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#for something that it's still a 'but thou must' moment in the end

helluvapoison · 3 months

Text

Crystal Clear

Zestial x Reader

warning: lil violence, probably inaccurate old english

Consider yourself lucky to find yourself under Zestial’s good graces and watchful eyes. While he sends you bottles of delicious, ancient wine and carnivorous flowers, others are on the opposite end. That’s what Alastor tells you at least and he refuses to elaborate. While you’re curious to know what could be the opposite of flowers, you think your imagination might be an easier pill to swallow than the truth.

You’ve long since agreed to go on that promenade with the Overlord (which you’ve found out means a walk by a lake) but Zestial, according to the notes on the recent bouquet of grey roses, “hasn’t known a moment’s peace” for a month now. His cursive is flawless with accentuated strokes and curls that take up the entire card. You wanted to thank him for all the gifts but a call felt impersonal… and something told you he didn’t own a phone.

A letter would probably suffice except you weren’t sure where to send it. Alastor continued to be no help. At first it struck you as odd because you thought the two of them were friends but that’s on you, you should have known Alastor doesn’t have friends. So you set out to Zestial’s corner of The Pride Ring. It was old fashioned like Cannibal Town but not nearly as nice.

By that, you mean the people are just as shitty as they are everywhere else in Hell.

Not even two steps over the invisible threshold and you’re shoved into the side of a building, cool brick meeting your shoulder hard. You move to give the jerk a silent “fuck you” at the very least, raising your middle finger as she bolts away from you. Two steps the same, she’s dragged into an alley by a shadow.

“Pray tell,” A familiar voice, so smooth and close, drowns out the nearby screaming. Zestial himself steals your attention and your breath. You don’t even have time to wonder where he came from.

“Doth thyn own eyes deceive? A firefly has entered the web of a spider by thous own accord? Thy had not expected this turn of events. What brings thee to my web this hellish day?”

“Oh! I wanted to thank you for all the presents you sent.” You explain, patting your pockets for the envelope addressed to him.

Humming, his eyes roam across his name as he gingerly takes the pink paper. He doesn’t open it then, instead bringing into the abyss of his coat where it disappears from your sight.

“The pleasure belongs entirely to thyn own self,” Zestial says politely, his smile disappearing as he speaks, “Oh how outrageous thou must be, for thou has been generously patient. Apologies, firefly. Thyst swears this will not happen twice.”

You tilted your head, brows pulling together as you deciphered Zestial’s words. When it settles in you’re quick to hold up your hands. You’re so quick to fix things, you missed his pet name again.

“I—Oh! No, I’m not upset! I understand you’re busy.”

This pleases Zestial immensely, his smile returning and etching across his face once more.

“Thous kindness continues. Please, allow thy to return thee from whence thou came. Thyn would be remiss should something happen to thee.” He paused, voice dropping as he glared over his shoulder, “Twice.”

Zestial swiftly offers his arm to you when you try to see what he was looking at. A part of you did know he was sparing you a gruesome sight… the other part didn’t care as much as you should.

Falling into step with the Overlord, you’re suddenly aware of how much labor he’s putting into walking at your pace. It looks effortless enough. He practically glides as he walks anyhow. Still, it didn’t go unnoticed by you. Despite slightly delving into his frustrations (via cards) about how busy he was, he seemed in no rush to return to his territory to deal with whatever it may be.

“I looked up what promenade means, by the way,” You say eventually, though the silence between you both was comfortable enough, “I’d officially like to accept your invitation now. When work slows down for you, of course.”

Zestial chuckles, looking straight ahead, “Thyn has been working tirelessly to ensure uninterrupted time with thee. Much like this, only with a more suitable location for such a sweet soul as thou.”

“Tirelessly, huh? Don’t forget to take breaks,” You chastise playfully.

“In thys undead existence, thyn has come to be sure that there is no time for breaks. Change is constant and quick. Thyn is forced to adapt when thyn does not wish to or thy will be left a—how did one say? A relic.”

Now it was your turn to frown.

“Someone said that to you?”

His amusement remained alive as ever despite the terrible insult.

“Fret not. There shan’t be much for one to say any longer.”

You cross your arms and nod firmly.

“Howevermore, mayhaps there was truth in one’s words. It appears to thy, that the more thyst resists the ever growing changes of this modern day, the farther thyst casts thys own self into darkness.” Zestial sighs and trails off towards the end, “Tis a rather lonely existence.”

Slowly, you nod your head. It takes a minute to translate what he said and another to respond but Zestial is nothing if not patient.

“Change is constant,” You begrudgingly agree.

He hums in appreciation, “Precisely.”

“But it doesn’t have to be lonely if you don’t want it to be. You have Carmilla and—” You hesitate which caught his attention.

“And?”

“Well, I was going to say me. If you want, that is.”

Zestial chuckles. It’s a dark, raspy sound that makes your bones vibrate and sends a shiver throughout your body.

“Thy would be honored to call thoust a friend.. for the time being. Thy can only be content in the darkness for so long now that light has been seen. Thoust will inevitably succumb to a courtship, thyself assures thee.”

“You lost me a little bit,” You replied, dipping your hand from side to side in a so-so motion.

The green of his eyes shrink upwards in amusement yet again. Zestial straightens, looking around as if debating something he doesn’t feel inclined to share this time. You show him the same courtesy he showed you and waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“As commerce for such a divine outing, and solidifying our enriching conversation, thoust will be repaid in kind. Just this once.” Zestial declares, holding up a single, slender finger from his coat, “You and I are much alike, dear firefly, we shall not be easily discouraged from our desires.”

He holds out his hand and waits for yours to join. It’s not a perfect fit, his fingers could wrap around yours two times over, but it feels nice. Zestisl is oddly warm with soft palms and an unfailingly gentle grip. Bowing, he kisses your knuckles like he did the first time,

“Until next time. Thy will count the seconds,” He says quietly.

You don’t realize there’s an audience until he sinks into the cracks on the ground and absconds from your view. If you’re honest, you didn’t catch quite a bit from the last few minutes. You’re still stuck in the web of time where Zestial said he desired you. At least you think that’s what he said. Funny, even when he says it in layman’s terms you’re still not sure what Zestial meant.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel headcanon #zestial imagine #zestial x reader #zestial headcanon #hazbin hotel zestial

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 6 months

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Every Lifetime - Part 2

Astarion x Y/N - drabble - 1.1K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: emo Astarion, guilt, mostly fluff tbh

When Withers told Astarion he could bring anyone back. His mind flit to you immediately. The thought of you coming back. He felt a sliver of hope, something he hadn’t felt in ages.

“She died… 130 years ago…” Astarion mumbled, afraid the animated skeleton would turn him down.

“Thou must have the proper payment…” Withers spoke.

Astarion fumbled, shoving coins into the boney hand. “I strike thy name from the archives… rise…” Withers spoke, moving his arms while saying the incantation.

A shimmery blue outline of a body appeared, you slowly came into focus. There you were. You felt confused. Like you had just woken up from a deep sleep. Your eyes slowly adjusted, focusing on the pale elf in front of you. Astarion? Arms encircled you in a crushing grasp, crumbling to the ground. You noticed strangers watching you, all looking at you two with faces of confusion. You slowly brought your arms around his waist. This felt so unreal. Astarion kissed your neck and face before landing on your lips. You kissed him slow and deep. You never wanted him to slip away from you, not even for a moment. Leaning your foreheads together you both sat there a moment. Fresh tears coating each of you faces.

“How?” You asked with a stuttered breath.

“In every lifetime. Always.” He kissed your cheeks, you smiled loosely.

“Do you want to try standing up?” Astarion whispered, holding the undersides of your arms, ready to pull you up with him. You nodded. You were wobbly, every part of you cracked and stretched deliciously. You gave a tiny wave to those around you who were still watching. Astarion ignored them, finding time later to explain what just happened sounded like a better idea than trying to do it now. Astarion gently led you over to his tent, sitting you gently on his bedroll, he sat in front of you. You admired one another in a comfortable silence. You let your hand reach out for him, your fingers caressing his cheek. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and kissing your palm at the action.

“What do we do now?” You asked, a hint of apprehension in your voice. You’d been in the ground a long time, the fear of re-entering society seemed daunting.

“I suppose we… carry on?” Astarion laughed slightly at the end, it sounded so simple but he knew the challenges ahead.

You held his hands, smoothing your fingers over the backs of them. “Can’t believe you brought me back.” You smiled up at him briefly.

Astarion’s smile faltered, “Why’s that?”

“I just thought… maybe you’d... Forgotten about me? Found a new love, a new life. I wouldn’t blame you if you had, you know that right?” You didn’t want to be dreary but the thoughts weighed you down slightly. Astarion’s happiness is all that mattered to you, even if you weren’t a part of it anymore.

Astarion shook his head roughly, “You’re my only love, my only life. My position is by your side no matter what. No matter where.”

You kissed him again, skidding the shoulders of your shirt down so your chest was revealed. You had waited so long to have him again, and judging by his reaction, he was just as eager. He pulled you close, grabbing at your exposed flesh. He worshiped every part of you that night. As you did him. Centuries had passed and he still knew your body like it was his own. You found pleasure and love in one another endlessly that night.

When you awoke, you found Astarion gazing at you, running his fingers deftly over your face. “Hello little love.” he whispered, kissing you.

“Ya know… I never thought we’d get to do that again.” you blushed a bit pulling the blanket closer to your chest.

“Alas, I never gave up hope of getting to enjoy all of this again.” he said in a flirtatious tone.

Astarions smile faded when he ran his thumb over your neck. Moving your hair he saw the scar of two puncture wounds. Even in resurrecting you, it could not destroy the evidence of your cause of death. Astarion felt sick about it. He remembered the taste of you. He could taste your fear, and worst of all, he liked it. It drove him to the brink of insanity, it wracked him with guilt.

You took his hand in yours, kissing his fingertips. “It wasn’t your fault.” you whispered.

“Doesn’t make it haunt me any less.” he pulled you into his chest, trying to radiate his apology somehow. You could see how horrible he felt and it broke your heart. You kissed him softly, pecking his lips over and over again before he relented and kissed you back. He threw your leg over his hip, pulling you closer.

“It was never, and will never, be your fault. The past is gone. When you open your eyes, the world will be a better place.” You whispered to him while you thumbed over his cheek bones, kissing the tip of his nose before he opened his eyes.

You’d always know how to talk to him, ever since you were children. Nobody had a way with him quite like you did. He smiled at you softly, how was everything always so easy with you? You’d been gone for so long and yet, it felt like you had never left. You picked up right where you left off. He adored that about you; he adored everything about you.

He kissed your shoulder, “Come.�� He said as he got up, finding his clothes. You did as instructed, trying to think of where he’d take you. He led you through the city until you reached where the mountains met the beach. You followed him inside a cave and found a cottage. No sun shone here, you could see rays of light peeking in from the cave mouth but that was it. The sun was never out of reach here. “Our house, unfortunately, is long gone… so…. Maybe this can be our new home? Close to the water for you, in the shadows for me. A pleasant compromise I think.”

“How did you even find this?” You asked, walking around the outside of the cottage. Sea shells adorned it in random locations, almost as if it had been submerged once upon a time.

“Cazador had very deep pockets that I’m now privy to. Nothing is out of our reach darling.” He winked at you slyly.

You rolled your eyes, chuckling at him. He pulled you inside gently. It was quaint and simple, everything you could want or need. Not too extravagant which surprised you. Astarion always did have expensive tastes. But for you he settled with things you would both like. You wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning against the kitchen counter, “How did I get so lucky?”

Astarion didn’t reply, he simply smiled before pulling you into a deep kiss. “Stay with me?” He whispered on your lips.

“In every lifetime…” you promised.

“Always.” He kissed you as the word floated out of him, elated to have everything he’d ever wanted.

-------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Hello darlings! Here is part two as promised, I hope you all enjoy. I go back to work this week and am still recovering from surgery so it might be a little dry during the week but I am hoping to post one more fic today to keep everyone tied over. Thank you for all the likes, comments, reblogs, and requests! Ilysm xoxoxoxo!!!

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deathbxnny · 7 months

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This idea is gonna take me a while to type, so I’m sorry if requests close before I finish. If no one else will give this boy a happy ending, I’ll do it myself.

But Yanqing being Mara-Struck and curled up in pain with his S/O holding him and crying. He can’t hear anything clearly. But he hears them pleading with someone or something. He feels so tired that all he can do is close his eyes and pray his S/O runs before he can hurt them.

When he wakes up, he finds himself cured of the Mara in a hospital bed. Medics say it’s a miracle. But when he asks about his S/O, they don’t know what he’s talking about. Jing Yuan tells him that his S/O made some kind of deal to save him. But the general is called away before he can explain.

Yanqing just lays there fearing the worst. His S/O must have traded their life for his or something.

He can only lie on the bed, numb to the world.

Until his S/O comes in with a few bags of to-go food. They’ve got a lot of explaining to do, now that they became the Aeon of Salvation.

