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silversiren1101 · 3 months

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At The End - OCKiss24 Salvadore x Minovae

I managed to find time to actually participate in a writing event! We can thank my new ADHD meds for that I'm sure. Anyway, this first is featuring my Minovae and @dmagedgoods Salvadore, who I have long cherished their relationship as much as it's fascinated me. They're what could have been and what could never be. I'm so happy with how this came out - please know I cried multiple times while writing it!

Violet eyes looked out over the city below and beyond the marble balustrade. Smoke rose from nearly every main plaza and thoroughfare, and even what seemed to be the most innocuous of alleyways as well as the highest parapets. For the first in some many decades, nay, a century, even, there was no cause for alarm from this. It wasn’t demons ravaging the last line of defense in this nation that both was and wasn’t, but now could be. The war hadn’t reached here, Nerosyan, the capital, because the war was over.

The Knight Commander had done it. Knight Commander Salvadore had closed the Worldwound. Where no other could, and it hadn’t been for lack of trying, but for all so much bloodsoaked and desperate failure, the war had finally ended.

And by a poncy, arrogant noble with a stick up his ass to rival even Iomedae’s.

Miracles, it seemed, weren’t in so short supply as the name of this age had made it seem.

Minovae sighed deeply looking out over the city with its night sky filled with smoke for the first time not from war but from celebration, her tail listlessly hanging off the edge between the balusters. Bonfires beat back the darkness, and she realized then that the smell and sight was what was making her stomach clench and eyes rimmed with wet. How much like home it was, poor battered and stripped Westcrown, whose nightly pyres weren’t out of any cause for celebration but to beat back the shadow-beasts that stalked her streets once the sun set and feared the light.

A home she knew she’d never see again.

The ache in her mind from Thrune’s brand told her as much. She’d never make it as far as Westcrown once she crossed the border of homeland. They’d take her back to Egorian, where the beginning of this end began, and they’d put the loose end that she was to close once and for all. It was coming. Soon. She knew it was. They might even be ready to disappear her as soon as she stepped from Nerosyan’s walls.

The thought only reinforced that emptiness that pervaded her. She had nothing left to fight for, anyway. Even more, she’d fought alongside heroes. She’d helped do the impossible. The Crusades were over, and she’d played no small part in it. Even the fact she wore this evening not her armor, its weight heavy and familiar comfort, but finery, felt strange. So much of her existence had been defined by steel and blood and blade and shield, and now it was drawing to a close not in the middle of a craggy field that smelled of iron, but on the night of celebration, in a gala hosted by literal royalty.

The liquor in her glass burned comfortingly as she took another sip. ‘As strong as you have’, she’d told the man, who’d grinned and reached under the bar for something so old and dusty she hadn’t been able to catch the label. It did the trick, vapors stinging her nose and warming her throat and gut better than anything she’d had in years, and she reminded herself to thank him before she left for the night.

“Ah, here you are.”

She would have started had her senses not been dulled by drink—truthfully, this was her fifth glass. The clink of the ice as she’d knocked it back had disguised his footsteps, she surmised. He had no reason to sneak up on her tonight, and he walked with all the confidence and bravado his station and title presumed on his behalf at nearly all times.

“Here I am…”, she flicked her gaze to the corner as he came to the balcony balustrade, leaning against it, mindful of her tail where it trailed across the marble. Those icy blues locked onto hers and held that gaze firm. She might have thought it a challenge, or some type of implied order as he was oft to give, had his lips not been lightly tugged ever so upwards at their corners into a smile that was, by all accounts, warm. She stared at those lips perhaps a moment too long, before continuing. “Though I’m not sure it is really you, Sal, with such an expression on that face.”

He took no offense to the diminutive of his name. Not with her, at least. But she did note the quirk in his brow; inquisitive.

“My dear, it is a night for celebration, if you have not noticed.

“And so even the great Salvadore can afford himself a smile? I see”, she smirked.

It felt bitter. Even as happy as she truly was for him, for all of them, the emptiness of her future had tainted this night before it had even began. She quickly returned her gaze to the bottom of the glass cradled between her fingers, dangling over the edge of open air above the city below.

A heavy beat of silence passed. She knew without meeting that gaze again that he was aware something was weighing on her. He was one of the few she’d ever met that matched her ability to read nearly anyone, no matter how inscrutable.

“You should go back inside, you know. It is a night for celebration, after all”, she used his own words, hoping it would rub him wrong enough to just make him leave. “I’m sure they’ll be wondering where the man of the evening is.”

But, she knew the copious drink had taken her off her game tonight. Normally she could handle him as she did other nobles, though certainly not lightly–he’d ever been one of her most difficult rivals. Even admitting as such had rankled her, but now, here, she could only think of the term fondly. She internally cursed the sweet heat cloying her thoughts.

“Without you? Without whom this would not be possible? No, my dear, your absence has been noticeable enough. You have spent enough time endearing the night air with your appearance, when it would be much better spent on the unworthy eyes back inside.”

She snorted at that. Shook her head. “Are you saying I look nice?”

“Is that such a surprise? You look beautiful. It is a crime that the first time I have seen you in a dress, you’ve spent most of it hiding away.”

It was true. She’d been present for the opening ceremonies, of course. She’d even started the night just as lively and bright as nearly everyone else, dancing one or two waltzes with their friends—then, someone had asked her what she would do next, after all this was done.

And the brand seared into her mind had started to ache.

She swallowed down a sigh, not wanting him to hear. Her tail, heavy, almost languidly, pulled itself back up from the plummet she wanted to take before them and instead squished the air like shoulders would a shrug.

“You could have always ordered me into a dress, if you were so desperate to see it.”

“It would not have looked half as radiant on you than one donned willingly. I can see there was truth to your stories. Any lesser man in there would crumple before you, if you had your heart set on crushing theirs.”

Had he always been this funny, she wondered. No, it was the alcohol working in his favor. Still, she chuckled. Heat licked to the skin beneath her scaled cheeks. She knew she must’ve looked much like a watermelon then–those green-tinted opals sitting in a sea of red.

“Alright, alright. Need I tattle to Daeran with how much you’re trying to butter me up?”

It was an empty threat and joke, they both knew. The only thing Daeran would be mad at was that he was not here to see and hear this for himself.

“When I left, he was last doing what I expected you to be doing all evening. Dancing the night away, breaking those hearts with each hand he trades for another.”

“I’m glad he’s enjoying himself. It’s just… louder in there than I remember…”, she answered wistfully. “I’m not used to being around so many people again. At least, not in a war camp… without my armor.”

He knew all about her past navigating through galas and parties much like these. She’d told him as such, how she used to stalk her prey on their own grounds, playing their own game; the Hellknight who’d eschew her armor for a dress and weapon for an invitation to dance, luring the guilty in with honey only to bring them to the guillotine all the same.

She only hoped he’d accept the excuse. Just telling him the truth would kill her. Him, possibly, too. Literally. The last thing she wanted on her record before she went to the Boneyard was taking down the angelic hero who’d ended the Crusades in a blackened, infernal blaze of her brand detonating.

“It has quieted some. The wine has seen to that, and most have had their choices in dance.”

She hummed. “Then surely my presence isn’t that missed.”

“On the contrary”—a shift of movement caught her attention. She looked back up from her glass toward him once more, and found a hand, fingers lightly curled upward, extended in invitation towards her.

“This entire Crusade, you have bragged about your prowess on the dance floor and told me of your greatest triumphs taking down ‘arrogant blowhard fops of my caliber,’”—she felt a rush of even hotter flame to her cheeks and a rattle shook her tail as he’d remembered one of the rants she’d gone on after particularly pissing her off—“, and yet, I have yet to see it for myself. I insist: would you have but a single dance with me, Lady Minovae?”

She stared. First, at his hand, those tan fingers extended invitingly. By all accounts they should be as rough and calloused as hers, and yet they looked untouched by the horrors of the war they’d both fought through, side by side. His nails were perfectly cut and filed, and shone beneath the moonlight. Hells, she swore there was a light glow emanating from it, but she had no idea if it was just from how bright the moon was, or because of the angelic power coursing through him. It looked warm, despite him being a dhampir.

And then her gaze shifted upward, to the rest of him. His blue eyes had narrowed, warm, inviting, despite how piercingly cold their color was. She noticed then that the night had gotten to his usual perfectly manicured and groomed self. Some hairs had fallen from his typical neat style, wayward curls—curls!—teasing his forehead and giving him an almost roguish appeal that made her breath catch. For once, he looked real. He looked mortal. At this, his highest point in power, literally touched by the Heavens and the Abyss alike, Salvadore looked more like a living, breathing, touchable person than at any other point in which she’d known him. He didn’t rise in her that distrust and disgust that normally appeared when she lay eyes upon a noble, even with him dressed in the brightest white and gold finery she’d ever seen.

He looked…

Warm. Handsome. Inviting. Mortal. An ally. A friend. Something more. Her breath caught for a moment. She found herself staring at his lips again, sitting above his chiseled chin and jawline. Had they always looked so… soft? He was doing that soft smile again, confident and controlled, but welcoming. The kind that made you let down your guard, of which the whiskey clouding her thoughts certainly wasn’t helping.

“A good kisser?”, she snorted derisively. “I didn’t know they taught you how to kiss in noble school. I certainly don’t know where else you would’ve learned given how insufferable you are. Unless that mysterious ‘mentor’ of yours taught you that, too.”

Salvadore only made a low noise in the back of his throat, confident and knowing. The look he shot her was much the same. “You are welcome to a demonstration, if you need the proof, my lady knight, Arangeir.”

Her boisterous laugh was all the answer he needed: never in a million years.

She remembered the moment in a sudden flash like it was yesterday. She couldn’t even remember what had triggered that conversation, but she certainly remembered the tease and invitation now. It hadn’t been a million years, but she wouldn’t get a million years. Sal might. He and Daeran together. But she wouldn’t. She might not even get a week. Daeran would forgive her for this, she knew… and well, if he didn’t, she supposed she wouldn’t be around long to suffer it.

“…A dance?”, she licked her lips, suddenly feeling overly warm, overly flushed. Her dress exposed much of her back and shoulders, letting her feathers and scales breathe , and only went to about her mid-thigh regardless. Still, she felt hot. She felt stupid, too, but did it matter? “You can have your dance, if I can have something in return.”

That piqued his curiosity. Salvadore drew his hand back slightly, if only because he’d straightened his posture. His head tilted, and a brow raised. Something glinted in his eye. Concern? She didn’t care.

“Do you remember months ago… You claimed to be a good kisser. I didn’t believe you. What if I told you I still don’t?”

Her pulse was racing now. She could feel it thud-thud-thudding in her chest. It got even worse as realization dawned upon him.

She half expected a slap; he was a taken man now, after all. He might have even just turned around and gone back inside, which, fine. For the moment, though, he only stared at her. She could tell he was trying to decipher why she was asking for this now, why in the Hells now? Could she blame him? Of course not, he had no idea the severity of the truth, of just how little time she had left to do what she wanted and be a little crazy before everything ended.

What she didn’t expect was for those fingers to return. Closer. Curled under her chin.

She gasped lightly, hotly, as Salvadore clasped her jaw. Those hands were cold, as she thought, but the feel of that icy chill across her flushed skin felt almost like healing magic dancing across wounds, knitting them closed.

Her tail vibrated anxiously, filled with so much energy where it had lain dead before. She could feel her feathers rising from neck to tail tip, fluffing up in that way that made her look like an alarmed cat.

Their eyes held each others’, and his additionally held a question.

Now or never.

“You promised a demonstration”, she merely answered.

He needed no other reassurance.

Their height difference made it more difficult than it should have been, but Salvadore had been only truthful in his claims. He knew exactly what to do.

A hand pressed to the flat of her back, directly over the strip of feathers running down her spine and scales surrounding them—now running icily themselves trying to cool her down. She briefly wondered if he even noticed with the chill in his own hands, but let it drift away as soon as it had come. He pressed her close and up, bidding her to her toes as he himself confidently arched downward.

Soft. They were soft. How funny it was, she thought, that such iron and coldness could come from those lips only for them to be so damn soft. Softer than hers. Theirs pressed against the other, and her eyes slipped closed upon the gentle impact. She mapped them in the darkness behind her eyelids, each and every crease, the cupid’s bow, the feel of his breath across her face.

When had she last been kissed? She didn’t remember. Wetness rimmed her eyes again. She didn’t even love him. Love had escaped her at every turn, snatched away always and viciously by circumstance. All she could think of was the emptiness, of what hadn’t been and what she’d never had. His lips right then, for only this brief moment, were filling that yawning void. It was a piece that didn’t fit in this puzzle. Not perfectly. But for a moment, it was filled.

Then pressing. Then prodding. Further still, he took it, and she went rigid in shock before melting as his tongue breached what should have been where this had ended. It brought with it the taste of wine, luxurious and more opulent than any her salary would have spared. Something in her found it funny that for as much as she’d always tormented him about her dislike of fine wines, he’d still found a way to share a glass with her.

At the end. Of everything.

#oc: minovae arangeir #oc: Salvadore #ockiss24 #MANY TEARS were shed writing this #obv this is one of the darker timelines I could see Mino falling into - but is it truly too late?#I think he could still free her and save her future but time is short #where is regill in this? she didn't become more to him in this timeline - with her companion quest unresolved he wasn't pushed towards her #the loneliest and most doomed Mino is a selfish and reckless Mino who realizes she has nothing left to lose

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calisources · 6 months

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GEORGE R.R MARTIN'S FIRE AND BLOOD QUOTES. all sentences here were taken from the book fire and blood which in part was adapted to hbo's house of the dragon. change pronouns, names and location as you see fit. warning for some foul language and mentions of inc*st.

“Then the storm broke, and the dragons danced.”

“A ruler needs a good head and a true heart, a cock is not essential.”

“Words are wind, but wind can fan a fire.”

“My father and my uncle fought words with steel and flame. We shall fight words with words, and put out the fires before they start.”

“The seeds of war are oft planted during times of peace.”

“Only you could have won me away from the sea. I came back from the ends of the earth for you.”

“The Iron Throne will go to the man who has the strength to seize it.”

“I fed my last husband to my dragon. If you make me take another, I may eat him myself.”

“Let no man think that the fire of the Targaryens did not burn in his veins.”

“We are as the gods made us. Strong and weak, good and bad, cruel and kind, heroic and selfish. Know that if you would rule over the kingdom of men.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“Thrones are won with swords, not quills. Spill blood, not ink.”

“Such a fierce little thing she is, she has no need of comfort. They are wrong in that, I fear. All men need comfort.”

“When the gods are silent, lords and kings will make themselves heard.”

“I do not have the time for tears.”

“Pride goes before a fall.”

“It is always winter now.”

“I will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that.”

“But we will come again, Princess, and the next time we shall come with fire and blood.”

“Surely the Mother Above loved my children more. She took so many of them away from me.”

“The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew, a boy a cousin, aunt, or niece.”

“ This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons.”

“The blood of the dragon must remain pure, the wisdom went. ”

“Familiarity is the father of acceptance.”

“Brother, you need never kneel to me again. We shall rule this realm together, you and I.”

“All men are sinners.”

“You rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death.”

“We came here to be free of Old Valyria, and your Targaryens are Valyrian to the bone.”

“They practiced blood magic and other dark arts as well, delving deep into the earth for secrets best left buried and twisting the flesh of beasts and men to fashion monstrous and unnatural chimeras. For there sins the gods in their wroth struck them down.”

“She has such a tender heart. Give me time, and I will find a lord to cherish her.”

“Not every Targaryen needs to wield a sword and ride a dragon.”

“I would sooner she wed a lord, but if she prefers a hedge knight or a merchant or Pate the Pig Boy, I am past the point of caring, so long as she picks someone.”

“If she wants I can find a hundred men and line them up before her naked, and she can pick the one she likes.”

“I'll have no songs about how brave you died, Kingmaker. There's tens o'thousands dead on your account.”

“Who can presume to know the heart of a dragon?”

“The Red Keep has its secrets, known only to the dead.”

“He bound the land together, and made of seven kingdoms, one.”

“Sixteen Targaryens followed Aegon the Dragon to the Iron Throne, before the dynasty was at last toppled in Robert’s Rebellion. “

“Dorne has danced with dragons before, I would sooner sleep with scorpions.”

“Winter’s here. Time for us to go. No better way to die than sword in hand.”

“The High Septon was the true king of Westeros, in all but name.”

“I will leave the making of law to you, brother, I would sooner make sons.”

“And with his death, the war of ravens and envoys and marriage pacts came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began in earnest.”

“Paying coin to the usurper is proof of naught but treason.”

“Poison was regarded as a coward’s weapon, and lacking in honor.”

“For both the blacks and the greens, blood called to blood for vengeance.”

“It was a good time, a golden autumn, a time of peace and plenty. But winter was coming.”

“The confidence of youth counts for little against the cunning of age.”

“Thankfully I proved too small for the wolf to notice.”

“Such stories make for charming songs, but poor history.”

“Why be a lord when you can be a king?”

“Only the gods truly know the hearts of men, and women are full as strange.”

“Whatever her powers, it would seem Daemon Targaryen was immune to them, for little is heard of this supposed sorceress whilst the prince held Harrenhal.”

“They called themselves the Winter Wolves.”

“We have come to die for the dragon queen.”

“Under the terms of the pact, the prince’s firstborn daughter would be sent north at the age of seven, to be fostered at Winterfell until such time as she was old enough to marry Lord Cregan’s heir.”

