#arum journal | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

damienthepious · 10 months

Text

lizard kissin’ lizard kissin’ lizard kissin’ lizard kissin’ but actually. in reality. maybe just some lizard hand holdin’. sortakinda. :3c

The Beast In On His Chain (chapter 14)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ch 10] [ch 11] [ch 12] [ch 13] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Absolon

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, prisoner/guard dynamic, Dehumanization, (which feels like a weird word to use for a nonhuman person bUT. it’s what i got.), Despair, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (EVENTUALLY!!!! it’ll take a while), Captivity, Suicidal Thoughts, (that will be a theme throughout. inescapable in this particular fic. alas.), Eventual Romance, (Yes the dynamics in this one are fucked. honestly i’m kinda Stretching my limits these days.), (having fun with it. fucking around. it’s fine.), Recovery, (eventually), Self-Reclamation

Chapter Summary: A couple of conversations, from alternating perspectives.

Chapter Notes: Chapter specific warnings for descriptions of Arum's early captivity, implied torture, continuing references to starvation/dehydration, mentions of injury. Take care of yourselves and i love you!

Arum looks... better. A week or so of water and already-

He does not seem healed, exactly. He is still... worryingly thin, still with the echoes of bruises across his arms and his chest and his eye, though the swelling has gone down substantially. It's subtle, really. Damien is unsure if he would have noticed if he hadn't been looking quite so closely. His color-

He looks less... ashen grey, Damien thinks. His scales are colorless, still, washed out, but- paler, now. Almost... clearer? And the scales themselves seem less dry, cracked, brittle. Claws, too. He breathes a little easier.

(Damien's stomach twists and twists and twists and he cannot make himself believe that this is enough, but-)

Arum has been suspicious of him, still, intermittently. Now and again. He hasn't gone so far as to dump any more cups on Damien's head, thankfully, but- the amount of trust he has in Damien's motives seems to vary by the hour, as Damien sits patiently at the edge of Arum's plinth.

Damien asks, now. If Arum would not mind hearing Damien speak, compose, pray. His responses vary, as well, glaring and shaking his head or rolling his eyes into a reluctant nod, by turns. Damien stays quiet when asked, of course. It is difficult, admittedly, but- it seems a cruelty to give Arum a choice and then fail to follow through.

Once, Arum denies Damien's request to compose aloud, but then after a few hours the monster huffs, grimacing when Damien glances back towards him. He wrinkles his snout, the motion almost- cute, in a strange way, and then he looks away. Damien tries to give Arum a bit of grace, then, politely turning back to the front and his own thoughts, but after another heavy few seconds, he feels Arum's knuckles, just barely brushing the edge of Damien's elbow.

He twitches, turning perhaps a bit too quickly in surprise, and Arum pulls back, startled in his own right. The monster flicks his tongue after a moment, still uncomfortable, still flinching, and Damien-

"Did you..." Damien trails off, biting his lower lip for a moment before he tries again. "Did you need something of me?"

Arum's expression sours, and Damien remembers belatedly- pride, of course, and implying that he needs anything from Damien- poor choice of words, politeness seen as an insult, of course-

Arum sags after only a moment, though, something defeated in his eyes, and then he lifts a hand and gestures to the journal of poetry drafts in Damien's hands.

"Ah..." Damien blinks, lifting the journal almost unconsciously to press against his chest. "Wh... what would you... I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean."

Arum huffs again, points to the book, and then he flexes his hand oddly before he reaches to tap his own snout, his lips. He rolls his eyes as he does this, as if annoyed with himself, and then he flicks his hand out, waving vaguely towards Damien. It would seem like something of a dismissal, but...

Damien feels his own lips part. He swallows, and then tries, "You... you've changed your mind, about my... speaking?"

Arum frowns, and nods. He gestures to the book again.

Damien feels heat in his cheeks, the rawness of his poetic drafts inherently embarrassing, but...

It seems a cruelty, to give Arum a choice and then fail to follow through.

He lowers the pages from against his chest, takes a slow breath in, and starts to run through a verse that has been giving him particular trouble.

He tries, with difficulty, not to flush at the intensity of Arum's gaze upon him.

Arum does not know what to do with the new... amendments to his captivity.

Not that he has the freedom to do much of anything with it, but regardless. The sentiment stands.

His throat feels less raw than it has in... well. He does not actually know how long. Since the very first time he screamed it raw under the collar, when he raged and roared until the pain rendered him unconscious.

He think that he feels less tired, as well. That could be illusion, perhaps. It could be, instead, that Damien's presence in (what he assumes are) the daytime hours prevents him from fading into half-dreaming malaise, now. Even when the poet- when the knight is quiet, his presence is still a distraction, now that he simply prefers to... sit. On Arum's plinth. Within reach. The entirety of the shift, barring his allotted breaks.

(The knight is becoming oddly smooth, when it comes to rising and snatching up his weapons and pretending that he had been doing nothing whatsoever that he isn't allowed, when the other guards creak the door open to relieve him.)

He comes and sits close enough that Arum can scent the world outside on his skin, on his clothes.

Always, he smells of feathers and paper and ink, and the particular scent of his own hair and skin (which Arum, to his consternation, thinks that he could recognize in his sleep, now). Intermittently he smells of horses, of turned soil. Flowers. The scent of honeysuckle returns now and again, alongside lavender and roses and mint. He must enjoy plums, for how often his hands bear the scent of that delicate, cool flesh. The scent of other humans lingers on him with reasonable frequency, as well, but without their context, that is all Arum knows. Someone who enjoys talking as much as Sir Damien... it isn't particularly surprising that he would require other creatures with which to prattle and fritter away his time.

Once, he comes-

Droplets crowning his hair, again, damp darkening the armor on his shoulders, and when Damien puts his weapons on the stones away from Arum and shakes himself out, the reality of thunderstorm shivers in Arum's bones. He can taste it. The vague hint of a spark on the air, the thick rich scent of the rain. Mud on the knight's boots. And the distant, almost ignorable intermittent rumble Arum can sense through the stone, buzzing against his scales, he recognizes at last as thunder.

Damien had been grimacing as he shook a hand through his hair, but something in Arum's eyes must stop him short, because the poet's steps falter for a beat, and his cheeks darken when he meets Arum's gaze.

"Ah- er, it's just... raining," he says, lamely, and Arum wishes for perhaps the thousandth time that he could simply tell this creature how utterly absurd he is. In all capacities. He settles for a look, and Damien's face scrunches in something of a wince. "I know, I know." He sighs, and then he tilts his head, considering, his eyes up on the ceiling for a long moment. "Hm."

Arum glares. The force of it draws Damien's attention, and after a moment he shakes his head again (the rain-scent redoubling in Arum's snout).

"The thunder," he says, quietly. "I didn't realize... this deep, you can barely even hear it. It could just as well be the middle of a sunny day, or the depths of a snowstorm, or a humid haze, and we would never know the difference, secreted away in this cryp-"

He pauses, inhaling sharply and almost swallowing the word, but- he catches Arum's eye again. Arum knows what word he said. Damien knows he knows. The knight gives a rather mirthless, uncertain smile, and he sighs.