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A/N: Hello! I am glad someone has finally had it in them to have mercy on poor Yanqing LMAO. I really love the rerquest and hope you'll like this, Anon! Content: Mentions of injury, near death experience, slight angst, hurt/comfort, nothing too bad for once, established relationship, sfw Reader has no set pronouns! (Not proofread!)

-----

Today was really not Yanqings day, to say the least.

From him having to deal with a sudden attack of Mara-struck monsters to him also contracting the disease on accident; It was all going as bad as it possibly just could. All of his plans failed the moment he collapsed on the ground, clutching his chest in agony. But he wasn't concerned about himself. No, he was more concerned about you, his dear lover that clutched onto him in terror.

His ears were ringing, your pleas an incoherent mess in his scrambled mind. He squinted against the blinding sun that hit his eyes, his lips parting to mutter your name, before he simply coughed out some leafs. He was turning and fast at that, but you still held onto him so tightly, unable to let go. You didn't want to let go. the blonde weakly raised his arm, a warm palm pressing against your wet cheek. "I'm glad... you're okay at least." He mutters in a daze, which earned him more pleas and cries he couldn't understand. It was like his head was dunked under cold water, that pulled him down deeper and deeper into the depth of the exhaustion he suddenly felt.

He couldn't fight back anymore, his body completely giving uo against the disease that ripped him apart from the inside out. He closed his eyes with a shaky sigh, hoping you'd have enough time to run at least, before he hurt you. He wouldn't forgive himself , if he did.

Yanqing's eyes snapped open, his body moving to swiftly sit up in terror at the memory, hands weakly clawing at his chest. But a much bigger one gently pressed him back into the warm sheets, the boy's head turning up to look up at the man he recognised as his master. He opened his mouth to speak, yet he could only cough painfully instead. "It's okay, stay down. They are fine." Jing Yuan hummed, reading his mind perfectly.

The young swordmaster gave him a weak look, his lips trembling. "How... why...?" "They say it's a miracle, you are fully cured of the disease... (Y/N) made a deal to ensure you'd live for another day." The man said, nearly as though he couldn't believe it either. Yanqing's blood ran cold, but he couldn't ask anything more, when someone came in to ask for the generals help. Jing Yuan gave him a small smile and reassuring nod, before leaving with the medic. The room was quiet, whislt the injured boy's mind spiralled in terror at what that could mean.

You made a deal? A deal with who? On what?

He feared for the worst in that moment, especially when he laid in this cold hospital bed all alone, hooked up to many machines that monitored his ever racing heartbeat. He was scared and confused, his thoughts running rampant in directions he hated. Had you died to save him? He exhaled a sharp breath, wanting nothing more than to get up and look for you. He couldn't mentally handle it anymore, not knowing if you were fine or not. Alive or not.

He couldn't move, his breath laboured, tears welling up in his dull eyes. He was pathetic. He always prided himself in being your protector. You knew this. So why would you give away your life for his?- "Ah, you're awake! I got you your favourite food... Yanqing?" Your voice made him flinch, his head turning to look at you instantly. You were standing there in all your glory, seemingly unaffected by the situation, as you held several bags of delicious food in your arms.

"I... I thought you died." He finally whispered, his voice cracking from the sob that wrecked through his weakened body. You quickly put the food down before embracing him tightly, quick to soothe his worries with your touch whilst he cried. "It's okay.... I became the Aeon of Salvation to save you, it's the deal that saved your life." You hummed, before reaching over to grab some food for him to eat. Yanqing took a grateful bite and munched on it tearfully, before stopping and giving you a blank stare as your words processed in his dazed mind.

".... You are what now...?"

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A/N: Okay, so I didn't know how to end this... but I hope you guys still like it! It's also been a long while since I've been able to post more than once in day and it feels great haha!<33

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr yanqing #hsr yanqing x reader #hsr #hsr fanfic

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narcissisticmf · 9 months

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arrangement | loki x fem!reader

description: y/n is betrothed to thor, an arrangement made my odin so that asgard may have a queen to rule beside his first born. there is just one problem. y/n does not love thor, not the way she loves loki.

trigger warnings: forced marriage, mentions of anxiety, angst, fluff, etc. read at your own risk.

word count: 1.2k

The heels of your glass shoes clicked along the marble flooring of the palace. Your breathing hastened as you led yourself down the candle-lit corridor. Passing by several guards, as well as servants, you eventually came to the library that was at the end of the hall.

"Loki," You breathed out seeing as he was seated upon a chair, beside a crackling fire with a book set in his lap. His lanky fingers holding it effortlessly.

"Lady Y/N," He greeted without raising his eyes from the pages.

The library was grand as you took a quick scan to see if anyone else was present, to your luck it remained vacant apart from you and Loki. You swiftly grabbed the grand doors and latched them shut, giving the both of you privacy.

"I must have a word with you," You let your feet cross the room, to stand before him as he stared blankly at your feet for a few moments. He took a minute before closing his book and placing it onto the low table before him. He stood up and towered before you, standing a mere three feet from you.

Loki pressed his lips together and gestured his hands to allow you to take the floor.

"I am to marry Thor tomorrow evening," You whispered into the air as though it were some huge announcement, but in truth this was something the entirety of Asgard knew for months.

"Are you? I didn't realize," Loki replied, sarcastically.

"I love you," You stated in a single breath.

"No, you don't," Loki shook his head, tears burning his eyes but he dared not to let them slip. He closed his eyes for a moment to lowered his head before returning to meet your gaze.

"How can you say such a thing?" Your voice was breathy.

"Because, Y/N, you are to marry my brother. We wouldn't stand a chance at any form of a shared life together so we must end this now. We must because we have to," Loki's voice echoed beautifully about the library. The crackling fire was comforting in the background as the candles continued to flicker in the dim room. Crickets sung just outside the palace, creating the perfect ambience for such a solemn moment.

"I do not love Thor!" Your voice broke.

"But you do love Asgard," Loki was soft spoken, probably the most soft spoken person in all the nine realms. "And you will do anything for its people," he added after a pause.

You sucked in a breath before releasing it. There was a stillness for a little while.

"If I wed your brother it will bind me and you together for eternity," You lowered your voice as tears glazed across your eyes. "And I will spend everyday of my marriage, wanting you.. dreaming of you," You shakily breathed in, "Dreading the day when my last thread of honour finally snaps. Is that the future that you want for us? For your brother?"

Loki stared at you with astonishment as he was at a loss for words, unknowing of what to say in response.

Beyond the doors to the library were footsteps, you thought you had heard Thor's voice. You released a gentle breath and stepped closer to Loki as he stared down at you with a gentle scrunch in his brows.

"I must go," You whispered lowly.

His lips parted as you thought he was going to say something else, but you were already exiting the library, leaving him stood there alone, stupefied.

"Father?" Loki entered the throne room as Odin sat overlooking the empty space.

"Loki," Odin exhaled.

"Might I have a word?" Loki asked.

He motioned his guards away, "Leave us."

Once the room was completely empty of ears, Odin stepped down from his chair, using the support from his scepter as he made an attempt to reach his son. Loki stood as the Allfather approached him.

"Why have you chosen Lady Y/N for Thor?" Loki breathed out, as though it took more energy than anything else in the world to say.

"Lady Y/N will rule beside Thor quite nicely. They will create balance and peace across the nine realms, I am certain of it," Odin explained.

"What about Lady Sif? Her and Thor share more similarities than he and Y/N," Loki replied.

"Lady Sif is a warrior, she must fight for Asgard on the ground while Lady Y/N will lead the battles," Odin stated.

"Father," Loki breathed. "Please reconsider your decision," he begged; the God of mischief was not one to beg. "I love her, I truly love her and if you do this, if you decide to do this, I will lose her in every way that I do not want to lose her. Thor does not love her and she will spend her marriage, her entire life in a loveless match. It is not what she wishes, Father."

"The wedding is tomorrow evening, my son," Odin explained. "The arrangements have been made, we cannot turn back now."

"You are the Allfather, you can do as you wish, whatever the circumstances," Loki was beginning to tremble, in great fear that he would be unable to change Odin's mind.

Odin was silent for what felt like forever. He could see that his son was truly distraught by the situation and felt pity for him.

"Very well, I will see to putting an end to the wedding," He said, hastily.

Loki's lips parted as he nodded his head, bewildered that his father actually listened to him. "Thank you, Father," He lowered his head, bowing politely before leaving the throne room with a smile to his face.

Scurrying through the corridors of the palace in a pair of boots, having come back from a horse ride, you entered the library to see Loki reading, yet again in the broad of daylight.

"How did you convince him?" You questioned, referring to the wedding having been canceled.

"He is my father.. well adoptive father anyway, but over the years I have been able to pick up a few things," Loki lifted his eyes from his book and gave you a thin smile.

"Thank you," You whispered.

Loki said nothing in response and instead, pushed himself up off the chair he sat in, placing his book on the low table and walked towards you. You followed him with your loving gaze as he towered before you. He smiled and cupped your face with his large hands, allowing you to lean your head back, pressing his lips against yours in the sweetest of motions.

You placed your hands at his sides, molding your lips against his warmly, admiring the taste of him. He smiled into your mouth as you had done the same. Loki pulled back and grinned down at you, lovingly.

"I love you too," He whispered, his lips dragging across your cheek, close to your ear.

"I know you do," You whispered back with a happy smile.

a/n: this has been something i've wanted to write for a while! i feel like i could do more if it was a full on book, but i thought this was kinda cute and a little angsty! lmk if you guys liked this! i had fun writing it!! tysm for your support, you guys are amazing. be safe, my lovelies. <3 — angelina.

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 7 months

Text

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

—

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen.

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment."

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you."

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine.

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable."

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them.

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth.

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?"

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me."

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you.

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free.

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I."

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose."

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother."

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself.

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and--

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you.

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency.

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try.

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner?

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn?

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude.

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater.

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied - as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words.

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight!

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed.

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought.

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand.

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready."

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?"

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!"

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…"

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change.

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed.

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time."

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some.

Isobel does not.

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end.

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another.

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again.

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm."

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind.

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found.

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice.

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you.

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach.

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--"

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears.

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long."

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever."

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings.

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders."

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey."

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper."

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily.

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore."

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings."

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air.

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it.

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt.

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp.

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes.

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount.

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.

Kill her.

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind.

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable?

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers.

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse.

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire.

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him.

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained.

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.

One day.

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping--

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so."

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me."

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory."

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face.

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers."

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake.

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick."

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you.

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure."

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more."

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers.

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you."

And for a hundred years, he is right.

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield.

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day.

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites.

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens.

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world.

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted --

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated.

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open--

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently.

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this.

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…"

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might."

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears.

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant?

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but--

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to?

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer.

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence.

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback.

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again.

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary.

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name.

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through.

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight.

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question.

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one.

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down.

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own.

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours.

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of.

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you.

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself.

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here."

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurns you to action.

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it."

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it."

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid.

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different.

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten.

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name.

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest.

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden.

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh.

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn.

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to.

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades.

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you.

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..."

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly.

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..."

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison.

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar."

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears.

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it.

"He got them from me."

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?"

Isobel understands.

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid."

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira."

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms.

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come."

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love."

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind.

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word.

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough.

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend.

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep.

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer.

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly.

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away.

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest."

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth.

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure."

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one."

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share."

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse.

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before.

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own."

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone.

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..."

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair.

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden."

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife.

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours."

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's.

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you."

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?"

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be.

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel."

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of.

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong.

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief.

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath.

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first."

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything."

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand.

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable."

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed."

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace.

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void."

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too.

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us."

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember."

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…"

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times.

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still.

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered.

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing.

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what?

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well.

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both.

Together. Only ever together.

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can.

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you.

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain.

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere.

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright.

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once.

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time.

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.

A kinder fate for me.

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving.

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother."

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.

No more, She says.

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate.

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy."

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most--

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished?

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child.

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance.

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.

A smile, a tender grace.

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go.

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips.

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice.

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand."

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you.

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you.

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie.

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail.

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time.

#baldur's gate 3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #cross-posted on ao3 if you prefer to read there #poor unprepared me starting the game salty that they didn't let me play my aasimar paladin staple

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thevoidstaredback · 1 month

Text

Be Thou For The People

A contradictory void of suffocating black and empty white was the last thing Edward wanted to see at any given time. Sure, there was the exception of when he was going to get his and Al's bodies back, but that wasn't now. He was sure he hadn't done anything against explicitly against any Alchemical Laws, nor had he stumbled into any Human Transmutation arrays, so why was he here?

The familiar not-presence of a not-being filled his mind when it spoke to him. "Using your own soul as a Philosopher's Stone to save your life? What a cheat."

"Hey!" Ed protested, barely keeping himself from moving from his spot. Fighting this not-being would only be a waste of the infinitely miniscule amount of time in the void. "It's not cheating. I didn't break any rules. Besides, Alkahestry works kind of like that."