“For the rank and file of the City Watch still loved Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City who had commanded them of old.”

“We are done with writing letters.”

“The North was too remote to be of much import in the fight.”

“The Dance of the Dragons is the flowery name bestowed upon the savage internecine struggle for the Iron Throne of Westeros fought between two rival branches of House Targaryen during the years 129 to 131 AC.”

“His mount was blood-red Caraxes, fiercest of all the young dragons in the Dragonpit.”

“The bells began to ring on the tenth day of the third moon of 129 AC, tolling the end of a reign.”

“These happy bastards were said to have been “born of dragonseed,” and in time became known simply as “seeds.”

“House Tyrell would take no part in this struggle.”

“For all the vaunted strength of its walls, King’s Landing fell in less than a day.”

“This is a night for song and sin and drink, for come the morrow, the virtuous and the vile burn together.”

“How many came to see the crowning remains a matter of dispute.”

“This we do know: Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling.”

“Here I have you to myself, day and night,when we go back, I shall be fortunate to snatch an hour with you, for every man in Westeros will want a piece of you."

“I have the dragon’s bastard in me.”

#rp meme #sentences memes #rp resources #meme call #roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. )#rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt

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velidewrites · 2 months

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Don’t Look Back

Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.

Chapter 5/15 || Read on AO3 || Go to Chapter 1

Chapter 5: The Hold

Much to Elain’s dismay, Lucien decided to put a blindfold on her before she managed to examine the strange place.

The Vanserra Hold, Lucien had called it. All Elain had caught a glimpse of, though, was the circular clearing, and the fire burning around it. As far as she was concerned, the only things this forest held were the Vanserras’ egos and a rather pungent collection of mud.

She could feel the magic around her, though. The metallic tinge of it was familiar enough for her to make out through this blend of autumn and sunlight—she had scented it on more than one occasion in her father’s private repository. It was almost like autumn had somehow found a way to trap this piece of land as the rest of the world moved through the rest of the seasons unaffected.

Despite herself, Elain enjoyed the way it warmed her skin. Her body seemed to move of its own accord as she tilted her chin upwards, as though to soak up whatever light the gaps between the trees offered.

Doing so had been a mistake—something sharp caught in her hair, grazing against the back of her neck lightly, and Elain jumped at the sensation.

“Stop moving,” Lucien instructed, tying the piece of cloth around her head at last. The blindfold may have covered her sight—her entire face, really—but Elain could practically hear his eyes roll at her reaction to his claws. “I thought you weren’t afraid of monsters, Princess,” he teased.

“Stop calling me that,” she barked. Frankly, she was starting to get quite sick of his little jabs—sick of everyone calling her the title she had not earned. In their mouths, it had always sounded like at worst mockery. At best, it had been respect for her father, not Elain. Never Elain.

She felt Lucien shrug. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said, taking a step back as if to admire his work. “You’ve had no trouble calling me a beast earlier.”

“I never said beast,” Elain corrected.

A sigh. “Beast, monster,” Lucien said. “Creature. It’s all the same to me, just as I know it’s all the same to you.”

Behind the blindfold, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to know what I mean,” she hissed. “You are a monster. You killed my mother.”

“Eris did.”

“I don’t imagine you tried stopping him,” Elain said, crossing her arms over her chest in accusation. “He doesn’t even feel a shred of remorse about it.”

Lucien snorted. “No, he does not,” he said. “And neither do I. Think of me whatever you like, Princess, but I’m not even half the monster your mother was.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the Fae slander her mother in the past few hours. The two of them had never been as close as Elain had wished—Mother had always seemed to prefer Nesta, which, as disappointing as it once had been, was not surprising in the least. Nesta was, and always had been, a force to be reckoned with—an heir that would strengthen the Merchant’s position in the new world no matter the odds. Elain…Mother had never once looked at Elain the way she would look at Nesta. With pride, with determination. Still, Elain supposed, it was better than Mother never looking at her at all.

As much as she’d always underestimated Elain, and ignored her youngest daughter completely, Elain had never believed her mother to be a bad person. She was ambitious, yes—stricter than most parents would have been, even the titled ones—but a monster…

She wished she wasn’t blindfolded, if only to give Lucien the nastiest look possible as she told him, “I don’t believe you.”

An equally nasty retort must have been armed at the ready on Lucien’s tongue, because Vassa interjected, reminding them both of her presence, “Give them a chance, Elain.” A hand on her shoulder—Vassa’s, thankfully, if the gentleness of the touch was any indication. “I promise you, all will be explained soon.”

“Ah, yes. The truth.” Elain rolled her eyes, and, as politely as she could muster for old time’s sake, shook Vassa’s hand off. “I want to believe you, Vassa, but how can you be sure they didn’t use their magic to lure you over to their side?” she asked, then added, “In New Prythian, they tell us if the Fae who could hold a person’s mind like it was nothing. Who could make it their own with less than a snap of their fingers. How can you be sure they haven’t done the same to you?”

To her utmost surprise, Vassa giggled. “Eris doesn’t have this ability,” she said. “And neither does Lucien—though I imagine he feels very bitter about it.”

A low scoff sounded beside them. “Can you not see me standing here?”

“Either way,” Vassa continued as if Lucien hadn’t spoken at all, “I didn’t simply trust their word, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There is…” she hesitated. “An object.”

Perhaps it was the Merchant’s daughter in her—but Elain’s brows rose. “An object?” she asked, her interest piqued as her mind began running through her father’s collection of truth-enhancing artifacts.

Lucien hissed. “Not here, Vassa.”

Vassa sighed deeply. “Sorry, Elain,” she told her. “You’ll have to be patient with us, I’m afraid.”

Elain huffed. “It’s hard to be patient with a blindfold around my face,” she complained, blowing the loosened cloth away from her mouth. “I can hardly breathe.”

A light step towards her crunched one of the autumn-coloured leaves as long, slender fingers reached for her, gently adjusting the blindfold and pulling it high enough to expose her mouth to the sunlight once again. It was a nice change from Lucien’s talons and Vassa re-tied the piece of fabric—a little tighter this time, yet not tight enough to pull on so much as a strand of hair.

“Thank you,” Elain told her, shoulders relaxing in Vassa’s warm presence.

But it wasn’t Vassa’s voice who spoke back, so close to Elain’s face she could almost feel its owner’s breath on her neck as he pulled back. “You’re welcome,” Lucien said quietly, leaving nothing but a light tingle on her skin.

The memory of his body’s closeness to her own made Elain suck in a breath, and, for the first time, she truly allowed herself to think about the events before she discovered Lucien’s deception. The way he’d swayed her in a dance, a strong hand braced gently on her waist. The way his laugh rasped against her ear as he told her her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen—as she had confessed the exact same to him before pressing her mouth to his own.

The reminder of it—the lie, made her empty chest tighten. But before she could take her thanks back, before she could blow up at him for tying her up and taking her from her home all over again, the sound of someone’s steps reached her ears.

Eris stopped by her side, tall and commanding. “If you three are done wasting our time, I suggest we get moving.”

“Let me help you,” Vassa offered, taking Elain by the arm. “This really wasn’t necessary, Eris,” she added pointedly, her gaze palpable on the cloth covering half of Elain’s face.

“I can’t have her running back to the Merchant and spilling all our secrets,” Eris said calmly. “The entrance to the Hold is sealed and has never been opened by anyone who doesn’t bear the Vanserra name.”

And with that, he simply turned and left again.

“So demanding, these males,” Vassa hummed, and, with a light tug as her only invitation, Elain started walking.

The heat of the fire burning atop the pillars signalled that they reached the very centre of the bizarre circle—the entrance to their family hold, Elain suspected from Eris’s words. As much as she hated to admit it, Eris had been smart to demand a blindfold be put on her. Elain would’ve started noting every corner of this place into her mind had she only been able to see them.

Still, she would make do with whatever clues she’d been offered. The ground changed beneath her feet, the heavy echo of stone signalling what had to be a door. The Vanserra Hold laid underground, then—it was not some invisible fortress hidden between the trees she’d initially suspected had been glamoured using whatever remnants of High Lord magic Eris still possessed. If he indeed was the direct descendant of Old Prythian’s Fae regime, Elain needed to be careful. The Fae’s magic had become nothing but a shadow of its past might, but—as Elain had learned—darkness could be haunting if one walked into it blind.

Silently, she cursed the damn blindfold again.

Around her, the flames intensified, and Elain could feel it blaze high up into the sky at whatever command Eris had given it. To have such power over an element, especially one as uncontrollable as fire, filled Elain with unease. Just what, exactly, could the Vanserras do with the fire in their blood?

The stone rattled loudly beneath her feet, and she felt Vassa pull on her arm once more as if to get her to step back. Elain obeyed. She may not have appreciated being taken here, but that hardly meant she’d let herself be swallowed by the depths of the earth itself.

Apparently, she was instead supposed to walk into them of her own volition. The entrance had stopped moving after a few seconds, its final groan sounding in what had to be a hallway stretching underneath. After Vassa murmured something that suspiciously sounded like “stairs,” Elain realised this might take a while.

To have survived this long—five hundred years after the War, to be exact—the Vanserras must have taken all the precautions their magic had allowed for to protect themselves. The Hold must have been carved deep into this enchanted piece of land. Elain couldn’t help but feel some excitement at the thought of being one of the few humans allowed to step foot in it.

Kidnapped or not, she was in Old Prythian. She had visited Braemar only once as a child, and, even so, she had spent the entire trip either in her father’s golden carriage—so unlike the half-rotten wooden wagon Lucien and Eris had her travel in—or the Huntsman’s fortified castle. She wasn’t even allowed outside—not that the Huntsman had any gardens or sights to offer beyond the hunting rounds surrounding his residence. Elain wondered how Vassa must have felt leaving that place for good—seeing the world beyond her father’s iron gates.

Elain had always found ways to occupy herself. The Archeron Manor boasted acres upon acres of rolling green hills, of greenhouses and little fruit orchards Elain tended to on summer days. It was her way of being useful, in whatever way she could. She was not a tactician the way Nesta or her mother had been, or a free spirit like Feyre, sneaking off the family grounds whatever chance she could. Perhaps it was why Elain hadn’t ended up married to one of the most powerful men in the world, like Nesta. Perhaps it was also why she hadn’t ended up killed like Feyre.

The thought made something heavy lodge itself into her throat as she began descending down the stairs. Her quiet life spent conforming to the rules may have avoided her being married to a family as cruel as the Harvester’s, or being taken by the Fae and presumed dead. But, about to discover the trove of one of the most ancient magical families Prythian had ever seen, Elain couldn’t help but wonder if she ever truly lived at all.

Nesta had hardly written her at all these days, kept under the Harvester’s close watch, but Elain had no doubt her older sister’s scheming did not end with her marriage. And Feyre—her wild, wonderful Feyre—while she hadn’t lived very long, Elain knew that, if given another chance, Feyre would not have let herself be trapped in their family’s manor for the sake of something as fleeting as safety.

Perhaps, eventually, she would have run away the way Vassa had, which brought Elain back to the question she’d been meaning to ask ever since that awful carriage ride to the Hold.

“How on earth did you manage to kill twelve men on your own?” she turned to Vassa, grimacing at yet another wet drop of watery mud gracing the top of her head. From the amount of cracks in the ceiling, Elain deduced the Vanserra Hold was a lot older than five hundred years—perhaps twice that, or even more.

“You don’t get to be the Huntsman’s daughter without learning how to fight,” Vassa said, a sly smile creeping into her tone. “I became a warrior on the day I learned how to stand.” Then, “I could teach you, if you’d like,” she offered.

“Oh, I’m no warrior,” Elain said. Someone like Feyre or Nesta may have taken her up on the offer, but Elain…

“Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you can’t learn how to fight—to defend yourself,” Vassa said. “Lucien isn’t a warrior, but I can assure you he knows how to land a strike or two.”

Somewhere behind them, Lucien scoffed. “Excuse me—“

“Oh, shut it,” Vassa interrupted, much to Elain’s content.

The corridor rumbled with a snarl in answer.

Elain jerked her chin pointedly at Lucien. “He sure seems like a warrior to me,” she told Vassa, who laughed at the comment.

“Lucien commands one of our legions, but his primary role is diplomatic in nature.” Elain felt her shrug. “He’s an emissary—sometimes even a courtier, when the situation demands it.”

Elain arched an eyebrow. “Courtier?” She scoffed. “I’ll make sure to advise all the other human courts to keep him off the guest list.”

Courtier. The Fae certainly had some way of showing it. As far as political envoys went, Elain was pretty sure she’d never heard of kidnapping their host being one of their responsibilities.

Lucien seemed entirely unbothered by her not-so-subtle dig. “I have no desire to attend your human parties—if you can even call them that—ever again,” he said.

Rude. “Looks like he could use some additional training,” she said to Vassa. The woman laughed again, apparently all too happy to play witness to their exchange.

Lucien hummed lowly, the sound reverberating into her bones. “You seemed to find my presence perfectly enjoyable, Princess,” he teased, the stupid nickname quickly prompting the return of the anger she’d been stifling.

Lucien Vanserra was such a liar.

“Is he always this insufferable?” Elain asked gruffly.

Vassa’s chuckle danced off the stone walls. “Oh, yes,” she told her. “Worse, even.”

Elain didn’t get the chance to play along—the entire party came to a halt.

She heard the crackling of flames again, followed by a quiet whisper of something she couldn’t quite discern from Eris’s lips—and then, a loud grunt of heavy, wooden doors, protesting against the clearly rusted, iron hinges.

Vassa led her into the room, an almost indiscernible gust of wind greeting them as they entered. Elain felt the wooden panels beneath her feet—then a balustrade, smooth and polished as though recently renewed. She rested her hands on the wood, then reached out only to find an empty space.

A pair of hands reached the knot tied at the back of her head, working smoothly to undo it. Elain nearly sighed with relief as the material fell from her face, and her gaze immediately darted to follow its direction.

It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.

Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty corner, It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.

Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty space, containing what Elain had to imagine were artifacts the family had gathered over the course of their entire lineage. Sofas, ottomans and small, cushioned puffs waiting at every level, as if to provide reprieve for every Vanserra wishing to take a moment to study the knowledge and wisdom of his ancestors. The entire place had been crafter of warm, auburn wood, with small globes of fire trapped within stained glass floating around calmly, illuminating the space.

It was a library. It was a treasury. It was a home.

Eris led them to the left of the small balcony, then through a foyer where the staircase to the first downstairs level stretched out, and a door waited patiently to let new visitors in. Eris ignored the staircase, much to Elain’s disappointment, and wrapped a freckled hand around the golden handle—then twisted.

They walked into an unassuming, circular study, with red sofas and a large, heavy desk placed at the back of the room. The entire wall was clad in paintings—some of them portraits of the Vanserras of old, most brown or red-headed, all with a piercing, fiery stare—and others displaying scenes of a hunt, with the family mounting proud stallions and flaunting red banners, hoardes of greyhounds running at their side.

The Vanserras, Elain realised right there and then, had once been royalty.

“Stay here,” Eris instructed, as if thoroughly unimpressed by the scenes laid out before him. “Vassa, I need you with me,” he then said, and, without so much as turning over his shoulder, went out the door.

The only thing Vassa offered Elain before following in the High Lord’s footsteps was a rather exaggerated roll of her eyes. “All those centuries, and they never learned to say please.”

***

Because luck seemed to have made its personal nemesis out of Lucien, he was left in the room with Elain Archeron. Alone.

He did not support Eris’s decision to bring her into the Hold. It had always been a trove of their family’s legacy, and, more importantly, their secrets tha Elain was not privy to. With the exception of a few close allies, no living beings apart from Lucien and his brother knew about this place, and Lucien preferred to keep it that way. There were so few places he could call home these days.

The truth, as Vassa had so eloquently put it, could have been revealed to Elain somewhere else. As far as Lucien was concerned, the Merchant’s daughter, of all people, had no business stepping foot into the Vanserra Hold.

But, for some reason far beyond Lucien’s imagination, Eris wanted her here, even when her family had proven time and time again they were not to be trusted.

He would speak to his brother about this later. For now, apparently, he was Elain Archeron’s assigned guard dog.

Lucien dared a glance at the human Princess, and regretted it almost immediately. As much as he didn’t enjoy her presence in his home, she might very well have been the most beautiful thing that had ever made its way into the Vanserra thought.

He could almost feel his ancestors’ sharp looks of disapproval from the portraits above him, as if they had heard the traitorous thought. They haven’t spent much time alone, and yet, whenever the two of them had found themselves with no company to interrupt them, Lucien had a hard time remembering what Elain truly was. It felt strange—that something so beautiful could have come from a lineage of such monsters.

There was simply something about the way she took in her surroundings, wide-eyed with the awe written all over her face—as though she could feel the magic buzzing in this place. It lit up her features like the fire shining above them, like the sunlight warming the entrance to the Hold, turning her brown eyes into pure, liquid honey.

There was some wariness etched into her face, too, though. She must have recognised exactly how much power this place housed, and how unmatched she stood in comparison had she tried to run away again. Clever little thing—he could practically see the wheels of her mind turning, cataloguing every image, every object into the pages of her memory to report to her father later.

Over Lucien’s dead body would he ever let that happen.

“I have to ask,” Elain’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “What was so horrible about our human parties?”

Lucien blinked—how she’d always managed to catch him off guard, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Perhaps it truly was some magic the Archerons passed down to one another generation after generation. Perhaps it was in their blood to be the thorn in the Vanserras’ side.