"Well. Regardless. I'm sup-" another pause. "Rather, I thought I should ask... may I take a look at your hand? The one that was injured, I mean," he says when Arum pulls his head back, wary. "I want to see how it has been healing, if that's alright with you."

Arum glances down to the hand in question, then glares back up at Damien. He can see the hand perfectly well, can't he?

Damien's smile takes on a little more warmth, and he takes a step closer. "May I look a bit closer, I mean," he says. "I- I'd like to see if the swelling has gone down. Your eye looks better, but... the hand was rather more unfortunate, and I want to be sure."

Why, Arum thinks, again. For perhaps the thousandth time. Why does the knight care?

He flexes his fingers, far less sore and stiff than they had been, and then he sighs. He settles a little more comfortably (not comfortably, in truth, but- more so) and offers the offending limb out towards the knight.

Damien almost looks surprised, for a heartbeat, and then his smile shifts even wider, and softer, and he leans against the plinth, lifting his own hands to take Arum's.

Arum twitches at the touch. He can't help it. Even his fingertips are hot like coals, and Arum can feel droplets of water from the rain dotting his skin, too, oddly intimate against Arum's scales. Damien makes a noise in the back of his throat, wordless but soothing, and he very carefully turns Arum's hand in his own, his eyes intent and observant.

Arum imagines that his own eyes must bear a similar look, watching Damien in return, trying to focus on anything besides that touch. He flicks his tongue, taking all of it (rain hair orange peel spark of lightning skin rain soil honeysuckle linen rain green growing things rain) in as one sensation. It feels something like hunger, at the core of him. A want so sharp that it hurts. It coalesces oddly: he remembers with a sudden pulse a particular landscape Amaryllis had shown, raindrops on a river, hazy lines in the air to show the falling droplets, ruffling birds taking cover beneath a shrub, and-

(Ridiculous, the idea that he misses her. He does not know her. He knew her only briefly. She does not mean anything. She is not coming back.)

(She is not coming back.)

Arum swallows. Damien releases his hand, leaning back and leaving Arum's scales colder again. Arum curls his hands into fists, pressing them against his stomach as if that might keep the linger of mammal heat a moment longer. As if it isn't already too late.

"Seems that you're healing rather well," Damien says with a light smile, and then a sharpness comes to his eyes. "Now, at least. Do you imagine the water is helping?" he asks, and Arum-

(Rain on his cheek, still weighing his curls down, emphasizing every scent, is the water helping? Helping-)

(He means the canteen.)

Arum shakes his head to clear it, realizes that Damien will likely take that as a negation, and then he huffs. He gives a shrug, tipping his head sideways in what he hopes will read as a so-so gesture. He doesn't know, of course. It feels like, perhaps, it might be. But how would he know?

Damien nods slowly, a thoughtful turn to his lips, and then he allows himself to sit, perching on the lip of Arum's plinth, his usual place.

(His usual place?)

"Would..." the poet's voice slows, and then he hesitantly raises his eyes to meet Arum's. "Would food help, as well, do you think?"

#elle's fanfic #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #the beast in on his chain #ough augh hrgh haough #please someone help this lizard (ignores that i control this)

16 notes · View notes

silasbug · 1 year

Text

actual journal entry because i didn't actually mean to write a whole weird mess about my mental state, but i did. it's helped.

went for a walk with a friend to pick some Solomon's Seal (Polygonatum multiflorum) and Lily of the Valley (Convallaria majalis), found a nice Cuckoo-pint (Arum maculatum) as well. bonus picture of Greater Stitchwort from last week (Stellaria holostea). we sat in the fields and had some vegan chocolate caramel cookies with a cup of earl grey each. it was really nice.

i haven't doodled on actual paper in a while, missed it, tried it, and i just. i tried to zoom in. i literally put my grubby little fingers on the damn paper. made the zoom in motion. i'm still trying to emotionally recover from that, ha. but! i missed drawing on paper. it feels so much more intuitive and i think it looks better. (besides the obvious mistakes i can't fix because.. ballpoint).

a coursemate sent me a message? just... asking how i'm doing? i'm really confused because i haven't made any friends at Uni and people don't typically just.. text me. i sat next to him during Law I twice last semester. we talked about LotR. he seems like an absolute sweetheart. also shy. likes to garden. i get really, really good vibes from him. (grain of salt, i am a bad judge of character). being the shy little bug that i am i never approached or sat next to him again because i don't like to impose on others, but. we sat together again last thursday and he seemed happy about it? we talked throughout the breaks and it was really nice. i don't want to get my hopes up because i just came to terms with being the awkward outsider again, but.. i may make a friend after all? or at least have someone i can say "hi" to in the halls.

i've been loving on my ukulele. it's not good and it sounds like shit but i am having a lot of fun with it. finding new songs i can sing along to (who knew that, if i pitched it right, i actually sound kind of good singing "Call Me When You're Sober"? not me) and taking it outside at night to my favorite bench in the fields. it was raining heavily the other night, but i went out when (i thought!) it finally stopped. as i was walking the sky broke over my head. it was amazing. i got absolutely soaked by the time i found a pavilion to wait it out under but, god. that was fun.

#journal entry #personal #why do i even have different tags if i just slap them on everything jfc #that was not supposed to be anne but! it's anne #bug.wip