The Truth laughed heartily. "You must take the time to understand that which you do not. Using Alchemy on yourself is a form of Human Transmutation. You're molding your life to go against the flow, however small the alteration might have been. Unless you are not human?"

"Of course I'm human!" Ed shrunk in on himself slightly. Of course he didn't understand Alkahestry, the research for it hadn't been readily accessible to him like his Alchemy resources! And, yes, maybe he knew, in the back of his mind, that transmuting himself was still technically an Alchemical Taboo, but he had thought The Truth would have let him off because he was using his own life as the price! Evidently, that wasn't the case. In his defense, it was either shave off a few years or die via impalement. Neither was a good case, but he'd rather live to keep his promise to his brother than to die in a mineshaft because of a bastard like Kimblee.

"What am I even doing here?" he asked with a huff. It couldn't be anything good.

The Truth's ever present grin fell ever so slightly. "I'd like to cash in a favor with you."

"Excuse me?" he blinked.

The not-being continued, "A favor. You do something for me, I'll do something for you. That kind of deal."

"Hold on," Ed said, uncrossing his arms, "Why do You want me for this? Why not pull some other poor bastard to do Your dirty work?" For that's what this had to be, dirty work. There was nothing else it could be.

This time, The Truth's smile fell noticeably. "Because very few have survived coming into my realm once, let alone several times thereafter."

Another huff. "What's the parameters of this 'favor'?"

It grinned again. "Someone has decided to go and try to cheat Death. I want you to go get him and bring him to face the Gate."

"What do I get out of this?"

"A free pass. You'll be able to recover your brother's body with no repercussions on your end, though I would still like an answer."

Speechless for a moment, Ed recovered soon enough to ask, "What answer?"

"Nothing you need to worry about right now, little alchemist." The Truth's grin split It's face unnaturally in a smile, "What do you say, poor bastard?"

With a long, drawn out, resigned sigh, Edward sat down in front of his Gate. Honestly, he'd brought that taunt upon himself. Also, could he even refuse this? "Alright, fine. What do I gotta do?" It was too good to be true, but he might as well take the chance.

"That's the spirit, little alchemist!" The Truth relaxed, outstretching the leg It'd stolen from Ed and resting Ed's arm on It's other knee, leaving the hand and wrist limp. "I'll be sending you to the other side of the Gate. A world where technology thrived and alchemy died. A world of hidden societies. It is within one of those hidden societies that I want you to be. The man who has tried to defy Death runs as the 'villain', you could say."

When The Truth paused, Edward took that moment to think before speaking. "So, You want me to find this guy on the other side of the Gate and bring him to You?" It was a miracle he wasn't freaking out. Then again, that wouldn't get him anywhere. There's a time and a place, but this was not it. "How long do I have?"

"As long as it takes you. When you're done, you'll end up right where and when I pulled you from."

'Right where...' The sudden realisation of what had happened before he found himself in The Truth's realm was near painful. Quickly, he placed his flesh hand over where he knew he'd been impaled. The last thing he was doing before coming here was healing the wound and trying to stay alive. Pulling his hand away, he found no blood and only a slight numbness in place of pain. "What?"

"Pain doesn't exist here, little alchemist, I thought you would have remembered this fact?" It was true. When he had committed the Taboo, he'd not felt any pain until he was back in his father's study with one less leg. Though, the screaming was mostly shock and panic.

"If I do this," Ed started, "What rules do I have to follow?"

"I'm not sure I quite know what you mean?" It's grin and tone said otherwise.

"I'm not gonna let you throw me into a world knowing jack shit about it or the Laws in place." He knew all too well that he wouldn't actually be able to stop The Truth from doing anything. It was actually pretty generous of it to ask him instead of just dumping him somewhere in the first place. "Knowing my luck, I'd end up breaking one and end up right back here."

The Truth chuckled. "Knowing your luck, little alchemist, you'd knowingly break them even if you did know them." Ed resisted the urge to launch at the not-being. "However, I will tell you. The world follows the same basic Laws of yours. The society you'll be in have some additional ones. All the information you need will be given to you when you go Through." It put It's chin on Edwards right palm, the elbow resting on Its knee. "I would advise you keep your alchemy hidden from a very specific certain people. I'd also advise you to trust very few."

That's not good. The Truth is actually telling him to avoid people? "I don't suppose You'll tell me who to avoid." The grin he was given was answer enough.

"You will know who you can trust," It said.

After a few more moments, Ed nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll do this stupid favor for You, but You have to hold up Your end!"

The Truth's grin was more frightening than it had been before, matching up perfectly with the one It had showed him when he was a child. "Of course I will, poor bastard." The Gate behind Ed opened swiftly and the black arms of the Gatekeepers pulled him back, "Good luck, little alchemist."

Edward knew better than to struggle. Unlike in The Truth's realm, he could feel pain in here. The pain of the Knowledge of another world was unbearable and certainly would have killed him if he hadn't been Through the Gate before. Though, the Knowledge pouring into him was significantly more than the Knowledge that he had paid for before. He couldn't stop the scream that ripped from his throat.

***

The Truth watched as Edward Elric's Gate closed. It had presented the deal as though it were Equivalent, but It knew that wasn't the case. In order for Its end of this little deal to measure up with what the Little Alchemist was doing for it, The Truth would have to give him more knowledge as well as his little brother's body and his arm and leg. The knowledge and memories Edward would acquire on the other side of the Gate would fill out the rest of the Equivalence. If Edward answered The Truth's question correctly then it might be so inclined to add something to the growing stack of Equivalence.

The Truth smiled again. "I wonder how this will play out."

***

Edward didn't know how to feel when he opened his eyes again. On one hand, he was no longer in pain from the Gate, nor was he bleeding out from his most recent injury. He still felt a small twinge of pain when he moved wrong, though. On the other hand, he wasn't in the mineshaft, so that meant his meeting with The Truth hadn't been a dream and he really did have the complete Knowledge of another world in his head. Of course, now was the time to freak out about the entire situation.

Taking deep breaths, he kept his eyes open and focused on what was in front of him. It was a red cushioned bench. Was he on a train? Maybe. "Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron," he muttered slowly, "Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Fluorine," It was slow going, but he was calming down. "Neon, Sodium, Magnesium," He tapped the middle finger and thumb on his right hand together. "Aluminum, Silicon," Breath in through the nose, "Phosphorus," He coughed a bit, "Why the hell does it smell like cider? Better question, why the hell does it taste like cider?"

Now calmer, Edward took a better look around the compartment. And wasn't that weird. Trains didn't usually have compartments unless you got first class seating. And, judging on the muffled noise outside the door, he was in common class seating. Odd, but not overly so. On the rack above his head, he found a trunk with his name on it. Pulling it down, setting it on the seat next to him, and opening it it, he found a note on top of a black cloth.

"How nice of It." Ed folded the note and tucked it away. Then, he ripped it open to re-read it. "The hell does it mean 'school supplies?!" Ed hadn't been to a proper school since before his mom died, so why the hell did The Truth think it was a good idea to send him to one? On top of that, why is he with the thirteen year olds?! He takes it back. The Truth isn't nice at all. Not in the slightest. "If this is You calling me short..." he threatened loosely.

Little Alchemist,

Along with the Knowledge you got when you went Through, I've also given you everything you'll need while there. Money is in the leather pouch, your wand is in your pocket with your watch, and your books and other school supplies are all in your trunk with extra clothes and robes. Anything else, you'll have to buy yourself.

Have fun as a third year, poor bastard, you'll be surrounded by thirteen year olds.

Unfortunately, Ed knew there wasn't really anything he could do aside from take it in stride. He was good at that. So, putting the note away for good, he searched his pockets for his watch and wand. He didn't get far, though, because he finally realised what he was wearing. He still had on his black leather pants, his black elevator boots, and his cropped black jacket, but he was now wearing a white undershirt, a yellow tie, and black dress thing - a robe, his mind supplied - with gold trimming. What the hell? A look into his trunk confirmed the existence of more of these robes, one of which had been directly under the note. At least they were black. Quickly, Ed took off the robe he was wearing, but left the tie. A glance at the emblem - a UK badger - had his mind telling him that it was for the Hufflepuff House, whatever that was.

In his left pocket, he found his State Alchemist watch and his wand with a leather holster and another note. He fastened the holster under his sleeve and to his left forearm and stowed the wand there. Next, he read the note.

'Great,' he scowled, shoving the note into his trunk with the other one, 'Another constant reminder of my mistakes.' Even in a completely different world, his greatest mistake haunts him.

Little Alchemist,

Your wand is 13 inches, yew wood, with a core of Thestral Hair.

Yew wands are said to give their wielder more power over life and death than other wand woods and is more attracted to the Dark Arts. The Thestral Hair core is unstable at best and will only work for those who have accepted death.

Accepting it with a huff, he shoved the robes he'd woken up in into the trunk and pulled out a book - quickly checking for his own journal and sighing when he found it in the inner pocket of his cropped jacket - and opened it to read. He stopped short at the new language that was registering in his brain. "What the fuck?" The new language - English - had probably been forced into his mind while coming Through. Making a conscious effort, Edward spoke in Amestiran, "Was soll der Scheiß?" Again, the passing Knowledge that this world's equivalent to his home language was called German jumped to the front of his mind. "That's going to take some getting used to." Pushing everything else aside, he opened the book and began to read Spellman's Syllabary.

***

Three books later, Edward forced himself pulled back into reality. The textbooks he read were strange. The first was a study of this worlds Runes, some of which he had studied as a kid in alchemy books. The next was about Potions, he had a feeling that he was going to like that class; The third was about the Wizarding World's history, it was interesting to compare the Knowledge he'd gotten coming Through to what was being taught; The last was about Transfiguration, and he decided then and there that he would not be attending that class at all, no matter the consequences.

Blinking as he closed the book, he found he was no longer alone in the compartment. "Who the hell are you?" were the first words he said to anyone since his arrival.

The boy across from him shifted nervously in his seat, not meeting Ed's eye as he seemed to shrink in on himself. "I-I'm sorry. It's just, everywhere else was-was full, and-and-" he stopped only to restart a different sentence, "I asked if-if I could sit here- Everywhere else is full and the train started moving and- I'm really sorry!"

"Hold on," Edward cut the kid off from speaking anymore, "It's fine. I get caught up in my own little world when I'm reading."

The brown haired boy took a deep breath, still not looking away from his hands, and pressing himself as far away from Ed as he could. His robes were crimson and ruby red where Ed's were yellow and gold. "I'm sorry." he squeaked again.

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"Yes I do. We-we don't know each other. Why would you ever let me sit here?" He stood and reached for his own trunk, "I-I'll just go sit somewhere else-"

"Stop." Ed ordered, his tone leaving no room for discussion, "Sit your ass back down. I'm fine with you being in here. I really don't care."

"But-but, I'm a Gryffindor and you're a Hufflepuff."

"So?"

"'So'?"

"Yeah, 'So?'. Why should I care about that? You're just sitting here."

"But-!"

"I'm Edward. Call me Ed."

The boy seemed like he wanted to say something, but he allowed the conversation to turn were Ed led it. "Neville Longbottom, though you probably already knew that." He did know that, but not for any reason Neville could come up with. "You're really okay with me staying?"

"Yes."

He slowly sat back down. "I don't remember seeing you around school before. Are you new?"

This question made Ed pause for a second. Nothing was telling him this kid was untrustworthy, but that didn't mean he'd tell him anything. Though, an ally would do him good. "Yeah, I'm new." Now, he was relying on what the Gate had given him. "I was sorted only a bit ago, so I don't really care about the Houses or whatever. I'm thinking about not telling anyone I'm new, though, see if I can trick everyone, y'know?"

Neville gave a small smile. Maybe there was a chance of befriending this kid? "That'd be funny."

Edward smiled, too, "You'll help me?"

"Of course!" He didn't know why, but Neville found this kid - Edward - easy to be around. He hadn't stuttered much this whole conversation and Ed was even asking him to help prank the whole school! But, that wouldn't last long. Once Ed found out how terrible at everything he is, he'll leave like everyone else.

"Hey," Ed asked, "What's wrong?"

"I just don't want to get my hopes up," Neville said shyly, "Once you realise how stupid I am, you'll not want to be around me."

Ed frowned. "Don't talk like that."

"Huh?"

"Self deprecation will get you nowhere. We're friends now, so I'm gonna help you work on that, okay?" Having a friend sounded nice. Besides, this kid is really easy to relax around. He was only ever able to relax like this around Al, but this kid was so similar to his brother that it was honestly a little scary.

"Friends? Are we really..?" A look from the blond made the brunet smile again. He didn't have friends. Acquaintances, sure, but not friends. "What're you reading?"

"The textbooks." Was the answer, "I didn't have time to read them over the summer, so I figured I'd read them now."

Neville nodded, agreeing to the logic, "Have you read the Herbology one yet?"

"No, but I can?" he offered.

