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kaladinkholins · 4 months

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We all already know Mizu and Akemi are narrative foils. But you know what? Lemme just say it, here's what I think:

Taigen and Mikio are foils.

Not necessarily to each other as individuals in the way that Mizu and Akemi juxtapose each other, but mostly in the contrast between their relationships with Mizu.

I've covered specific parallels between Taigen and Mikio in other posts I wrote; but as the number of parallels I'm noticing between them keeps piling up, I'm compelled to just compile them all in one post. So! This is, thus, the post in question.

First of all, let's look at their similarities.

1. Their status in society is the same. They are both samurai who lost their honour and have dreams of reclaiming it.

2. They are also both diligent as they strive to achieve this goal, they both care deeply about their work, but here as they begin to contrast, as the work in question and way they go about their goals is different:

For Mikio, his work is in taming and rearing horses; in order to prove himself, he must tame Kai—a willful and strong horse—and present it to his lord. For Taigen, his work is in sword fighting and martial arts; in order to prove himself, he must kill Mizu—a willful and strong swordsman—and present her dead body to his lord.

In the parallel above, not only are Taigen and Mikio contrasting each other, but Mizu and Kai are placed in comparison as well. And of course, Kai is Mizu's horse, and represents her. Which is why, when later, Mikio sells Kai off, it represents the way he is tossing Mizu (and their relationship) aside.

From there, the rest of the details of their character begin to contrast and juxtapose each other more clearly. So let's look at those differences, shall we?

Their backstory:

Mikio was a great samurai who was banished. A somebody to a nobody. Taigen was a fisherman’s son who rose to the top. A nobody to a somebody.

2. The first time we meet them on-screen:

Mikio is an adult. An older man. Mizu's superior in age. He is Mizu's to-be husband. A love interest. Taigen is a child. A young boy. Mizu's peer in age. He is Mizu's bully. An antagonist.

3. Their maturity and growth:

Mikio is mature, but stuck in his ways. Taigen is immature, but capable of changing and learning.

4. Their overall attitude:

Mikio is generally relaxed, easy-going and unfussy. Taigen is uptight, irritable and severe.

5. How they talk to and conduct themselves around Mizu:

Mikio is aloof, soft-spoken, and serious. Taigen is obnoxious, brash, and sarcastic. Mikio is quiet, speaking only when spoken to, even when Mizu turns to smile at him and shows openness to be near him. Taigen is loud, talking while others are silent, even when Mizu turns from him and shows no interest in conversing with him.

Mikio doesn't show much of who he is to Mizu throughout their marriage, despite their growing affection. Taigen openly shares his traumas and life story to Mizu during their brief alliance, despite their mutual antagonism.

6. Their external vs internal selves:

Mikio is calm, gentle, and considerate on the outside. Taigen is hot-headed, rude, and selfish on the outside. Mikio is cowardly and deceitful on the inside. Taigen is brave and loyal to a fault on the inside. Mikio tells Mizu that he wants to know and see all of her. But he scorns and betrays her, the woman he loves. Taigen tells Mizu that he wants to duel and kill him. But he endures torture to not betray him, the man he hates.

9. Their hair, a symbol of their honour:

Mikio's topknot is untied by Mizu during their spar. This humiliation occurs in private, the two of them alone in a rural location where no one can see them. Taigen's topknot is cut off by Mizu during their duel. This humiliation occurs in public, the two of them being watched by many others in the Shindo Dojo.

10. Their power dynamic with Mizu:

Mikio believes he is Mizu's mentor. He teaches her to throw knives, how to ride and care for horses, and about the tactical benefits of using a naginata. Taigen believes he is Mizu's equal. He views Mizu as a samurai like himself who received all the same teachings he did, and who possesses the same values.

11. Their perceptions of Mizu:

Mikio sees Mizu's feminine side first. He sees her as sweet and gentle, but also clumsy and incompetent. Taigen sees Mizu's masculine side first. He sees her as terrifying and deadly, but also strong and skilled.

12. The way they approach sparring with Mizu:

Mikio only spars with Mizu once. As the fight progresses and she is beating him, he tries to put a stop to it. When she teases/provokes him, he starts taking the fight personally and seriously, finding no enjoyment in it. Taigen spars and brawls with Mizu all the time. No matter how many times Mizu beats him, he doesn't back down. When Mizu challenges him with a chopstick, he is eager to compete with her and gladly rises up to the challenge.

Mikio and Mizu's one and only spar is a friendly match; Mizu is smiling and having fun while he grows increasingly frustrated. Taigen and Mizu's last-seen spar is a playful wrestling match; both him and Mizu are having fun and laughing.

Mikio cannot deal with Mizu being better than him, so he scorns her and walks off, avoiding her thereafter. When Taigen cannot deal with Mizu being better than him, he follows her to observe her moves and continues training in hopes to eventually beat her. After being bested by Mizu once, Mikio leaves her and sells the horse he'd previously gifted to her. After many times losing to Mizu and fighting alongside her, Taigen commends her and admits she is better than him.

13. When Mizu pins them down in a friendly spar:

Mikio sees Mizu's whole face objectively. Taigen stares at Mizu's mouth and eyes.

Mikio gets angry when she kisses him, throwing her off of him and snapping at her, calling her a monster. Taigen gets aroused, apologising, so she pulls herself off of him.

14. Mizu's blue meteorite sword is a reflection of her soul. She believes most are undeserving to face it, let alone hold it. And on that note:

Mikio is the first person (chronologically) that Mizu fights against using her sword. Taigen is the first person (we see on-screen) that Mizu fights against with her sword. Mikio is the first person (chronologically) to ever hold her sword, as she passes it to him, letting him wield it. Taigen is the first person (we see on-screen) to ever hold her sword, as she passes out, and he picks it up and carries it for her.

15. Then, last but not least, in Fowler's fortress, when she is drugged and in pain, she hears Ringo's voice in the dungeon. She then follows it to an open cell:

Mizu first sees Mikio as a hallucination, the sight of him haunting her and causing her to lose her grip on reality. Her eyes glow a surreal blue to represent this. Her Mama appears then and says Mizu's name accusingly.

Mizu then sees Taigen, but he is real, the sight of him a relief and grounding her back to reality. Her eyes return to their normal blue colour to represent this. Taigen looks at Mizu weakly and says her name softly.

Then, later, when facing Fowler, her revenge awaiting her, she instead chooses to follow her conscience (represented by Ringo's voice in her mind), putting aside her vengeance for a time, in order to save Taigen.

So that's basically all the ones I've noticed so far, but even then, I feel there's already so much that forms a contrast between these two.

What makes it especially incredible about these juxtapositions is that Mikio was Mizu's husband, the man she had fallen in love with, the one person she had ever been intimate with, the man who made her begin to accept herself, to put down her desire for vengeance and instead live a life of peace and happiness.

So for Taigen to have so many parallels with him... Do you see what I'm saying here!

Not to mention that Mizu clearly already has some burgeoning attraction to him, as indicated by how she thinks of him when asked about her desires. And Taigen clearly has shown interest as well (see: him getting a boner after their spar, him holding her hand and telling her, "We're not done yet.").

And on the topic of speculating future possibilities of this relationship, this post by @stromblessed has pointed out yet another parallel between Taigen and Mikio:

Mizu promises Taigen to meet him for their duel in autumn. Mizu fell in love with Mikio and duelled him during autumn.

With all that said, I do believe Mizu and Taigen's relationship is definitely hurtling towards something. But whether they will actually end up together in a sustainable relationship and have a happily ever after? Well, that is a whole other story; we'll just have to wait and see.