Their conversation from a few minutes ago flitted back into his memory. What wasn’t wrong with the humans’ dreadful balls and ceremonies, really?

He told her exactly that. “They lack…life. You walk into the room and the very air drowns you.” He shook his head, recalling the engagement festivities arranged by her father. “It’s impressive at first, I’ll give you that—the walls and chandeliers dripping in gold, and the finest cuisine the world has to offer.” He grimaced. “But then, the music starts playing—and it may be performed by some of the most sought after quartets in Prythian, but…”

Elain’s perfect brows rose an inch. “But?”

“The dancing—all of it, really—it feels like a chore. A formality required to earn some standing in society. Your parties,” Lucien added, the word he’d been chasing finally finding its way onto his lips, “feel like a contract. The dullness, the lacklustre monotony of it—

Elain huffed. “Alright, I get the picture,” she interrupted, but Lucien hadn’t missed the curiosity in her gaze as she side eyed the scenes of the hunt stretched out beside them. “What are your parties like, then?” she asked.

It may have been the longest the two of them had spoken since the ball, Lucien realised. So little time had passed since then that it almost felt as though they were continuing their conversation from the night before. “I’m only a little over four hundred years old,” he told her, ignoring the shock parting her mouth at his words. “I never got to witness my predecessors’ celebrations before the War, or any of their holidays for that matter. A shame, really.” He felt his mouth twitch. “One of those holidays, I think I would have been a most devoted participant of.”

“I have a feeling I know where this is going—something terribly Fae and uncouth.”

“Quite,” Lucien agreed, unable to keep the grin off his face. Something told him he was going to enjoy scandalising this female—this woman—his mind immediately corrected, but he ignored the voice anyway. “In most parts of the world, they called it Calanmai, or Fire Night. It originated in the Spring Court, actually—the lands your family has claimed as New Prythian.”

Elain frowned. “We do not have any such holidays in our records.”

Lucien scoffed. “Of course not. I don’t imagine you humans would have found it appropriate by any means. Calanmai was a celebration of the coming of spring—and in the Court itself, it was a most sacred ritual performed by the High Lord to imbue magic into the land. Think of bonfires, thousands of them, lighting up every hill, smoke lilting into the stars. Drums, loud and echoing into the night. And wine—so much of it that you’d end up falling asleep under the sky, waking up to the spring breeze in your hair. The sun warming your face.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “Or, at least, that is how it was described to me.”

He could have sworn something pink heated in Elain’s cheeks. “I could see it, you know. You being a courtier—when you’re not such a condescending asshole, that is.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I have never met a Princess so crass before,” he purred, deeply revelling in the resentment she bore for the nickname. How could she not be a Princess, though? Everything about her stance radiated command as she crossed her arms in disdain, her full lips pursing and those doe-like eyes flashing with challenge.

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Lucien’s mouth twitched. “And I told you I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said. “Comes with the Asshole title, I’m afraid.”

Delighted, he watched as Elain whirled back to the Vanserra family portraits, murmuring something that suspiciously like prick and ridiculous, even her ears flushing that warm, lovely pink. Lucien smiled to himself.

“So, what was the ritual?” Elain’s voice reached him, still gruff as she focused on the rather unpleasant profile of Lucien’s great-great grandfather.

“Ritual?” Lucien questioned, his attention refusing to step back as far as two minutes ago for reasons unbeknownst to him.

Finally, Elain turned to him again. “Calanmai,” she reminded him.

Right. Lucien coughed again. “As I mentioned, infusing magic back into the land was the primary aim of the celebrations—it was the High Lord’s obligation to perform what was called the Great Rite.”

Elain’s brows knitted. “And how, exactly, was he supposed to do that?”

The grin made its way back Lucien’s face as he explained, “Every year, the High Lord of the Spring Court allowed the power of the Rite into his veins. Transformed into a beast, a creature of the very essence of spring, he would allow it to seize his body, his mind, his senses entirely.” He met Elain’s gaze directly as he added. “Each year, the magic would choose a Maiden—usually one of the members of Calanmai celebrations—a companion for the High Lord to…complete the Rite.”

Elain’s eyes widened. “They—they would—”

“Fuck, yes,” Lucien completed for her with a wave of his hand, eliciting a small gasp from Elain’s lips. He chuckled. “And, with the act, they would ah, release the magic into the land. To allow crops to grow healthier, of course.”

The silence hung between them long enough that Lucien couldn’t help but tease her some more. “Something wrong, little fawn?” he asked, realising that he was indeed thoroughly enjoying this—and that perhaps it was a good thing Eris or Vassa weren’t here to scold him for scandalising their guest a step too far. In his defence, Elain had asked him first.

“Your parties sound outrageous,” Elain finally said, that heat in her cheeks rising.

Lucien winked. “That’s exactly what parties should be, Princess.”

Elain smiled at that—a true smile, the kind she’d offered Vassa when she first saw her at the camp. The same kind she’d offered him when she hadn’t yet thought him an utter monster. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me how to throw better parties?”

Lucien choked. “Show you?”

The picture of it invaded his mind without warning—an image of him and Elain partying the way Lucien’s ancestors demanded it. A cave, lit up by faelight and thrumming with magic, their bodies naked and intertwined on the mossy earth, its fragrance mixing with their sweat. Elain laid out bare beneath him, her breasts heaving up and down in panting, shallow breaths as he entered her, so perfect and ready for his taking, his—

Lucien sucked in a breath, nearly choking again on the force of it, the force of the picture pushed back into the darkest, most secret corners of his mind. Eris and Vassa should have been here after all, if only to remind him of what happened the last time Lucien Vanserra had decided to trust a human like Elain Archeron.

Because she was a human. And the humans—the humans took his mother. His father, however horrible he had been. His brothers. They had nearly taken Eris, too, and Lucien’s heart right with it.

Lucien would not let it happen again. He would not let another Jesminda into his life.

“Of course,” he said tightly, “My people’s traditions would not have faded from common memory had it not been for you humans.” He shrugged. “As for why we brought you here—take it up with Eris. If it were for me, I would have never brought you into the Hold.”

He could see it—the way Elain’s smile faded. The confusion filling her shining stare, blending into hurt, so sharp it could no doubt pierce his own chest if she only stepped in closely enough.

Lucien could see it all, and the worst part of it was that he hated himself for it.

“We brought you into the Hold,” Eris voice sounded from a place Lucien was not yet ready to return to yet as his brother walked back into the study, Vassa falling into step beside him, “Because it was the safest place to show you this.”

In a few long strides, Eris reached the desk, and placed the heavy object right at its middle, the wood croaking slightly under its weight. A thick red fabric—an old Vanserra banner, from the looks of it—covered the globe entirely. Eris motioned for Elain to step in closer—and she did, as if drawn by the mystery of it alone. Lucien, though—Lucien remained frozen in place.

“This,” Eris began, placing his hand atop the smooth surface, “is the Veritas Orb.” In one, swift motion, he slid the banner off, revealing one of their family’s most prized and priceless possessions. The Orb shone a quiet, crystalline light, as though somehow made of all the colours and none of them at all, humming gently at the closeness of its owner’s hand—as if begging. Touch me. Talk to me. Ask me.

But Eris turned from its whisper—and looked at the Merchant’s daughter who stood in utter shock, mesmerised by the treasure laid out right before her.

“So, Elain Archeron.” Eris smiled. “Are you ready to learn the truth?”

#elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar #my writing

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thekingofwinterblog · 3 months

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The Kinslayings, an escalation of Pointless Violence

One thing I love about how Tolkien portrays the Kinslayings of the Feanorians, is how they tell a tale that ties into his ideas of how evil is an influencing force that will destroy a person over time if he ever tries to justify wickedness for "the greater good".

And he should know, as a man who fought and survived WW1, one of the most pointless wastes of human lives there ever was, justified by "othering" men with the same roots, religion and values as oneself in order to justify killing millions of them, as well as sending off an entire generation of young men to die for these hollow ideals, he would know a thing or teo about justifying wickedness "for the greater good".

The start of the first kinslaying is the only one that is arguably "Necessary" from a brutal, utilitarian perspective.

The Noldor need to get across the sea, meaning they either have to procure ships, or they have to walk across the deadly land bridge in the north.

So with these two options, if they choose to sail, they have 2 options. Either they get the ships that alreqdy exists one way or another, or they take the painstakingly longer road of making new ships themselves.

Now this second choice doesnt exactly line up neatly with an event that came later, but it very much brings to mind how during the war of the last alliance, the gathered forces of Arnor and Gil-galad spent years painstakingly making equipment, procuring food, and making battle plans for the campaign that would lead them to victory.

Now they didn't exactly have any easy options then like the Feanorians do, but it shows what Tolkien's message is. The hard road, with work, preparation and planning is the way to go.

But of course Feanor was not one such.

Instead when he was not allowed to borrow the ships, he and his responded with threats, then murder, as they slaughtered their own until just now friends and "Countrymen"(In as so far that they were all elves of Valinor".

It is a brutal, heartless afair that sours any and all goodwill they might have gotten from the Valar if they had done this in a better way, and has massive consequences for all elves who now find themselves barred from Valinor.

But that's not where it ends, because what follows is Escalation.

Feanor and his sons have gone down a path from which there is seemingly no going back from, and so, deciding that if he uses the boats to go back to valinor and ferry across the rest of his own people, his subjects, the people he hinself lead to kill their own comrades and friends, he leaves them to their own fate and burns the ships he stole down, in order to ensure that he would remain the unchallenged leader of the Noldor in Middle Earth.

Taking the boats, horrible, and evil though it was, was a genuine means to an end.

This is simply banal politics that not only split the Noldor at a time they really, really needed it, but probably cost hundreds of thousands of them their lives during the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Its a slippery slope.

Once you give in to justifying evil for a cause, you will innevitably become more than willing to excuse other evil for it.

But you know what the best part is?

Acording to one version of the Kinslaying, One of Feanor's sons wanted to go back to Valinor, presumably to repent, and despite having sworn an "unbreakable oath", he was willing to go back on it because he came to realise that his actions were wrong.

And he was not killed by some divine bolt of lightning, but his own father lighting the ship he was on ablaze withouth knowing he was there.

Again, Tolkien makes his view on people who cling to "justifications" for evil quite clear.

The second Kinslaying is even worse than thw first, for it exposes absolutely everything for how it is.

It is important that this takes place AFTER the battle of unnumbered tears.

There is no glory left for the sons of Feanor at this point, for any chance of actually defeating Morgoth, avenging their grandfatger, father and all their now fallen brothers and reclaiming the silmarills by some glorious feat of arms has now passed.

They, and all the rest of beleriand now lives in the shadow of Morgoths innevitable victory, which he is taking his sweet time with.

But since there is small chance at taking the silmarills from Morgoth, they give up on that, because that is the hard road, and these men do not have the character of strength to actually take the hard road, which demands actual strength of character.

Instead they decide to target the one they can target, the one carried by King Dior, a man who has done them no harm, no injustice and by all accounts is a good man.

And they murder him. They kill his wife, and destroy his kingdom, one of the few realms that still exists and still fights the good fight against their supposed final enemy Morgoth.

And then, in an act of cruel and wicked spite, angry that this man had the gal to resist when they came to steal from him, and murdered his people, they take his two sons out in the woods, and leave them to starve or be slaughtered by wild animals.

But should we expect better? These men partook in all the ills of the first kinslaying, and so, are willing to cross any and all lines for their "great cause", for that is all that they have left.

Maedhros tries some repentence at this point, and decide to seek out the children his men left so cruelly to die, but he does not find them. The narratice does not reward him for this halfhearted attempt at redeeming himself if he is not willing to give up this vainglorious oath of his.

Which leads us to the final kinslaying, though i would argue there was a fourth one, which serves as the ending of this tale

The third kinslaying is the worst of all, and it is such an evil act that even some of their own troops, people who stood by them through the first kinslaying, the betraying with the burning ships, the tragedic defeat and aftermath of the battle of the unnumbered tears, and the second kinslaying, turns on them and tries to oppose them, having found the guts to do what none of the sons of feanor ever had and abandon this foolish quest.

Upon learning that Elwing, the only surviving member of Dior's family they unjustly slew is chilling with the survivors of the rest of the genocides of Beleriand, they decide, screw it, lets just sack this last remaining, undefended city, kill everyone we can, take the silmarill and sort out the consequnses later.

The previous kinslayings were unjust, evil, wicked, but they were military conflicts. There was a fight, regardless of how onesided they might have been.

The slaughter at the havens is anything but.

Is is genocide, snuffing out, or as good as, the last remaining survivors of Doriath, Gondolin and others.

If any of them survived this final sack, they were so few that their entire cultures effectively died out with them.

And once again, they are denied their price. They capture Elwings sons, Elros and Elrond to use as hostages in hope of negotiating back the silmarills.

With all of this in mind, the final chapter of this story is not particularily surprising.

For after the war of wrath is over, and the Valar's forces has done what they could not, and defeated Morgoth and taken back the silmarills, they are bluntly denied them when they try to claim them from the victorious forces, citing all their very evil deeds.

The two surviving brothers have a debate of what to do. Breaking their oath, or trying to fulfill it, either by once more trying to take them by force, or by going back to valinor and seeking pardon, hoping to once more get back the silmarills not by force of arms, but by showing themselves worthy of them after seeking redemption.

Of course, the first and last option would require actual strength of character, and so the two of them decide to take the two silmarills at hand by force, assuming they will die trying.

However, they are denied that death, and instead the commander, after they slay several of his men, decides to let them go with the silmarils, rather than respond with the death these two probably deserve at this point.

Their prize, as he expected, rejecta both of them.

The holy jewels they started this whole adventure to find, the ones they exterminated people to get, now violently rejects them for their evil deeds and character.

And in one, final set of utter and total showcase of what pathetic men they are, rather than abandoning the gems so that they could be returned to Valinor, they instead ensure that if they cant have them, nobody can.

Maedhras throws himself into a gaping, fiery chasm to ensure that both he and the Silmaril are lost beneath the earth.

Meanwhile Maglor throws his into the sea, to ensure the same thing, only chooses not to take his own life as well.

It is a last, spiteful set of acts that shows that neither of these men ever had the fortitude to do the right thing, and as a consequnce of their horrible oath, it all spiralled to this point, where even if told by the silmarills themselves how evil they have become, they still arent able or willing to do the right thing if it means going against their own oaths.

Because if they did, then that means that absolutely every, single evil, monstrous thing they and their brothers did was conpletely inexcusable, and they dont have the guts to do that.

It takes character to admit that you were wrong, owe up to your mistakes and take responsibility rather than clinging to the justification that brought you down this road to begin with. Or as Tolkien described both himself, his countrymen, and his enemies, all so similar to each other during the first world war.

"We were all Orcs in the great war" - J.R.R Tolkien.

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #feanor #sons of feanor #maedhros #maglor #meta #tolkien's legendarium #j r r tolkien

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outofangband · 3 months

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Rambling Morwen thoughts, more in my houseless for exiles tag, sorry for aforementioned rambling

“Rashness, lord! If my son works in the woods hungry if he lingers in bonds, if his body lies unburied, then I would be rash. I would lose no hour to go to seek him.”

-Chapter 14, The Journey of Morwen and Niënor

Everything in this exchange is so important to me, but it’s specifically the if his body lies unburied that really gets to me because I think it speaks a lot about Morwen’s trauma from the Bragollach, and Húrin and Rían’s vanishing

Just have so much of her pride is in twined with her grief so much of her grief is so intertwined with uncertainty, and not knowing.

Her father and uncle, and a lot of her male relatives who died with Barahir, she never got news of their death. If she did, it would’ve been decades after it happened when she finally came to Doriath, if Beren’s full history was known there. Her mother may well have died in the Bragollach too*

And then her cousin, the last of her people there also runs off, and she never gets any news of her, and she never learns at least presumably never learns what happened to Rían’s son**

And of course Húrin! Húrin Rides off for war and never returns, and no tidings from any of his people who fought in the battle come back either. She doesn’t know if he’s dead, or captured, or simply prevented from returning as she says herself.

I have a couple posts in my houseless for exiles tag about this but also leaving Hithlum behind, knowing that she would never see it or its people again, and would likely never know of their fate, is yet another grief. She would have left Aerin and anyone else she was close with, knowing the circumstances they would be in and knowing the parting was a permanent one.

Which leads to my main point

Morwen is willing to drown crossing the Sirion (as she tells Mablung) or be murdered by Morgoth’s most dreadful monster (as she nearly is) trying to get news of Túrin, or save him or even just to bury him! She’s willing to risk that just to make sure he gets proper burial and so she knows what has become of him.

I’m sorry to bring this back into my thoughts about those words and traits that are always associated with Morwen; her pride, her grief (and also her inability to grieve!!,) and severity and stubbornness and resilience but I think it’s all so fascinatingly connected. She has been denied closure for decades. She’s willing to do pretty much anything to make sure it doesn’t happen again

And that’s part of what makes that last interaction at the grave of her children so heartbreaking

And this should be a post in itself I’ll make later but I also think about how for those who knew Morwen, they suffer this same uncertainty

…but Morwen also was lost. Neither then nor after did any certain news of her fate come to Doriath or to Dor-lómin.

(Also, I love her being able to tell the difference in the members of the party and to be able to tell that there’s one more member that there should be when these thousands of year-old fully trained elven scouts didn’t notice that it’s both awesome and very funny to me! And the part about Morwen refusing to be led back to Doriath by Niënor! It’s the second to last mention of her pride and resolve in the novel and it’s part of the last description of Niënor as Niënor!)