A grin. "I want you're thoughts on this year's course when you're done." he sat back, "I'll wait."

Chuckling, Edward muttered, "Yes, sir," with a two fingered salute and a smirk as he began reading. It wasn't going to take him long to finish it, he knew, but his interest in whatever Neville had to say on the subject made him read slightly faster than normal.

***

The discussion on Herbology lasted from the third hour of the train ride - two o'clock in the afternoon - up until an hour before the sunset at seven o'clock. The train had come to a screeching and quick halt, cutting off any and all cheerful conversations and replacing them with collective confusion. The stop had also jolted everyone on the train, throwing most from or against their seats.

"What do you think is going on?" Neville asked his blond friend.

"I don't know," Edward stood from his seat, "But I'm going to-"

A sudden chill made itself known to the two boys. Their warm breaths became visible in the cold air and the glass of the windows quickly frosted over. Edward was thankful that he had winter automail on because he did not want to deal with frostbite, thank you. All sounds, muffled or otherwise, were muted over by a loud silence. Even their own breathing made little to no noise. Then, Neville started to tremble.

"Neville?" The boy in question had his hands loosely covering his ears and his eyes were wide and unfocused, seeing something Ed could not. He fell to his knees as tears started to fall from his eyes "Neville!" Edward recognised a flashback when he saw one. He'd seen some of the older soldiers have flashbacks to the Ishvalan War and was glad the fighting and war efforts hadn't reached Resembol outside of Winry's parents leaving and refugees joining the town.

A boney, charred black hand made itself known on the glass window of the door with a quiet tap, the window around the hand turning white with the cold, but the handprint stayed clear with an illusion of warmth. Slowly, the door opened and the owner of the hand was in full visibility, despite the cold seeming to fog everything else over with a thick mist. It was covered in a black cloak that hung so far and so loose that Ed couldn't tell if the thing was floating or standing. The hood covered where it's face should be and the sleeves seemed to be it's arms, falling over the things hands.

'A Dementor.' The Knowledge the Gate had forced into his head supplied, 'You're wand is protecting you.' Yew wood had power over life and death, so it was therefore able to protect against beings such as this one. The thestral hair core only seemed to amplify this. The words Expecto Patronum entered his mind.

Ed hadn't ever seen anything like this before, let alone faced something like it, so he was having a hard time overcoming his shock. When he did, though, he pulled Neville into a hug without turning his back on the creature. His wand fell from it's holster and into his left hand and he whispered the spell he was told. "Expecto Patronum!" His given Knowledge about the spell let him know that it was incredibly difficult to produce. It uses the castor's happiest memory as fuel to fend off Dementors, who feed off of misery. The happier the memory, the stronger the spell. The surprise Ed felt when a fully corporeal Patronus came into existence to push the Dementor out and away was immense. When the dark creature was gone, Ed watched as the glowing tiger made of silvery light approached and laid itself around him and Neville. A sense of calm overtook the train compartment and Ed found he could breathe easier. The room started to warm up with the Dementor now gone.

"Are you alright?" Edward asked Neville quietly once the boy had stopped trembling.

"I-I" he gulped, "I think so." He pulled away from Edward slightly, not noticing the tiger wrapped around him yet. "What was that thing?"

"A Dementor." Ed found a small bit of amusement that his companion hadn't noticed the silver magic yet.

Confused at why the blond was smiling, Neville started to ask why, but stopped short when he noticed the glowing tiger that he was somehow leaning against. It had wrapped itself around the two, it's tail going behind Edward and its head beside Neville. "What-"

"My Patronus, apparently," The tiger acknowledged the two with a nod - as if satisfied that they were now alright - before disappearing.

"You can cast the Patronus Charm?!" Neville had seen it mentioned in passing in a few books he's read, but, as far as he knew, it was a NEWT level spell! They wouldn't be learning that until Sixth Year!

"Apparently. That was my first time doing it." And using magic. Edward patted himself on the back for a job well done on the first try. Neville didn't need to know that part, though.

"You know what the tiger means, right?"

"It means something?"

"Of course it does!" Neville shook Ed by the shoulders, "The tiger means strength and cunning and majesty and independance and immortality. How did you not know that?"

Ed's brain short circuited. There was several things to unpack there, but the one he was focused on was the whole 'immortality' thing. What the fuck?

"You good?" Neville's voice pulled him back from his mind.

"Am I alright? I should be asking you that!" He lowered his voice. "You had a flashback."

Neville shook his head. "I don't really wanna talk about it." That made sense. He wasn't going to push. "Well, should we go see what's going on?" Edward smiled and nodded, helping the brunet up after standing himself.

There was a knock on the door. "Everything okay in here?" a man's voice called from the other side of the door.

Ed opened it, "Yeah, we're good."

"Who're you?" Neville asked from over Ed's shoulder. He was a whole four inches taller than the blond, much to the latter's irritation.

The man pulled chocolate out of his jacket pocket and handed a bar to the boys. "That was a Dementor." Then, he paused for a second and looked around the compartment. "Did either of you cast the Patronus Charm?"

Edward crossed his arms. "Who are you?"

The man seemed to size the two up for a second. "I'm Remus Lupin, your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year."

"Cool. Never heard of you." Neville gasped and backed up a few steps, obviously surprised at Ed's gall.

Remus laughed, "No, I suppose you haven't. Now, did you two cast a Patronus?"

"Yeah?" Ed raised an eyebrow, "How did you know?"

"Good job," he sent a quick glance to Ed's tie, "Ten points to Hufflepuff. The Patronus Charm leaves a kind of residue in the air. Lingering happiness, you could say."

"Huh. Cool."

"Anyway, I need to go check on the rest of the students. Be sure to change into your robes before we get to the school." Then, he walked away.

Ed closed the door and snickered.

"What're you laughing at?" Neville asked, a weak glare in his eyes. Edward had some audacity talking to a teacher like that! Though, Neville supposed it was a nice change. He wasn't gonna admit that out loud, though.

"His name." Ed moved away from the door and sat back in his seat.

Neville sat across from him again. "What about his name?"

"It means," he started to laugh again. "It means 'Wolf Wolf'." The Knowledge he'd gotten had included the myths of this world. The one he was thinking of was of Remus and Romulus of Rome. They had been raised by the wolf Lupa. "If that man has nothing to do with wolves, I'll eat my boots."

Neville giggled, "I'd pay ten galleons to see that."

"Oh, you're on!" The two shook hands as the train began moving again.

***

When Edward read 'school' on the note The Truth had left for him, he was expecting something closer to the ones back home, like a building no taller than three floors. Not a whole ass village. When he expressed this to Neville, the boy told him the the village - Hogsmeade - was not the school, before leading him over to the carriages. Most students, Ed noticed, were ignoring the horses altogether. The few that saw them gave them a wide berth. He wasn't about that. He walked right up to one, dragging Neville with him, and patted it's side.

"What is it?" Neville asked.

"A thestral." he answered.

Tentatively, Neville reached out to pet the horse as well. "It's beautiful." The two soon had to leave the thestrals and jumped into the carriage. They didn't say much as they waited to arrive at the school, though they were joined by a blond in royal and sapphire blue robes before they started moving.

Again, Edward's first image of a school was maybe three floors in a very rectangular building. Not a damn castle. He barely refrained from expressing his excitement in front of his extra companion. Though, he did have the information Given to him come to the forefront of his mind for a moment, just long enough to skim through the history of the building. It was a lot and it would be sorted through later.

"You don't have to hold back," the girl said, "I know you're new here."

"Are you sure I'm new?" Edward asked her, "There's a lot of kids here, you could have just overlooked me before."

"Quite sure." she nodded, "The wrackspurts that like to stay at the school haven't gotten to you yet." Her ice blue eyes gleamed for a moment. "My name's Luna Lovegood."

"Edward, but you can call me Ed."

"Nice to meet you, Ed. Neville."

The brunet squeaked. "Um, hi."

Luna giggled, "We haven't met before, but your reputation proceeds you, as does mine."

Neville blink dumbly before saying, "Loony?"

She smiled, "Yes,"

"Oh, my god!" Neville covered his mouth in mild horror, "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay." She didn't seem to mind.

While the two students who weren't on their first day of school conversed, Edward had let himself openly - but quietly - gawk at the castle that was apparently a school. At first, he had to do a double take. Why would they be going to a bunch old ruins? But then the focus of the world seemed to shift and he couldn't help himself. He'd never seen a castle in person but this was a fantastic first impression on him. Now he could hold bragging rights over Mustang! Though, he wasn't sure if the tingling in his ports was natural. He couldn't very well ask the two because they obviously had all their limbs. The closer he got to the castle, he noticed, the more alarm bells started to go off in his head. Then, the tingling got worse.

"Ed?" Neville called, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah.." was his distracted answer. He rubbed his right shoulder port with his left hand, "..yeah."

"Are you sure?" Luna asked, her eyes on his right hand.

Before he could answer, his head erupted into a splitting headache and he doubled over, gripping his head in his left hand. 'What the hell is happening?!' He wondered. There was a quiet voice screaming at him to get out and leave, trying to force excuses into his head. The tingling in his ports turned to a stabbing pain, rendering his right arm and left leg useless

"This is a violent reaction to the wards," Luna said, though Ed couldn't be sure he really heard her.

Neville was chewing on his bottom lip, "Why, though? He was perfectly fine on the train."

"Is he a muggle or a squib?"

"No. He performed magic on the train when the Dementor entered the cart."

"Hmm. This is a problem."

Ed came back into focus about then, the pain in his head down to a tolerable hum and his automail ports only feeling slightly heavier than normal. He methodically moved all the joints in his automail that he could, just ot make sure everything was in working order, not that he could actually move them again. "What...the hell was that?"

Luna sat back in her seat, though she was no less concerned than before. "The wards. I don't think the castle likes you very much."

"Why wouldn't the castle like him?" Neville was wondering several things she could have ment, but he was going to try and stay on track for now. He could ask more questions later.

She humed. "Hogwarts doesn't like muggles. Squibs like Mr. Filch are tolerable, though. She must really dislike you for some reason."

"I'm sorry," Ed said, "'She'?"

"The castle."

"Okay. Yeah. Yeah, okay." Maybe he has lost it. He got hit in the head and he's lost his mind. That's the only explanation for whatever was going on. Apparently sentient castles were a thing now? Great. Fantastic.

"Either way," Neville chimed in, leaving the matter of the Hogwarts' apparent sentience for a later date, "Do you think you'll be okay for the Welcome Feast?" Then, he backtracked to when his first conversation with the blond. "Actually, what year are you?"

Ed's eyebrow twitched. He's fifteen years old, damn it, so why is he being but with people two years younger?! He huffed quietly. "Third year."

Neville brightened up. "That's my year!" Then, he deflated, "But we're not in the same House."

"So?" he still couldn't wrap his mind around the whole 'House Rivalry' thing going on despite the reasons having been shoved straight into his head. "What House we're in shouldn't matter."

"You want to make the whole school thing you're on your third year here, yes?" Luna asked, though neither boy was sure how she found out about that little plan, "Then just play into that. Don't go out of your way to interact with each other, and no one will suspect a thing."

"Nah," Ed turned down. He didn't like the idea of shoving Neville aside to keep up appearances. "I'll just play into the Hufflepuff House Traits." Yes, he knew enough about those to recite them in his sleep. "Justice, loyalty, patience, and propensity for hard word. We're friends now. I don't leave people behind."

Luna smiled, "Well, I don't know how much help I'll be, but-"

Ed cut her off. "Hey, as far as I'm concerned, we're friends now, too. Besides, you seem interesting."

"Thank you. You're interesting as well."

Neville was going to stop questioning anything now. Though, he had to admit that they made a pretty fun group, despite only having just met each other. Friends. What a weird concept.

"Now," Ed said as the carriage came to a stop near the castle, "let's go back to the reputation thing. You both have proceeding reputations? I'll have to step up my game. I've been here for two years and people are only just noticing me?" He clicked his tongue and shook his head, "A damn shame."

The two laughed, fully intent on playing along with this endeavor of tricking the whole school. Luna still hadn't told them how she found out about that. "Anther time, Ed. You know which table you're going to?"

"The yellow one, right?"

"That's the one!"

"Okay. I'll see you two later?"

"Of course."

Now alone, Ed took a second to look around at the flood of students heading up to the castle. They'd pretty much all sectioned themselves off into four main groups. Red, yellow, blue, and green. The red and green groups were all sneering at each other and were being separated by the yellow and blue kids. And, based on everything he'd been Given when he came Through the Gate, he was going to have to tread carefully. Politics. Ew. Despite all reservations, he joined the yellow group and followed them into the castle.

The Entry Hall was just has grand as the rest of the castle, and very sparsely decorated. The doors in front of him were tall and opened on their own to let the flood of students into the Grand Hall. It was beautifully decorated, but Ed wasn't quite sure he liked the ceiling. It was amazing, nonetheless. The five tables were arranged in a way that basically promoted against Inter-House relationships. The teacher's table was fine, but the four House Tables were all separated quite obviously, and the banners above them only amplified this. With a huff, Ed sat down at the end of the yellow table. The Hufflepuffs around him didn't seem to take notice of him. Good. All the better for gaslighting the staff and student body.