#blue eye samurai #mizu x taigen #taigen x mizu #taimizu #taigen blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai meta #hope yall enjoy my thesis on virgin mikio vs chad taigen #this was written last night when i shouldve been writing the new chapter for my taimizu fic that i promised i would work on....whoopsies...#i will get to it eventually but i just have to get a firmer grip on characterisation before i can delve further into it yk #on that note. i kiiinda regret posting the fic on a whim!#my last longfic was written better because i had the whole thing complete and could go back and edit/polish/revise before posting #so it came out much more coherent and consistent ykwim?#this fic might suffer a bit for this reason 🤒#but its fine i have to remind myself im just doing it for funsies #anyway here have another long ass meta post from yours truly #meta dissertations.pdf #shut up haydar #fandom.rtf

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aregebidan · 2 months

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“who are you? i don’t even know your name” “don’t be in such a rush. you will give me a name someday. and i live in terror of that day” / “i’m afraid to turn around. not of your anger, though. i’m afraid i’ll see nobody” / “go on dreaming. when you dream about my likeness you create it” / “when you loved no one you never thought of death” / “give her proof of her love” “shall i?” “kill her before she sees you” “no!” “then kill yourself” “how?” “let her go”

literally who is doing it like them. no one. no one. no one.

#panna a netvor #turn my ashes into a fucking. dvd of this cinematic masterpiece #what if the beauty and the beast had reverse pygmalion and galatea but also reverse orpheus and eurydice—#—and also just the most banger lines to ever fuck the mind of man even in their depowered slightly clunky youtube english subtitle form #to understand the script in the original would be too much for me. i’d drop dead on the spot. i’m completely serious #what if. creation myth love story death tale gothic thriller. and there was exquisite music and a bird guy with an evil internal monologue #whose only wish ever was to be rewritten revised killed off and resurrected and irrevocably changed by love……oh i’m going insane #film

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bookshelf-in-progress · 2 months

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Marks of Loyalty: A Retelling of Maid Maleen

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge

Seven years, the high king declared.

Seven years’ imprisonment because a lowly handmaiden pledged her love to the crown prince and refused to release him when his father wished him to marry a foreign princess.

Never mind that Maleen’s blood was just as noble as that of the lady she served. Never mind that Jarroth had been only a fourth prince when he and Maleen courted and pledged their love without a word of protest from the crown. Never mind that they loved each other with a fierce devotion that could outlast the world’s end. A handmaid to the sister of the grand duke of Taina could never be an acceptable bride for the crown prince of all Montrane now that Jarroth was his father’s only heir.

“Seven years to break your rebellious spirit,” the king said as he stood in the grand duke’s study. “More than enough time for my son to forget this ridiculous infatuation.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lady Rilla laughed. “Imprison a lady of Taina for falling in love? If you imprison her, you must imprison me on the same charges. I promoted their courtship and witnessed their betrothal. I object to its ending. I am Maleen’s mistress, and you can not punish her actions without punishing me for permitting such impudence.”

Rilla believed that her rank would save her. That the high king would not dare to enrage Taina by imprisoning their grand duke’s sister. She believed her brother would protest, that the high king would relent rather than risk internal war when the Oprien emperor posed such a danger from without. She believed her words would rescue Maleen from her fate.

Rilla had been wrong. The high king ordered Rilla imprisoned with her handmaiden, and the grand duke did not so much as whisper in protest.

Lady Rilla had always treated Maleen as an equal, calling her a friend rather than a servant, but Maleen had never dreamed that friendship could prompt such a display of loyalty. She begged Rilla to repent of her words to the king rather than suffer punishment for Maleen’s crimes.

Rilla only laughed. “How could I survive without my handmaid? If I am to retain your services, I must go where you go.”

On the final morning of their freedom, they stood before the tower that was to serve as their prison and home, a building as as dark, solid, and impenetrable as the towering mountains that surrounded it. In the purple sunrise that was to be the last they would see for seven years, Maleen tearfully begged her mistress to save herself. Maleen was small, dark, quiet, hardy—she could endure seven years in a dark and lonely tower. Lively, laughing Rilla, with her red hair and bright eyes, was made for sunshine, not shadows. She loved company and revels and the finer things of life—seven years of imprisonment would crush her vibrant spirit, and Maleen could not bear to be the cause of it.

“Could you abandon Jarroth?” Rilla asked.

In the customs of the Taina people, tattoos around the neck symbolized one’s history and family bonds, marked near the veins that coursed with one’s lifeblood. Maleen had marked her betrothal to Jarroth by adding the pink blossoms of the mountain campion to the traditional black spots and swirls. Color indicated a chosen life-bond, and the flowers symbolized the mountain landscape where they had fallen in love and pledged their lives to each other.

“Jarroth has become part of my self,” Maleen said. “I could as soon abandon him as cut out my own heart.”

With uncharacteristic solemnity, Rilla said, “Neither could I abandon you.” She rolled up her sleeves far to reveal the tattoos that marked friendship, traditionally marked on the wrist—veins just as vital, and capable of reaching out to the world. The ring of blue and black circles matched the one on Maleen’s wrist, symbolizing a bond, not between mistress and servant, but between lifelong friends. “I do not leave my friends to suffer alone.”

When the king’s soldiers came, Maleen and Rilla entered the tower without fear.

Seven years, they stayed in the tower.

There was darkness and despair, but also laughter and joy.

Maleen was glad to have a friend.

The seven years were over, and still no one came. Their tower was isolated, but the high king could not have forgotten about them.

The food was running low.

It was Rilla’s idea to break through weak spots in the mortar, but Maleen had the patience to sit, day after day, chipping at it with their dull flatware until at last they saw their first ray of sun.

They bathed in the light, smiling as they’d not smiled in years, awash in peace and joy and hope. Then they worked with a will, attacking every brick and mortared edge until at last they made a hole just large enough to crawl through.

Maleen gazed upon the world and felt like a babe newborn. She and Rilla helped each other to name what they saw—sky, mountain, grass, clouds, tree. There was wind and sun, birds and bugs and flowers and life, life, life—unthinkable riches after seven years of darkness. They rolled in the grass like children, laughing and crying and thanking God for their release.

Then they saw the smoke. Across a dozen mountains, fields and forests had been burnt to ashes. Whole villages had disappeared. Far off to the south, where they should have been able to make out the flags and towers of the grand duke’s palace, there was nothing.

“What happened?” Maleen whispered.

“War,” Rilla replied.

Before the tower, Maleen had known the Opriens were a threat. Their emperor was a warmonger, greedy for land, disdainful of those who followed traditions other than Oprien ways. But war had always been a distant fear, something years in the distance, if it ever came at all.

Years had passed. War had come.

What of the world had survived?

Left to herself, Maleen might have stayed in the safe darkness of the tower, but Maleen was not alone. She had Rilla, who hungered for knowledge and conversation and food that was not their hard travel bread. She had Jarroth, somewhere out there—was he even alive?

Had he fallen in battle against the Oprien forces? Perished as their prisoner? Burned to death in one of their awful blazes? Had he wed another?

Rilla—who had developed a practical strain during their time in the tower—oversaw the selection of their supplies. They needed dresses—warm and cool. They needed cloaks and stockings and underclothes. They needed all the food they could salvage from their storeroom, and all the edible greens Maleen could find on the mountain. They needed kindling, flint, candles, blankets, bedrolls.

On their last night before leaving the tower, Maleen and Rilla slept in their usual beds, but could not sleep. The tower had seemed a place of torment seven years ago. Who would have thought it would become the safest place in the world?

“What do you think we’ll find out there?” Maleen asked Rilla.

“I don’t know,” Rilla said. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

It was worse than Maleen could have imagined.

Not only was Taina devastated by war and living under Oprien rule.