Anyway I love Morwen very much and I will do an entire post on the whence came he! Scene

* Neither the mother of Morwen nor her parents or any other maternal family is mentioned in canon. In The Shaping of Middle Earth, Tolkien originally had the mothers of Morwen and Rían as being of the house of Marach, his original reason for them having survived the Bragollach and ending up in Hithlum. He discarded this however, making Morwen and Rían refugees of the Bragollach but never saying anything more about their mothers.

** kept this part short as I have several post specifically about this aspect of their relationship and their relationship and general, which are very important to me, I’ll link one of the more recent ones just for my own organization here

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #morwen #houseless for exiles #musing and meta #and they saw her no more

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miquella-everywhere · 4 months

Text

Elden Ring Analysis: The Greater Will and its control of Marika and Radagon

This is just me trying to figure out the timeline of Marika and Radagon along with some speculation.

The Greater Will sends down the Elden Beast and presumably around this time Marika is chosen to be the vessel for the Elden Ring (Whether she was born a vessel or chosen later in her life is unknown)

She marries Godfrey and the War of the Fire Giants happens, Marika/the Erdtree is victorious against them leaving only one Fire Giant left. She curses him to tend to the forge and she too is cursed herself either by the Giant or the Fell God

Marika presumably gives birth to Godwyn after this as there is no evidence that he fought during the War of the Giants(at least none that i could find)

Also at some point Morgott and Mohg were born. But it begs the question of who was born first? The Omen Twins or Godwyn 🤔 Who is Marikas first born?

And so it was also during this time that Marika likely began to harbor her own doubts about the Golden Order, and it likely stemmed from its treatment of Morgott and Mohg

I personally believe that Marika loved her children alongside Godfrey, but unfortunately for her and the twins, Order must be upheld, so they are cast away into the shunning grounds.

Marikas doubts began to grow and Godfrey went on to concur the rest of the Lands Between. He went on to the Stormlords in Limgrave and Castle Morne and when they all fell to him, the first part of Marikas plan began.

She divested grace from Godfrey and his warriors making them Tarnished.

So the Greater Will, sensing its vessels doubts, and potentially, her brewing betrayal, procured insurance and made Radagon.

And also, during this time while Godfrey was campaigning in the south, Leyndell was also seeing strife with the Carians and Raya Lucaria in the west.

Radagons exact origins are debatable, either the curse of the Fire Giants on Marika cast away and given life, but my personal belief is that he was taken from Marikas soul. Her literal other half.

With Marikas own faith wavering Radagon in turn was meant to be a perfect and loyal follower of the Golden Order; given all of his actions regarding Caria, going to war against them and then marrying into them when their subjugation wasn't an option, leaving without hesitation when he was called back and leaving Rennala a husk of her former self, (also turning rennalas wedding gift, the moonlight greatsword, into the golden order greatsword as a show of proof to his dedication to the Golden Order like how fucking RUDE) it was likely all according to a much larger plan to cripple Caria in order to make the Golden Order/Greater Wills influence more powerful

With all of this in mind, I would say that the extent of Radagons own agency and personhood is debatable.

So then, Marika exiles Godfrey and when that happens Radagon is called back to the Capital to become second Elden Lord (the exact timeframe between with Godfrey leaves and Radagon returns to Leyndell is unknown)

So Marika and Radagon wed and do the deed resulting in Miquella and Malenia.

The exact relationship that Marika had with her children is a mystery but considering the Gideon dialogue saying that "perhaps the Queens sorrow was justified" means that she cared for and loved them very much. And since Miquella and Malenia were both born cursed this likely added even more to Marikas grief and doubts about the Greater Will.

And while Radagons relationship with Malenia is unknown, in canon he was close with Miquella in their youth, as Miquella attempted to find a cure for Malenia within Golden Order Fundamentalism, Radagon was there by his sons side developing incantations

But when Miquella discovered that Fundamentalism could do nothing to cure Malenia of her rot, he promptly rejected it in full, and presumably Radagon as well.

Now, personally, I can't imagine that this went well for Radagon. Considering his "leal hound" status and how he is wholly dedicated to the Greater Will he possibly saw Miquella, his prodigy son, an Empyrean chosen to potentially succeed Marika(Himself) as perfect. So when his golden child rejected everything to do with the Golden Order it probably stung Radagon to his core. (but thats just my opinion lol)

So Miquella and Malenia leave Leyndell and a few several centuries or millennia pass and then the fateful Night of the Black Knives happens.

Godwyn the Golden is murdered. Queen Marika is driven to the brink. And shatters the Elden Ring. While Radagon attempts to repair it at the same time.

Now with the shattering of the Elden Ring Marika is essentially commiting suicide as she is its vessel. She is the Elden Ring as much as the Elden Ring is also Radagon. And so the two halves, once separate but destined to become one, as per the Law of Regression, fuse together permanently and are imprisoned within the Erdtree by the Elden Beast.

And even though Radagon attempted to repair the Elden Ring and was still completely loyal to the Golden Order, he too was punished, as he is at his core, whether he wants to be or not, Queen Marika.

And this also makes me believe that Radagon and Marika most likely despised eachother.

Edit:

Also ANOTHER interesting thing featuring Marika and her apparent disdain for the Golden Order is her relationship with Maliketh. Her shadow and supposed half-brother is treated very poorly by Marika, or at least that's how the item description read to me. Marikas sole purpose for Maliketh was to contain destined death, and after that she had no further use for him and kinda just... tossed him to the side. And yet Maliketh still remains loyal to her, and continues to try a battle and consume death, as that is what killed Marikas beloved Godwyn.

Although there also may have been a lapse in his loyalty, specifically when Marika shattered the Elden Ring. There's a red stake/spear(?) going through her body as she's imprisoned in the Edtree and I believe that may have been inflicted by Maliketh, for a Shadow must put down their Empyrean if they ever stray from the Erdtrees path.

#uri posts #elden ring #queen marika #marika #radagon #radagon of the golden order #elden ring theory #miquella the unalloyed #maliketh #maliketh the black blade

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eighthdoctor · 1 month

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So, as a fan of Forsaken Sylvanas I've always wondered how you view her more immoral or hypocritical actions. I don't mean the later stuff from when she was Warchief or even necessarily Vanilla WOW.

For me, I always struggled to like Frozen Throne Sylvanas compared to her Reign of Chaos incarnation because Forsaken Sylvanas employed mind control, IE the same slavery forced on her, onto others.

Specifically she had a bunch of different people possessed and used as kamikaze soldiers on Varimathras and then kept the survivors to be used later, IE Mug'thol the Ogre who only broke free thanks to the Crown of Wills which he was later assassinated for.

The act itself just always struck me as incredibly hypocritical given everything. It wasn't killing and then being magically enslaved but it wasn't much better and sort of set the tone for me not being surprised by Sylvanas and the Forsaken being kind of bastards.

That isn't to say I necessarily thought it was a good decision.

Nor is it to say that it couldn't be made into something thematically resonant. The victim perpetuates a similar crime done unto them if perhaps less extreme out of desperate survivalism but has complicated feelings about it, or the like.

But given that didn't happen, well its a lot like how I don't take Bartman's "no guns" stance seriously when his best friend is a cop. The narrative and thematic dysfunction breaks my vibe. But I am curious about your take on all this.

SORRY FOR THE MULTIPLE WEEK DELAY ON THIS I HAD LIFE HAPPEN REPEATEDLY and also wanted to put some thought into this

okay so required reading which will underpin a lot of this:

what is a war crimes on azeroth

how does Sylvanas see her job as the Banshee Queen

what's up with the Maw [ETA: I don't remember why I put this one in...presumably past!me had a reason?]

as per the war crimes post, I am not using any real world examples for my own sanity, and trying to draw real world parallels will get you blocked, because I'm not interested in getting into that cesspit.

anyway so! the question!

context for everyone else: the events in question happened very shortly (months to a year or so, the timeline is SUPER fake) after Sylvanas fought free of Arthas's control, with.......some number of supporters.

the number of Forsaken/free undead here is important. if Sylvanas is commanding a significant army, then she has many viable routes toward keeping her people safe. if she's commanding fifteen soldiers and an undead goat, then almost any action becomes justifiable.

an unexplored angle in the war crimes post because god knows it was long enough already: the goal being fought over.

we find war crimes/atrocities more palatable when they are being used in defense against invasion than when they are used in perpetuation of it. we find them more acceptable if done by the smaller, weaker force fighting for survival.

this isn't a "get out of jail free" card to do whatever the fuck you want. but if there's a limitless army of demons invading my city, a few atrocities to keep them from ending life on the planet sounds like a fair trade.

and then, of course, a huge POINT in the war crimes post is "we don't do these things because we get really upset when they happen to US", so the moment the OTHER side does a war crime it's now fair game for everyone.

which is to say: as of frozen throne, Sylvanas is fighting entirely for survival. there is not an organized force on Azeroth (or even most of the unorganized ones) who wants her & the Forsaken 'alive'. they are everyone's favorite punching bag. everything she does is for sheer survival.

so how many Forsaken are there? good question.

when poking around the wiki it looks like there are two different ways to estimate the size of the Forsaken at this point in time:

from WC3 gameplay

from WoW gameplay & lore (ex, the History of Warcraft fragment Civil War in the Plaguelands)

unfortunately these uh. contradict. the fragment explicitly says she got half the Scourge (well done Sylvanas holy shit), and god knows there's enough Forsaken PCs running around to validate this.

but WC3 gameplay leans very much toward "scrappy band of rebels" imho. the wiki has "With only a handful of ghouls and a few banshee sisters" (here) which is hardly half the Scourge. it looks much more like it's her, the Dark Rangers, a smattering of weirdass things she took with her in the divorce liberated in her escape and...Varimathras. everyone's fave.

let's put those two together.

let's say that Sylvanas did liberate half the Scourge. in particular, given various propensities among Forsaken PCs, she got a disproportionate amount of the recently dead and relatively few of the older abominations.

and when her tens-or-hundreds-of-thousands of undead came to awareness again, realizing who they were, what they had been made to do, the world they were now resident in--

they collapsed.

what if in frozen throne Sylvanas has a city's worth of undead who are collectively unable to defend themselves, unable to do anything, and she's got maybe a thousand who are actually viable fighters, and everyone wants them wiped out.

(the single arguable exception to this, the quel'dorei, are in the middle of whatever the FUCK kael'thas is up to. idk. i've read the relevant pages 10 times and it still makes no sense. he got afflicted with Gotta Carry The Plot disease and everything went to shit from there. point is, they're busy.)

so with that context.

it is, of course, horrible to possess people and use them as sacrificial soldiers. this is a Bad Thing to do etc.

it's also very strategically sound. it allows Sylvanas to hurt the enemy without risking anything. there's no possible drawback here except some squishy ethics, and "doing horrible things in defense of civilians" is, at least, a huge step up from what Arthas made her do.

if Sylvanas had had other options, if there were more functional Forsaken at that point in time, then different story, but WC3 gameplay strongly strongly suggests that no, a very small percentage of those who were going to make classic era Forsaken were actually fighting in frozen throne. how else was she going to protect her people?

but in general, much, much more sympathetic to people doing war crimes if they are horrifically outnumbered and otherwise going to be wiped out. that tends to provoke anyone into atrocities.

I've talked before--I actually talk in the latest chapter--about how Sylvanas is always defending Silvermoon. this is another iteration of that.

it's also VERY early in her....'character arc' might be a bit strong. trajectory. Sylvanas-on-Gor can set the moral limit of "no rape no slavery", because nothing that happens on Gor is going to change the fates of the Forsaken (well...it is, but indirectly). even Sylvanas-as-Warchief can draw that line, because she is Warchief and the Forsaken are considered part of the Horde, not the Horde's cannon fodder.

but the actions in question were done when Sylvanas wasn't in the Horde. before she'd even named the Forsaken.

to sum up:

I don't think it's hugely hypocritical, or rather, it kind of is, but desperate times etc, she was pushed into a corner and tore her way back out again.

Blizzard's failure to follow up on their own themes remains, as always, a problem. but it's not my problem and I'm perfectly happy to grab some themes and run.

I do think torturing/mind controlling Derek was hypocritical, which is why I completely wrote that part out of the fic. boring, Blizzard. and what was the point? far more effective to leave him just as he is and watch Jaina try to find the trap.

#asks for ts #tumblingxelian #the power to manipulate belief #long post for ts #blorbos from my games

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storm-and-starlight · 4 months

Text

so the idea of an Earthspark fic following the bots not on Earth after the spacebridge broke has been rattling around inside my head basically since the show first came out, centering around "what if the Quintessons took advantage of Optimus and Megatron being out of the game and Rodimus had to step in", but I never really had a plot for it until about two-ish weeks ago when one just Showed Up.

I'll warn you now it just straight up doesn't have an ending, but who knows, maybe that'll show up too someday.

Anyways since I doubt I'll ever be able to write in in a way that does it justice, here's the bulletpoint outline of what I do have, under a cut bc Long

Important Backstory Notes (not, like, a prologue, just stuff that would need to be sprinkled throughout as context)

The whole Knights of Cybertron thing was well before the Thirteen Primes, enough that it's mostly fallen into legendary-type history instead of commonly-taught history, though the process is more pronounced due to how centralized information storage (and really the entire concept of information storage that isn't entirely dependent on a living being like a Titan) wasn't really a thing until late(er) in the Age of Primes, and only became standard until after the loss of most of Cybertron's Titans.

The Thirteen Primes, Prima and all the rest, rose to fame during the last Quintesson war by being generals and heroes and scientists, the figureheads of the war and the people who saved the Cybertronian species from perpetual slavery.

All but one of them, that is. Quintus Prime, researcher, scientist, who loved life in all its forms (and, some would say, who loved organic life a little too much), disappeared with his artifact the Emberstone -- the final safeguard against the loss or corruption of the Allspark -- and was later found to have defected to the Quintessons, with his technology and that of the Emberstone showing up in the Quintesson efforts.

The Primes eventually won, and beat the Quintessons away from Cybertron.

Unwilling to lose their image of planetary harmony that they worked so hard to create even before the war, the remaining Primes recorded his disappearance as a death in battle, implying that the loss of him, his Titan, and the Emberstone was simply a terrible accident), and went about rebuilding and beginning the Age of Primes.

(Timeline note: the Thirteen Primes unified Cybertron, got attacked by the Quintessons, fought in what was actually the Second Quintesson War -- the first was the initial liberation of Cybertron before the Knights set out on their explorations -- and then started the Age of Primes, which ended in the betrayal of Solus and the departure of the colony Titans.)

(post-betrayal leads into another age of unrest, before the new lineage of Primes (ones without the Matrix) begins the Cybertronian Golden Age, which really wasn't all that golden.)

Story begins millions of years later, about, oh, twenty years before the events of Earthspark

Most of section one takes place well before the spacebridge closes, and the initial journey back to Cybertron takes a few years, so from the time of Hot Rod's capture to their return to Cybertron just after the spacebridge closes is probably in the vicinity of five-to-six years.

Hot Rod, way out in the middle of nowhere on a mission, is captured by the Quintessons and presumed dead by the Autobots. He's not, but he's been enslaved by them -- however, they're still operating on their understanding of Cybertronian neurological defenses from before the Autobot-Decepticon War, meaning that their ability to control him is unable to keep up with his anti-virals and is slowly weakening over time. He gains more and more autonomy back, right up until the Quintesson ship he's on discovers Theophany (by horrible chance) and elects to begin the Quintesson resurgence right then and there.

Crucially, Crystal City hasn't been part of the war, so their anti-virals aren't at Hot Rod's level, and so nearly the entire city is enslaved and formed into the first and worst core of the Quintesson army.

In the middle of the attack, he finally manages to grab back almost full motor control, flames on, and burns out most of the adaptive nanites that are serving as a reservoir for the control code even as his anti-virals keep destroying the stuff that makes it into his processor. He flees the battle, ending up in the wastes of Theophany while Crystal City is overrun and the Third Quintesson War begins.

There is, however, one mech in Crystal City who has war-grade antivirals and manages to survive the inital assault of a non-nanite transmitted code infection (think radio broadcast) and who fled the city at Wing's request once it was clear the entire city was lost and the Knights of Light taken captive and the city destroyed.

He meets Hot Rod once they both come back to the ruins of the city for lack of anywhere else to go, and Hot Rod reveals what, exactly, happened to everyone around him. Hot Rod manages to convince Drift that they need to go and warn whoever else they can find, so they take one of the least-damaged ships in deep storage and set out to warn Cybertron.

En route to Cybertron, they slowly gather together a crew of various outcasts and misfits -- people who for one reason or another have been stationed out in the reaches of deep space, far away from Cybertron -- and even the odd prisoner (Whirl), all packed together on an ancient tiny shuttle and still desperately trying to outrun the Quintessons and make it in time to warn Optimus and Megatron.

At one point, they meet the Camien trio, Windblade, Nautica, and Chromia, who are also heading to Cybertron to ask for aid for Caminus completely unaware of the Quintesson threat, but in finding an ancient, injured Titan who's already been taken over by the Quintessons everyone learns of the risk they're all facing, and the dangers of letting this war spread further than it already has -- the destruction of Crystal City was bad, but the fact that every Cybertronian infected is another weapon in Quintesson hands is what really sinks in here.

At another point, they come across the remains of the Ark and manage to pull two people out of stasis: Cyclonus, the perfect warrior and Galvatron's right hand, and Tailgate, sanitation worker kept in stasis since the launch of the Ark as auxiliary personnel that they wouldn't have to feed since he wasn't awake.

