hyperactive, over excited five year old around a fucking museum lobby with your sunscreen dripping on your face, then that really isn't a possibility, is it?
"Matthew! Get your butt in here or else I'll call your mom!"
And she can't even curse properly. Darn it.
Rhaenyra holds the child's hand in hers as they navigate through the museum. Child kidnappings are more prevalent in this time period, and she makes sure that Matt's hand is firmly in hers, and his Find My iPad app is activated. Her phone's ringtone is also on 100% volume in case his mom calls, plus she has her self defense keychain in her left hand for extra safety.
"Are we there yet, Rhaenyra?!" His high-pitched voice asks, jumping up and down.
She snorts and swings their hands together. Babysitting may be a pain in the ass, but Matt is just too adorable. "Not yet, but we're close. Just a little more walking, okay?"
He nods, his curls bouncing as he did so. Her heart clenches. "'Kay!"
When they reach the dinosaur hall, Matt instantly bolts from her grasp and runs in front of the dinosaur exhibit, childish squeals leaving his mouth in a flurry. Rhaenyra quickly takes out her phone and snaps pictures of the kid. She sends them to his mom, eyes never leaving his enthusiastic form, typing a message that would have been a jumble of letters were it not for autocorrect.
"Nyra!" He comes back running. His gaze is filled with pure, innocent happiness. Rhaenyra tugs his curls lovingly. "It's cool, isn't it? I can't believe this is real!"
She stares at the dinosaur skeleton again. A typical T-rex, nothing too mind-boggling besides the fact that it's bigger than an average mammal. "It's... alright, I guess. Not that impressive."
What's impressive was the Titanosaur that nearly tore her leg from her body when they ventured out in Patagonia several millennia ago. That was the fastest she's ever ran in her entire life.
"Really? You don't like it?"
"I don't like it, I don't hate it either. It's okay."
And maybe that had been the wrong thing to say to a dinosaur loving child, because as soon as Matt is certain she isn't joking, he runs away.
She sighs internally. What is it with children running away when they're mad. Nonetheless, Rhaenyra takes a long inhale and follows after the five year old.
His little feet didn’t take him that far. She eventually finds him standing in front of another historical piece, gawking up to try to see the contents of it clearly. When she gets closer, Rhaenyra recognizes the piece to be a roll of papyrus engraved with aged ink and colored illustrations.
“There you are,” she exhales, placing her hands on her hips. Matt calls this pose as her babysitter stance. Whatever that is. “Don't run away again, Matthew, you hear me?”
“What does it say, Nyra?” Matt ignores her, wow, and instead points at the display. “Can you read it?”
Rhaenyra's eyes flit towards the scroll. The hieroglyphs are familiar to her as is any other written language. Eternity. North wind. Celestial heights. Earth. It brings a bit of nostalgia, but as she's about to reminisce about her days under the Egyptian sun, Matt repeats his question.
She scoffs and moves closer. Messing with him won't hurt a little bit, she thinks. “Hmm.. it says here: ‘Children who run away from their babysitters will be eaten by the Boogeyman after dinner.'”
Matt looks like he doesn’t believe her.
“It's true!”
“No, it's not! You're acting sus… susfishes!”
“Suspicious, Matthew.”
“I don't care--"
A voice cuts through their argument. “Homage to thee, Osiris, Lord of eternity, King of the Gods.”
Rhaenyra freezes. Stops breathing, feels her heart quickening.
She feels Matt turn towards the stranger in surprise. “You know how to read this, mister?”
A chuckle. That sound… “You can say that.”
Years. It's been years since Rhaenyra saw him last. Years since she last felt his touch, years since she has felt the hidden flame igniting within her bones.
Slowly, she turns around and her breath seems to leave her lungs for a millisecond.
“Zaldrītsos."
Liquid pools of lilac meet purple. Silver and gold. He is her mirror. Her other half.
Everything in the world is right again.
"Daemon."
* * *
And ever after more misery, mixed with more beauty. As long as we can, we will accompany the passing of time with our fingertips.
Jean-Michel Mauloix, This blue belongs to no one