Taina was being wiped out.

The Taina were an independent people, proud of their traditions, which they had clung to fiercely as they were conquered and annexed into other kingdoms a dozen times across the centuries. Relations between the Taina and the high king of Montane had been strained, but friendly. Some might rebel, but most were content to live under the high king so long as he tolerated their culture.

The Oprien emperor did not believe in tolerance.

Taina knew that under Oprien rule, Taina life would die, so they had fought fiercely, cruelly, mercilessly, against the invasion, until at last they were conquered. The emperor, enraged by their resistance, ordered that the Taina be wiped from the face of the earth. Any Taina found living were to be killed like dogs.

Maleen and Rilla quickly learned that the tattoos on their necks and arms—the proud symbols of their heritage—now marked them for death. They wore long sleeves and high collars and thick cloaks. They avoided speaking lest their voices give them away. They dared not even think in the Taina tongue.

One night as they camped in a ruined church, Maleen trusted in their isolation enough to ask, “If I had given up Jarroth—let him marry his foreign princess—do you think Taina would have been saved?”

Rilla, ever wise about politics, only laughed. “If only it had been so easy. I would have told you to give him up myself. No, Oprien wanted war, and no alliance could have stopped them. No alliance did. For all we know, Jarroth did marry a foreign princess, and this was the result.”

Maleen got no sleep that night.

Jarroth had not married.

Jarroth was the king of Montane.

The wind had the first chill of autumn when Maleen and Rilla entered Montane City—a city of soaring gray spires and beautiful bridges, with precious stones in its pavements and mountain views that rivaled any in Taina.

Though its territories had been conquered, Montane itself had retained its independence—on precarious terms. Montane was surrounded by Oprien land, and even its mountains could not protect it if the emperor’s anger was sufficiently roused. Maleen and Rilla could not be sure of safety even here—the emperor had thousands of eyes upon his unconquered prize—but they could not survive a winter in the countryside, and Montane City was safer than any other.

“We must find work,” Maleen said, “if anyone will have us.” She now trusted in their disguises to keep their markings covered and their voices free of any taint of Taina.

“The king is looking for workers,” Rilla said with a smile.

Even now, Rilla championed their romance, but Maleen had grown wiser in seven years. Jarroth’s father was no longer alive to object, but a king—especially one surrounded by enemies—had even less freedom to marry than a crown prince did. Any hopes Maleen had were distant, wild hopes, less real than their pressing needs for food and shelter and new shoes.

But those wild hopes brought her and Rilla at last to the king’s gate, and then to his housekeeper, who was willing to hire even these ragged strangers to work in the king’s kitchen. The kitchen was so crowded with workers that Maleen and Rilla found they barely had room to breathe.

“It’s not usually like this,” a fellow scullery maid told them. “Most of these new hands will be gone after the wedding.”

Maleen felt a foreboding that she hadn’t felt since the moment the high king had pronounced her fate. Only this time, the words the scullery maid spoke crushed her last, wild hope.

In two weeks’ time, Jarroth would marry another.

As Maleen gathered herbs in the kitchen garden—the cook had noticed her knowledge of plants—she caught sight of Jarroth, walking briskly from the castle to a waiting carriage. He had aged more than seven years—his dark hair, thick as ever, had premature patches of gray. His shoulders were broader, and his jaw had a thick white scar. There was majesty in his bearing, but sorrow in his face that was only matched by the sorrow in Maleen’s heart—time had been unkind to both of them.

She longed to race to him and throw her arms around him, reassure him that she yet lived and loved him. A glimpse of one of her markings peeking out from beneath a sleeve reminded Maleen of the truth—she was a woman the king’s enemy wanted dead. She could not ask him to endanger all Montane by acknowledging her love.

Sensible as such thoughts were, Maleen might still have run to him, had Jarroth not reached the carriage first. When he opened the door, Maleen saw the arms of a foreign crown—the fish and crossed swords of Eshor. The woman who emerged was swathed in purple veils, customary in that nation for soon-to-be brides.

Jarroth bowed to his betrothed, then disappeared back into the palace with his soon-to-be wife on his arm.

Maleen sank into a patch of parsley and wept.

Rilla was helping Maleen to water the herb gardens when the purple-veiled princess of Eshor wandered into view.

“Is that the vixen?” Rilla asked.

Maleen shushed and scolded her.

“Don’t shush me,” Rilla said. “Now that I’m a servant, I’m allowed the joy of despising my betters.”

“You don’t need to despise her.” She was a princess doing her duty, as Jarroth was doing his. Jarroth thought Maleen dead with the rest of her nation.

“I will despise who I like,” Rilla said. “If I correctly recall, the king of Eshor has only one daughter, and she’s a sharp-tongued, spiteful thing.” She tore up a handful of weeds. “May she plague his unfaithful heart.”

Since Maleen could not bear to hear Jarroth disparaged, she did not argue, and she and Rilla fell into silence.

The princess remained in the background, watching.

When their heads were bent together over a patch of thyme, Rilla murmured, “Will she never leave?”

“She often comes to the gardens,” Maleen said. “She has a right to go where she pleases.”

“But not to stare as if we each have two heads.”

Out of habit, they glanced at each others’ collars, cuffs, and skirts. No sign of their markings showed.

“We have nothing to fear from her,” Maleen said. “In two days, the worst will be over.”

A maid came to the kitchen with a message from the princess, asking that the “pretty dark-haired maid in the herb garden” bring her breakfast tray. Cook grumbled, but could not object.

Maleen tried not to stare as she laid out the tray. The princess sprawled across the bed, her feet up on pillows, her face unveiled. Her height and build were similar to Maleen’s, but her hair was a sandy brown, and her face had been pockmarked by plague. Even then, her eyes—a striking blue, deep as a mountain lake—might have been pretty had there not been a cunning cruelty to the way they glared at her.

“You are uncommonly handsome for a kitchen maid,” the princess said. “You have not always been a servant, I think.”

Maleen tried not to quake. There was something terrifying in her all-knowing tone. “I do not wish to contradict your highness,” Maleen said, “but you are mistaken. I have been in service since my twelfth year.”

“Then you have been a servant of a higher class. Your hands are nearly as soft as mine, and you carry yourself like a princess.”

“Your highness is kind.” Maleen nodded her head in a quick, subservient bow, then scurried toward the door.

“I did not dismiss you!” the princess snapped.

Maleen stood at attention, her eyes upon her demurely clasped hands. “Forgive me, your highness. What else do you require?”

“I require assistance that no one else can give—a service that would be invaluable to our two kingdoms. I sprained my ankle on the stairs this morning and will be unable to walk. Since I cannot bear the thought of delaying the wedding that will bind our two nations in this hour of need, I need a woman to take my place.”

A voice that sounded much like Rilla’s whispered suspicions through Maleen’s mind. The princess was proud and her illness was recent. She would not like to show her ravaged face to foreign crowds, and by Montane tradition, she could not go veiled to and from the church.

Knowing—or suspecting—the truth behind the request didn’t ease any of Maleen’s terror. “No!” she gasped. “No, no, no! I could never…!”

“You will!” the princess snapped, sounding as imperious and immovable as the high king on that long ago day. “You are the right build—you will fit my gowns. You have a face that will not shame Eshor. You are quiet and demure—you will be discreet.”

“I will not do it! It is not right!” To marry the man she loved in the name of another woman, to show her face to the man who thought her long dead, to endanger his kingdom and her life by showing him a Taina had survived and entered his domain, it was—all of it—impossible.

“It is perfectly legal. Marriage by proxy is a long-standing tradition. I will reward you handsomely for your trouble.”