A few minutes after everyone had sat down, a stool was placed in front of the teacher's table. An old pile of cloth sat on top of it. Then, the doors to the Great Hall opened once again and a stern looking teacher - Professor McGonagall, Ed's mind supplied - walked in, a gaggle of obviously nervous kids following after her. That was how the Sorting Ceremony started.

***

It took an hour, but every single one of the first years had been sorted between the four Houses. It was off-putting for Ed to see the absolute disgust or rage or other negative emotions on the students' faces when someone was sorted into a House that wasn't their own. Seriously, why are they all getting so upset about a kid being placed where they'd fit in best? He didn't outtwordly react, though.

All the House tables had ranging reactions to each placement, but Hufflepuff had the least negative out of all of them. The Slytherins sneered at everyone who wasn't with them, especially if they were sorted into Gryffindor. The Gryffindors returned the favor. The Ravenclaws weren't nearly as bad as the other two, but they did avoid watching anyone walk to their table. They didn't make a sound when anyone was sorted into Hufflepuff, though. The Hufflepuffs, clapped politely for everyone, but there were a few that they didn't clap for. They were mostly Ravenclaws.

According to the Gate, it was Gryffindor versus Slytherin and Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws got along, while the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs got along. None of them actually went out of their way to interact, but classes styled like that were normally more productive than a Gryffindor and Slytherin class.

Ed was gonna change that. Maybe. It was on his list now that he'd met Luna and Neville, but it wasn't a priority. More of, if it happens, it happens.

"I welcome you all, whether you are returning for another year or you are only just coming in, to Hogwarts for another year or learning." the old man in the middle of the staff table said. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, he knew from the Gate, was wearing obnoxious pink robes with his beard tucked into the blue belt. "I only have one thing to say to you all, now that you've been seated: Tuck in!"

Upon his command, dishes and food and drink appeared on all the tables, covering the wood to the point it could hardly be seen. Everyone started to serve themselves as conversation erupted throughout the room, engulfing it into a cacophony of sound and movement that was, in all honesty, overwhelming Ed.

"Hey," someone said from next to him, their voice quiet against everything else, making it stand out ot his ear more, "Are you okay? You look a bit pale."

Ed pushed an answer out of his throat in a voice equally as quiet. "Yeah," he lied, "This is my third year and I'm still not used to this much noise."

The kid, Cedric, he recognised from the Gate, nodded, "Yeah, I get that. When we get back to the dorms, we can put a silencing charm over your bed curtains."

"Isn't there already a silencing charm on them?"

"Yeah, but that's just to muffle the sound going in or out. I'll put one on that'll completely silence the noise going in."

That didn't sound to bad. "Edward Elric," he introduced himself as he finally began to get himself food. Despite what Mustang believed, he did have manners. He just doesn't use them around the bastard because he sees no reason to.

Cedric also began eating. "Cedric Diggory." They let the conversation sit for a second, the fifth year student was making sure to be quiet. It didn't to a lot in the grand scheme of the room, but the sentiment was appreciated. "Forgive me, but I don't recognise you. Are you a visiting student?"

Ed shook his head, the lie coming easy to him, "No, I've been here, since year one. I just don't like to draw attention usually."

Cedric raised an eyebrow. "Really? You don't seem the type."

"Huh?"

"You're," he gestured vaguely at Ed, "vibe, I guess. It basically screams for attention." Ed didn't say anything. Cedric flinched. "Right, sorry, that was rude of me." he cleared his throat, "Are you going to hide yourself in the background again this year, or are you going to try and make friends?"

Ed pretended to think for a moment before answering, "I made some friends on the train earlier."

"Oh? That's good."

"Yeah. If we ever want to spend time outside of classes, though, it's inevitable we'll draw attention to ourselves."

"Oh?" he said again, "And why's that?"

"We're all in different Houses."

"Ah. Yeah, I can see where the problem lies."

Before their conversation could continue, the food and drinks and dishes were taken from the table. "House elves." Ed muttered under his breath.

Headmaster Dumbledore stood from his seat again and cleared his throat, calling everyone's attention to him. Once every student was looking at the old man, he smiled with a twinkle in his eye as his gaze moved from student to student. Ed made sure to not meet the man's eyes. "As always, a wonderful feast." he began, "Before I send you off to your beds, there a a few things to be announced and reminded. The Forbidden Forest is, to those who do not wish to die a most gruesome death, forbidden. Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you all that a list of prohibited objects ha been posted to his office door on the second floor." He turned slightly to the left side of the staff table. "I would like to introduce you all to this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Remus Lupin." Ed was giggling behind his hand while everyone clapped. The man stood, waved a bit, then sat back down. Dumbledore continued, "Classes begin tomorrow at eight in the morning. I wish you all a good night."

Again, the room became very loud very quickly. Cedric shot Ed an apologizing look. "I'll met you in the common room, okay?" Ed nodded as the brunet stood and called for the first years to follow him.

Ed Knew where he was going, but he didn't really know. So, he followed everyone else as they left the Great Hall. He made sure to make himself seem small - because he was not small - as he walked in the middle of the crowd. Cedric and someone else had taken the first years on a different route, so he resigned himself to being surrounded by people he's never met before in his life. Which ones are his dorm-mates, he wonders. He doesn't really care to know at the moment.

The group of students wearing yellow accented robes wandered down to the basement - a floor above the dungeons - and to the kitchens. At least, near the kitchens. One of the boys at the head of the group tapped the barrel two from the bottom of the stack twice, then thrice, muttering 'Helga Hufflepuff' as he did so. The passage opened up and the Hufflepuffs all filed into the common room.

The room was very cozy and smelled like freshly cut grass and rain and burning firewood and freshly baked bread. Overall, it felt like home did. The earthy tones to the room only amplified this fact. The ceiling was white marble, the floor was off-white tile with a dark green mosaic in the middle, and the walls were off-white and light grey bricks. Wooden supports pillared up in a few places, even scattered about, and were connected at the top by arches. The room itself was round and very big. There were two wooden staircases leading up to the second floor landings, separating the male and female dorms. Alcloves took up the walls of the room, filled with bookshelves and couches and matching chairs and darker area rugs. A large fireplace took up the wall directly opposite the door, the space in front occupied by several more armchairs and couches. There was an area with only bean-bag chairs and Ed decided that he needed to get one of those in his own world. Aside from pictures that had been hung up, the bulletin board by the door, and the furniture, plants took up every available space. Round windows lining the top of the walls and warm lanterns hanging from the rafters completed the room.

Everyone settled into the common room nicely. No one went to their rooms yet, so it was a bit crowded. Not overly so, though. For Hogwarts being the only magic school in Britain, there weren't a lot of students.

About ten minutes later, the two House Prefects for Hufflepuff brought the First Years in. Everyone was very friendly to them, and they all quickly warmed up to each other and their Housemates. Eventually, though, the older years started to taper off into their rooms. Ed followed Cedric into the Third Year boys' dorms.

"So," Cedric said, "I see the common room wasn't too loud for you?"

Ed shook his head "Nope. It was a manageable level. Besides, it feels like I've come home after a long trip." Well, the common room felt like how he imagines it would be like when he and Al went back to Resembool after they get their bodies back.

Cedric frowned slightly, but ultimately didn't say anything. He quickly finished the charms on Ed's bed curtains before turning back to the blond with a smile. "Well, if you need anything, feel free to ask me or your roommates or anyone else in the House. Professor Sprout is also more than happy to talk to her students."

Ed smiled softly at the older boy, "You act like it's my first day," It was, but he wasn't going to tell Cedric that. Not now, at least. Maybe a different time.

"Of course," the brunet smiled back, "Right." he went to the door, "Well, I'll let ya get some sleep. See you in the morning?"

"Yeah," the blond nodded, "See ya then."

The door closed and Ed found himself alone in the room. It was hexagonal in shape, the floor was off-white tile, the walls off-white and light grey bricks, and the ceiling was white brick. The wall trim was carved wood, matching the rafters and corner beams and door, and climbed two feet up the wall. The beds were all four-posted with soft yellow blankets, white sheets and pillowcases, and had black and gold bed curtains. To the right of each bed was a wooden nightstand with three drawers. On the left was a dresser with five drawers. Trunks sat at the end of each bed, and a yellow rug with the Hufflepuff coat of arms on it covered most of the floor.

Ed easily found his trunk and bed, closing the curtains around him before he let himself get comfortable. It was weird, laying in this bed. It seemed to solidify the fact in his mind that this was real. He's in a new world, far away from anything familiar and safe. Magic is everywhere, and all laws of Equivalence are ignored! He didn't think he'd be able to sleep, so he grabbed a book from his trunk and started to read, mumbling to himself the whole while.

***

He must've fallen asleep at some point because his pocket watch was now telling him that it was now five in the morning. Ed sighed and dragged a hand down his face before taking his hair from the braid he'd slept in. It was still early, so he'd have the bathroom to himself for a while. Good, because he hadn't had a shower in days and he was feeling dirty. His hair was also getting oily and it was not a pleasant feeling.

Storyboard

#fma #harry potter #fanfiction #crossover #fma x hp #I started this on WattPad #now I write on Ao3 and haven't posted this anywhere #I'm very proud of this one and it will be going on Ao3 at some point #just not right now #this is all you're getting btw #have fun #hope you like it #There is an audience for this #I swear

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phonkscribes · 1 year

Note

Please write loser Wesker fantasizing about the reader but the games open so they're like "what are you doing lol" and hes like "NO!! NOTHING!!! NOT AT ALL!!"

Here you go! I made it kinda sappy, sorry if it's not what you were hoping for but I got inspired from a fic I read on ao3. Minor angst and comfort in this post of the Loser Wesker AU!

He opened the game, but not to play it. Today had been a particularly rough for him, given that he'd managed to get a bad grade on a test he was so sure he'd ace. His father was harsh, talking down to him about how he disappointed him when he knew he could've done better than that. Wesker knew that too, he was perfect-- he was supposed to be, but this put a blight on his record. Albert didn't like that at all, because he'd obsess over it, whether he wanted to or not. It'd sit in the back of his head like a tumor, and the longer he stares at you, the longer you wonder what has him in such a mood.

You wouldn't say such harsh things to him, you wouldn't have cared because at the end of it all, he was still brilliant and still great. He could look into your eyes for hours, tracing his pupils along your pixelated irises and sclera. He imagines what it'd be like if you were real. If you were here besides him. Your arms are quite strong, even for a silly old game, the developers did an impeccable job. He thinks about what it'd be like to find them wrapped around his body, pulling him into a firm hug. You think he forgets that you're not a mindless machine trapped within the confines of his computer, but in fact very sentient.

Silly boy.

You decide to not say anything, only raising your brow as per usual in your idle stance within the character select screen. Wesker lowers his head to the desk with a longing sigh, his lips pursed into a thin line as he extends his hand to his monitor. His hand ghosts the side of the screen, just out of sight from your field of view. Your hand would feel warm against his own, he bets. Albert thinks that it'd be overwhelming, startling because he's never had the privilege with someone who's grown as close to him as you have. Which is laughable because you don't know that yet, you're sure he has other people of whom he turns to confide. The silence that fills his room is only disrupted by the character select theme and his breathing, which irritates you. You weren't meant to sit still and look pretty.

You're a genetically modified being, constructed by your own will to enact your will. You're a god amongst gods, a ruler over the feeble sheep and slaughterer of the lambs who dare to rise up. What could he possibly be thinking of that has him so remotely lost? What could it be that has him staring at you so openly? Has the fool lost his shame at last?

"Albert", your tone is sharp, and it startles him from his little day dreaming, "Why are you wasting my time today?", you bark, but it's not in that condescending, holier-than-thou attitude that he's grown so used to.

You're... concerned. Which is touching, truly, but it still manages to catch him off guard. Wesker tries to regain his composure right after he had lost it, clearing his throat and acting casual.

"Er- sorry... I was just thinking about something", he replies quickly.

Your brow furrows, but you smirk, because it must involve you somehow. There's scarcely anything that doesn't involve you in his life at the moment. You're honored to have such a devout servant, even if he's quite pathetic at times. The way that you're looking at him makes him hold his breath, because Wesker figures you're about to ask him about just what that was.

"About?"

"Nothing important, I can assure you"

"Albert... do not lie to me", you soften your gaze and he feels like he's being pulled in. The color of his cheeks darken, which stirs something in you.

You like messing with him, the reactions he has are adorable, but you weren't doing that now. You wait for him to respond as you sit down, trying to level yourself with him. He could feel the tears well up in his eyes again as he takes a deep breath. He's thankful for his shades, otherwise this would be much harder if you could see him cry. He doesn't want to cry in front of you again, now that you were sentient and could see it.