1 note · View note

devoirat · 2 years

Text

Devoir de Contrôle 1 Français 3ème Math

Texte : VOYAGE AU CONGO Bangassou, 8 octobre. Je n'ai pu trouver le temps de rien noter ces derniers jours. Le pays a changé d'aspect. De très étranges mamelons mouvementent la plaine; sortes de collines basses, régulièrement arrondies, dômes que M. Bouvet nous dit formés par d'anciennes termitières*. Et je ne vois point quelle autre explication donner à ces soulèvements du sol. Mais ce qui me surprend, c'est de ne voir dans toute la contrée aucune termitière monumentale récente; celles, immenses, dont ont pu se former ces tumulus*, doivent, désertées depuis longtemps, vraisemblablement être vieilles de plusieurs siècles; l'action des pluies n'a pu que très lentement désagréger ces sortes de châteaux forts ou de cathédrales aux murs quasi verticaux et durs comme de la brique, que j'admirais dans la forêt des environs d'Eala. Ou bien est-ce là l'œuvre de termites d'une race différente? Et ces termitières ont-elles été de tout temps arrondies? Toutes, pourtant, semblent déshabitées depuis longtemps. Pourquoi? Il semble qu'une autre race de termites à petites constructions soit ici venue occuper le sol à la place des termites monumentaux. (...) Tout le long de la route, sur un parcours de cinquante kilomètres, suite presque ininterrompue de villages et de cultures des plus variées: céaras, riz, mil, maïs, ricin, manioc, coton, sésame, café, taro (grand arum aux rhizomes comestibles), palmiers à huile et bananiers. Des deux côtés bordée de citronnelles, la route semble une allée de parc. Et, cachée à demi dans le feuillage, tous les trente mètres environ, une hutte de roseaux en forme de casque à pointe. Ces cités- jardins, étalées le long de la route, forment un décor sans épaisseur. La race qui, les habite et les surpeuple n'est pas très belle ; soumise depuis deux ans seulement, elle vivait éparse dans la brousse; les vieux demeurent farouches; accroupis à la manière des macaques, c'est à peine s'ils regardent passer la voiture; l'on n'obtient d'eux aucun salut. Par contre les femmes accourent, secouant et brinquebalant leurs balloches(…) Le 6 nous avons couché à vingt kilomètres de Mobaye, où nous préférions ne pas arriver à la nuit. Devant le gîte d'étape de Moussareu, ahurissant* tam-tam; d'abord à la clarté de photophores, tenus à bras tendus par nos boys; puis au clair de la pleine lune. D'admirables chants alternés rythment, soutiennent et tempèrent l'enthousiasme et la frénésie* du pandémonium. Je n'ai rien vu de plus déconcertant, de plus sauvage. Une sorte de symphonie s'organise; chœur d'enfants et soliste; la fin de chaque phrase du soliste se fond dans la reprise du chœur. Hélas! Notre temps est compté. Nous devrons repartir avant le jour. Le 7, au petit matin, nous ne quittons ce poste qu'avec l'espoir d'y revenir dans quelques mois, à notre retour d'Archambault. L'aube argentée se mêle au clair de lune. Le pays devient accidenté; collines rocheuses de cent à cent cinquante mètres de haut, que contourne la route. Nous arrivons à Mobaye vers dix heures. André Gide, Voyage au Congo, dans Journal, souvenirs (1939-1949), Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1960, pp.720-723. Lexique : Termitières : Nids d’insectes (appelés termites) construits en terre ou en carton de bois. Tumulus : Grand amas de pierres élevé au dessus d’une construction préhistorique. Frénésie : Délire intense / extase / joie / Lycée Bourguiba Monastir DEVOIR DE CONTRôLE N°1 Nom et Prénom :………………………. ……………………………Classe : ………. A- Compréhension : (6points) - Au début de sa visite à Bangassou, le narrateur fut Qu’est-ce qui a provoqué sa surprise ? (1pt) ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… - a- Par quoi s’expliquent les variations de cultures qu’il a constatées dans son parcours au Congo? (1pt) ……….……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………��………………………………………………………… …………………………………………………………………………. b-Trouvez deux indices textuels qui le montrent. (1pt) ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… - a- Quel effet, ce voyage avait-il sur le narrateur ? (1.5pts) ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. b- Relevez et expliquez un procédé d’écriture qui met en valeur cet effet. (1.5pts) ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………. B- Langue : (4 points) 1) Relevez quatre noms de régions visitées par le narrateur dans ce texte. (1pt) *…………………………………… *……………………………………. *………………………………… *…………………………………….. 2)* L’absence des termitières monumentales est due à l’arrivée de certaines races différentes. a/Identifiez le rapport logique exprimé dans cette phrase. (0.5) àà …………………………………………………… b/Réécrivez la phrase en utilisant : « être à l’origine de » (0.5) àà …………………………………………………….. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… c/Utilisez un procédé grammatical pour exprimer le même rapport logique dans une phrase complexe (1) ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 3) Utilisez les informations suivantes pour rédiger un paragraphe où vous emploierez les expressions de but, de cause et de conséquence expliquant les projets de la compagnie « SNCFT » (2pts) *Réclamations nombreuses des voyageurs *Améliorer la qualité du service *Nouvelles lignes *Attirer plus de clientèle *Recruter d’autres conducteurs de train et de métro ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… C- Essai : (10 points) Certains affirment que « le voyage organisé » est la meilleure façon de profiter de ses vacances. Partagez-vous leur opinion ? Exprimez votre point de vue dans un paragraphe cohérent. ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… Read the full article

0 notes

simeramise · 4 years

Text

Arum maculatum

There're these strange plants growing in the back of the garden under the cherry trees... I thought I didnt know them but in fact come summer they will grow little red berries called snake berries apparently. Poisonous things that hold alcaloïds and calcium oxalate: it tastes good and sugary apparently but then you will have throat or tongue swelling and might die of asphyxia...

Interesting thing is that you can also use it to treat warts or use the roots to make bread like during antiquity...

#bujo #bullet journal #bujo spread #plants #plant #plant fact #studyblr #studyspo #arum maculatum #toxic plants #my blabla #cottage core #cottage garden #cottagecore

9 notes · View notes

the-toybox-general · 6 years

Text

I just noticed in that sketch of Titan in the last picture I like,, gave him Corpse's hood back instead of his nfnfn That's my bad pretend it's up and not down! Also have I told you guys Titan stinky because he is He's a good guy just, He stinks

#General's Journal #he's practically a walking Titan Arum #I can't say he smells good #same goes for Corpse

4 notes · View notes

fromthemouthofkings · 2 years

Note

🌲🥀 for Leaf?

Thank you for giving me the chance to talk about Leaf Potter-Moonlark, my beloved eldritch grad student

🌲 How deeply does your OC feel?: Leaf is a pretty even-keeled, mellow person, besides the bit where they're quietly deranged. They hold a general (some might say shallow, but genuine enough) feeling of goodwill towards all people, which they will smilingly abandon in pursuit of Lore and Monsters. They get away with a lot because they are just so disarmingly friendly. Their deepest love is the intense and consuming curiosity they have about eldritch things, but they also prioritize being nice to people, and they feel strongly about being loyal to their friends and honoring the terms of the contracts that they make--that's where they get their powers from. They don't really seek out deep connections beyond the "can I study you" variety--they have a stable home life and a few childhood friends, and they were satisfied with that, and focused on their research, before they met the party. Having friends was kind of a happy surprise, but now that they have them, they feel strongly about taking care of them--even if they don't have a lot of experience in that area. I think they'd be pretty good if a little weird about it. They would take a very clinical approach, observing from a distance at first and then applying environmental enrichments like "tea" and "soft blankets" and "rat friend" to see the effect. They're just charming enough that you might miss the level of detachment they have under the surface, unless you're looking closely.

🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal?: Leaf has a Tome (it's their dissertation. it's not finished yet) in which they record all of their observations about eldritch beings, and particularly about their patron, Qqexigv. It is bound in black leather with gold leaf, because of course it is, and has nice thick soft cream-colored paper, (unlike me, Leaf lives their life on the edge and actually writes in the fancy notebooks they buy, instead of compulsively hoarding them and never writing in them like a dragon). The pages are covered with writing in different scripts, some of which seem to be written backwards, to float off the page, or to be written in such a way as to bend the conventional laws of geometry. There are also meticulous illustrations of their patron (a quivering mass of purple jelly) and many detailed diagrams in multicolored ink. A typical entry might look like:

[written in what seems to be ordinary script, but trying to read it gives you a headache, as if the words are out of focus]: Today in the Arum marketplace, found sellers peddling some kind of potion which seems to be of the exact same hue and of similar properties to that of the form Qqexigv takes on, when it interacts with the mortal plane. Onlookers drank potion, vomited out purple slime. When poked with stick, slimes attacked. Sample vial X79231 taken for further research.

#thank you artie ily #leaf potter-moonlark #for the uninitiated leaf is my dnd character #my ocs

1 note · View note

soledadcatalina · 4 years

Text

spoken through your touch

words: 872

ao3 link

summary: Lord Arum has four, perfectly good hands, much to Rilla's benefit.

(alternatively: who doesnt want a four armed backrub?)