As she had defied the high king, so Maleen defied this princess. With her proudest bearing, Maleen looked the princess in the eye. “I will not do it. You have no right to command me. You will find another.”

“If I do,” the princess said, “there is an agent of the Oprien empire in the marketplace who will be glad to know the king of Montane harbors a fugitive from Taina.”

Maleen’s blood ran cold.

The princess smirked—a cat with a mouse in its claws. “If you serve me in this, no one ever need know of your heritage. I will even spare your red-haired friend. Do we have a bargain?”

Maleen bowed her head and rasped, “I am your servant, your highness.”

That night in their shared quarters, Rilla kept Maleen from bolting.

“We must flee!” Maleen said. “She knows the truth! If we are gone before dawn—“

“She will alert the emperor’s agent and give our descriptions,” Rilla said. “Nowhere will be safe.”

“If Jarroth sees me!”

“Either he will recognize you, and you’ll have your long-awaited reunion, or he won’t, and you’ll be well rid of him.”

“He could hand me over to the emperor himself. He is king and has a duty—“

If you think him capable of that, you’re a fool for ever loving him.”

Maleen sank onto her cot, breathing heavily. Tears sprang from her eyes. “I can’t do it. I’m too afraid.”

“You’ve lived in fear for seven years. I should think you well-practiced in it by now.”

“Will you be quiet, Rilla?” Maleen snapped.

Rilla grinned.

But she sank down on the cot next to Maleen and took Maleen’s hands in hers. With surprising sincerity, she said, “We can’t control what will happen. That’s when we trust. Trust me. Trust heaven. Trust yourself. Trust Jarroth. All will be well, and if it’s not, we’ll face it as we’ve faced our other troubles. You survived seven years in a tower. You can face a single day.”

What choice did she have? What choice had she ever had? She loved Jarroth and would be there on his wedding day, dressed as his bride. What came next was up to him.

Maleen embraced Rilla. “What would I do without you?”

“Nothing very sensible, I’m sure.”

The bride’s gown was all white, silk and lace, with a high collar, full sleeves, and skirts that hid even her shoes. Eshoran fashions were well-suited for a Taina bride.

When she met Jarroth on the road to the church, he gasped at the sight of her. “My…”

“Yes?” Maleen asked, heart racing.

He shook his head. “Impossible.” Meeting her eyes, he said, “You remind me of a girl I once knew. Long dead, now.”

The resemblance was not great. Seven years had changed Maleen. She was thinner, paler, ravaged by near-starvation and hard living. She had matured so much she sometimes wondered if her soul was the same as the girl’s he’d known. Yet the way her heart raced at the sight of him suggested some deep part of her hadn’t changed at all.

Jarroth took her hand and they began the long walk to the church, flanked on both sides by crowds of his subjects. So many eyes. Maleen longed to hide.

She glanced at her sleeve, which moved every time Jarroth’s hand swung with hers. “Don’t show my markings,” she murmured desperately.

Jarroth glanced over in surprise. “Pardon?”

Maleen looked away. “Nothing.”

At the bridge before the cathedral—the city’s grandest, flanked by statues of mythical heroes—the winds over the river swirled Maleen’s skirts as she stepped onto the arched walkway.

“Please, oh please,” she prayed in a whisper, “don’t let the markings on my ankles show.”

At the door to the church, she and Jarroth ducked their heads beneath a bower of flowers. She felt the fabric of her collar move, and placed a hand desperately to her throat. “Please,” she prayed, “don’t let the flowers show.”

“Did you say something?” Jarroth asked.

Maleen rushed into the church.

She sat beside him through the wedding service—the day she’d dreamed of since she’d met him nearly ten years ago—crying, not for joy, but in terror and dismay. He had seen her face and did not know her. He believed her long dead. She was so changed he did not suspect the truth, and she didn’t dare to tell him. Now she wed him as a stranger, in another woman’s name.

When the priest declared them man and wife, Maleen dissolved into tears. He took her to the waiting carriage and brought her to the palace as his bride. Maleen could not bear it. She claimed fatigue and dashed in the princess’ chambers as quickly as she could.

She threw the gown, the jewels, the petticoats on the floor beside the bed of the smiling princess. “It is done,” she said. “I owe you no more.”

“You have done well,” the princess said. “But don’t go far. I may have need of you tonight.”

That evening, Rilla wanted every detail of the wedding—the service, the flowers, the gown, and most of all, Jarroth’s reaction.

“You mean you didn’t tell him?” she scolded. “After he suspected?”

“How could I? In front of those crowds?”

“You’ll just leave him to that woman?”

“He chose that woman, Rilla.”

“But he married you.”

He had. It should have been the happiest moment of her life. But it was the end of all her hopes.

After dark, a maid summoned Maleen to a dressing room in the princess’ suite. The princess—queen now, Maleen realized—sat before a mirror, adjusting her customary purple veils. “You will remain here, in case I have need of you.”

The hatred Maleen felt in that moment rivaled anything Rilla had ever expressed. Not only did this woman force her to marry her beloved in her place—now she had to play witness to their wedding night.

The princess stepped into the dim bedchamber—her ankle as strong as anyone’s—leaving Maleen alone in the dark. It felt like the tower all over again—only without Rilla for support.

What a fool the princess was! She couldn’t wear the veil forever—Jarroth would see her face eventually.

There were murmurs in the outer room—Maleen recognized Jarroth’s deep tones.

A moment later, the princess scurried back into the dressing room. She hissed in Maleen’s ear, “What did you say on the path to the church?”

On the path?

Her stomach sank at the memory. She could say only the truth—but the princess wouldn’t like it. “My sleeve was moving. I prayed my markings wouldn’t show.”

Another moment alone in the dark. Another murmur from without, then another question from the princess. “What did you say at the bridge?”

“I prayed the markings on my ankle wouldn’t show.”

The princess cursed and returned to the bedchamber.

When she came back a moment later, Maleen swore the woman’s eyes sparked angrily in the dark. “What did you say at the church door?”

“I prayed the flowers on my neck wouldn’t show.”

The princess promised a million retributions, then returned to the bedroom.

The next time the door opened, Jarroth loomed in the threshold, a lantern in his hand. His eyes were wild—with anger or terror or wild hope, Maleen couldn’t begin to guess.

He held the lantern before her face. “Show me your wrists.”

Maleen rolled up her sleeves and showed the dots and dashes that marked the friendships of her life.

“Show me your ankles.”

She lifted her skirts to reveal the swirling patterns that marked her coming-of-age.

“Show me,” he said, his eyes blazing with undeniable hope, “the markings around your neck.”

She unbuttoned the collar to show the pink flowers of their betrothal.

The lantern clattered to the floor. Jarroth gathered her in his arms and pressed kisses on her brow. “My Maleen! I thought you dead!”

“I live,” Maleen said, laughing and crying with joy.

“And Rilla?” he asked.

“Downstairs.”

He put his head out the door and called for a maid to bring Rilla to the chambers. Then he called for guards to make sure his furious foreign bride did not leave the room.

Then he and Maleen began to share their stories of seven lost years.

The pockmarked princess glared at Jarroth and Maleen in the sunlit bedchamber. “You are sending me back to Eshor?”

“I have already wed a bride,” Jarroth said. “I have no need of another.”

The princess spat, “The emperor will be furious when he knows the king of Montane has wed a Taina bride.”

“Let him hear of it,” Jarroth said. “Let him go to war if he dares it. The people of Taina are always welcome in my realm.”

Jarroth played politics better than Rilla could. A threat had no power over one who did not fear it, and Eshor risked losing valuable trade if Montane fell to war with Oprien. The princess never spoke a word.

Maleen wandered the kitchen gardens with Rilla and Jarroth, luxuriating in the fragrance of the herbs and the safety of their love and friendship.