The major climax is encountering Kimia, a secret Autobot research station under attack by Decepticons. With the Quintessons right on their heels, Hot Rod and Drift attempt to reconcile both the primarily-Autobot crew and the Decepticon squad attacking (maybe Deathsaurus's?), but negotiations keep breaking down until the Quintessons show up with an entire army of enslaved Cybertronians. Hot Rod manages to destroy their ship by crashing the entire station into it, but only a handful of people on either side survive the battle (Chromedome, Rewind, Brainstorm, Perceptor, and probably a handful of Decepticons that I haven't decided on yet), and everyone in their tiny enclave of free Cybertronians realizes that this is bigger than their old war, and that if they don't work together they're never going to survive.

End Section One

Section Two

They finally make it to Cybertron, but it's already too late -- the spacebridge to Earth is closed with most of the Autobot and Decepticon high command on the other side of it, the Allspark was lost somewhere while it closed (it's actually stuck in-between the planets in subspace, since the subspace route is still open but inaccessible with one end of the bridge destroyed, but this isn't relevant to the rest of the fic) and the Quintessons have already arrived and begun a planetary takeover -- most of the ground troops still remaining on the planet have become part of their forces.

Jazz has escaped with a handful of special ops from both sides and is hiding down in the deep underlayers struggling to survive and start up a resistance, and the arrival of Hot Rod and his motley crew is a huge boon and a huge hassle, since most of them (yes, even the Kimia scientists) was assigned that far from the front lines for a reason. About the only ones who're really considered command material are Cyclonus, and he's still struggling with the fact that he's been in stasis for millions of years and has no desire to lead what he sees as a pack of misfits and rejects, and Ultra Magnus, who has no desire to be in command whatsoever, so Hot Rod got the job largely by virtue of being the person to start this mission in the first place.

Moreover, they can't even get off Cybertron because the Quintessons have a major planetary cordon eliminating anyone who tries to flee.

Still, they try to get a resistance going and start figuring out how to actually fight the Quintessons, rather than just escape them, and are making some progress. Slowly. The deep planetary tunnels are largely safe, and a lot of the Kimia scientists have managed to use one of Shockwave's labs to find some protection against Quintesson influence -- as long as they don't get physical access to your brain, you probably won't get enslaved! -- and are attempting work on a cure. It's starting to look like it'll be long and hard but they might even manage to win this war!

And then the judge shows up, and brings with them not just the limited number of Cybertronian slaves they have, but nearly uncountable hordes of mass-produced Sharkticons, because they have access to Cybertron's entire industrial complex and all its fabricators.

On top of that, the Quintessons have discovered the existence of the deep underlayers, and are preparing an assault on the resistance bases.

Right before the assault goes down, Drift gets a vision (he's been having weird premonitions his entire life but it's only after he started actively using them to avoid Quintessons that they've started getting noticeably stronger) and gathers together a group (definitely Hot Rod and Rung, maybe also a bunch of the Camiens/some scientists) to try to find the location of a ship he saw, one that can get them off the planet.

They've been gone less than a day but are already entirely out of range when the Quintessons attack

Magnus and Cyclonus rally, together, against the assault and and try a desperate attempt to repel it and save the scientists' work that might be the only hope to save their species.

NOTE: Prior to this, Magnus and Cyclonus had not gotten along, with both of them having an extremely rigid code that is not... entirely compatible with the other but when it comes down to the wire and both Hot Rod and Drift are off on hopeless errands, they're the only ones left to coordinate the defense and try to save what they can.

Midway through Drift and Hot Rod's journey, the planet transforms (something it has, quite notably, not done since the Age of Primes) and cuts Hot Rod and Rung off from the rest of the group, with the only way out being down deeper into the planet, past even the deep layers and down into the core.

Separated, they continue on.

Drift ends up in the Hand of Primus, way out in the middle of the wastes, the site of the last true hotspot on the entire planet (after it was harvested during the early years of the Golden Age, all new sparks on the planet came from the Allspark). Deep below the surface, underneath a strange spiky red metal formation, they find a ship literally embedded in the stone, not entirely spaceworthy but possible to get to working conditions, and with a set of unique quantum engines that might be enough to get them away from the planet before the Quintessons can shoot them down.

Leaving Nautica (and possibly any other scientists they brought with them?) to try to repair the ship and get it flying, Drift and the rest race back to the base only to find it under attack. Magnus and Cyclonus manage to punch a hole through the Quintesson ranks and start the evacuation, and they all race up through the sublevels back to the surface.

Meanwhile, Hot Rod and Rung are (apparently) desperately trying to find a way out of the deep tunnels and back to the surface, but every turn they make just redirects them deeper towards the core, and eventually Rung comes to the conclusion that whatever's at the center of the planet must want them to go to the core. As they travel, it's apparent that there's something going on with him, though he won't tell Hot Rod what (the truth is that he's regaining his memories of being a part of the long-dormant core of the planet, and he's realizing that the Core, that Primus, the heart of their world, is somehow calling Hot Rod in).

Upon reaching the core, Rung acts almost as cityspeaker for the planet, one of the many fragments of its great multi-part mind that's separate enough to speak for itself, and offers Hot Rod a Matrix -- not the Matrix, the old one, the original one, the one that Optimus Prime still carries and that was lost on Earth when the spacebridge fell -- but a new, empty one that still nevertheless holds the ancient property that the Matrix was made for in the first place -- protection against the Quintesson scourge, a way to store crucial information in a way that can't be stolen by them and is much harder to lose if groups are split up or scientists killed, and most importantly the chance at a true cure.

Hot Rod accepts the Matrix from Rung, and becomes Rodimus Prime.

Rung, in making a new Matrix, returns to the Core and cannot return with Rodimus, who races back up through the planet desperately, trying to reach the ship before they write him off as dead and leave.

Right as Nautica and the rest get the ship's strange quantum engines online, engines that almost seem to work as a spacebridge in their own right, Rodimus appears and gets on board, and they flee the planet ahead of the approaching hordes, abandoning Cybertron entirely to the Quintessons.

End Section Two

Section Three

Now the fight has gone to the stars -- there are still the colonies, Caminus and all the rest of the titans, to consider -- though there are a couple that aren't in Caminus's or Cybertron's records at all, such as the titan of the traitor Quintus Prime, who in the last war against the Quintessons led by the Thirteen Primes that cemented them in history as a collection of heroes.

The project begun on Cybertron, with the addition of the Matrix, has mostly succeeded -- they have effective defenses against Quintesson mind control, and with the Matrix in hand the scientists are making real breakthroughs on a genuine cure, instead of something that leaves the "cured" screaming and nearly catatonic.

Rodimus, still trying to figure out what it means to be Prime and what it means to now be considered the unambiguous leader of the remaining Cybertronian forces instead of having to deal with balancing the authority of Jazz, Magnus, Cyclonus, Windblade, and several of the more prominent Decepticons, is in command and is trying to find and gather the remains of the Autobot and Decepticon fleets into something that can actually fight against the Quintessons.

He's... not the best at it.

While they're fighting and gathering new members, they intercept some kind of Quintesson communication and find out that Caminus, thought safe because of how hidden it is, is under attack. The Lost Light and the few other ships they've got (Vis Vitalis, maybe? which is another major source of character conflict, becauseRodimus still feels inadequate as a leader in the face of Thunderclash's... everything, and lets it lead him to make bad decisions) race to Caminus to try to save the city.

They try, during which there is a huge battle, but they cannot stop the Quintessons from infecting Caminus, who sacrifices himself to save his people as they all flee, and Cybertronians become a species without a home, adrift in space. At the same time, the records of the last Quintesson War are given to them by Caminus, revealing the strategies used by the Thirteen Primes and the record of Quintus Prime's treachery that nearly lost them the war -- as well as the fact that Quintus Prime's Titan is still alive -- lost, but alive.

The war continues, and Rodimus slowly gets better at learning to be a general and at gathering people together to try to survive this. They start making progress, though it's hard and often painful. Maybe Caminus is the end of the section, maybe there's something more that's less of a downer ending, I don't know, but Section Three is all about the war as it goes on in space, a tiny desperate fleet trying to beat the odds and win.

Oh also at some point the Lost Light is revealed to be a newborn Titan, the first one to be born in millions upon millions of years, who aligns herself with Rodimus because he's a Prime and also her captain.

Also Metroplex possibly shows up at some point, and he and Windblade form a very strong bond together, to the point where when he dies, not even in sacrifice but just straight up in battle, it deeply deeply affects her, to the point that not even Lost Light can help. (Might be a plot point, might not be, depends how dark I want the overall story to end up.)

End Section Three

Section Four

Years into the fight, Rodimus is a far better leader than he was -- massively depressed about the whole thing, but still learning how to be an effective general. They haven't quite been making progress, but they've been surviving and gathering together fighters from all the different colonies, and it looks like the tide might turn any day now.

Drift, prompted by visions he's been having of Quintus Prime, is working alongside Nautica and a handful of other historians to put together the true story of what happened during the last Quintesson War. The facts aren't entirely adding up -- if Quintus was truly a traitor and gave the Quintessons the Emberstone, why weren't the Thirteen Primes overwhelmed by endless armies of newsparks? Why was it only certain pieces of Quintus's hybrid technology that got integrated into the Quintessons, and not the organic-Cybertronian bonding elements that would have massively increased their ability to control Cybertronian slaves? Why did he disappear, only recorded by his technology showing up in Quintesson warships, and why did his Titan drop completely out of the spacebridge network, even though Caminus insisted that he was still alive?

He realizes that figuring this out could be the key to actually winning the war, instead of grinding along slowly getting themselves worn away by attrition the way they've been doing -- the Quintessons can constantly replace soldiers while the Cybertronians have lost every method they had of reproducing, and on top of all that any soldier captured or infected on the battlefield will turn against them.

With Rodimus and Jazz and Brainstorm's knowledge (and maybe a few others, haven't decided yet), Drift fakes his death and goes flying out to search for answers, thinking that there has to be something Quintus was hiding and that it might be the answer to surviving, if not winning.

Meanwhile, Rodimus and the rest of the United Cybertronian Fleet's (name subject to change) high command find out from Jazz and his espionage corps that the Quintessons are looking for something, some kind of newly created weapon that can be used against them more effectively than anything created before (over the course of this war, they've gone on a total scorched-earth policy with regards to their planetary conquests and any species, biological or cybernetic, that even remotely gets in their way -- the new Judge created to lead this war is ruthless and angry and isn't interested in things like "public relations" -- so while there isn't really anyone who can fight back against them the way the Cybertronians can, because in terms of firepower and who's willing to get involved in this, they're kind of the only ones, it's totally plausible that there might be the last remnants of a destroyed species out there who are working on creating some kind of weapon).

Both of their paths, Drift's journey looking back through the records of the last Quintesson War and the history of the Thirteen Primes, and Rodimus's search for something to turn the tide, lead them back towards Earth, which somehow hasn't been found by either side yet, and has remained totally undisturbed. No matter how hard anyone looks, they can't find any outward sign of Cybertronian activity that might indicate Earth's location.

Drift, following the history of what happened to Quintus and his Titan and the Emberstone, finds a subspace connection that leads him to a strange system of caverns, filled with green light and old Cybertronian writing and technology that looks extremely similar to Quintesson tech and yet has somehow been neutralized without being destroyed.

Rodimus, following something (maybe some kind of connection through the Matrix?) lands in secret on green and blue planet that looks a whole hell of a lot like Earth, and traces the signal down into a system of caves.

Both Rodimus and Drift get attacked by an ancient Quintesson defense system, bioengineered monsters that feed off energon and which pursue them through the tunnels and herd them towards a central location, where bang they run into each other--

--and also into Optimus, Megatron, quite a lot of both Autobot and Decepticon High Command, and the Malto family, who are all down in the tunnels for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with either Cybertron, ancient weapons, Quintus Prime, the Emberstone, or the Quintessons, and everyone is very confused and also kind of panicked about what to do about the giant monster.

But when it arrives, the Maltos and the Terrans are able to fight it, without being affected by its energon-eating nature or the defenses it usually has against Cybertronians.

They flee down the only route they have left, deeper into the cave systems, where they pass through a massive and very strange green door into a set of corridors that look like metal, and that are decorated with icons and emblems of Quintus Prime, though woven through with Quintesson mind-control tech -- ancient Quintesson mind-control tech, not the modern kind currently in use and not even the kind of outdated tech that was used on Hot Rod before they managed to adapt to modern Cybertronian neurological defenses, but the kind that was in use back in the last Quintesson War, against the Thirteen Primes, and the pattern of the tendrils seems to be leading them somewhere.

Where it's leading them to is a massive processor chamber, one for a Titan -- Quintus Prime's titan, lost all these many millions of years.

Drift, finally, reveals what he's learned about Quintus Prime's supposed betrayal, and what really happened -- how he tried to be a double agent, learning about the Quintessons: half just for the sake of learning about them -- remember, he was most noted for his fascination with organic life -- and half for the sake of finding ways to end the war.

Before he could find a way, his Titan was overrun, exposed to an experimental piece of technology that would take over not just his mind but his body, turning him into an unending weapon that couldn't even be killed.

Quintus fled to Earth, looking for a way to save his Titan, and apparently died there.

worked against the Quintessons from the inside, stealing away secrets of their technoorganic engineering and their mind-control techology and eventually fleeing with his Titan and the Emberstone to an unknown location, and Rodimus reveals that they're here hunting a supposed "weapon" that the Quintessons are terrified of.

The Titan (name TBD) manages to tell Windblade the story of what really happened, that Quintus defected with the Emberstone to try to find a way to use it to create Cybertronians who were naturally immune to Quintesson control, who could live in peace away from the war and everything and never have to worry about being made into slaves, and all of the bots that have been trapped on Earth all this time turn to look at the Malto family -- and the Terrans.

End section four

aaaaaand that's more or less where I run out of ideas, because I have no clue how to effectively pay off this reveal with how the Terrans are supposed to defeat the Quintessons, but who knows, maybe I'll think of something

#transformers #transformers fic #transformers earthspark #my fic #also this fic has plenty of room in it for driftrod because that's currently my main ship but like... it's not explicitly a driftrod fic #maccadam

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unidentifiedlyingobject · 5 months

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[a little fan theory of my own: if you've read or written something similar to this pls tell me I'd love to hear other people's takes on this]

The Flaming Sword

Yes, it's been there since The Beginning. This distinctive item first made its debut in the Good Omens timeline right back at the Garden of Eden, where as we all will remember, our adorable angel Aziraphale first revealed his deceptive talents. On the subject of the sword's whereabouts, Azi downright

lied

to God

(Obviously, this is an important step in the development of Zira's internal moral debate, one which subsequently lasts for 6000 years

I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing

and, relatively more importantly, leads on to the smiting of a certain sauntering demon - to clarify, the demon was smitten, I believe)

Maybe the flaming sword was the most influential factor playing into the development of Aziracrow's 6000 year old friendship? Well done sword.

Sword? Right. Big, sharp... cutty thing... Yes. Must've put it down somewhere... Forget my own head next

Later that season, following azi's discorperation, he is again asked as to the location of the fiery sword. Seems to me like a rather defining aspect of Aziraphale's angelic form, right?

Then, of course, at the season one finale it makes yet another appearance. The sword is Aziraphale's weapon of choice, it seems. A weapon that Aziraphale sees fit to battle against SATAN

and

y'know

THE END OF THE WORLD?!?!

Therefore, one can assume that this was the weapon that Aziraphale fought with in the Great War, heaven against Lucifer and his demons, who were ultimately cast down to hell for eternity.

Whiiiiiiiicchhhh leads me on to my point. Have I missed something important, or do any of you feel like a fiery sword might not be the most effective weapon to use in a battle against demons? We know that during the body swap, Crowley was not harmed by the fire, for the obvious reason that he is a demon. Furthermore, the angels use hellfire as a method for executing an angel

So let me repeat this: Any of you feel like a fiery sword might not be the most effective weapon to use in a battle against demons?

u n l e s s

unless Aziraphale never wanted to slaughter demons

after all, his ex-angel bestie was one of the people he was supposed to be fighting against, the angel who took so much joy in the beauty of God's (or perhaps their own) creation. The angel who only ever asked questions

see Aziraphale probably just wanted to talk it out over a nice cupperty

So maybe his weapon of choice was never intended to be used to hurt demons? another thought -- azi could've been fighting the angels in the Great War? fighting for Crowley? and for some reason he managed to escape Falling?

even so,

the item that he trusts, Aziraphale's characteristic flaming sword

is not even capable of harming who he has been taught as 'the enemy'

Now doesn't that tell you where Aziraphale's loyalties really lie?

and on a darker note... he presumably has the power to seriously harm his buddies upstairs

*cough*metatron*cough*

that's something which just doesn't seem right about our grey angel's flaming sword

#good omens #good omens fan theory #aziraphale #flaming sword #angel crowley

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red-ropes-of-avalon · 1 year

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They Can Live In My New World Or Die In Their Old One- Chapter 2: A Queen's Justice

Summary: You are known among the kingdom as The Mad Queen, a ruthless woman with a large military. Seeking to take your rightful throne, nobody who has ever seen you has returned before, all thought to presumably be dead. Your strength is unequal. Ser Leon Kennedy is a knight sent by King Graham to ask for a temporary truce. Hordes of monsters and the undead rising, the kingdom couldn't fight two wars. But how does one reason with a Mad Queen?