Arum finds her snoring at her desk for the third night in a row, suitably illuminated by candles near burnt to the ends of their wicks. By no means is this development surprising, nor the longest streak of catching Amaryllis in this bad habit. She sleeps slumped over in her chair, head between her folded arms among tomes, journals, and vials; the clutter seeming to make a perfect semicircle nest around her. Even her goggles are still fastened to her face, though slightly askew.

The floorboards of the hut creak underneath his footsteps, though this does not seem to rouse her until he is a mere step away, her eyes fluttering open and jumping with a yelp. Recognition eases Rilla’s momentary fright, too tired to do anything but yawn and lift her head, eyelids blinking slowly against the heavy haze of exhaustion. She pries her goggles off her face, rubbing her fingertips along irritated red creases around her eyes, sighing, “Saints, how long was I out for?”

“I would not know,” Arum replies, bridging the gap between them, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Though, it would be remiss of me to not ensure a proper night’s rest from this point on.”

“A proper night’s rest. Ha. Tell that to Damien,” Rilla snorts, before straightening up in her chair. A series of worrying snaps and cracks emanate from her as she rolls her shoulders back, wincing at a particularly loud pop. “Fuck, it really is a wonder my posture isn’t worse,” she mutters under her breath.

“I cannot imagine that this is the ideal sleeping arrangement for human spinal health,” Arum tuts, ignoring the unimpressed scrunched up face he receives in return. Still, she back leans into his touch and underneath his palm the tension of her muscles remains ever present. It’s with this that an idea begins to piece together in his thoughts.

“Amaryllis,” he says slowly. “Shall we be expecting to see you back to bed soon?”

She frowns, silently glancing between him and her research. Arum stands with a simple offer; respite, a bed, a sleeping third waiting patiently for both of their return. At her desk presents the offer of a needed solution, a breakthrough so painstakingly earned and achieved if found. There is no doubt in Arum’s mind that she would inevitably resolve the matter in the morning.

Rilla looks back up at him, and it is the way she chews on her lip, mulling over her reply that Arum knows that he must make his offer much more tempting. He lays another hand to her other shoulder, and mindful of his claws, kneads his thumbs into her flesh.

The effect is almost instantaneous as Rilla melts back into his touch, a gentle sigh loose from her lips. Hours upon hours hunched over her desk that had previously left her compressed and strung up were slowly being unwound with every firm caress of his hands. Her head lolls back, eyes fluttering shut once again as another hand works the tight tendons of her neck, and pleasantly shivers from the gentle scrape of another set of claws upon her scalp. A hiss from her gradually melts away into a moan as Arum coaxes away a stubborn knot in her shoulder blades.

“To think, as much as I’ve recommended massage therapy to my patients, I’ve never had the time to pursue it for myself,” Rilla murmurs, gazing up at Arum through heavy lids again, though, her smile now much more languid than bone-tired. “Shall I book my appointments for, oh, the next decade in advance? Set up a payment system?”

“Lucky for you, little doctor, you will indeed find my rates quite... negotiable.” He reaches a hand out, clasping his fingers around her wrist, feeling the steadiness of her pulse as he gently kneads the tight, delicate tendons lying underneath. “However, tonight I must be insistent on one condition.”

Arum presses his lips against the crown of Rilla’s head, and softer, murmurs: “Come back to bed, to sleep. To us.”

From the stillness of her body, Arum nearly assumes she’d beaten him to the punch already. But beneath him Rilla arches her neck up and he feels the press of her lips feather-light against the dip of his jaw, unable to contain the purr that rumbles up his throat. Her free hand pats the side of his cheek as she sighs her resignation.

“You drive a hard bargain,” she admits, the words mouthed against his scales. “But, I have one condition of my own.”

Puzzled, Arum leans back, glancing down his snout to meet the cheeky glean in her eyes. Rilla shifts in her spots, swinging her legs out from under her desk and reaches her arms outstretched up to Arum’s shoulders. At the quizzical raise of his brow, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and kicks her legs out straight.

“Oh, ridiculous little human,” Arum grumbles, crouching to wrap two arms underneath his legs, and two arms curled securely around her waist. The delighted little laugh he receives in reply as he lifts Rilla up is enough to knock the mock-grumpiness from his face as he whisks her away to lay rightfully between her lovers' sides.

#the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #amaryllis of exile #lord arum #(damiens here but only mentioned in passing)#tpp #catalina writes #hey can u tell ive been missing being able to hold my gf these past few months or what lol #sc

31 notes · View notes

southeastasianists · 4 years

Link

As one of the world’s top travel destinations, the impact of COVID-19 on the Indonesian island of Bali has received intense media scrutiny — and speculation. After foreign arrivals and transits were temporarily suspended on March 31, by mid-April most international media coverage had shifted from stranded tourists to those seeing out the pandemic in paradise.

Dozens of stories detailed luxury lockdowns and quiet beachfront retreats. After Sky News interviewed a British family spending their lockdown “watching the sunset and playing in a paddling pool,” Indonesians began to push back, including award-winning investigative journalist Febriana Firdaus who tweeted: “Can we just stop publishing stories on the matter of the tourist gaze? This is so wrong at many levels of journalism.”

With 235 confirmed cases, 121 recoveries, and four deaths at the beginning of May, Bali did not emerge as the coronavirus hotspot that contagious disease experts had predicted. Rather, it had one of the lowest fatality rates in Indonesia. At the same time, however, it has been widely reported that Indonesia has had one of the lowest per capita testing rates in the world, with Bali being no exception. As Indonesia’s total number of cases increased steadily — and the much-cited Reuters report of record high burials in Jakarta did the rounds — stories of Bali’s “mysterious immunity” caused consternation for Indonesian public health experts and journalists alike.

On May 12, President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo praised Bali’s provincial government for its handling of the outbreak, attributing the “success” of containment efforts to the island’s 1,493 desa adat (traditional villages). From meting out “social sanctions” like push-ups for those who violate nationwide mandatory mask use to taskforce members in traditional masks denying entry to those attempting to access closed areas, the efforts of local authorities, both creative and standard, have been widely celebrated.

After Jokowi’s stamp of success, foreign media began focusing on Bali’s timeline for reopening, but official estimates varied. Three days after Jokowi praised the Bali government and the traditional village system, the secretary of the Tourism and Creative Economy Ministry, Ni Wayan Giri Adnyani, said in a statement that the Ministry was planning to “revitalize destinations” in select parts of the country, including Bali, between June and October, while partial reopening “may begin” in October.

On the same day, the head of the Indonesian Hotels and Restaurants Association’s Badung Regency chapter, I Gusti Agung Ngurah Rai Suryawijaya, told the ABC that Bali would “hopefully” reopen in July. Minister for National Development Planning Suharso Monoarfa, echoed this projection on May 28, announcing that “we expect Bali will be ready to open for business soon in July.”

Predictably, dozens of media outlets jumped on the July reopening period, while others opted for far less click-worthy October. For Gustra Adnyana, co-owner of a library cafe in Ubud, the contrasting timeframes only fueled his skepticism of the reports. “It isn’t clear lately,” he said. “It makes me doubtful of the accuracy of the media.”