“Is this wise?” Maleen asked. “To put all the people at risk over me?”

“Over all the people of Taina,” Jarroth said. “My father was monstrous to tolerate it.”

“We will have to tread carefully,” Rilla said. “No need to provoke the emperor. No need to reveal his bride's heritage too soon."

"We can be discreet," Jarroth said. "But what shall we do with you, Lady Rilla?”

Rilla bowed her head in the subservient stance she’d learned as a kitchen maid—but there was a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. “If it pleases your majesties, I will remain near the queen, who I am bound by friendship to serve.”

Maleen took her friend’s hand and said, “I would have you nowhere else.”

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #maid maleen #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #theme: philia #theme: eros #story: complete #i set myself the challenge of writing this today and it got out of hand #no time for revising #you can probably pinpoint the spot where i started running out of time #so be it

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arpeggio · 5 days

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this is the first poem i've written in a while, and although it's not perfect, it's very dear to me. titled revision of the fourth of july.

#my writing #first post? lol #admittedly i sat on this one for a long time and despite having read it over many a time and knowing there's still something it's lacking #i can't bring myself to make any changes. this is 'revision' and she's said all she has had to say. maybe the lack is just an inherent part #of this poem. that i can't make this complete because the poem dictates that i'm not. that i lie and lack...haha #original poem #original poetry #sapphic poetry #wlw poetry #okay. that's enough exposure tags i think.#i submitted this to my school's art zine for extra credit in my creative writing class so i hope that no one actually reads said zine #or that this doesn't reach any of my schoolmates who also happen to be on here. lol

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fiendy · 9 months

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my part for the disabledstuck zine 💛💗💙

#vriska serket #homestuck #disabledstuck zine #some beautiful pieces of art in there so check it out #also my first ever zine!#my art #homestuck fanart #this was a drawing i had so much trouble with like it went through 5 or 6 revisions #on the DAY IT WAS DUE i had to scrap this almost completed line art because it was NOT working out #i did this with no sketch and i really like it so... it all worked out.

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sisterdivinium · 4 months

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She sits down slowly, silent.

Mother Superion approaches without severing the quiet, watching her grow pale, her limbs go limp. Jillian doesn't cry, as if she already knew, but Suzanne knows all too well that knowledge never spared anyone suffering.

The nun listens to the emptiness around them and sits down beside her.

A trembling hand finds its way into her own. She surrenders.

And, somehow, the surrender is whole and she is pulled into Jillian, entangled with her, holding tight, as if they could make one full heart again by melding together the remains of their two broken ones.

#doctor superion #mother superion #jillian salvius #warrior nun #warrior nun drabble #lol this is the last drabble i have in my drafts for now...#there's the other one for which i need help in italian so if you know italian and you want to help with literally one phrase PLEASE hmu #anyway. as soon as the new year starts i'll be starting the revision for the new oneshot too so there's that to look forward to #and i might go on with a drabble here and there if i find the time. there's a challenge i want to complete... this one is part of it #not my favourite BUT it counts towards one hundred... yes... one hundred... lol #narratives and similar

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actualjenna · 3 months

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every public school has the blond boy in a sleeveless hoodie

original sketch i did under the cut teehee

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moonpaw · 2 months

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You said you're editing the official op translation to fix some things. Absolutely love that you're doing that! The viz translation has a lot of issues after all. Is there any way to access your fixed version?

Yep! You can find this at @the-zoro-project along with several logs on general edits that were made

At the moment skypiea is going through a revision, but it's just about finished!

#mp answers #one piece #i have to update east blue and alabasta soon too tho with some #font fixes that i made over the last couple of days #i could probably do that tonight tbh #tzp #water 7 is TECHNICALLY close to the end but. not really #itll probably take me like 2 months? to get that posted? i have to revise what i have done rn #bc that was before i went through a complete revision #excited to finally move forward soon though LMAO

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rowenabean · 6 months

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At the corner of time and space, there is an inn.

Well, sometimes. If you go there today you can find an inn. Tomorrow it might be a ruined and empty husk, and on Thursday you might find the workmen just starting to lay the foundations. If you’re lucky, you can walk a few steps in the right direction and come out on Tuesday to a bustling taproom. If you’re lucky.

There are many stories that grow up around a place like this. This is the innkeeper’s story.

***

The first thing you have to know is that you don’t end up at the inn by chance. Sure, it might seem like it; it seems like just another wayside inn, another step towards your destination, wherever that might be. It’s not.

When Aleia arrived at the Inn, it was a winter’s day, and the rain was blustering around her, threatening to turn to ice. The inn’s windows were warm and inviting, and the fires inside cozy. It was late when the conversation petered out and the various patrons started moving towards their beds. Had Aleia looked out the window on her way, she would have seen autumn leaves blowing under a silver wash of moonlight; so perhaps it is good that she did not.

But wait; let’s backtrack a bit.

Let’s start on the fateful day when Aleia left home.

It was winter. She had a backpack and boots, and very little else, other than what her not-too-large backpack could fit and her shoulders could carry. She left into the bitter rain, turning her head in a vain hope that she would keep her face dry, but it was only a hundred metres in that she gave up and shook her hood off. Let her get wet. It was nothing compared to the alternative, compared to what she’d been living for far too long now.

Her hands were white, her feet soft, her hair bedraggled. Only her chest was dry, and the warmth of her coat barely enough to keep her from freezing, but each step she took warmed her a little, even as it drove her further into the rain.

The first place she came to had no rooms. The second was too expensive. The third, they let her stay in exchange for help in the kitchens, room and board paid for out of her meagre salary. She lasted almost two weeks before she was kicked out onto the street for daring to make a complaint.

The fourth place was a ditch under a hedge.

She left town with the taste of rejection on her tongue; spat out the town with the taste. She’d show them, she thought, although she was vague on what she would show them, or how. Certainly if she ever had the power, no one from that town would be finding shelter under her roof. She spat on the road in symbolism. That night was the first night she slept in a ditch, but not the last. The first was dry, but windy; the second she slept on a bed of pine needles hastily gathered; the third in a heap of heather. On the fourth night it rained. She sought shelter under a thick-leaved conifer, but fat drops plopped through the trees to land on her back, and in any case the ground was riddled with tree roots.

It was that evening that she came to the Inn.

A day earlier, she would have said that she couldn’t afford to stay there. A day earlier again, she would have said she didn’t need one, anyway, she was fine. Today, she stared at it in longing and pulled out her meagre purse, wrapping her coat tighter against the driving rain.

The coins topped into the palm of her hand. Thirteen days’ wages, less room and board. It didn’t add up to much. She counted and recounted, and said fuck it, and walked in. The barmaid looked curiously familiar, but Aleia couldn’t place her, and very shortly gave up trying. Instead, she ordered her meal, and turned her back on the room, crept into the corner, and sat.

***

Aleia put down her mugs and ducked into the kitchen, an inscrutable expression on her face. “Jay, would you spell me for a minute?” she asked, and he threw a mock salute and walked out front. Aleia took over his position stirring onions on the stove, but Raina, who was cook today, had to jolt her more than once as they charred rather than caramelised. The third time it happened, Raina took over the onions herself with a pained look.

“Might be your house, but doesn’t mean you can ruin my food,” she said. “What’s got into you?”

Aleia nodded out the door. “Did you know it would be today? I look so skinny! I wasn’t prepared for this! What am I supposed to do now?”

Raina looked up with sudden interest. “Is that you out there? Oh man! I gotta see baby Aleia!” She was halfway across the room when she remembered the onions. “Don’t you dare stop stirring,” she said.

Aleia called back. “Can you... oh I don’t know. Wait? Give me some time to process this before you go out there? I don’t know what to do!”