Riding back to the Kingdom felt almost boring, compared to the adrenaline that the Queen had brought with her. The blade sat uselessly by his side as he rode through the countryside. No happy towns with kids playing, the homes were boarded up, and the fields destroyed. Leon spurred the horse forward, trying to get the woman out of his head.

“Welcome back Ser Leon!” The capital guards merrily greeted. Leon waved briefly before continuing on toward the castle. The common people went about their lives, unaware of the troubles beyond the capital. The last trouble these people had was when Albert Wesker, a renowned knight that Ser Redfield had fought beside when was uncovered he was aiding a foreign invasion forces. He had disappeared shortly after, and his title of Knight was removed. At the plaza, a blonde girl ran up to his horse.

“Leon! You’re back!” Sherry sounded so happy. Leon smiled at her.

“Of course, not even the Mad Queen could take me down.” He joked. “Now where’s Claire? Aren’t you meant to be with her when I’m gone?” Sherry looked down at her feet. Leon quickly picked the girl up and settled her on the horse. The horse took off on a trot once the riders were settled, returning its route towards the castle. Leon and Claire had been taking care of Sherry since her home was destroyed by the monster hordes. They were lucky to find the girl before the monsters did.

“Pretty boy’s back,” of course it was Leon’s luck to come back at the moment Chris Redfield was in the stables tending to his own steed. Leon dismounted from his own horse, before picking Sherry up and setting her down, sending her off to find Claire. “How did it go? Did you get her to agree?”

“She…She’s giving us a single man. And in exchange, she wants the man who killed her family.” Chris clapped him on the back.

“Getting even one man from her is a successful negotiation. As for getting rid of that man, well good riddance. Now what was she like, is she really that terrifying? That your heart would run cold, from just meeting her eyes.”

“She’s, I can’t quite explain. She’s gorgeous in this terrifying way. She inspires strength in her men for sure. Setanta wouldn’t follow her if she didn’t.”

“Hah The Mutt himself, swears himself to a woman! That’s truly a sight, I’d love to see that myself. Enough talk for now you should tell King Graham,” and with that, Chris ushered him off.

As was promised, Leon returned to the Mad Queen’s castle the week following. The guards allowed him to pass easily once stating his name. The Queen’s Guard didn’t even bother wrangling. It was quiet, almost too much so. Standing before the doors, Setanta was nowhere to be seen. Servants still bustled around, one woman carrying a large basket of linens. “Pardon but where exactly is the Queen?”

“Oh, there’s a council meeting currently. Please wait, is that man beside you a prisoner sir?” Leon looked at the chained man.

“Yes, I am to deliver him to the Queen directly. He is the Kingslayer,” Leon kicked the man slightly. The fool was out of it but his grin was full of gums and missing teeth. It frightened the poor woman. She scuttled back, clinging the basket closer.

“Oh well if you’ll excuse me, I must deliver these to a room. He’s such an extravagant man,” the woman shuffled away hurriedly. The sound of boots and clacking armor alerted him to more individuals coming his way. He lowered his head, to kick the feet out from under the Kingslayer. The poor serving girl didn’t need the man to scare her.

“Ah Ser Leon, I see you’ve kept your end of the deal,” a warm smile graced your face. “Setanta, bring the prisoner to the dungeons to await my justice. While you’re at it go retrieve our esteemed guest, if he’s given my girls any more troubles I’ll wring him out myself.” You pushed open the great doors to the throne room as Setanta grabbed the man off the floor, and hauled him over his shoulder. Leon followed close behind, noticing details he hadn’t previously, the floor was made of a black smoothed stone.

“I never did get your name m’lady,” he decided to test his luck. The dragons weren’t upon the wall he quickly noted. “A rather impressive castle, to match an impressive woman.” He added.

“Hmm, my name is public knowledge though I suppose your False King may have erased it. I am (Y/N) of the Great House (L/N), the rightful Queen of the United Sovereignty,” your lips turned upwards. “I have many names the common people use, but I believe that is the most suitable for our interactions,” you did appreciate his boldness. He enthralled you, nobody ever spoke back to you, and here comes this knight openly challenging you on your fairness. “Since you’ve been so interesting I’ll give you this opportunity. If at any point in this journey, you are to partake in, you feel you need my help, if you can convince me I will aid you with the dragon fire I bring. All I ask in return is that you bend the knee, not everyone just you.”

“I doubt I will need this offer, but it is noted m’lady.” Before Leon could make a smart retort, the doors were once more pushed open, Setanta striding in. A second set of footsteps followed behind the large man.

“He was causing problems for Addi again, but nothing she couldn’t handle,” Setanta’s low and rough voice was enough to shake most people. A true Southern man popped out from behind Setanta’s broad back and opened his mouth to retort, but once met with your icy gaze closed his mouth once more.

“This is the man I promised you, Ser Leon, his name is Luis Serra, though he is more commonly referred to in our camps as ‘El Escorpion’ he’s from the Southern Isles. He can be a handful, but he’s incredibly intelligent, and a more than worthy fighter.”

“Gracias mi reina, a compliment from you is truly the highest of compliments,” Luis knelt before you, kissing your hand.

“It’s getting late, I cannot in good conscience let you leave now. El Escorpion you are free to return to your room or may stay and ask Ser Leon any questions you have.” You released the Southern man, who instead decided to stay.

“I have one question for you Leon, who else will be in this merry little band of misfits?”

“You and me, Ser Chris Redfield, Ada Wong a hired hand, Piers Nivans, and Ethan Winters. A crack team if I do say so myself,” Leon grinned. As Luis and Leon spoke, Setanta walked before your throne. You raised an eyebrow at the wolfish man.

“The prisoner is ready for your justice, all of the maids have already spread that a show of justice will be occurring tonight. Whoever told Ellie that we’d have the Kingslayer really did all the work for us,” Setanata’s grin was ever-present.

“Very well, once it’s dark I will reign down my justice. In the meantime let us prepare.” Your eyes turned cold at the very thought. The man who slayed your family finally answering before you, it was finally time for retribution.

As the cold and dark settled in, the castle emptied out. The villages emptied, and a gathering around the scorched area of land. The prisoner was set in the center, with Setanta standing beside you. The commoners kept clear, not crowding their queen. To her sides were the large dragons. Luis and Leon were close to the front of the crowd. “You’ve never seen her justice before, you’re in for a treat,” Luis nudged Leon. Leon just looked at the Mad Queen. A hush fell as you straightened out your cape.

“My loyal subjects! Before us, we finally have the man who killed my father and your King! He will answer for the injustice he perpetrated! You all choose to follow me, you all agreed to give me this Kingdom! For that, I will ensure justice is always seen through! All men will die, but I am no man! I walked into the storm, I walked into the darkness, and emerged a true queen! My dreams come true! You’re happiness and my reign, that is my dream! Now and forever!” You spun on your heel, turning to face the scorched ground. You raised your hand, and the two dragons fixed their eyes on you. “For the crime of treason against the crown, I sentence you to die.” You closed your fingers down and the two dragons snapped their head back to the man, and from their maws, great flames burst forth. The white dragon’s blue flames contrasted with the black and red dragon’s standard orange fire. When their jaws snapped shut nothing was left in the grounds.

The crowd erupted in cheers, joy over their queen’s justice. But Leon felt his blood freeze, this wasn’t how justice should work. The white dragon lowered its head and you climbed onto the back. The two dragons let out a great roar, and the people erupted in another cheer. The beasts took off in the air to return to the great castle.

“I don’t know what that was but that wasn’t justice!” Leon burst into the throne room. You raised your eyebrow before the knight. “Now I see why you’re called the Mad Queen, killing someone who wronged you! Burning them to nothing but ashes, that’s murder, not justice.”

“He murdered my family. I assure you, Kennedy, I do not wish to be Queen of the Ashes. My show of strength will ensure peace, however, it is my justice and all who defy justice and perpetrate injustice will answer for it. Now I suggest you go to the room my girls prepared for you. You have an arduous journey before you. If I must be your final villain, return so you may enact your own justice on me. But do not fall before returning to me boy.”

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #reader #leon s kennedy x reader

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decarabiandivorce · 2 months

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Thinking about deca :( I am fully aware of The Horrors that may come out of it but i wish more people knew about him

🤝 Decarabian

Decarabian Decarabian Decarabian. Decarabian. Decarabian Decarabian Decarabian! Decarabian....

(Translation: I think abour how old Decarabian was and the events he could have witnessed a normal amount. We know the celestial nail happens while the mountain was in the middle of the archon war (Snow-Tombed Starsilver), thus when discussing the mysteries of Celestia and their un-tilted city we can place them there. So much like the murals in both Chenyu Vale and in Inazuma, we are going to see how morally grey Celestia is in the future. We already know that, but the question of "why are you doing this" and "who were the people that decreed this action". In that same sword description we hear of black tainted blood and it reminds me of the new book in Fontaine about how Khanreiah fights against creatures from beyond, and we know that the abyss entrance used to be in the mountain of Mondstadt before Barbatos yeeted it. Also interesting that its Abyssal Wolves that are created and are most likely fought, when the Wolf God is right there in that same region.

The abyss seems to be mimicking a lot of Mondstadt's moments. They have Big Dog, Dragon, and now are working on a way to fight fate.... much like how Venti is implied to subtly change fate (His food description). Mondstadt's most famous feats were the slaying of a Tyrant God (whos such a pathetic meow meow 🥺) and the fall of those who tried to take that fallen god's crown. I wonder if the abyss is trying to mimic those actions as well....

Anyways what im trying to say is that if the newest book is correct and outlanders have been falling into Teyvat for a long time, then its really makes you wonder if someone who has been around for presumably thousands of years, who has seen Celestia both bless and curse a civilization right next to him, and be forced into fighting a war..... what his opinions and secrets are.

Why is it that Istaroth's winds came to Mondstadt of all places. Why the winds. How did they even get into Decarabian's domain. Was it just Venti or where did the others go. Are they as visible ans tangible as Venti-who had the Gunnhildr supporting him?

Decarabian is a giant missing void in the questions about Mondstadt, a Bermuda triangle of theories. We know of the out of bounds dialogue that Paimons has FOR ONLY HIS TOWER, we know it could potentially go deeper (and we all know whats underneath Teyvat), and we know that the first feild tiller went there of all places. Why. Why did such a robot who has an eye that could be made to destroy fate go to the top of a windy tower???? So much so that the people of Mondstadt thought its bullets were the Tyrant's Rage. (Presumably 600 years after they just dealt with the guy). Did they have lingering doubts that Decarabian did not pass away? Why.... if they were there....

Why is there a seal on the tower? One presumably placed by Venti? Why why why????

Decarabian 😔)

#steel text #who needs brain when you got the mysteries of Decarabian #decarabian #this is a peak into my mind whenever i think about how weird Mondstadt is

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wizardheart83 · 1 year

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Rings of Power Analysis part #6

Elrond and Galadriel as they relate to the Khazad-Dûm and Númenor storylines

Both are elves, though Elrond is on the young side. Both have come out of a war where they lost their most important people and had to move forward. Both are still affected by their losses. Both have one grief they have talk about (finrod and earendil ) and one that’s too close for words for much of the season ( celeborn and Elros).

Both come to the kingdoms in their plot lines needing something and are met with resistance and I’m not repeating the opening monologue but that. All of that.

The differences in the kingdoms work well with the differences between our elves.

Númenor in its decline gets a Galadriel who’s been forcibly retired. Both have fallen short of their best selves by shutting out people who might have helped. Both tend to rewrite the story of the war in ways that suit them. Elros was at most in his late teens as an elf during the war, he and the men fought but to say they won by their own power and therefore bought the island by their service is a stretch. Galadriel’s opening description of the war leaves a lot of people and motivations out. Both Galadriel and Numenor are being manipulated by people this season as well. Its queen regent is tired and troubled and you have not seen what she has seen.

Khazad-Dûm is, like Elrond in a moment of success that hints at possible stagnation. Elrond is the king’s herald but not a lord to have a seat in the councils of the wise, and Khazad Dûm is great but not what Durin 4 believes it can be. Young and optimistic Durin 4 has seen his share, but his world is still a bright and mighty thing, and he just wants to be allowed to make it that much brighter.

If the two had been switched, what would we have lost? If Elrond had begged leave to sail west but heard the distant call of Numenor and the warnings of Galadriel in his ear and jumped ship, if an optimist with ties to the royal family arrives in numenor, while Galadriel, who we know to be on good terms with the dwarves later goes to khazad dum, presumably having been read in on the mithril issue, what then?

A different story, I think. Elrond would be fascinated by Numenor and maybe emotionally invested in preventing its fall and exploring the life his brother built and what it’s all meant. Without the drive to leave and get back when Galadriel did, the southlanders are probably dead, but maybe Numenor is saved?

If Galadriel talks to Durin 3 and finds in him a much different response to catastrophic loss, does she accept death or does she jump start regime change, putting Durin 4 on the throne and hastening the waking of the balrog?

It could have been different, but I’m not sure that it could have been better.

Though while we’re writing not-fic and switching elves around, imagine if Galadriel had been sent south to get her out of the way while Arondir had been talked onto the boat by Médhor or someone. Arondir in Numenor doing the Galadriel role while trying to get back to bronwyn because Sauron’s landscaping project is a threat to her… and Galadriel going toe to toe with Adar more?!.

Ahem. Ok, back on task.

Galadriel is chaotic ambition at the start and kind of still at the end with the making of the rings.

Elrond starts in lawful ambition and moves into trying not to die by the end, or a neutral place where he knows who he is and he can stand firm in that, whatever comes.

I need a chart for the ambition/ lawfulness thing so there may be a follow up to this series. There’s so much in this show y’all, so much and we’ve had less than one fifth of it.

Of the parallels I’ve discussed Celebrimbor and Pharazôn was the most personally surprising for me, though maybe they shouldn’t have been. Did any of them strike you? Are there other parallels in the show among the plot lines I haven’t talked about? I largely didn’t discuss kemen or elendil’s children here, do you think we’lI get some significant dwarves to balance them out? Look forward discussing with you.

Thus ends the essay (for now)

#rings of power #wizardheart83 rants about parallels #the rings of power #rop meta #the rings of power spoilers

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lilac-5ky · 2 years

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Killing Butterflies (Part 6: Save me, Save you)

A/N: No, I haven’t been listening to WJSN on repeat. But you know, this song kinda reminds me of the way reader-chan sees Takasugi-kun and I got inspired! This chapter gets very uhm dark and sad. It's even more angsty than the previous one and it lowkey ends on a cliffhanger, but I feel like with this I've reached the half of this fanfic. The way I see it now, I should be able to wrap this story up within four more chapters so aye, there's that.

Warning: Violence, blood, decapitation and all that jazz. Heavy emotional damage too.

(yes, i mourned a lot in sa arc, but shinsuke in this arc surpassed himself, h o l y s h i t he looked so f i n e)

There needs to be no war for there to be a battlefield, you realized as you paced through the never-ending maze of corridors. A single spark was all it ever took for conflict to arise, turning man against man, or man against Amanto, in this case. Between the vicious space pirates and the terrorists that captured you, there was no discerning friend from foe, no side for you to choose. You didn’t fit in with either. This was never your war to fight.

With every clang of the blade, another body fell beneath your feet, destined to drown in a crimson pool of its own blood. They were all the same. Squirming and cursing across the floor like worms. Even when their lives were coming to an end, even when the light within their darkened orbs was fading away, hatred kept on stirring in them, refusing to be extinguished.

Was this how your eyes also looked?

Other than the pits of fire that delved within, there was something else residing in their pitiful gaze. They were pleading, begging for you to put an end to their agony, yet you couldn’t let your blade be sullied with the blood of another. Once it got a taste of his, there was no going back. Only Takasugi was the one who could sate such vile desire.

You kept on dragging your feet aimlessly without lingering anywhere for too long. You passed more enemies than you could count, encountering skirmish after skirmish, but even so, no one appeared particularly interested in crossing blades with you. If anything, they seemed to be completely unaware of your presence as if you were a ghost; a ghost passing among ghosts to be. Perhaps that’s for the best. No one should be able to stand in your way.

At last, you entered a wider area, presumably the bridge of the vessel. The sound was much louder here and so was the foul scent of blood. This was where the real battle escalated, you noted as you leaned against the banister, glancing down at what appeared to be the majority of the Kiheitai’s manpower.

Some of the swordsmen appeared vaguely familiar, men you’d seen lying around the ship whenever that obnoxious blonde escorted you to the ladies room. A man with broad shoulders and a jagged scar along his chin, another one with fox-like features and ghostly complexion, and then, finally, the teal-haired samurai from the day at the docks.

It was too early for you to judge who was winning and who was losing, let alone from up there, though you could tell that with him on Takasugi’s side, victory was certain. The man possessed a fighting style unlike anything you’d previously seen. Rather than using a katana, he fought with the aid of his shamisen, an instrument of death in his hands.

Every time he tugged at its strings, one deadly crescendo unleashed after the other, a flurry of invisible threads that cut through the bodies of his enemies with unparalleled poise.

The way he fought was cruel. Distinct and masterful, but cruel.

“Shinsuke, did we really need to mix it up with those guys? Brains isn’t the only thing they are lacking, I daresay,” he spoke, his voice crystal clear amidst the clamor.

“You think so? If you ask me they make up for excellent practice dummies.” A voice you knew all too well replied in an amused tone.

Even when your attention was previously monopolized by the man known as Kawakami Bansai, you found taking your eyes off of Takasugi impossible.