As the squall of articles on when tourists could return to their favorite resort island intensified, so did the severity of adjectives used to describe the impact of COVID-19 on Bali’s economy. As James Guild writes in New Mandala, “some of the more sensationalist [news items] tend to privilege the perspective of foreigners or use somewhat alarmist language to push a narrative of impending disaster.” He also notes discrepancies in reports of the percentage of tourism’s contribution to Bali’s GDP. Al Jazeera pegged it at 80 percent, while Coconuts Bali quoted the deputy chief of Bank Indonesia’s Bali office, who put it between 54 and 58 percent. The latter is in line with the Central Statistics Agency’s 2019 figure of 55 percent, which Guild cites.

“For me,” he writes, “this idea that Bali will die without tourists comes uncomfortably close to a White Savior narrative, implying that local people have no choice but to hunker down and endure this crisis until foreigners start showing up again to rescue them. Such framing strips Indonesians of their agency in rising to meet this challenge, something they are quite capable of doing and have done many times before.”

Community-led initiatives to help the nation’s most vulnerable groups withstand the pandemic — such as Donations for Transwomen Bali and Pasar Rakyat Bali — receive significant local coverage, but expat-founded charities tend to attract more international media attention. A similar sentiment was expressed by Shane Preuss in The Diplomat, who pointed out that “what the Australian media has missed is the resilience of the Indonesian people.”

He also points out that in the 2019 Legatum Prosperity Index, Indonesia ranked fifth in the world for social capital and first for civic and social participation, with the highest levels of volunteering of any country. In the 2018 Charities Aid Foundation (CAF) World Giving Index Indonesia also ranked first for frequency of donating and volunteering.

Meanwhile, Eve Tedja, an associate editor of a gourmet and lifestyle publication, believes that when it comes to local perspectives, foreign media coverage of COVID-19 in Bali is “very lacking.” She contends that “if there is more coverage about real issues as opposed to Bali’s ‘mysterious immunity,’ maybe journalism can become the motor to create the necessary change.” Tedja feels that the “only genuine voice of Balinese perspectives” is independent community-based journalism portal Bale Bengong, which “allows us to speak our often unheard and most often, reluctantly voiced, opinions.”

At the end of May, Bali Governor I Wayan Koster quashed speculation on when Bali would reopen, stating there were no plans to restart the tourist industry in the near future. As reported by Kompas, Koster has insisted his government is putting the health of the island’s population first. After a recent increase in local transmissions, bringing the total number of confirmed cases as of June 10 to 608 with 409 recoveries and five fatalities, he has reemphasized the ban on large gatherings of any kind, ordered tourist sites to remain closed, and urged residents to be more cautious.

The Indonesian Tourism and Creative Economy Ministry has declared that when travel restrictions are eased, Bali will be the pilot location for the Ministry’s Cleanliness, Health, and Safety (CHS) program. The program will be rolled out across the archipelago’s top travel destinations as part of Indonesian tourism’s transition to the “new normal,” although Bali’s Deputy Governor Tjokorda Oka Artha won’t be using this term. “In the context of Bali, I don’t call it the new normal, I call it the new era of Bali, which will change the paradigm of tourism in the future,” he said during the Indonesia Tourism Forum teleconference on May 15.

So what do Balinese want their island’s “new era” to look like?

Many are concerned about environmental sustainability and preserving the natural beauty of their island, which, prior to the pandemic, drew increased volumes of tourists annually. In 2019, international arrivals grew 3.6 percent from the previous year to 6.3 million, according to the Central Statistics Agency’s Bali office.

Putu Evie, a dancer, dance teacher, and member of Trash Hero Indonesia, believes the CHS program’s hygiene and sanitation protocols will need to address the issue of waste and single-use packaging. “The public still believes single-use plastic is the answer to maintaining cleanliness and hygiene, so there must be a change in mindset first. Whether we want to or not, with this pandemic, we must learn to confront this problem.”

Although the island has long suffered from alarming amounts of plastic waste on land and in its seas and waterways, confronting the crisis has only become a major government focus in the last two years, according to Andre Dananjaya, a co-producer of Pulau Plastik, a collaborative campaign tackling single-use plastic in Indonesia.

Environmental preservation is also a priority for Ayu Gayatri Kresna, a traditional chef in Bengkala Village, North Bali. She feels that the island “needs to consider returning to quality tourism, where guests appreciate and participate in preserving the sustainability of nature, culture, and traditions.”

Cultural tourism should be one of the foundations of Bali’s new era, says Jero Mangku Istri Alas Arum, who was ordained as a Hindu priest at the age of eight in Batur, northeast Bali. “There is a cultural and spiritual sanctity that we must maintain in Bali. When this is protected, tourism will be sustainable.”

Ida Bagus A. Gangga, a member of the Desa Adat Dawan COVID-19 taskforce in Klungkung on the island’s southeast coast, believes there should be equal focus on the health and safety of the population as there is on the environment. Similarly, I Gusti Krishna Aditama, who works for a national character-building association, says “the environmental aspect needs close attention, because this is where we work and live. If the environment is destroyed, where will we live?”

In a similar vein, hotelier Bagus Ari Saputra asks, “Do we want Bali to essentially be a playground, or theme park, where people from the outside come in and have fun in a plastic space designed for their entertainment, or do we want it to be something that serves the people who live here, who in the end are responsible for managing the development on the island and the preservation of its culture and natural resources?” Bagus admits, however, that “in the end, money talks, and custom decides which places proliferate or prosper, so it will always be a dance between local landowners, developers, and business owners on the one hand, and the tourists who come here on the other.”

Wulan Saraswati, an author and Indonesian language teacher for international students, believes “we need to stop looking at Bali only as a source of foreign exchange, as if Bali only comes from foreigners who bring money. Why don’t we also look at the other potential that lies within Bali itself?”

After the massive decline in tourism caused by COVID-19, which many say is worse than the downturn after the 2002 Bali bombings and the 2017 Mount Agung volcanic eruptions combined, Koster has declared that developing other sectors of the economy, such as agricultural exports, will now be a government priority.

This is welcome news for 24-year-old specialty coffee farmer and processor I Kadek Ari Darsana in Pelaga, Central Bali, who has also worked as a tour guide. “For young Balinese who are worried about the stability of a career in tourism, I think farming is an answer.” Ayu Sudana, also a young specialty coffee farmer and processor, shares his optimism: “Coffee is a great option as no matter what happens in the world, people will still drink coffee.”

As the island’s tourism industry remains dormant, I Made Ady Wirawan, head of Udayana University’s School of Public Health, notes the most likely tourists will be Balinese themselves. “This is a good time for Bali to prepare itself.”

When the island does reopen, he urges that “the new era or new normal must be in parallel with government efforts to increase capacity in testing, treating, tracing, and isolating cases.”

#indonesia #bali #tourism #coronavirus #covid-19

19 notes · View notes

tournevole · 4 years

Quote

Le matin pendant que je me coiffe devant le miroir Il lit son journal. Jour après jour, je lui raconte toujours le même rêve : la ville blanche et le cadre vide, Breton et ses arums immenses de désespoir, et je lui répète que l'acte de l'amour et l'acte poétique sont incompatibles avec la lecture du journal à haute voix. Peut-être je ne raconte pas bien puisque dans la mer des nuits sans partage à chaque fois surgit une île de sel.