Raina came back to the stove. “I’ll give you tonight. But I’m sure as hell seeing her before she leaves. Don’t you remember this?”

Aleia grunted. She wasn’t sure she did, or rather, wasn’t sure her memories were reliable, filtered as they were through who she had been back then. She shied away from the memories that did rise up. It wasn’t a person she particularly wanted to remember, either.

Well. Looked like she had no choice in the matter.

Had she known, back then? She couldn’t really remember when she’d realised, that the House was what it was, the Housekeeper herself. It had mattered – she was sure it had mattered – but it was so long ago. Not yet, she thought, and that was enough for today.

“Come on,” Raina said. “Have your existential crisis and then send me my kitchenhand back. Since you’re doing such a hot shot of it.”

Aleia ran her hands through her hair, then over her whole body since that didn’t seem to be enough. She shook out her clothes, and took off her apron since the stains didn’t seem to be shaking it out, replacing it with another from the stack. She walked resolutely over to the door, but stopped three paces from it and walked equally resolutely towards the back door of the kitchen. Raina grabbed her, spun her around, and said “Enough!”

Aleia let herself be shepherded to the door, only stopping for long enough to take a draught of her long-abandoned cup of tea. She wanted to say that the rest of the evening passed in a blur – she wished it did – but the truth was that everything was a blur, except the single figure at the back of the room. Every interaction, every time she approached that table was fixed permanently in her memory, no matter how much she wished it wasn’t.

“It’s just...” she started, sharing a drink with Jay and Raina after the last of the patrons had gone up to bed. “I just don’t really like her. You know, I don’t think I saw her smile once while I was out there? And she barely acknowledged me when I was serving her, just grunted. I felt like I wasn’t there.”

Jay and Raina exchanged a look, and Jay lost. “Because you were so chatty yourself,” he said. “Every time I came out you were glaring.”

Aleia hadn’t even noticed.

“Look, she’s here now,” Jay continued. “This is our first time living it, but it’s not yours. Just be nice to her, ok?”

***

Aleia woke to a crisp morning. As she walked to the window, an observer watching the outside would have seen the scene changing rapidly; the sun shone on summer-dry grass, spring flowers came and went, and driving rain beat the ground for less than half a second. This was all lost on Aleia, however, who threw open the blinds just as it settled into a winter’s day, an improbably thick blanketing of snow.

The taproom was almost empty when she came down. She had hoped for a bright and early start in the morning, but the snow was at least knee deep, and she shuddered at the thought of heading out into that.

All right. One more day.

***

“I’m a dick!” Aleia said.

Raina went to correct her, but Aleia just kept talking. “I really am, you’re not out there serving me, are you. Believe me when I say you don’t want to. Because I’m a dick.”

She stalked off before Raina could reply.

***

“I can’t believe it’s still winter,” Jay said looking outside. “The house never stays still this long.”

Raina looked up. “Feels like a different winter,” she said. “Not sure which one. I think it’s older, though.”

Jay grunted. “You’ve been here longer than me.”

Aleia walked into the kitchen with a huff. “I can’t do it any more,” she said. “How on earth am I supposed to watch my own face just – smirking like that?”

***

“Another day,” said Shae again, this time to an elderly gentleman who had been stuck there when the snow started to fall.

“Another day,” he replied as he dealt the cards. Both Aleias watched the game, the one from her corner at the back of the room, the other from the bar.

An interval of intense concentration, then they returned to the conversation as the gentleman shuffled the cards to deal a new game.

“Your house doesn’t usually do this.”

Shae nodded. “I think it’s trying to make a point.”

A pause. Then the older Aleia stalked over and took a seat.

“Deal me in?” she said, and gestured to the fireplace. “You joining us?”

***

Another day of snow. Aleia woke up and looked out.

She pulled out her purse again, in the vain hope that it migght have filled up overnight, but it was just as empty as it had been when she lay down to sleep.

Time to head out.

The snow was laying two feet thick when she opened the front door. She shivered, and pulled her coat as closely around herself as she ever could. Shaking her head, she slammed the door behind herself to force herself out. Step by uneven step, she walked out into the storm.

***

“And you’re just gonna let yourself go?” Raina demanded. “As if there’s no connection?”

“I did let myself go!” Aleia protested.

“Hark at yourself! She replied. “You’ve lived here long enough to know it’s not as fixed as that! Go on, make a decision for yourself this time.”

“And what if I decide that I want to let her go?” Aleia demanded.

“As if. Come on, it’s your turn to play your hand.”

***

Aleia walked out into the storm.

***

Aleia walked out into the storm, and found a body in a ditch under a hedge.

***

Aleia walked into the storm, and Aleia walked inside into the warm inn, and Aleia walked in again behind her.

***

At the corner of time and space there is a house.

You can find it, sometimes, if you’re lucky. It might not be there next Tuesday.

If you enter the room and say the right name, a woman will come out, the same woman although today she is young and tomorrow she is old, and sometimes the two will stand there side by side. She will welcome you in, and ask your story. There are many stories that grow up around an inn like this. If you ask for hers, this is what she will tell.

@inklings-challenge

#inklingschallenge #story: complete #theme: shelter #genre: time travel #team tolkien #consider this a complete draft i think #i plan to revise it but for now i'm going to go see my friends

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dulcesiabits · 3 months

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hihi i hope you don't mind me asking but as a writer myself, i'm curious about how your writing process goes :o it's very evident you do a ton of research for your writing and it got me curious about how you go about research and writing as a whole! thank you for your time and have a wonderful day <3

Hi!! I don't mind at all <3 Thank you for sending this ask, because if there's something I love more than writing, then it's talking about the craft of writing! I'll just break down my general process on how I approach writing below <3 Keep in mind that this is both (1) general advice, and (2) specific to how I approach pieces, so it might not work for everyone! In general, I have four major steps: planning, outlining, writing, and then revising/editing!

Planning

The first thing that really happens is that I'll come up with an idea. For fanfic, this usually means I'll get an idea for a scenario I want to explore, or I'll really want to write about a character, and then I'll come up with several ideas that I think would be fun for them! In this stage, I might write a few notes about the premise, just a few sentences about the overall plot/arc I'm looking at. Additionally, I might come up with some general themes/motifs I want to include, but go more in-depth with them in the outlining stage. I'm a bit strange in the sense I tend to plan stories based on general concepts/themes before I delve into the nitty-gritty of characters and plot details (though this process is a bit reversed when I'm writing fanfiction).

I might also do some general research in regards to the premise: for example, I might look over the wiki to refresh my memories on character beats or miscellaneous trivia, or I'll reread certain pages of the manga/rewatch scenes of the anime/replay parts of the game. If I'm writing about a different culture, then I'll look up aspects of the culture that are relevant to my fic (and as with any research, you want to check that you're using reputable sites for accurate information!) Asking friends for their advice/expertise can also be helpful, especially if they're knowledgeable in areas I'm not.

2. Outlining

After I have an idea, I tend to make a really rough outline for how I want the story to go. I don't like planning every minuscule detail, so I leave my outline vague enough that I can be flexible with what I write. I might just draft the overarching plot beats that I want to hit, but then I might change/rearrange scenes depending on what happens as I actually write. I like having an idea of what might happen, but also I don't want my plot to be so rigid I don't have any freedom to play with it, especially because what I write might end up differently from what I planned to happen!

Additionally, I also tend to map out not just what's happening on the page, but also the themes, character arcs and emotional beats. It's not as daunting as it sounds; these things are generally entwined together, as they influence each other! I'm always thinking of them in conjunction with every other piece of the story.