The only thing that he keeps to himself is that he wants to so badly be within your arms, that he wants to hold onto you and never let go, to be saved from the high expectations, and to be at your side. There's only so much that you could tell another person, much less you.

#phonk scribes #your letter has been received #loser wesker au #evil resident reader #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker & reader #albert wesker imagines #x reader #reverse comfort #comfort #[ hes so me in this au ]#[ he just like me fr ]#[ enjoy ! ]

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searchingforserendipity25 · 8 months

Text

for @eilinelsghost. dear frankie, you are such a genuinely wonderful, talented, amazingly intelligent and kind presence on this hellsite and the world at last, and deserve all things lovely. have some balan/finrod as a humble offering among with all the rest! <33

“Very pretty it is, to be sure,” Bëor said, voice rasping low, painfully low in throat eve as his face creased with mirth. “But I am sure I do not know what I would do with a handful of your hair, Felagund! Strange creatures the Eldar be indeed, to so long for that exchange.”

Finrod's eyes widened. His mouth was less dire than it had been for days, but there was something somber still about the tilt of his brows.

Balan would feel rather like a fiend to prickle him for his entreaty, if he were not being half-cheated by its terms.

“It is a perfectly common sharing of tokens among my people.”

“Among my people the throwing of leaves and pointing of fingers is a perfectly common exchange of tokens when one is being a daft liar, too, and I do not think you so eager for that! You fairies are dreadfully jealous of your braids, one and all.”

Finrod was not bold enough to deny it. Perhaps he was in earnest - the notion only made Balan ache more fiercely.

They were very careful about their gifts, the two of them, since their first exchanges had ended in mild poisoning, and Finrod finding how very much his constitution disagreed with the smoking pipes the Edain favoured.

Finrod had been almost diffident in his offer, as he had not been for years. He looked down now at Balan now, palms pressed together in the way Balan had learned he did when he was uncertain of which question to request.

“It does happen rarely, and I do not say It is not a tremendous honour. I ask much from one who is dear to me; too much for a whim; and I am sorry for it.”

Balan sighed. His bones felt too tight. His mouth was parched, but he did not wish to ask for a glass of water, and he was not certain he would be able to cross the room easily; and he was not certain Finrod would be able to withstand it easily.

Finrod seemed not less brittle to his eyes. Singing too long left the line of his cheeks sharper, his eyes dangerous as wisps of light over bog waters. His dear lord, who had not slept in many nights to keep him from the edge of mortal harm.

He clasped Finrod’s hand warmly. The fine, long bones stilled for a moment, and then wound between his with accustomed gentleness.

“It is that must apologize,” Balan said. “Ask what thou wilt as a gift, and never doubt it be thine. Art not not my lord, and my dear friend? It would be a honour to have such a token, for even a meager hair would be a treasure given from thy hands. But I suspect it is not thy people’s way to be light about such thing; and I think fear moves thee in this more than a mere whim. If it is so, I would not have it not be kept silent, and take insidious root.”

Finrod’s fingers tightened around his. He strove for lightness of tone, and failed as he rarely did when he attempted it. “Thou canst not wonder that I fear! Warm as coal was thy brow, and heard not what I said when I spoke.”

Balan tilting his head to meet Finrod’s eyes, smiling almost despite himself at the light of love on the king’s face. He bent, and kissed the fine knuckles; and at last Finrod smiled as well.

Only then when he knew he was heard entirely did he say, “Felagund, dear lord. I am not dying; nay, not yet, and not soon either I judge. This is but a spring cold, from the changing of the wind and the cold air. Dangerous if uncared for; but thou hast cared for me better than ever my people were loved. It shall pass. Indeed, after the songs and pastes and infusions, it is nearly gone already. I would say if it grew worse, be not afraid of that.”

Balan was struck once again - as he often was - by how real Finrod was, for all his strangeness. This cheekbone was very like his own; the eyes that shone and saw the world in different shades, the quick mind that guessed at the unknowable and predicted past and future. They had made a friendship out of generous wonder in each other and for each other. The last thing he wished was to make Finrod doubt it.

He found the strands of his head strange tokens to exchange, but it seemed discourteous to refuse the trade outright, when Felagund was so plainly well-meaning.

And so peculiarly covetous, too. Balan was not blind to the way Finrod stood raptly with held breath, whenever he saw him brushing back his hair after swimming, or oiling the strands and redoing the braids by the fire in the evenings.

He could not say he disliked the attention, that he had not met Finrod’s glances a hundred times.

He could not say the offer was not to him what he knew to be to Finrod - he had seen too many elvish warriors with the braids of their betrotheds carried in medallions about their necks, or kinsmen wound in goldwire and silver, set with amber and pearls around their wrists.

Solemnly, Finrod brought out one of his many knives. A swift stroke, and one of his impossibly bright braids fell into Balan’s palm; and his own closed around Balan’s own gift.

Finrod studied it with such care, Bëor's spindly, bristling braid, the gray threaded with the fading fairness of his hair.

Balan looked at his hand, a little disbelieving. More beautiful than gold was that slender braid, enthralling as the stars, thin and fine as spidersilk - Balan had stared at it as often as Finrod looked at him in admiration.

It was not less lovely for being in his hand, and seemed all the more startling in its beauty; but Balan’s eyes were still, always, for the curling strands that framed Finrod’s temples, the fine lashes that kissed his cheeks.

How strange it was, that all the brightness in him should be turned to him, bent like a candlewick under the weight of its own flame. All the time he had known Finrod he had seen him lonesome among his people, lordly and unwed, brushing his own hair alone; and it had wounded him from the first.

For all the differences between them, that particular loneliness was something Balan recognized so well.

His hand fit so well in Balan's, all the same. He had held him for days and day, without letting go: whenever Balan was strong enough to open his eyes, he had seen him - his golden braids fraying, unattended, as he willed Balan to live.

In the delirium of his fever Balan had dreamed foul dreams. It had felt to him as if a great darkness had descended upon Finrod, as if great walls of stone parted them; crushed, limbs heavy, he had cried out. Reached for him, as if were being chased by a prowling thing, and growing ever more distant; and now he saw, clear as grass, a mirrored anguish in the way Finrod held Balan's cut braid as if it were half an heirloom already.

"Thank thee," Finrod said, grave as if it were a rite.

“I am very generous,” Balan agreed, teasing as well as he could. His heart pressing painfully against his ribs. He felt feverish still, with fear and boldness now; but he had to speak, say this much at least. “But I fear I am about to be more outrageous still; for there is beauty greater still I would have, still. Among my people, embraces are also exchanged as tokens, between friends who hold each other dear.”

Finrod's breathing hitched and ceased again.

He did not say he had heard the words unspoken. He did not speak of death; or love. The gift his people gave and traded as promises unspooled itself in Balan’s hand, and nothing like an oath came with it; but Balan needed nothing of the like tonight.

If it was greedy to ask for more, it would be cruel to give less, when even his ageless face was dimned with the weariness of the vigil he had kept by Balan's side, his shoulders tight with fear.

“So it is, among my people as well,” said Finrod, and stopped, until Balan thought he would turn his face away, and rise, and hide the dark rope of Balan’s hair away forever to be wept over in days and years to come.

But the grip between Balan’s fingers eased, then grew stronger again. Finrod bent down over the bedside; until Balan touched the living strands of his hair, entwined his fingers about it.

That was too much. The dark braid was set aside carefully; and then, swiftly, with a surge of urgency, Finrod held him. Laid his hands over his back, feeling the movement of his heart and lungs; and Balan stroked his head with its wisps of shorn hair, eased his fear as well as he could.

Tomorrow, the cedarwod casket that held Balan's pins and rings, Belen's childhood gifts of bone-whistles and Baran's prettiest pebbles would receive a new, no less beloved treasure. Tomorrow, Finrod would hide the stands of Beren's hair away in truth, somewhere secret and well-kept where tokens of love could be held without marring for many centuries.

For tonight they could give each other this gift - grasp tight, and not let go until the sun rose over the mountain.

#balan #finrod #balan/finrod #eilinielsghost #ficlet #my fics #the silm #silm fanfic

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theonevoice · 9 months

Text

Rumination n. 5 - Is the Metatron the skylark from Romeo and Juliet (and are we going to cry)?

I don't know if someone has already pointed this out, but I think I stumbled upon something regarding the Metatron (may he step on legos for the rest of his eternal existence).

I was in the middle of one my regular cycles of Neil Gaiman Cultural References Game appreciation, thinking of how much Romeo-and-Juliet-like is our ineffable husbands- love story. The parallel is obvious: forbidden love between two members of families in violent open conflict, side characters constantly stepping in and adding fuel to the fire, a masquerade ball (you know, where everyone shows up in different clothes than usual), a secret encounter in the garden... even a nightingale that doesn't sing, because the long-awaited night of love has come to an end and in place of a nightingale now a skylark is singing, and its song tears the lovers apart.

And then it struck me.

In classical, medieval, and romantic immagination, the skylark is the symbol of the Triumph of Good over Evil, and many cultures consider it a messenger from the gods. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?

Look at how Percy Bysshe Shelly describes the skylark:

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; [...] Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, [...] Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Am I spiraling, or does it ring a bell? A metaphisical bird "like a cloud of fire" (reminder that the Holy Spirit, alternative form of God's voice, is canonically depicted in art as a bird, often a flaming one) that speaks "from Heaven, or near it" (like as God or almost, remember "you are the voice of the Almighty in the same way as a presidential spokesman is the voice of the President") and pours mezmerizing melodies from above. A bird that cannot be seen but only heard, as if it was pure voice, that scorns the earth and can mysteriously entrance you with spellbinding promises that are better than "all treasures that in books are found."

And who is casually popping up early in the morning, after the long-awaited night of love and dancing (and occasional demon smiting) has come to an end, singing a mesmerizing song (the offer of restoring Crowley to his former angelic status) that is better than books and silences the nightingale, if not the Voice of God, harald of capital-G-Good, freaking Metatron himself?

My friends, I want to trust Neil Gaiman when he says that everything will be ok but, in perfect "it must get worse before it gets better" style, I am afraid that we are going to witness a nearly Romeo and Juliet double death ending that will scare the living daylight out of us.

Maybe Juliet-Crowley (Juliet is the one who wants Romeo to ignore the skylark, remember?) will be threaten with a permanent imprisonment in Hell (like the forced wedding of Juliet with Paris) and will have to fake his own death in order to leave his old lot behind once and for all, possibly involving fake holy water in place of Friar Laurence's fake death potion. Maybe a fatal miscommunication (I don't need to explain why miscommunication is plausible in this scenario) will lead Aziraphale-Romeo, coming back from Heaven (where he went after almost declaring war on the opposite side, much like Romeo went to Mantua after killing the Capulet Tybalt) just a moment too late and incorrectly informed, to believe that the love of his life is gone for real and to contemplate his own death, possibly throwing himself on his own flaming sword or willingly stepping into hellfire.

I will be honest, I can see Neil Gaiman pulling a shakespearian move on them (and on us). And, as someone said just before a bomb fell on a certain group of people in 1941, it will take a real miracle for them to survive it.

#good omens #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens thoughts #go 2 speculation #go2 spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #aziraphale #crowley #romeo and juliet #shakespeare #the metatron #metatron #good omens theory

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welcomingdisaster · 1 year

Text

1k || t || canonical character death || ao3

Emeldir sits and sews, watching her daughter wake in the crib across the room. Hiril screws up her eyes for a moment before she opens them, inhales deeply as though she is about to scream. Emeldir sets down her sewing, ready to stand and take her child in her arms, but the scream does not come.

Instead Hiril reaches for the crib decoration hanging over her. She traces the woven pattern with a pudgy hand, transfixed by the way it catches the light and holds it long after the sun has fallen over the horizon. It is of very fine make, golden thread pulled taut to form the shape of the sun. Barahir had cut it free from where it had once been sewn into his own crib, so old every seam of the wood had come undone. But the thread looks new, still, hanging over the new oak crib for their babes to grasp at. Shines bright despite their grubby hands, despite the countless times, now, that it has been gnawed on.

Beren climbs up on the side of his sister’s crib, his feet on the lower rail. He is four, tall for his age but bony as a bird, with a pointed little chin and big brown eyes. He reaches, too, to touch his the little sun, but does not pull it from his sister’s hand. He is kind, her Beren — thoughtful of the little one. She wishes soft times on him each time she bends to kiss the mop of his dark hair, praying to gods that no longer visit this earth.

“What’s the sewing on it, Mama?” he asks, holding his fingers up to the little golden circle, so that its faint light dances over his fingernails, “looks like there’s sunlight caught up in it.”

Emeldir does not know.

“Maybe there is,” she says, her hands returning to her work, “if you can catch river-water in a bucket, and fire in the fireplace, why not sunlight in thread?”

Beren hums, satisfied. The little sun glints.

In truth it is something much older and stranger than that.

***

Nóm comes to visit him as the sun rises over the horizon, fresh-faced and cheerful, his long blond hair newly done. It cascades around him in gorgeous golden waves, the top layers twisted up in circular braids that much resemble stars, decorated with flowers from the meadows and green leaves.