Ciel à perdre", Aksinia Mihaylova. Prix Apollinaire 2014. Gallimard.

15 notes · View notes

ecargmura · 6 months

Text

Frieren: Beyond Journey's End Episode 10 Review - The Strongest Mage

You were expecting a big battle between Frieren and Aura? Please, this isn’t a battle shounen manga. Besides, I think what the writer did for this buildup wasn’t to show off how much stronger Frieren is compared to Aura, but the fact that Frieren hates demons so much that the writer even incorporates that hatred into not focusing on Aura only towards the end. Imagine hating demons so much that the one standing in front of Frieren is such a pissant that she’d rather think back on her memories with Flamme and Himmel than focus on the current battle in general. That’s a total disrespect to Aura from Frieren and I wouldn’t have her behave any other way.

Throughout the flashbacks, Frieden’s hatred for demons has been revealed; demons killed the elf village she was living in and she managed to kill the demon general Basalt in retaliation. She was the only survivor and could’ve died if Flamme hadn’t shown up. Flamme decided to take Frieren as her apprentice because they share similarities from hating demons to loving magic. The most memorable lesson Frieren recalled from her tutelage with Flamme had been suppressing her mana in order to trick demons. Her time with Flamme has been finding ways to use magic in order to destroy any demon that stands in her way. At first, Frieren had found it pointless, but now, she uses it to her advantage centuries later when she meets Aura, a demon who’s ability requires her to use large quantities of mana. I honestly loved how Frieren clapped back at Aura’s long live by telling her that she’s a mage who has lived much longer than she did.

Flamme is such a good teacher. She chose her apprentice well. I think the fact that she chose an elf to continue her legacy was a smart decision. She taught Frieren everything and the latter has all the time in the world to retain the magic and then later gets her own apprentice in Fern. I really like Flamme’s personality. She’s like Frieren’s adopted mom, but there was still a bit of a border between them. Her mindset was also a strong, lasting factor in Frieren. She didn’t mind becoming a disgrace of mages if it means to destroy every last demon in the world. I think the sweetest part of the interaction between master and apprentice was that Flamme was the one who taught Frieren the flower field magic that she later incorporates during her travels with the hero’s party and later with Fern back in Episode 2. The chance encounter with Flamme paved the way for Frieren to meet Himmel who says the same thing she once said to her master when she first met her.

Some aspects I like about this episode was seeing the demons animated. Like, in the beginning, Lugner’s eyes wandered around a lot, which is something I quite liked seeing because he was rather emotionless and composed throughout most of his screen time. Seeing Aura becoming panicked when the scales tipped over to Frieren’s favor. When Frieren commanded Aura to kill herself, the detail of the sword cutting Aura’s hair before she did the thing was really good. While I do love amazing animation, little details like these are nice to see too!

I feel like this is now the end of this arc. I do wonder where Frieren and the others will go now. I’m seriously invested in their adventure towards Aureole. What will they get themselves into going forth? What are your thoughts about this episode and the end of this arc?

#frieren beyond journey's end #sousou no frieren #frieren #flamme #aura the guillotine #lugner #himmel #heiter #eisen #review #anime #anime review #ecargmura #arum journal

52 notes · View notes

damienthepious · 1 year

Text

ksldjfjks not letting myself get behind on these again HERE is the CHAPTER enJOY

The Beast In On His Chain (chapter 10)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Absolon

Chapter Summary: Softness, and sharpness.

Chapter Notes: the last chapter came out short and this one DID NOT. CHAPTER WARNINGS for starvation (again), suicidal thoughts (again), something that is comparable to a suicide attempt, blood, violence, threats of further violence, and heavy implications of abuse/torture. PLEASE let me know if i missed anything, i'm far more worried about accurate warnings than i am about spoilers.

"Psst. Good morning, Arum!"

Arum flutters his eyes open at the sound of his name, startled and bizarrely eager and trying not to show it, and the human-

Amaryllis swims into view as he blinks the sleep from his eyes, grinning a conspiratorial grin with the toes of one boot obstinately edging past the line on the floor.

Arum reels himself back with a sigh, raising an eyebrow at the human in a vague question.

He doesn't know why she's back again. He won't let himself hope for another journal of crumbs, and he also doesn't understand this...

Damien isn't here today. He insists on informing Arum when he will be off-duty for a few days, so Arum knows that he will not be here to relieve the current guard in a few hours, even. And Amaryllis is back.

Three times seems... like it wouldn't be a coincidence. Sir Damien has been here more days than he hasn't, since Arum first noticed him. The chances are extremely unlikely that this other human would randomly happen to appear only when Sir Damien is absent.

Arum does not know what that means, but he certainly does not trust it.

"I would ask how you've been," she says, her smile tilting and her brow furrowing with something like understanding, or perhaps sympathy. "But that seems like a rub-salt-in-the-wound sort of question."

Arum snorts despite himself, and her grin returns. He lowers his head again, resting his chin on his arms with the collar digging uncomfortably into his neck, but he doesn't close his eyes, deciding to watch her as she glances back towards the door.

"So. Last time. I got the impression that your favorites were the flowers and the birds. And the landscapes, but most of my landscapes involve both flowers and birds, so." She pauses. "Unless I'm making that up?"

Arum sighs again, still uncertain, but after a moment he nods, ignoring the way the collar pulls. He glances away from her as well, for a moment, when her smile goes even more blinding.

"Great! Perfect. I've been doing a lot with the color green, lately."

She spends three tours worth of time going through her newest journal, packed thick with pages of botanical sketches and examinations of birds, the latter focusing on anatomy and the former- notes that Arum takes a few minutes to recognize as medical. A small part of him wishes he could ask about that. He is fairly certain that one of the succulents she has detailed is a variant of something he has- had in his greenhouse, and he is curious about the differences between the two.

(Has the Keep been able to manage the greenhouse without him?)

The birds feel less fraught. The way she draws the wings- it is perhaps more flat than he would prefer - she draws her lines a little too straight - but the musculature is extremely precise.

When she reaches the end, a few minutes before the next tour is due if his measure is correct, she exhales a long breath and lifts her gaze to him again.

"I hope-" she pauses. "I really don't know how to say this."

Arum lifts his head, then, annoyed and intrigued at the same time. He raises his brow, and she huffs a sigh.

"Alright, alright. Is this- do you like when I come do this? Is it actually- do you actually enjoy it, or do you not care at all? Or am I just making things worse for you?" She pauses as Arum stares at her, entirely blank, and then she continues. "You know that I'd leave you alone if you asked, right?"

Arum rolls his eyes, utterly unwilling to dignify that with a response, and she scowls at him, planting her hands on her hips.

"I mean it. Look, Arum," he twitches involuntarily, ignores it, "I told you before- I'm doing this because I think this- this whole situation is a nightmare, and I can't do anything real about it. Not-" she pauses, and Arum thinks- she changes what she was going to say, shaking her head. "I'm not here to make your imprisonment worse. That's the last thing I want. So. Do you want me to stop visiting?"