If that's a bit difficult, you can also think about a general mapping technique: tracking the inner, emotional journey and the outer, physical journey, and how these events influence each other or intersect. What shows up on the page, and what's happening beneath it, that might not be as obvious?

In chronologically disjointed pieces, I tend to have an idea of what the chronological timeline looks like before I break it up and rearrange the scenes. I don't believe there are real "rules" when it comes to writing (things like "don't use adverbs" or "first person should only ever be past tense"); any rule can be broken, but you do need to understand the rules before you know how/when to break them in your piece.

3. Writing

Here's the hardest part of the process: actually writing! I have several different ways I approach writing. Sometimes I'll just follow my outline, in order of the events and scenes I have planned. Other times, I might write "out of order" where I tackle a section that I'm particularly interested in, rather than going by order of events (though this usually means I have to edit and revise a lot because I might write the aftermath of a emotional scene before I actually know the specifics of what happens in the scene).

I think that I sometimes approach writing as something I "have to do." I will make myself write, even if I don't feel particularly motivated or inspired, because I want to build a habit of writing even without that passion fueling me. And besides, writing even a few sentences is better than writing nothing, so I'll congratulate myself if I had one paragraph to my wip. Sometimes, this does help me get into the flow of writing!

I also don't tend to approach first drafts like they need to be perfect. I'm fine if they're sloppy or messy, and I might, say, add a [add transition here] or [expand on his inner thoughts] if I'm on a roll and I don't want to slow down to write that particular bit. It's important to keep the momentum going!

I also keep several wips on hands at all times, and I have a folder in my google drive specifically for my wips. Though I do tend to focus only one to three projects at a time, this helps me in the sense that if I feel tired of one wip, then I refresh my creative batteries by working on a different one. This helps keeps my interest up!

4. Revising/Editing

I know some people skip this step, but to me, it's important that I don't just toss out a fic before I'm completely satisfied with it. Editing is when you go through to proofread and look at surface level things like grammar and spelling, but revising is the real struggle: it's where you look at the piece as a whole. Is it cohesive? Do the scenes make sense in the order they're placed in? How is the pace? Is the characterization consistent?

You can't be afraid to rearrange scenes, to cut sections, to add new ones, or to transform existing scenes. If I need to, sometimes I take a break before I go back to a piece. Maybe I've been looking at it for too long, and in the heat of the moment, I might miss certain things. I might also ask a friend for their feedback and advice on a piece. I want to write things that I'm proud of, that other people will enjoy, so I don't want to half-ass any step of the process. I try to look at most things at least two or three times before I post them, but if they're shorter pieces/don't need thorough revision, I'll only look at it once before I post.

#liya answers #ofc sometimes these r interchangeable #like maybe ill start a drabble and then realize i want to write more of this rls #so i outline it and plan more of it etc etc #or i'll still be researching even as i write yk bc smth might come up that i didnt consider #i try not to revise as i write bc then ill get stuck #most important thing is just to get it finished! its easier to revise/edit when u have a completed work!

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puppsworld · 7 months

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GHOULPIA!!!!! A very fun idea ive been playing around with for a couple days. Bc he's a ghoul his papal paint is actually just markings!! He's an ice ghoul (quintessence and water hybrid!!!)

#the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #ghoul copia #He's the only ghoul i've given wings #which is hilarious to me #I had to redraw like seven fucking things on this man i stg. first it was the wings then the lips and then his entire outfit #bc i completely forgot that he was supposed to be in his tracksuit and not the blue sequin suit #which was heartbreaking bc i finally figured out how to draw sequins for nothing #i was gonna draw ghoulzo (ghoul terzo) but i already spent two days revising this ghoulpia picture that i just have no energy for it

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selfloathingextraordinaire · 3 months

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I just saw someone say that $35 per second of animation was normal, and I am appalled. As someone who works in animation, no it is not. That is practically free labor. For freelance, ranges of $100-$200 per second are more normal (freelance can be tricky because you have to judge your worth vs how much budget a project has etc etc etc), though it is always better to try and get a job that pays you hourly. Unfortunately, the industry is in a dark place atm. Very little jobs available and tons of layoffs. I can understand someone taking a job that offers so little. However, we should always be fighting for better conditions. Better pay, better hours, all of that, even with indie. If you want a project to have old Disney levels of animation, then you better be willing to pay the price. Else, learn more about limited animation and how that can tell a story with a small budget.

#screaming into the void about animation #cuz people don't really care it seems #also if it's 35 per second of completed animation that's even worse #it can take DAYS for something to be approved #cuz of all the checks that are needed and possible revisions #animation takes TIME #that's a lot of drawings!#also freelance jobs don't have any benefits #which is something you also have to factor if you're setting up a price

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paranormalglass · 1 month

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if i crumple away and turn to dust please blame my english teacher

#^soggy speaks #I HATE HER OS BAD OH MY GOD #im so tired #and i have so much to do brha #oguh #ive spent two periods staring an a blank google doc for an assessment due friday lol #and i have a test tomorrow so todays blocked out completely for studying and revision #im so fucked

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vaya-writes · 1 year

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The Wyvern's Bride - Part 3.2

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

2000 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

Adalyn wakes early. She’s used to getting up at sunrise to start baking, and up in the Spires with the balcony door propped open, she has an unimpeded view of the lightening sky.

Slate had woken earlier still and is nowhere to be found. There’s evidence of his stirring here and there. A blanket in a pile by the chaise. Crumbs at the table. A covered plate of cold toast waiting for Adalyn. She bites into it, relishing the jam Slate had procured.

She’s tempted to go back to bed. To sleep in until the sun finishes rising. To loaf about and relax, perhaps with a book. But she’s not yet game to go through Slate’s collection, and the threat of boredom chafes at her skin.

Instead, she dresses for the day, gathers up some of her cleaning supplies, and makes for the kitchen. She’s not sure what state she’ll find it in but is looking forward to using the area herself.

Light streams into the windows as she makes her way down the Tower until finally, she enters the passage that leads to the kitchen. Its dark, but thankfully short, and when she finds the dining room, the skylight illuminates the area enough to see her to the kitchen.

Adalyn swears under her breath as she locates the flint and steel and lights the nearest brazier. Perhaps lighting is another thing she’ll have to talk to Slate about.

When the kitchen is lit, Adalyn leans against the counter and surveys the place. Her legs are wobbly from the trek – it had been nice to stretch them, and she can move without discomfort now, but the hike will still take some getting used to.

The Matron’s staff had tidied the kitchen. Dishes had been washed and put away, and any remaining food had been sealed and put in the larder (dried fruits are all that remain). Still, there are crusts and crumbs scattered about, and the fire pit is overflowing with ash.

Adalyn sinks into cleaning. She marvels over the plumbing as she wipes and washes the counters. She puts on a pot of tea when she works, settling into the familiar routine. She even rummages through the larder for ingredients, and once the counters are clean, starts baking some bread and biscuits. She’d brought her starter yeast from home, and Slate’s kitchen is stocked with everything else she needs.

By midmorning she’s surveying the fruits of her labours with satisfaction. There’s a platter of sweets to snack on, jam sandwiches which she eats on the spot, and a tea set which she resolves to take upstairs. She sets aside a handful of other things to take to the Tower, so that she won’t have to descend to the kitchen each morning for supplies.

Throughout the morning Adalyn had noted a distant rumble. It had been almost comforting. In the stillness beneath the mountains, with Adalyn’s busywork being the only sounds, it soothes her to hear something else.

When she finishes her work and takes a moment to breathe, she listens to the sounds with curiosity, then recognition. The occasional boom and slight tremors beneath her feet could be indicative of a cave in but had been too consistent. It’s more likely Slate, at work somewhere within the Spires.