Back then and right now, he always shone the brightest in the eye of the cyclone. It was as if he was meant for this, as if his hands were made with the sole purpose of carrying a sword. No such thing as reservation hindered his strikes. One by one, the enemy troops met their demise, mere blocks of tofu for his sword to slice. Still, no slaying seemed enough to quench the insatiable blood thirst in his eye.

You wondered how someone could be foolish enough to oppose his will. He was on a completely another level; a dangerous man with nothing to lose, one whose skill was honed to utter perfection. Yet there you were, with your fingers ghosting over the hilt of your sword, entertaining the idea of drawing it.

Your enemy is right there. He is right in front of your eyes. You should strike him now, now when his attention is divided between the Amanto. Now is the time, right here, right now.

The more you egged yourself on, the harder it was for your legs to move. Even with a sword in hand, even with such an opportunity manifesting out of nowhere, you were hesitant to jump into action, meekly watching from the sidelines.

Come to think of it, this wasn’t much different from what happened on that day either.

Would you be mine then?

There was no telling how much of what happened last night was reality, or just another figment of your wild imagination. Had Takasugi really spoken such words to you, or were you projecting your heart’s undisclosed desires onto him? That couldn’t be it, right? Especially when you could still feel his fingers lingering upon your skin, when his voice tingled through your ears all night long.

It was real, you decided. It was definitely real. Takasugi had grown every last bit fond of you, as you were of him.

Throughout the meeting, you failed to participate in small talk or any other conversation topic your father and your guests touched upon. An occasional nod here, a forced chuckle there, was the sole evidence of your attendance. Your body may have been present, but your mind was on him and him only. The way his figure basked in the moonlight, the way your idol glinted in his eye, the way his lips curled up right after saying those words to you.

Everything about your brief encounter was enough to tempt you into giving everything up for him. Even when you’d failed to stand up against Harumi, your newfound conviction wouldn’t let you back down. There is no reason for your dreams to remain as such anymore. All you had to do was say yes, all you had to do was choose him, and he’d be yours.

The thought alone was exhilarating, preventing you from getting a wink of sleep all night long. You couldn’t wait for your morning class, eager to give your answer to his question. The only thing standing in your way now was the night, but even she’d be subdued come daylight.

The minute you felt the first rays of the morning sun graze your skin, you flew out of bed, sliding into your training attire within seconds. You took a look in the mirror, stealing a glance at the girl inside. Unlike the dolled-up yet gloomy girl you’d found staring back at you last night, this one, be it a less fancy variant, looked happy. Her expression had shifted to that of utter joy, her eyes smiling along with her lips. She truly was happy. Much happier than she, much happier than you’d ever been.

Once you managed to tame your bed-hair, making sure that you were at the very least presentable, you rushed towards the front door, carefully avoiding every obstacle and servant, until you rammed into something unexpected. More like someone, you realized, as you exchanged looks with none other than your father.

“I’m so sorry!” You exclaimed, fully aware of how much he disliked you prancing around like a horse.

To quote Harumi, “Such behavior was unsightly for a girl of your lineage”. Or something along those lines.

Rather than scolding you, an exuberant sound spilled from his lips as he managed to regain his balance.

“Oh, Y/N, you seem to be in such great spirits that you nearly knocked this old man down.” He cackled, holding onto his stomach with one hand. “My daughter, what’s gotten you this excited?”

“N-nothing in particular, father! I’m just really looking forward to meeting with Shin—, Takasugi,” you corrected “for my class. I’ve improved a lot, you should know.”

“So I hear. Takasugi informed me of your progress.” He did? “As expected of someone who carries our family’s blood. Both your father and your late grandfather-”

“Were swordsmen of impeccable skill before becoming Bakufu officials, yes, I am familiar with the story.” You interrupted, finishing his sentence for him.

The last thing you needed was to be caught in another of his endless lectures when Takasugi awaited you.

“Could I possibly be excused now? I’m already late for class as it is.”

“I am afraid there will be no class today, Y/N. But fret not, I did not come here to spoil the mood.” He paused, revealing a letter from within his sleeves.

The scribing was dense enough for you to get lost in the words, but the wisteria sigil at the bottom of the paper spoke volumes of its own.

“We received an official proposal this morning,” he continued, “it looks as if you made quite an impression on Isamu-dono. As soon as the preparations allow it, you are to wed his son.”

Somehow, your father’s sudden visitation caused you more pain than any of Takasugi’s hits had inflicted on your body. All happy thoughts dissolved into mist, fading into the rain of your eyes. How could this happen? Why was it that when you finally had the chance to be happy, you were forced to watch it slip away?

“Y/N? Did you not hear what I just said?” He asked, though all you could do was nod. That, and preventing yourself from tearing this letter into shreds.

“Then why do you appear so dejected?”

“Because,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. "Because Kaworu is not the one I want to marry.”

“What was that?” Your father asked with a forced chuckle. “Forgive your old man, age’s finally getting to my ears. What was it that you just said?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you took a deep breath. You wouldn’t let your words be drowned by your tears.

“I said I can’t do that. I can’t marry Kaworu.” Here goes nothing. “I don’t mean to offend House Fujiwara, nor stand in the way of our clan’s future, but there is no way for me to possibly accept this proposal, not when my heart’s been already claimed by someone else.”

Looking at the letter one last time, you returned it to him.

“Father, that man,” you smiled ever so softly at the image of Takasugi “he is greater than any other individual I’ve met in my entire life.

I admit, at first, I wanted nothing more than to possess him. He fascinated me in ways no one else has, moved me in ways I never imagined to be moved. But after sharing my joys and my sorrows with him, after I glanced at his soul, I’m afraid I was the one who got possessed by him, though I don’t regret it. I don’t see myself standing at another man’s side when he exists. I could never possibly do that. He is the one for me, and I’m unashamed to say that I love him. I really do.”

Your eyes burned full of conviction, believing in every single word you’d uttered. Takasugi was undoubtedly the only one capable of bringing you such happiness. Even if you had to oppose your own family, even if you had to turn against the whole world, you wouldn’t hesitate to do so if that meant seeing another of his beautiful smiles. He was the light in your life, and you could only hope to be a spark of hope in his.

Stillness befell the room as your words slowly sank in. The air grew heavier with your father’s expression shifting to a rather grim one. His otherwise gentle smile gave way to a nearly vicious grimace, with his eyes creasing into a level, yet dark look that all but suited him.

There was something deeply unsettling about the way he bore his eyes into yours. No matter how strict your father could be, this was your first time seeing him like this, a sight that was enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

“Y/N, my darling daughter.” He brought his hand to your shoulder, your instinct ushering you to flinch away. “You are young and there is so much that you don’t know regarding the workings of this world, but make no mistake. Each of us has a role to play, a duty to uphold regardless of the cost. Though you may fail to understand it at the moment, someone of our status should and must only look at those of equal standing. This is how you preserve your legacy and protect what’s rightfully yours in this filth named society. This is how you keep moving forward.”

Bestowing you with a sickly smile, the claws of his fingers dug into your skin, pressing against one of your bruises so hard that you had no choice but to wince in anguish.

“The way to the top can be lonely, Y/N. I’m well aware of that. Keeping a pet close for the sake of comfort and solace is understandable. After all, pets can be useful and, more often than not, are great assets for people like us. Showing affection or rewarding them isn’t unheard of, but at the end of the day, make no mistake to consider a pet your equal. A pet, no matter the company it offers, will always remain a pet.”

He lowered his head so that you were eye to-eye, the pressure on your shoulder significantly increasing.

“Now, if a pet stops being of use, or even worse, if a pet starts being a nuisance by standing in your way, do you know what must be done?”

Unable to think of an answer to his question, you shook your head negatively. All you wanted was to be released from his clutches.

“We put them down.” He cooed in your ear. “Did I make myself clear?”

With his baleful disposition and the pain he was causing you, there was no way for you to think straight. Could this demon that borrowed his voice and features really be your father? The loving and hard-working father who did his best to fill a role meant for two in your life? The father who made sure you never missed a thing, who tended to your every need without you having to ask? This impostor surely couldn’t be him, right?

“Now, how about a trip to the stores? With the big day coming up, I’m sure you could use a new dress for the occasion.” Fishing a pouch out of his kimono, he forced you to hold it between both palms. “After all, you’ll be marrying into such a renowned house. It’s only right for your appearance to reflect that.”

By the time his grip loosened up, it felt as if a piece of you was forcefully taken away. The weight of his hand traveled all the way to your neck, causing your breathing to falter. Even when he’d left the room, there seemed to be no end to the light tremor of your limbs. For the first time in your life, you were truly terrified. Not as much for your own life, as you were for his.

Though you hadn’t done as much as to reveal the identity of the man you loved, and your father never explicitly spoke his name either, you couldn’t help but think that he somehow knew. Was it because a part of you actually felt guilty about going against his wishes to the point of growing paranoid? Or was it that he’d actually heard something through the grapevine?

No matter how much you tried, you failed to wrap your mind around your father’s spiteful threats. You’d never given anyone reason to badmouth you and had never been caught in any particularly indecent scenarios with Takasugi. Unless…

“Lady, where is is that you are going?” Harumi’s voice rung razor-sharp in your ear, providing you with the answer you failed to reach on your own.

She was the only one who could’ve done this, you realized. The only one who knew of the way you looked at him, the only one who’d caught you messing around the other day. She’d even gone as far as to give you a warning about what would happen if you caused a scene, yet she ratted you out despite your complying. It was all her fault.

Ignoring her calls, you walked outside the door, marching down the gate without doing as much as look her way. All these years you thought she was your sole ally in this household, but even she’d turn her back on you. There was no one you could trust, not her and certainly not your father. The dream you thought you could live had given way to a nightmare, one neither you, nor him would be able to escape unscathed.

You kept on moving without sparing her a single word, without even noticing Takasugi staring at you from afar. All you wanted was to get away from everything, and funnily enough, your father had provided you with the perfect excuse to do so.

Unlike your previous visit to the city, this time you didn’t mean to find your way. There was no real destination for you to reach. All you could do was move forward, passing through the various stores without giving them a second look. Your sole reason for being there might have been to purchase a dress for the wedding, though that was about the last of your priorities.

None of the kimonos in the displays managed to capture your attention. They all looked the same; dull and colorless. Even if you tried to convince yourself that you were window shopping for a different occasion, the pouch residing within your clothes served as a reminder of what had transpired earlier, a heavy load that you wanted to dispose of.

After a while of aimlessly walking around, you felt your own stomach rumbling. Storming off without having a single bite for breakfast wasn’t the brightest idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe if you skipped eating all day long, you could actually die and escape, though a day of starvation wasn’t capable of achieving that. And, if you’re being honest, death wasn’t in your immediate plans.

Eventually, your steps brought you before a dango selling vendor, the very same vendor you’d visited with Takasugi. A little more than half a year had gone by since, yet the man tending to the stall seemed to recognize you, ushering you to walk closer.

“Good to see you again!” He greeted you with a friendly smile.

“You remember me…?”

“It’s not every day that you meet someone who’s never tried nor heard of a dango in this day and age, miss. You shared the same look of excitement with our younger customers.” He went on, handing three skewers to a man beside you.

“If my memory isn’t giving out, you were with a samurai last time?”

“That’s right… though I doubt we’ll be coming back together.” You said, failing to hide your resentment.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but if he’s unable to join, then perhaps it’d be nice of you to bring some to him. I’m certain that samurai would appreciate the gesture coming from such a refined young lady.” He paused, shifting his attention to another customer. “That would be five coins! Have a good day!”

Would he really appreciate it if you offered him something so insignificant when you couldn’t give yourself to him?

“Pops, how many dangos can I buy with these?” You asked, placing the pouch on the counter.

The man peeked through its contents before turning to face you in astonishment.

“Miss, I’m afraid I don’t have enough dango to match the sum you are offering. This amounts to more than my entire business does. I could never possibly accept it.” The man replied, pushing the bag towards you.

“I insist. Even if you can’t give me my money’s worth now, I’ll be sure to visit again. You can pay me back then. Dango seems like a worthwhile investment to me, especially when it’s as delicious as yours. Please take it.”

After a lot of back and forth, the man hesitantly accepted, trading the coins for a bag full of skewers. Though it weighed more than the pouch, you felt significantly lighter than you did before.

Unsure of where to go next, you moved along the sidewalk until you faded into an empty alleyway. Usually, you did your best to avoid such places, but at the time, you wished to find a place quiet enough for you to eat your lunch, away from the busy life of the streets, and certainly away from the lively crowd. Besides, eating one of your most favorite snacks ought to cheer you up, right?

“This will do.” You exclaimed once you took a seat on the steps of a nightclub, setting the bag on your lap.

At least till night falls, no one should be coming to disturb you. For the time being, you are completely on your own.

Bringing a skewer to your lips, you began munching on it, though you couldn’t bring yourself to actually enjoy it. Much to your disappointment, the dango lacked flavor, tasting like absolute nothing. First the dresses, now the dango. Little by little, the world seemed to be losing its appeal, turning into a bland and hollow environment, devoid of interest or meaning.

But then again, you realized that it wasn’t really the world’s fault. It was because of your own disposition. It was all because of you.

How did your life end up being so miserable? You wondered, tossing the half-eaten skewer back inside the bag and setting it to the side. You’d never missed a single thing, yet now it felt as if you were left with nothing at all. Wealth and status meant so little when they were the very binds that kept you confined in this cage you so desperately wanted to break out of.

Saying yes to this marriage would be the first step to a life of endless torment, but if you kept at it, there was always a chance things would take a turn for the worse. Was it really worth endangering his life over a silly love story? Just like you did, he must also have his own aspirations to see through. Whether he felt the same way about you or not, you didn’t want to be the one to stand in the way of his dreams, let alone in the way of his life.

That’s right. They really are silly, your feelings for him, that is. It was only an infatuation. He was simply the first guy you’d approached, the first one to make your heart beat faster, the first one to be your friend. There was no real value in that, really. You never really liked him anyway. This was just another spoiled girl’s whim. You’d probably lose all interest in him the second he offered himself to you. That’s how unimportant this whole thing was. Come tomorrow, you’d open your eyes and set your sights on something new, something that actually matters.

It sounded like a plan, but for now, you couldn’t see past your nose, your vision being all blurry and hazy. It’s just rain, you thought with a sorrowful smile as you gazed into the spotless sky.

“Silly me, I shouldn’t have left the house without an umbrella.”

Slowly, the teardrops that clouded your eyes began to overflow, staining the sleeves of your kimono as you buried your face in them. The rain grew stronger with each sob, erratic whimpers that resembled thunder strikes. It was so cruel and unfair. This stupid heart just wouldn’t stop yearning and breaking for him. Even when you were trying your best to erase him, all you wanted to do was see him.

Suddenly, a pair of feet manifested before you, joined by another and then another. Rubbing your eyelids against the fabric, your eyes danced between the three men. They were all in their late thirties, sporting a fairly ordinary attire, with the sole exception being that of the swords attached to their hips.

“What do we have here?” The man to the far right said, leaning towards you.

“Why the long face, miss?” The one to the left nudged at the bag with the edge of his sandal. “And look at all that dango… mind if we share?”

You pulled the bag out of their reach, shoving it behind your back. These guys seemed like bad news. A random band of brothers wouldn’t so carelessly be carrying swords in broad daylight, unless they had vile intentions.

“Boss, looks like we caught ourselves a good one. Check the crest. Isn’t this the Tsugaru brat?” The first guy spoke, attempting to get a closer look at your shoulders.

“I’ll be damned if it isn’t!”

“Missie, care to accompany us someplace better? An empty alleyway can be dangerous for a girl your status.” The guy in the middle, presumably their leader, suggested with an eerie smile.

“I’d rather not.” You responded, discreetly flexing your fingers towards your sword.

“Pardon my manners. You must have thought of this as an invitation, but in reality,” the leader paused to offer you a glimpse at his blade “,my ranking doesn’t allow for such courtesies. Get on your feet while I’m still asking nicely.”

Wrapping your fingers around the hilt, you hesitated to stand up. You’d heard of Jouishishi attacking Bakufu officials and their families, but to actually experience it was something else. If you followed them, then who knows what would become of you? But then again, you weren’t unarmed. For better or worse, after all this time of training with Takasugi, you’d like to think that you had a few tricks up your sleeve. Whether you could take on all these guys by yourself or not, there was only one way to find out.

Pretending as if you’d complied, you rose to your feet only to turn against him, slashing through the man’s face with a rapid strike. It wasn’t enough to kill him, though it was enough to send him flying to the ground. With a shriek, the man brought both hands to his nose, attempting to cover the wound. His lackeys exchanged quick glances before throwing themselves at you, each attempting to get hold of your shoulders. You waved your sword in their direction, though neither seemed particularly intimidated. They weren’t scared in the slightest.

While you were trying to figure out what the best course of action in this situation was, their boss managed to regain his composure. His left eye was shut, blood dripping from the gash all the way to his chin and clothes, painting a hideous expression on his features.

Unlike the other two, he didn’t hesitate to unsheathe his sword, attempting a strike at you the moment he got back on his feet. A loud clang followed when the man hit the banister, barely missing as you dodged to the side. Just when you thought you escaped him, two pairs of hands dived forward, capturing both of your shoulders while you writhed, desperate to get out of their grasp.

“Too bad, missie. Too bad.” Sneering, the man grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked it upwards. “I’d really consider returning you to your nest, but now it looks like only your head will make it back.”

With their claws not faltering one bit, and the man’s sword nicking at your neck, you couldn’t help but wonder whether this was actually your end. A wasted life that’d only just begun.