Balan greets him on the porch of his cabin, exhausted and rather under-groomed himself.

“Ever thou brings me more reason for admiration!” He cries, standing to embrace his friend, and gestures to the sparkling cascade of gold, finely done. “Whenever could thou have done all this, before even the sun has woken?”

“It is simple,” Nóm laughs, kissing each of his cheeks in turn, “my kind do not sleep so often as thy folk, and some not at all. I sat by the firelight to clear my head and comb my hair, and I got quite carried away with it. But I felt thy weariness even before I held thou in my arms, and I am even more certain of it now. What ails thee, my friend?”

“Naught ails me,” Balan says, “I watch Boron, my son’s son, for he is colicky and gives his parents no rest. He does not calm for me. Why, I think all this night he must have been quiet ten minutes put all together!”

It is only then he realizes the baby, cradled yet in his arms, is not crying any longer. He has caught one of Nóm’s braids in his hands when they had embraced, and he stares, wide-eyed and mesmerized, at its looping pattern.

“Forgive me!” Balan cries, reaching to pull it free, “I meant not to let him take thee by thy hair.”

But Nóm only laughs and takes out the hunting-knife on his belt. Balan watches, horrified, as he pulls the braid taut and cuts it. He ties it off at the end with a ribbon, and turns to smile at Balan as though he had not just desecrated a work of art.

“Let him take it, if it calms him,” he says, “it is only hair; more shall grow, and I would do all my power to bring thee some measure of peace.”

“What madness!” Balan cries, and there is something of a hysterical laugh to it. “What gifts, my friend! What value they hold I do not know, and yet I know I shall never have wealth enough to repay it!”

“It is hair,” Nóm repeats, “it shall grow.”

Boron is captivated. Slowly, with the clumsily, he reaches up with his other hand and grabs the other side of the cut braid. Golden light dances in his wide brown eyes, falls upon his cheeks.

“I never asked thee about the light,” Balan realizes, “do all of thy people glow so?”

“Some,” Nóm says, “before any could even imagine the sun, before your people were awake upon this earth, I danced in the first light; the light of Laurelin, the great golden tree of Aman. It is a little of that light I carry, still.”

“Treelight,” Balan says, “before the sun! Sometimes I think thou art quite fond of fairytales, or else of the gullibility of your younger friends!”

Nóm smiles, but his green eyes are distant and old as mountains. Somehow he is only fairer with the braid cut, the tuft of hair sticking up from his head at an odd angle; only more darling for the little imperfection. Balan knows, then, that he shall follow him to the ends of the earth; that should Nóm leave their people Balan shall too.

***

Finrod’s hair tickles his foot.

“Can you hear me?” Beren asks. There is no answer; no breath, no twitch of the hand, only the smell of blood in the air and the drip of it into the grate by the iron bars.

(Sauron is practical. His dungeons are well-equipped with draining systems.)

“Hear me,” Beren says, command in place of question, “hear me! My friend, do not leave me.”

(Drip. Drip. Drip.)

There is no light in the room, nothing for him to see his friend’s injuries by. Almost nothing; Finrod’s hair glows faintly even in the darkness, casting pale golden light upon his fair, pale face, upon his wide green eyes and the drops of blood on his long, arrow-straight blond eyelashes. It looks as a ray of sunshine caught in the most horrible darkness.

It looks familiar. Comfortable. Beren’s wrists ache where they are bound, and his chest hurts as though his heart has been ripped free from it. His head spins. Finrod’s hair tickles his foot, as though trying to provide one last comfort. Sunlight caught up in thread, he thinks.

He cannot remember where he had heard it.

#my fic #the silmarillion #finrod #beor #beren #beör #finrod felagund #beren erchamion

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almostloosingit · 2 years

Text

Sick of you

Ran

Ghost pt2

I wrote this while listening to:

(English isn’t my first language so please ignore any grammar errors or tell me if you finds any 😗✌️)

Part one

CW: menting of having kids you can choose if they adopted or not.

You hope you never see Ran again. You really do. Because you know the moment you do you won't know what to do. You don’t want to see him.

That's what you thought until you saw him two days later in the Coffee shop and the two of you made eye contact.

He looked surprised but so were you. He was standing holding his coffee in one hand while there was a girl ,who was smiling so brightly at him, hugging his arm on the other side. What? Is he dating someone? If he is, why did he say the things he did those two days ago? Was he this desperate to let it out? You don’t know what to say. But he promised to leave your life for good.

You started to walk in his way. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped the second you walked past him to reach the counter. You came here to relax after all, not to deal with this. You ordered your coffee and sat on a comfortable armchair that had a table in front of it. You put your laptop down and started to respond to some emails. Weird way to relax, right? Well if you ignore them it would give you the anxiety of possibly ignoring something important.

“I will quickly go to the toilet.” You heard a woman’s voice. You ignored it after all how the fuck is that your business?

“Nice to see you here.” You heard the familiar voice. The same one from those two days ago.

“I wish I could say the same.” You mumbled. “What happened to leaving me alone?”

“So you want me to treat you like a ghost?”

“You did before so I don’t see it being a problem nor being it hard for you.” You said it with a fake smile.

“That was ages ago.”

“And?” You answered then smiled and thanked the person who brought you the coffee that you ordered then looked back at Ran. “Old habits are sometimes still buried deep in a person.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ran frowned his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, Haitani. What do I mean by that?” You said then took a sip of your drink.

“Y/N please don’t call me that.”

“Why? We aren’t close enough for me to call you by your name.”

“Y/N listen I-”

“Who’s that, babe?” You heard a sudden female voice. You look up at the girl.

`She seems familiar` you thought.

“That’s Y/N. They used to be my-”

“Classmate, I used to be his classmate back when we were in high school.” You smiled at the girl. Ran seems confused as well as sad that you didn’t admit that you two used to date. Were you embarrassed by the fact you two dated? You just want to save the embarrassment for all three of you as well as avoid an uncomfortable as well as awkward situation especially for the poor girl.

“Oh my I am so glad I met someone who knew my Ran back in the day.” You want to puke. “What was he like? Were you two close?”

Oh you can ruin him right here right now. Will you thou? No. Why? Because that can end up with you having to deal with him even more.

“Not really, you know, just classmates. All I know is that he used to party a lot, you know the typical things.” You lied.

“Oh that sure sounds like him.” She giggled. “I mean he owns a club now for a reason, but you don’t have to lie about being just classmates.” Shit she knows. “I saw you on some old pictures that Ran keeps in a special book so that must mean you two were good friends not only classmates.” Oh?

“Special book?”

“He says he keeps photos of the people he loves in that book. You two were in a lot of photos together so that must mean you two were probably best friends at some point.” She said smiling. She’s playing dumb, right?

“Okay that's enough.” He said embarrassed.

“Don’t worry Sweetie, I'm sure they are glad you keep them so dear to your heart.”

“How long have you two been dating?”

“Two years!” She said with a high pitched voice. Then she raised her hand to show you the back of hand. “And engaged for two months.” She said with a bright smile.

“Congratulations.” You said with a smile. Wow just wow. He dated you for two years as well and didn’t put a ring on your finger, but he did for her? He couldn’t settle for you. He couldn’t even stay loyal to you! You feel annoyed. Will you let it show? No.

Ran looked away. Well. Seems like only one is happy about the engagement.

“Thank you, oh I know! You should come to our wedding! I mean the two of you used to be so close, right? I'm sure you would love to see your old best friend get married.”

Your heart dropped. Both you and Ran knew that.

“I'm sorry, I don’t think that's a good idea. You see I’m busy with work most of my time so-”

“So we should let them work and leave them alone.” Said Ran. “Could you wait for me in the car,love? I still want to ask them something.” He said while giving her a loving smile. She nodded then waved you goodbye while walking out. “I'm sorry about that. I don’t- I proposed to her because I thought you were never coming back. The book.. I can't get rid of the photos thouse mean too much. I mean you used to smile so bright with me I miss it I-”

“Woah..Why are you explaining yourself?” You asked annoyed. You didn’t mean to show it. It just came out. “We aren’t dating. We were never engaged and for sure we ain’t married. You don’t owe me an explanation about that. But there's one thing I want to know. Why did you say all of those things two days ago and what you said now, while you're engaged to someone? What if she knew? Are you still paying with peoples hearts? Even worse now you play with someone’s heart! They think you want to spend the rest of your life with! Haitani that cruel as fuck!”

“She knows I don’t feel the same. Look, I said those things because they are true. I didn’t think this would turn out this way.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Look, we both know I still have feelings for you. I wish you were the one with the ring Y/N.”

“Haitani stop..”

“Y/N, I saw how you reacted to her telling you about the engagement or how you froze for a second when she told you about the wedding.”

“We talked about this.”

“Y/N we both know-”

“We already crossed this burning bridge, Haitani. Why can't you just forget we ever dated? Or even better! Forget that we ever met.” You said while packing your things and standing up. “And even if we get back together it's gonna be the exact same thing as before. I’m not medicine or your tool! I can’t fix you! I can’t Haitani, I really can’t!” You finished while walking out. You thought you made yourself clear but clearly not since he followed you.

“I can't forget you, are you kidding me? And I’m not expecting you to fix me! I’m nothing like I was back when we were dating! I tried my best to look for you for those five years but no matter what I did I couldn’t find you. I know that I should have tried harder, I know and I hate that I didn’t. ”

“Are you kidding me right now? Look what you're doing to the poor girl you're engaged to! As we speak! And you say you're nothing like you were before?” You feel so dumb for even having this conversation with him.

“It’s different.”

“It’s not. It’s really not Haitani. I’m sick of this little joke you have going on.”

“It’s not a joke-”

“Then what is it?

“I still have feelings for you! Why can't you see it?”

“No.”

“Listen to me.”

“No,no Ran you're not playing with my feelings again.” Fuck you slipt. You cover your face with one of your hands. “Every little thing always seems to be about you! `Oh I still have feelings for you oh this or that`! What about how I feel?”

“Then tell me!”

“I hate you, I hate you so much.” You felt tears slowly filling in your eyes. “ I hate that I’m still in lov-” Your body went cold. You did not. You can’t believe it, you can believe what you just said.

“Wait, do you actually..?” He reached out his hands and garbed you by your shoulders. “I need you to tell me, Y/n. I need you to tell me right now. Do you still have feelings for me or at least are you willing to try again? I need to know before next Sunday.”

“No, I can’t Ran, I can't do this.” And with that you walked away with tears running down your face. You ignore him calling your name. You ignored your feelings.

And yet here you were standing in front of the church in a nice outfit. The ceremony has already started. You can’t bring yourself to come in. Why did you come in the first place? You thought that seeing him marrying someone else will put some kind of stop to your feelings. But now you're nothing but a nervous wreck.

“It’s a surprise to see you here.” You hear a familiar voice. You look to the side to see a guy with long purple hair. Rindou?

“Why aren’t you inside?”

“Because it pains me to see my brother marrying someone who he doesn’t love. Would you be able to see your brother in that situation?”

“No, not really. I would make sure he marries someone he loves.”

“Exactly so you probably know how disappointing it is to see him standing there with someone else then you.” He said with a slick smirk.

“Rin, I'm just scared. What if the whole thing will just repeat again? I don’t wanna go through the pain again.” You feel your throat closing up. The younger brother comes up to you and hugs you.

“I can tell you this right now, that it won't. Me and Kakucho had to witness him in the lowest stages of his life, and believe when I say before that I thought nothing can bring that man down.” He said with a chuckle. “He would literally do anything for you if you would just say so. He didn’t realize what he had, the moment he released what he lost he was devastated. That was the first time I saw that man cry Y/N.”

“Why did he do the things he did then?”

“Because he’s Ran and as much as I love him he’s a fucking idiot.” He said laughing. “And he still is but he isn’t that big of an idiot now. He would never do anything like that ever again, not to you. I’m willing to put my life on the line. The question is do you still love him and are you willing to try again?”

“Does it really matter though? He’s getting married as we speak.”

“Oh it's never too late.” He grabbed you by your hand and before you could say or do anything he swung the door open.

“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace” the priest was about to say the next line when.

“I do.” Rin shouts while still holding your wrist. “I ain’t letting my brother marry someone he doesn’t love while I know damn well the person he actually loves, loves him back!” He announces to everyone.

You didn’t know how to feel. What if he doesn’t actually feel the same and you ruined the wedding? All of your worries were washed away the second you felt Ran’s arms wrap around you.

“You're actually here.” He said, hugging you tight like he was afraid of letting you go. “You're actually fucking here.” He said, then grabbed your face. “Fuck I love you so much.” He said then he kissed your forehead.

The whole thing got messy after. Rin told you two to take his car and drive somewhere while he and the others take care of the whole thing. And the two of you did exactly what he said without looking back. You talk about everything that happened as well as explaining everything.

The wedding night wasn’t really the regular one since the wedding never happened and it wasn’t between the groom and the bride.