She glances at her food, then around the kitchen. There’s honestly not much else for her to do, and with the rest of the day stretching out before her, she decides to explore.

She sets off in the direction of the byway, following the distant sounds of earth rending, retracing her steps through the dining hall and a winding passage before she emerges into the enormous cavern. At the size of it she blanches. Awe inspiring as it is, the walls are still unremarkable, and she worries that she might lose her way. She’s looking around for landmarks, anything to help mark one passage from another, when she notices the pile of stones beside her.

Their purpose immediately becomes clear. Adalyn notes the number of stones and their arrangement – unique. Each door marker is different from the next. She resumes her exploration, walking alongside the stream and taking in the sights. Plant life creeps down from the ceiling, spilling over the edge of the cave opening, high above. The area is almost lush.

She doesn’t have to walk the entire cavern, thankfully. The sounds are coming from just across the main-way, and she eyes one passage speculatively. The gouge marks around the edge of the doorway are fresh; debris and dust litter the ground and a set of footprints, visible even to her, track through it all. She spies a bundle of white and stoops to examine it. A shirt, discarded in a heap.

She’d go in after Slate if it weren’t for the darkness. At its thickness, she balks. Even if the wyvern were through the passage, she has no way of knowing about any hazards.

“Slate?” She calls.

The noise ceases. For a moment she hears nothing. Then there’s the crunch of footsteps.

“Adalyn. Are you alright?”

The air swirls with dust. Adalyn waves the particulates away from her face and coughs. “I brought you lunch, though it might be early.”

Slate emerges from the darkness, pausing at the threshold of the shadows. “It’s never too early to see you, dearest.”

Adalyn squints at his outline, using the expression to cover her embarrassment. “Do I get to see you?”

He straightens, and steps out of the corridor. Contrite, he runs a hand through his hair, smearing a white streak through it. “Sorry. Difference in eyesight, I guess.”

He’s shirtless, in his demi form. There’s a layer of filth and grit covering him, almost creating patterns against his grey skin and dappled scales.

She eyes the swarths of them: thick and dark on the backs of his arms and shoulders, lightening colour at his sides, and thinning into skin over his chest. There’s a fresh scar above his left pectoral, and Adalyn recognises it as the place where Slate had removed a scale.

She drags her eyes away from his chest and forces a polite smile. “Did you want to wash up first, or...”

Slate gestures towards the cavern. “Let’s go over there. You can sit in the light, and I can take a dip in the stream.”

Adalyn takes a seat at the bank before unwrapping their food. She sets the remaining sandwiches aside for Slate while she picks at a biscuit. She watches with bemusement as Slate kicks off his shoes and socks before stepping straight into the stream. She catches sight of his back – tessellated scales the colour of coal – and the amusement slips her mind.

“What are you working on today?”

His arms are wreathed in shadow, fingers tipped with long claws. Adalyn watches, riveted, as he dispells the claws into puffs of smoke and begins rubbing water up his arms and chest. His skin from the forearms down is still shadowy, and cloudy water streams off him in rivulets.

“I’m carving the passage from the main-way to where your quarters will be.”

“By hand?”

“The first time, yes.”

He climbs the bank to sit beside her, and she wordlessly hands him a sandwich. He smiles his thanks. “What about you?”

Adalyn sighs. “I don’t know. To be honest, without a bakery to run, I fear I might get quite bored.”

“What did you used to do with your free time?”

She leans back, watching a cloud pass. “Cook. Clean. Garden. Sometimes spin and sew.”

“Do you like doing those things?”

“Yes, sometimes. They help me feel in control.”

Slate considers while he finishes his food. Then rests his hand in his chin. “We could find you a project. I always have several to keep me busy.”

She grins. Slate seems the type to keep multiple pots on the burner. “You got a list, or something?”

He straightens and counts on his fingers. “Finish the blueprints for your quarters, carve out the passages and main spaces, contract a smith for fittings, designate a permanent space for my workshops, build said workshops, prototype different elevators,” he pauses, and a blush touches his cheeks at Adalyn’s expression. “To start.”

She enjoys his enthusiasm. Even if she finds it hard to relate. “I thought you’d finish the Tower first.”

He brushes some crumbs away and reaches for a sweet. “I don’t want to crowd you longer than necessary. Your space is my top priority.”

Some of her mirth fades, and she tries to keep a neutral expression. Part of her fixates on those words, searching them for further meaning. Perhaps he is being genuine.

Tentatively, she replies. “I don’t feel crowded.”

She misses the way he looks at her, somewhat sharply. Fearing he had misstepped. “You don’t? I- well, I know how humans value their privacy.”

She purses her lips. Part of her very badly wants to protest the distance he’s literally building between them. But she doesn’t want to push, and risk seeming clingy.

She lets the topic drop. “So what project do you suggest I take up?”

He thinks. “You like cleaning.”

A nod.

He looks almost pained as his picks his next words. “I suppose I don’t mind if you go through my things. Organise them, I mean.”

She’s torn again. She wants to react with brevity. Tease him for his tastes. ‘What if you don’t like my system.’

Instead, she approaches the situation with growing anxiety and caution. She wonders if having her in his space, touching all his things, will drive him to push her away faster. She’s practically a stranger. And he’d been so frustrated with his family meddling.

“If you’re sure. I know it could be a bother.”

He shakes his head. His fingers creep towards hers. “It’s not. You’d have to try really hard to bother me. Just wait until tonight. Some of the magical artifacts can be aggressive, and I’d better point them out.”

She eyes his hand, next to hers, and some of the tightness in her chest lessons. Anxiety temporarily assuaged, she manages a smile. She stands and readies to leave, allowing herself some humour. “Okay dearest.”

---

When Slate joins Adalyn for dinner he is both late and sodden. He lands on the balcony and lingers there, sheepishly wringing his clothes out.

“There is a bath here.”

“I don’t want to track dust through my room,” he says before going to fetch a towel.

Adalyn had rekindled the fire herself and lit the braziers, and dinner is set out when he joins her at the table, once more in his human form. She wonders if there’s a particular reason he chooses the form so frequently.

“Sorry I’m late. My timepiece is broken.” He bites into a pastry and lets out an appreciative groan. Adalyn hadn’t found any substantial supplies in the larder and had managed to make some fruit pies with the jam preserves. He swallows and smiles at her. “How are you finding the keep?”

She shrugs. Adopts a teasing tone. “There’s room for improvement, I suppose.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining.”

“Please. Complain to me.”

“Perhaps you could build an exit or two? I’m getting plenty of fresh air from the balcony, but it’d be nice to go for a walk on the surface.”

“That’s a quick fix. Though I’d be careful walking around the karst. There’s a lot of places you could fall.”

“We’re also down to bread and cheese. Some supplies wouldn’t go astray.”

Slate nods. “I go hunting every few days, but it’s slipped my mind, with all the changes. I’d planned to visit the valley tomorrow; we could stock up then?”

“What are your plans in the valley?”

He smiles, coy. “Oh, you know. Post some letters. Check in with some craftsmen. Pick up a gift for my wife.”

“You’re too sweet.”

“Right?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll forgive your tardiness then.”

“Was that all you wanted? A door and some food?”

Adalyn narrows her eyes. “I could make a list if it pleases you.”

“I love lists.”

---

#the wyvern’s bride #my writing #vaya writes #monster boyfriend #tetaro #monster romance #exophilia #i feel like the nitty gritty is boring and this is so hard to write without going over the nitty gritty #like the important part of this next arc is these two showcasing their love languages and how they have completely different ones #unfortunatly that means a heck of a lot of slate building stuff and adalyn delivering him food and making small talk with him #which just seems boring to revise and edit #please tell me this reads okay #regardless of my concerns

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