She- waits. Watches him. Arum feels his shoulders sink, discomfort and irritation and a resurrected bristling of his remaining scraps of pride, but- she only waits, and after a long, long moment, Arum relents. He shakes his head.

No. He does not want her to stop. He does not want to give up the chance to see her again. Does not want to give up these flattened trinkets of the world beyond these walls.

Her own shoulders lower, her expression melting into something like relief, and she nods with an enthusiasm that surprises him.

"Good. Good, Arum. I'm glad. I just-" she pauses again, biting her lip for a moment in a wincing sort of way, and then she mutters, "oh, fuck all of this," and then she-

She- pulls a page from her sketchbook? Arum makes in incredulous noise, pulling his head back, but she doesn't seem to hear him, her expression fixed in a determined scowl as she shoves the rest of the book into the satchel at her side. She takes the page in both hands, then, and folds it, and then folds it again, and then-

Ah. A little paper dart with narrowed wings, the edges of her drawing jagged and confusing between the folds. She holds it up in one hand, prepared to send the makeshift bird flying, and with one eyebrow raised, she asks, "Catch?"

Arum stares at her for slightly less of a pause, this time, and then he nods again, shifting to sit more upright as he lifts a pair of hands.

She grins, her hand flicking elegantly forward to send the dart gliding in an almost-perfect arc. Arum manages to catch it by a wing between his claws, his arm trembling as he pulls it back, hiding it quickly behind another hand.

"Just- something for- until my next visit. I know it isn't much, really, but-"

Arum shakes his head, not looking at her, his heart- pounding strangely, thudding in a way that makes his sternum feel tight and uncomfortable. He doesn't want to risk a word, but- he hisses sharply to stop that particular line of thinking. He unfolds the paper with more care than is strictly necessary, but with his cracked claws and shaking hands, he does not want to risk accidentally tearing his prize.

It's a drawing of a pond, thick with reeds and with a long-necked heron upright and noble in the shallows. Arum had lingered on this one perhaps the longest of what Amaryllis showed him today. Did she notice that? Was the choice intentional, or was is just the first drawing she could snatch up?

It smells like the charcoal did. Like charcoal, of course, in the first place, but- the warm alive scent he assumes must simply be Amaryllis herself. He flicks his tongue, his mouth painfully dry but still- he can smell the leather of the binding, some sort of wood, perhaps her home or the table she drew on. Chamomile, and his heart lurches again with a sort of desperation. Peaches and honeysuckle.

He tears his eyes form the page to look at her. She watches him with a rapt attention, as if cataloging his responses, but- he can't bring himself to indignation, for once. He's too tired, too... too grateful, despite himself.

She twitches a smile after a moment. "If you've still got the charcoal... I promise I won't be offended if you draw whatever you want on the back. Or- hell, all over the front, too. It's yours, it's a gift, you can do whatever you want with it. Tear it to pieces, it's yours."

Arum swallows, compulsively pressing the paper against his chest, the idea of shredding that peaceful little pond-

No. No, no-

Pathetic. He has been made truly, truly so pathetic. Accepting scraps and crumbs and drops. Accepting pity.

He is so tired.

(In his head, already, the idea of what he could add to the scene. Flora in the empty spaces around the pond. Suggestions of fish beneath the water. Someone at the bank, watching the birds and the frogs.)

He tucks the paper underneath himself, swallowing roughly. He hopes that she does not expect gratitude.

"I'll be back," she says when the next tour group enters, and Arum decides that she... probably isn't lying. He manages a nod, and she gives him another wide smile before she pulls her foot back from over the line, and disappears back into whatever her real life is.

The anger feels bigger, after that. He thinks of the knights trapping him here and seethes. He thinks of the little queen with the terrified eyes and wishes he had killed her himself, when he had the chance.

He wishes he could just starve to death. He wonders, if he had any magic to his tongue, if he could talk himself into it.

He folds Amaryllis' page carefully, using the seams from the paper dart, and hides it underneath the metal of the cuff on his upper left wrist, where his bone-thin frame allows just enough room to hide it properly.

And he thinks-

Pity, or kindness. Is there even a difference? Why do these gestures feel safer from Amaryllis rather than from Sir Damien? The knighthood, likely, but- is that all?

Amaryllis feels... earnest. Artless. He can almost feel her own anger, a sharp little mirror of his own. Damien feels as if he is only trying to prove something to himself.

And-

There is a thought, there.

Damien thinks him pitiable. Damien does not seem to fear him.

Damien is willing to risk stepping over the line, to try to offer Arum kindness- pity- whatever it is.

Arum can use that.

Arum thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

And when the guards are not looking, he sharpens the jagged edges of his claws on the stone beneath him.

Arum waits a few days. He is patient, in his own way. He knows that even though the knight is bound for foolishness, he is still a knight, and he will not trust a sudden change.

Arum softens his responses gradually, hesitating before he denies Damien's offer of water. He eyes the flask, allowing his expression to actually show the depth of his thirst, and Damien (yes, just like that, little fool) takes another step closer, offering the flask out in a loose hand.

Arum still waits, shaking his head and sighing himself back down to his stone. If Damien means to pity him... well. If it can be useful, Arum will not discourage such things.

Arum hesitates for a little too long, a few days later, and Damien huffs a breath, stepping entirely over the line, lifting the flask and almost pressing it into Arum's claws.

"Really, now," he says in a tone of gentle chastising. "Will you just-"

Arum would say that it almost feels too easy, if it hadn't been for the week or so of prelude. Claws around the wrist, dig the claw of his thumb into the pad of Damien's palm, twist and pull while he yelps at the sudden pain, drag the knight bodily back as he stumbles and-

Oh but he is stronger than he looks, lean muscle hidden beneath all that armor.

Arum is desperate, though. A little struggling is not going to be enough, this time. He folds Damien's back against his chest, twisting two of his own arms so the chains criss-cross in front of Damien's throat and he can pull, holding the knight securely against him.

"Ah- wh-"

Damien is furnace-hot. Arum did not expect that part. Mammals and all their ridiculous overabundance of heat. The foolish, starving part of Arum wishes to melt into the heat, nevermind the rest, he could sleep in this warmth. Almost as distracting as Damien's scent clouding his snout, leather and skin and feathers and-

Honeysuckle? His curly hair is dusted with pollen, he smells like a garden, Arum wants to devour him, but-

Task at hand, task at hand. One chance at this. Needs to play this situation right.

When he opens his mouth to hiss in Damien's ear, however, what comes out is-

"You should scream, honeysuckle."

Which-

Damien gasps, trying to arch away from Arum's grasp, so- it will do. It does not matter that the words tripped on his tongue. His claws and his teeth are sharp, and the chains are sturdy and thick, and Damien must know that Arum could very well kill him like this. The human windpipe is not all that difficult to pierce, or to crush.

"What are you doing-" the knight gasps, all the words compressed to one breath, and Arum snarls and tightens his grip.

"Scream," Arum hisses again, ignoring the flare of pain in his throat, but Damien does not need to. The door to the rest of the Citadel bangs open, and Arum grins. Apparently Damien's yelp when Arum cut his hand had been enough to cause a stir. And-

Ah.

Arum recognizes the knight that charges into the chamber first.