There were so many things you wished to do, so many things you wished to say that’d remain unheard. Even in your final moments, you couldn’t forsake his image. You longed to see him one last time, though that was out of the question now. It’s fine. Perhaps this was for the best. He wouldn’t get to see how pathetic you were, you thought as you closed your eyes, accepting your fate, one that wouldn’t come just yet.

The swift sound of a blade cutting through the wind forced your eyes open. Where the man’s head once stood, blood spewed out of his severed neck as if it were a spring. His now lifeless body fell to the side with a thump, revealing a dark silhouette from behind, one that you couldn’t bring yourself to face. Your gaze remained frozen upon the gruesome sight, your pupils flickering between the man’s detached torso and head. Only a minute ago he was hurling threats at you, and now, there he was, dismantled as if he was no more than a toy.

Stepping amidst the crimson puddle, the figure sent the man’s head spiraling towards the other two men, who, in return, let go of you completely. You hadn’t even caught a glimpse of his face, though you needn’t need to look to know who the executioner was. His voice was enough to give away his identity.

“And who’ll be the recipient of this head?”

“Y-you! Takasugi Sh-” One of the men uttered right before getting impaled by Takasugi’s blade.

“Wrong.” Takasugi grunted, retracting his sword. “What about you?” He turned to the third man. “You have an answer for me?”

The remaining Joui rebel was a shivering mess that could barely stand by himself, let alone answer Takasugi’s question. His darkened eyes constantly darted between the corpses of his comrades in terror.

“Where should I send these to?” Takasugi prompted, pointing at the bodies and then the man’s chest with the silver tip.

“I…I”

“I won’t be asking again.”

“Ten-Tengudou!” He coaxed in a pathetic tone.

“Tengudou… I see.”

“You’ve heard of us?” A glimmer of hope glinted in his eyes, only to fade away right after.

“I haven’t… but then again, I feel no need to acquaint myself with such scum.”

With a sneer, Takasugi pierced through the man’s chest, forcing him onto his knees.

“You can join your friends in hell. See how far comradeship will get you there.” And with that, he pulled his sword out, shaking the blood off, and then returning it to its sheath.

You remained huddled near the ground all the while Takasugi dealt with the men, too stunned to neither aid him nor react. One moment you thought you were a goner, and the next one, he’d come to your rescue. Did your wish reach his ears? The short answer was no, but the sudden change in your behavior was a surefire sign that something was wrong, a sign that he, fortunately, chose to follow.

Once he was done inspecting the surrounding area, lest other members of their facton lurked in the shadows, Takasugi helped you up. The blood underneath had flowed all the way to the main street as if it were a river. There was so much of it, threatening to drag you in its depths.

Though you didn’t want to admit it, the sheer brutality with which he tore through these men had managed to startle you. This was the first time you’d seen him in action, fighting an actual enemy, despite not crossing blades with either of them. Up until that point, you’d never considered the possibility of him being someone capable of such atrocity, yet perhaps he was just as dangerous as they were.

Rather than speaking a word to you, Takasugi let out a deep sigh as he claimed your face with his palms, the sleeves of his yukata dropping over his fingers. Even then, you found yourself averting your eyes from his, though as he wiped the blood off your cheeks, you had no choice but to ease into his touch.

The way he held you was so tender, yet the look in his eye contradicted his gestures. You’d never seen him like this, not even when you’d defamed his precious yakult bottle. Was it rage, or was it worry? You couldn’t tell, but then again, you lacked the courage to ask him. All you wanted to do was go home. Home with him.

Taking a step back, he stripped off his haori, offering it to you instead. At first, you were unsure as to why he did that, but once he wrapped it around your shoulders, you understood his reasoning. Bright flowers of scarlet sprawled across the yellow of your kimono, a leftover from the bloodshed. Though he didn’t seem to care enough to dispose of the bodies, he was considerate enough to not let you walk around adorning their blood.

Nuzzling your nose deep into the fabric, you started to gradually relax. The haori was slightly bigger than the one you were used to wearing, but it carried his scent, the kind of scent that made you feel safe. Perhaps when he was around, that’s all you needed to feel at home.

“Follow me.”

For the first time in a while, your tongue was tied in his presence. Even when you knew that Takasugi did what he had to do in order to protect you, there was no way for you to get the man’s stare out of your head. His face was imprinted behind your eyelids, flashing in your memory whenever you blinked.

You couldn’t help but think that the only reason these men died was because of you. If you hadn’t been so careless as to leave without any attendants, if you hadn’t slipped in that back alley, if you hadn’t been so weak as to let him interfere, then they wouldn’t have lost their lives. Jouishishi or not, they were samurai just like he was, and somehow have him be the one to act as their executioner, heavied you with guilt.

Other than asking you to follow him, Takasugi hadn’t spoken a single word to you. It was as if you’d gone back to the time when he disregarded your presence, though the reason behind his silence was far more intimate than before. Just like you blamed yourself for the entire incident, he blamed himself for you. If he’d turned you down, if he hadn’t taught you how to hold a sword, then you wouldn’t have dreamt of picking a fight with these guys, and you wouldn’t have knocked on death’s door.

He was enraged not so much by your actions as he was by his own incompetence in keeping you out of harm’s way.

With the two of you having none other than yourselves to blame, you kept on walking until you found yourselves standing outside the house. You thought about how you should thank him for all he did, though he was the first to break the silence in a way that made you forget all about showing gratitude.

“I resign.” Takasugi spat in a dry tone.

“You resign…?”

“I have no intention to keep on teaching an insolent brat who knows no danger.”

“But Shinsuke, I—”

“You almost got killed today!” He howled, his voice loud enough to scare a couple of birds away.

“If I was a minute late… no,” he shook his head, “if I wasn’t there in the first place, you heard what would have happened. You think men who’ve lost everything to war care enough to spare the life of a little girl? All they see is the hatred and the pain, the death and the destruction of everything they held dear. While you were busy playing house with your dolls, they had to watch as the Bakufu and the entire world turned their backs against them, leaving them to fend off the Amanto all by themselves.”

His knuckles were clenched into a pair of balled fists while he talked, almost as if he was accusing you of a crime you never committed. Those things he described, you could tell they were events he got to experience first-hand. You could feel the anguish behind his every word, as if simply discussing them brought him back to the hellhole he so desperately crawled out of.

“Shinsuke-”

You tried to comfort him, but it was of no use. He wasn’t done lashing out.

" Y/N, do you really think there’s a place for useless words such as ‘mercy’ in their vocabulary, let alone when it comes to someone as privileged as you? To them, the blood of their comrades and their families stains your hands as much as it stains your father’s. All they can spare for the likes of you is resentment. Nothing less, nothing more.”

“Is that how you also see me?” You asked in a quiet voice as you lowered your head.

The kind of girl he described wasn’t far from the girl you used to be, but that wasn’t the case anymore. You wanted him to know that. You wanted to prove to him how much you’d changed because of him, yet that was exactly the reason why he was now baring his teeth at you. As long as you remain a coward who knows her place, then you won’t be endangered. As long as you stray off his path, he won’t have a reason to walk over your corpse.

“All I see is a spoiled little girl who plays with toys too dangerous than she can handle.” He answered, refusing to face you. “Forget everything I taught you and go back to your dollhouse. Your hands were never meant to hold a sword to begin with.”

Hearing his words caused you far greater pain than your father managed this morning. All this time of trying your hardest to make Takasugi acknowledge you, of getting him to finally look at you the way you looked at him, only for everything to fall apart. If it were for him, you’d make sure to find a way of dealing with both your father’s wrath and the forceful marriage agreement. But if that someone didn’t love you back, if that someone was repulsed by the mere sight of you, what was there left for you to do?

Even as you watched him march towards the front door, you couldn’t bear to watch him slip away. Your fingers latched onto his sleeves, anchoring him down with every last bit of conviction you had left.

Had he turned around, he’d be able to see the tears you’d tried to hide away from him, your eyes mourning for everything the two of you could’ve been. Though not even he was strong enough to face the eyes of a girl whose heart he broke so cruelly.

His final resort was to place his calloused hands upon yours, pondering whether to keep you close or push you further away.

“I’ve had my fair share of watching people die. I refuse to be a witness to your death.” Takasugi said in a gentler voice as he shook your hands off him, leaving you to pick up your pieces on your own.

Watching him rip the Amanto pirates apart certainly brought back memories, the kind of memories you’d conveniently buried in the depths of your mind. Was the man in front of you the one who’d robbed you of your only family, or was he the same boy who jumped into action just to save you? The images of both flashed before your eyes as he fervently fought off the enemies, confusing you even further.

If you wanted to save me, if you didn’t want to watch me die, then why did you make it so that I’d die a little bit inside every single day that followed? Why didn’t you let my misery end back then? Just who are you already?

Gritting your teeth together, you let out a sharp exhale.

It doesn’t matter anymore. Such misery shall come to an end now.

At last, you unsheathed your sword, your eyes fixated on him as you climbed down the stairs. The aliens around him had all but decreased, every one of them as dedicated to take the Kiheitai’s general down as you were. This really was a golden opportunity.

Once you stood on the same level he was, you glanced around. Jumping at him from the front would be your worst bet. He’d see you coming from miles away. If you went from behind, then his second-in-command would get to you first. All that was left was the sides, your best chance being to mingle with the Amanto and go for the killing blow.

Walking along the railing, an Amanto soldier caught your eye. Unlike most of his fellow comrades —who mindlessly jumped into action with their swords and fists—, he was holding onto a pistol, one he aimed at none other than Takasugi. Firing a bullet from this range probably wouldn’t find its target, though it wasn’t impossible. With the quick work Takasugi made of them, it wouldn’t take long until the field was clear enough for the man to take a successful shot.

Your eyes darted between the two men in uncertainty. Your enemy undoubtedly was the man who ravaged his way through your life, whose sword left nothing but destruction in its wake. Your enemy was Takasugi Shinsuke, the man whose name your blade called out to reach, yet why was it that instead of pointing it at him, you were directing it at the gunslinger? Why was it that your feet were moving on their own?

That’s right. I never had the chance to thank you, but now, that debt will be paid. This is the final kindness I have left for you, Shinsuke.

Before you knew it, your sword impaled the man’s back, his dark jacket growing darker around the rip. A thud echoed as the gun dropped from his hands onto the ground, the man’s body following suit with your blade nailing him down.

You dropped to your knees, taking a look at his face. Both his eyes were frozen, his pupils dilated from the shock. At the sight of you, his lips parted, only for his head to roll to the side. His chest was heaving no longer, you realized. He was gone. A swing of your weapon was all it took to claim his life. It was that easy. So ridiculously easy.

Retracting your sword, you rose to your feet without breaking eye contact. This man must have had a family of his own. A woman and kids of his own, people to call his friends and comrades, people to mourn him, people who would mourn him because of you, because you chose to kill a murderer in order to save another by becoming one yourself. What kind of foul trick was fate playing on you?

“You still haven’t learned to watch your back.”

A blade passed by your side, finding its target right behind you. For a moment, you’d forgotten all about the on-going battle. Even when everyone seemed unaware of you before, that changed after you killed that man. Along with your sword, you’d managed to draw the attention of just about every Amanto on board.

The hollow sound of a body dropping to the floor forced you to turn around, finding yet another pool of blood sprawling beneath your feet.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Takasugi asked, retrieving his blade. “This isn’t your battle to fight.”

“Saving a bastard samurai from the humiliation of dying to an Amanto minion.” You talked back to him, raising your sword over your chest. “Make no mistake, Takasugi. Your life is mine to claim and until that moment comes, I won’t let anyone cut you first.”

Parting his lips as if he had to say something, Takasugi let out a muffled sound. Even when a little less than a dozen of pirates pointed their weapons at him, he was chuckling. With his own sword in hand, he assumed a fighting position, turning his back against you.

“Oi, Y/N.” He spoke, flashing a grin behind the silver. “Your strike against that vermin was enough to kill him. Just like you didn’t hesitate now, don’t hesitate when it comes to my head either.”

There it was, another opportunity for you to put an end to this, though, oddly, you didn’ consider taking advantage of it. Instead, you caught yourself smiling at the sight of your opponents approaching, knowing that your worst enemy had your back.

“I won’t.”

Fighting side by side with him, was the last thing you would have expected to happen when he visited your cell this morning, yet there you were, trying your best to hold your own. The more hits you blocked, the more you were able to return, slowly easing into the rush of the battle. Just like he suggested, you let go of your reservations. You weren’t striking for the sake of killing. You were simply striving to defend yourself and keep the Amanto off his rear while he did the majority of the killing.

So this was the life he’d chosen for himself. A life full of bloodshed and betrayal, a life with his enemies outnumbering his friends, if he had any to begin with. A lonely path with no way out, the very same path you’d chosen for yourself in the name of revenge. Still, he was right, was he not? From the moment you joined this fight, you hadn’t heard a single whisper in your brain. Though it wasn’t his blood that you spilled, you felt surprisingly tranquil, finding even the slightest of enjoyment in all this.

Whenever an enemy fell, you moved onto the next, not allowing yourself to feel sorry for their loss in the slightest. Glancing over at Takasugi, you could see him doing the same, tearing through them until only the two of you were left standing. His purple strands bore a dark red hue, his sword glistening in the same color. You wondered how you must be looking. Judging by the sticky feeling on your skin, you mustn’t look any better than he did.

Shaking the blood off his sword, Takasugi turned towards your direction. His expression had significantly softened up, the filth of his enemies not enough to sully his gentle features. Unlike back then, his eye didn’t resemble that of an executioner, rather that of a man who looked at the object of his affection.

His steps exuded confidence as he walked closer to you, your gazes fixed on one another. The revenge you sought, the crimes he committed, all faded away in instant as if the two of you were the only ones left in the room. “Can I really forgive you?” You caught your heart asking your mind. “Am I really stupid enough to trust this man a second time?”

Before you had the chance to answer these questions, his hand reached forward, spinning you around. An involuntary gasp evaded your lips, uncertain of what had just occurred. His fingers were clamped around your wrist, pressing your armed hand against your sides, with his second hand extended behind your back.

Just like before, the sound of a body falling echoed from behind, an enemy you hadn’t noticed attempting to cut you down when you weren’t looking.

Slowly, Takasugi loosened his grasp, pulling away from your body. You could have sworn his yukata was stained even further than it previously was, though you couldn’t be sure. What troubled you the most, was the squint of his eyes, his expression shifting to that of sudden hurt.

“I told you. I refuse to be a witness to your death.”

In an attempt to balance himself, Takasugi rested his weight upon the hilt of his katana, only to collapse seconds later.

“Ta-Takasugi?” You asked, your eyes widening up at the same time as his eyelids began to droop, the green slowly fading in the back of his skull.

“Quit playing games, this isn’t like you.” You chuckled awkwardly, towering over his fallen body. “It’s not as if this is enough to bring you down, is it-”

Upon noticing the gush of blood that poured out of his yukata, your legs gave out, sending you to your knees. A tear had ripped the fabric of his clothes in half, revealing a rather deep gash that sprawled across his torso. This couldn’t… this wasn’t, right?

Your eyes traveled upon his body, searching for another of his infamous glares in his face, expecting him to scoff at you for making such morbid assumptions, though nothing came out of his lips. He looked as if he were sleeping, an eerily serene expression carved in his features, with his head tilted to the side. This was definitely him sleeping, then why was he perfectly still? Why was his chest not heaving, why couldn’t you feel a pulse when your fingers wrapped around his wrist?

“Wake up. This isn’t the time nor the place to be sleeping.” You whispered, lightly shaking his shoulders.

No response.

“I said wake up!” You shook him again, yet he seemed adamant on not responding.

Was this not what you wanted? To see him drowning in a pool of his own blood? Did you not wish to see him close his eye once and for all, to have him pay for what he did to you? He is the reason you lost everything, he is the one who murdered your family in cold blood, why are you weeping over him? Why are you covering his wound with your hands, why are you calling out for him to wake up?

“Shinsuke, just please open your eye, you can’t… you can’t die here! No matter what, you can’t die, you have to stay alive!”

No matter how much you raised your voice, Takasugi didn’t react in the slightest. He was right there in front of you, except he wasn’t.

“We haven’t even settled the score between us.” You spelled in between hiccupped breaths.

The words were turning into lead within your throat, refusing to spill from your mouth as you started to choke on your tears. In the face of death, neither your supposed hatred nor your stupid vengeance mattered anymore, not when he wouldn’t be around to shield either. If he wasn’t around, then what was the meaning of it all? What was there left for you to live for?

He was the man who took everything away from you, but he was also the man you loved. It only hurt so much because of how much you loved him, because after all these years your only choice was to lie and deny it all. It was easier than admitting that after all that happened, you were still madly in love with the man responsible for your downfall. That day, you didn’t lose just your father. You also lost him and now you were about to lose him again, this time for good.

“Please, Shinsuke… You can’t leave me alone. Not you too, not again.”

As you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your tears streamed down his face and neck, hoping that they were enough to wipe away his sins along with your sorrow, hoping that your feeble embrace would be enough to keep him to life.

“Crying won’t help Shinsuke, I daresay. Let us handle things now.”

The voice of a man kept addressing you, yet you couldn’t snap out of it. Your hands wouldn’t stop reaching out to him, clinging onto his sleeves in an attempt to hold on, even when multiple pair of arms were yanking you away from him.

A gentler, be it firmer grasp landed on your shoulder once you were made to stand on your feet. The same voice kept talking to your ear, supposedly reassuring you, though that did nothing to erase your fears of this being the last time you’d ever get to see him.

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