"Sir Damien," Sir Absolon says as he skids to a stop on the stone, his hand on his hilt and his tone strangely warning, as if his ire is directed towards his fellow knight before the monster threatening his life. Two other knights tail him, their expressions far more worried.

Arum does not care about their emotions, just at the moment. He pulls the chains tight across Damien's throat, enough to make him gasp and choke, and then he loosens his grip enough to let the creature breathe again.

"Unchain me," Arum demands, snarling past the collar, "or I kill him."

Damien chokes on a breath even without the chain going taut, panic in his scent now, in his still-struggling frame, but he doesn't try to speak.

"Out of the question," Sir Absolon snaps, his hand twitching against his hilt, his expression pulling into a contorted sneer.

"Then you are going to need to kill me," Arum says, and it would be a purr if not for his shredded voice, subtle and hungry. "That- is your decision. I kill- him. You free me. Or kill me."

Pain spreads from his throat, thudding in his eardrums and then behind his eyes at the prolonged attempt at communication, but- he has managed the most important part. Terms are set. He will be free, or someone will die. Arum would prefer himself, at this point, but-

"Go on then," Sir Absolon says, sharp and without hesitation. He sneers, gesturing his arms wide and making no move whatsoever to draw his weapon, and Sir Damien stills.

"S-Sir Absolon," Damien says, sounding very blank.

Arum tightens his grip, his secondary hands lifting to dig claws into the skin just above Damien's collarbone. "I will. Release me or- or I tear his throat open. Snap him like a twig-"

"Do it. Don't just threaten, monster, follow through." The knight- grins, white teeth in a neat row, and Arum pulls his head back. Even the other knights at Sir Absolon's back shift with something like discomfort, but they do nothing. Say nothing. "Keeping your nasty little swamp tamed is worth the cost of a knight or two, and Sir Damien serves our Citadel bravely, and unwaveringly. He's not afraid. Are you, Sir Damien?"

Damien-

Breathes. Sharp and quick with his eyes on this other knight, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his back pressed firm to Arum's chest, but- he does not answer. His mouth hangs open with his ragged breathing, but either he cannot speak, or he will not. Arum resists the urge to resettle his grip on the knight, resists the urge to- he doesn't know. To press for an answer himself, perhaps. Is Sir Damien prepared to die like this? To die just as much by the word of his fellow knight as by Arum's hands? Sir Damien's prattling tongue is still, now, though, and utterly silent, but- his blankness, his silence must be enough, because Sir Absolon's grin grows even further.

"There's a good boy," Absolon says smugly, and Sir Damien's muscles twitch in Arum's grasp. "He's a loyal knight. Loyal knights are willing to die for their Citadel. So, monster-" he pauses to laugh, an unpleasantly throaty sound that Arum cannot reconcile with Damien's own breath-soft laughter. "Sorry," he sneers, "so, Lord of the Swamp, commit to your threats and do it. See how well that ends for you. You still won't find your freedom, in truth or in death, but by Saint Aaron I can promise you, I do promise you, I'll make you wish you were dead."

I already do, you idiot, Arum thinks with a vicious snarl, feeling Sir Damien's heart skip a beat against him. There is nothing you can do to make my continued survival any worse.

But.

The knight is right. The threat is empty, isn't it? If these fools care so little for Sir Damien- if even his murder could not spur them to kill him in retribution-

They won't release him, either in freedom or in death. Not even in exchange for Sir Damien's life. Sir Damien's life is not worth anything to them.

... Arum should kill him anyway.

He should. He should slit the knight's throat and then try to at least make the other smug bastard bleed before they pull his choke-chain too tight to struggle against. He should make them suffer, as many of them as he can, because it is the only way he can make them feel even a fraction of what they've done to him.

(Sir Damien's heartbeat flutters against Arum's thumb, his breath shallow and uncertain, but alive, still alive.)

Arum swallows, squeezing Damien's pulse a little tighter, a pained growl in his own throat.

He should. He should.

But-

(He never wanted to make a crueler world.)

(How will he ever hear his Keep's lullaby again, if Sir Damien is dead?)

His arms tremble with even this little effort. The memory of the ease with which he once wielded his knives burns at the pit of his stomach. Sir Damien is hot as coals against him, the warmest thing he's touched since... before. His throat burns with the punishment of the collar and with something else, something less defined.

(oh, he says, his eyes so wide and honey-brown and touched by the barest edge of something like sympathy. A nightmare?)

His grip slackens, hopeless. Arum could, perhaps, blame it on his own trembling hands, but Damien startles against him as soon as he is able, twisting in his loosening grip to look back and search Arum's face with his own expression panicked flat. Arum feels what little strength he mustered for this failed effort leave him entirely, feels shame and grief and an ironic amusement at his own failure twist together within him, and he untwists the chains from around Damien's neck, and sways back from the knight so when the collapse takes him, he won't crumple to the floor with all their limbs still tangled together.

Damien half-catches him as he falls anyway, gripping his arms with a shocked noise, awkwardly easing him down against the plinth until Arum can pull away enough to simply curl into himself, burying his collared head against his knees, his trembling arms wrapping around the back of his head, his ruined horns.

"Stupid thing," Sir Absolon spits, fury underlying his tone, and then, "To the infirmary, Sir Damien."

"Wh-what?" Damien says, sounding so completely lost and breathless above Arum's head, and Arum curls into an even tighter ball.

"Infirmary, soldier, you're bleeding and we don't need you here right now."

"But- but he-"

"We can handle the beast, Sir Damien, since apparently you can't. You're done here. Go."

Arum does not look. He can't force his own eyes back open, cannot force his face to lift, but-

He can feel Damien looking at him, an almost burning intensity before he hears Damien's footsteps retreat, reluctant tap-taps across the stone until the door creaks open, pauses a breath, and then clicks uncertainly back closed.

Other footsteps, then. Heavier and with greater purpose, and the other knight - Sir Absolon, if ever Arum wished to curse a creature it would be him - steps closer to Arum's chains.

"Now. Swamp lord. That was an interesting little outburst, wasn't it? We've already been over this lesson so many times, I'd think you'd've learned by now! But maybe that's stupid of me, to think. Humans can learn. Hell, even dogs can learn. But you?" Arum cannot see him, refuses to look, tries not to let himself care, but- he can hear the grin in Sir Absolon's voice as he continues, "You're just a monster. I should've known not to expect any better."

There's a pause. Arum hears metal and leather rattle, and he knows automatically that the knights are setting their weapons aside. Out of reach.

"Now, monster," Sir Absolon says, all false cheer. "I can tell you a couple things about the rest of your day. You aren't going to die. That'd be bad for the war effort, see, and I'm not about to disappoint my queen."

Arum scoffs. He can't help himself, really, and- it isn't as if there's anything he can do to make what's coming worse.

"Shut the fuck up," Sir Absolon says in that same smug, certain voice, and Arum feels- hand on his horn, pressing his face down against the stone. "You aren't going to die, today," he says again. "But I made you a promise, lizard, and I'm damn well going to keep it."

#elle's fanfic #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #amaryllis of exile #sir absolon #(MY PERMA-ASSHOLE. THANK YOU FOR SERVING YOUR FUNCTION SIR)#also pain. pain and suffering. spain and puffering even #the beast in on his chain

9 notes · View notes