“I’m sorry that I was away from you for this long.” You said as your hand was drawing shapes on his bare chest.

“You are here now, that's the most important thing.” He said while pulling you into a tight hug. “ After all some people are just meant to be together, it’s love that brings them together after all.”

“Maybe you're right after all.” You said while returning the tight hug.

And you're glad you went to that wedding that day. Now you're in a happy marriage for five years with beautiful twins, one being a girl and one being a boy, and you wouldn’t change a thing.

“Ran, I’m cooking love.” You said giggling as he hugged you from behind and kissed your neck.

“I know.” You can feel him smiling against your skin. “Can’t I say morning to my beautiful partner?”

“Of course you can.” You said as he turned you around and kissed you on the lips.

“I'm glad we both agree.” He said, giving you his soft smile.

“Mhm now go wake up the kids.”

“On it boss.” He said then gave you another kiss before going to wake up the twins.

You love him and you're sure he loves you. He proved it multiple times. As well as you know Rin wouldn’t put his life on a line just like that.

•—————————————————————————•

@erensdior @jdreamy100

#tokyo rev x y/n #tokyo revengers angst #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyorev x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers bonten #tokyorev ran #ran haitani x you #ran haitani x reader #tokyo revengers ran #ran haitani #ran x y/n #ran x you

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laurasimonsdaughter · 1 year

Text

Florence watches Chris brush her hair in front of the floor-length mirror. There is something utterly, timelessly charming about a woman thoughtfully brushing her hair. It’s one of the treasured moments that make her feel less tied to her age, less tangled up in history. This – smooth, careful strokes combing through long, raven tresses – is a moment that might as well have occurred a century ago. Even though the brush wouldn’t have been plastic then, and undercuts were not yet in fashion.

Even from across the room she can hear Chris’ heart beating, strong and warm and alive. It’s such a common sound. So normal, so human. Everything she is not.

“You better not be making yourself guilty again.” Chris directs two reproachful eyes Florence’s way, her head still slanted and her fingers still combing through her hair. “I can’t be having that.”

Florence shakes her head, but Chris’ dark eyes narrow and she sweeps across the room to sit down on her lap, all sun-kissed skin and perfumed hair. She winds her arms around Florence’s neck.

“You know Goethe, right?” she asks.

“Mm,” Florence hums, more than a little distracted. “Nice guy, a touch dramatic.”

Chris pokes her in the ribs, making her squirm. “Shut up you didn’t know, Goethe. You weren’t alive in 1832, much less undead.”

“I know of Goethe, yes,” she relents, smiling.

“Well, he knew what was up, all the way back in seventeen-whatever.”

There’s poetry coming. Florence can see it in Chris’ eyes, in the way she draws breath, in the slightest change in her voice as she recites:

And she comes, and lays her near the boy: "How I grieve to see thee sorrowing so! If thou think'st to clasp my form with joy, Thou must learn this secret sad to know; Yes! the maid, whom thou Call'st thy loved one now, Is as cold as ice, though white as snow."

Then he clasps her madly in his arm, Then he clasps her madly in his arm, While love's youthful might pervades his frame: "Thou might'st hope, when with me, to grow warm, E'en if from the grave thy spirit came!

Florence listens, silently, her arms wrapped loosely around Chris’ waist.

“See?” Chris says. “Death means nothing love.”

“I didn’t know you when I was alive,” she says, softly, and painfully fond.

Chris face is close enough to hers for her eyes to be as deep as the night’s sky. “But you love me now.”

“Yes-”

Their kiss only lasts as long as Chris can keep down the rest of her poetry. She rests her head against Florence’s shoulder when their lips part and murmurs:

But from out my coffin's prison-bounds By a wond'rous fate I'm forced to rove, While the blessings and the chaunting sounds That your priests delight in, useless prove. Water, salt, are vain Fervent youth to chain, Ah, e'en Earth can never cool down love!

From my grave to wander I am forc'd, Still to seek The Good's long-sever'd link, Still to love the bridegroom I have lost, And the life-blood of his heart to drink;

She had never cared much for poetry. Not until she heard Chris recite it. “How does it end?” Florence asks quietly. “Your poem.”

Chris lifts her head and gives an indifferent shrug with her shoulders. “They both die, of course, it is ancient. And Goethe loved a tragedy.” She smiles. “But that won’t happen to us. I’ll join you. Some day.”

Florence sighs. Some day. She wraps her arms tighter around Chris, feeling her every breath and heartbeat. “That’s all well and good for you,” she complains. “But I have to face your mother afterwards.”

Chris laughs and it sounds like the memory of sunlight. “It’s her own fault. Tell her that if Ma scolds you.”

She rests her forehead against Florence’s, still smiling like the sun, and Florence can't help but smile back, fangs and all.

“If she didn’t want me to fall in love with you...she shouldn’t have named me Christabel.”

#sometimes you just gotta go full poetic romantic nonsense #wlw romance #vampire #vampires #monster/human #laura drabbles #the poem is The Bride of Corinth by Goethe translated by Edgar Alfred Bowring #I'll put a link in the replies #I found this poem while looking for inspiration for a story I'm writing with a friend #and it's just too good

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drunkdumbfucker · 24 days

Text

Legolas suffering from sea-longing | Ao3 fic recs

Hello, under the read more you'll find a masterlist of fics where Legolas goes through the ordeal of sea-longing! 99% of them will include the pairing Gimli/Legolas, this list exists to be edited and nourished as long as I keep ruining my happiness with their existence :))))

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea! If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more." Galadriel

root and stone, song and sea, by @coveredinsun | words 13k+, post-canon, fluff and angst & Gimleaf

Summary: "[...] Or: A few looks into Legolas' sea-longing, and the joyous things that make it more bearable." [this one broke me I cried and smiled and every sentence deserves to be cherished, and everything this author writes is gold]

rebuil your seawall (brick by brick), by @deheerkonijn | words 30k+, modernAU & Gimleaf

Summary: "For weeks and months, Legolas has felt a pull - and dares not name it, does not heed its stormy-sky warnings, does not track the ebb and flow on the shoreline of his life. Here’s the thing about the tide, though: it rises whether one wills it or not." [this one made me lose my shit it was so well thought and the universe in which it's set is immense and dear, such a great series]

Across the sea (a pale moon rises), by loving_rat_314 | words 10k (unfinished), post-canon & old age & Gimleaf

Summary: "After Aragorn`s death, Legolas and Gimli brave an uncertain journey into the West." [don't talk to me don't look at me]

On the Cold Hill Side, by @mcvices | words 24k, missing scene & Gimleaf

Summary: "In the end, Gimli thinks, Legolas will steal his heart and sail away with it, and even the wonders of the Glittering Caves are not enough consolation for that loss. But when Aragorn calls for Gimli’s help in dismantling the hidden traps of Orthanc, everything changes." [I don't even know what to say, fell in love with the writing, adored it all, really great dialogues]

The Undying, by Angela | words 20k, old age & pining & slow-burn Gimleaf

Summary: “I was wondering,” Gimli had said at the beginning of it. “Isn't it about time you get started on that boat of yours?” It has been over one hundred years since the War of the Ring. Gimli and a dwarf girl named Mâglah help Legolas build his ship to sail into the west. While they are working, Legolas realizes that there are a lot of things that have been long unexpressed between him and his dearest friend, things that must be said and done before it is too late." [so complete, precious OC, heart-wrenching details and moments]

Seasick, by Longyan | words 3k, growing old & Gimleaf

Summary: "The pull has existed for a long time. It has always been there, just at the back of his mind ― a mere childish curiosity, to see waves break against the shore, to feel fresh breeze in his hair. Still, it was never more than a passing thought, something that would always be drowned out by other, more interesting things. Nothing more, nothing less. The world is bright. Sauron is gone. And Legolas is sure, as long he has Gimli by his side, the water has no power over him. And he is intent on staying forever." [short but strong, like Gimli. Will fuck you up, I kid you not, very powerful shit right here]

what a thing to choose, by coverdinsun (again) | words 4k, post-canon & Arwen stan account & Gimleaf

Summary: "[...] Or: As time appears to be slipping out of his grasp, Legolas must grapple with his fear." [idk I love your little short summaries in the end. another masterpiece, trule wonderful dialogue, some of my fave characterizations in here]

To the sea, by @roselightfairy | words 13k, so much angst & Gimleaf

Summary: "A few decades into their shared lives, Legolas seems to be losing his battle against the sea-longing. The only solution that he can think of is to go to the sea. Of course, Gimli will not let him go alone." [this one hits really really hard, a slap to the face. so much angst yet so beautiful, pay attention to all the tags, prepare your tissues beforehand <3]

Go west, by undomiel (dolcewrites) | words 8k, angst++++ & Gimleaf

Summary: "The Sea has never left Legolas' mind since he first heard the cry of the gulls at Pelargir. As time catches up to the elf, he has to make a choice: to sail to the West, or to stay with his companion, Gimli the dwarf." [Maybe even more angsty than the last one because it touches all the despair and loss and pain]

To be continued!

#legolas greenleaf #lord of the rings #lotr #gimli son of gloin #gimleaf #fic rec #fic masterlist #sea-longing #my shitset #jrr tolkien

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crossdressingdeath · 7 months

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Kyvir: My old memories and my past self - I can never get them back? Withers: If thou couldst recall in full every barbarity thou hadst committed, every tragedy thou hadst authored... wouldst thou truly want to? Kyvir: It is a dishonour to my victims to not recall their names. Withers: All their names are written. One day, if thou truly wishest, I will show thee, and we shall remember them together.

Interesting that Withers never actually says Durge's memories are gone for good. Which of the three characters I'm aware of mentioning it means we've got Omeluum saying that someone is keeping them from remembering, Sceleritas being convinced that their memories are gone for good, and Withers not confirming it either way. But Withers doesn't actually answer when Durge asks if they can really never get their memories back, he just asks if they'd want to. I did wonder if it was going to turn out that Withers took their memories, actually. The way total amnesia is the only side effect from the head trauma and the way Omeluum says someone doesn't want them to remember suggest that it wasn't just the brain damage that took their memories. But then, Withers only gets involved in the plot some time after Durge ended up tadpoled... Although they've lost their memories right up until they get out of the pod on the nautiloid. But Withers was still in that temple at that point, so... could it have been him? I don't know. But I think it would've been really fun if it turned out that Withers had taken Durge's memories because the Urge's control over them from pre-adolescence had led to them ending up so emotionally broken down from all the death and grief it and they have caused—I really do get a strong sense that their foster family and the incident with their lover are not the only times the Urge has tried to make them kill people they loved, and presumably usually succeeded—that the only way to give them another chance was to erase all those memories until they had enough hope of getting out from under Bhaal's thumb that they wouldn't give up the moment he tugged on their leash. That might end up being the interpretation I end up going with when I'm writing anyway, just because... this is not how severe brain damage works and also we are told straight up in act 1 that Durge doesn't remember anything at least partially because someone doesn't want them to and that goes all sorts of nowhere and it bothers me because someone taking Durge's memories is a fascinating concept, especially given only the gods who are against the Dead Three had reason to do it.

Also, I love Withers offering to go through all of Durge's victims with them if they really think they need to remember them. He doesn't say they have to face this, and he doesn't say they should pretend it never happened; he just tells them that if this is something they need to do, they don't have to do it alone. Which is a unique position, seeing how the companions don't exactly take what few mentions of Durge's past they get well and Gortash (the only person other than Sceleritas who seems to have genuinely liked pre-amnesia Durge) doesn't really seem to consider that maybe the details of their sordid past are. a lot to take in. Up to this point Durge likely would've expected that if they wanted to look into their past in any way beyond asking Gortash for details they would have to do it alone, but the moment they say that this is something they feel the need to do Withers makes it clear that he's going to be at their side throughout. Although I do wish there was an option for Durge to say they want to remember their past because it can't have all been bad, right? There must have been some good in there, right? I'd love for Durge to be able to say "I know I committed atrocities, I don't need the memories to know that, but I want to know if there was anything good in those days and the only way to know for sure is to remember it for myself."

#bg3 #durge #bg3 withers

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larissa-the-scribe · 3 months

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Terrarium Lights, Pt 2.6

Almost at the end of part 2! Last time on Terrarium Lights: Gail took her ghost for a walk to a graveyard. (Next part >>here)

His forehead creased as he followed her out, and though his eyes remained colored in, they were seeking something far off that she could not see.

That focus shifted upon arriving at the cemetery. As Gail picked her way through the overgrown stones and plots of soil, the lad kept his eyes on the ground, flitting from one stone to the other, searching for something.

Gail left her bundles of flowers at each of the graves she had come for, murmuring a small prayer over them as she did so. The lad had wandered off among the gravestones, still looking over each one carefully.

Having finished, she joined him where he was standing in front of a weatherbeaten stone, dark from rainwater and patched in moss. It read "Samuel Wayne Smytheson, 1732-1768. Beloved husband and son. May God guide you as you go on ahead of us."

"The condition of the stone means this person has long since passed, doesn't it?" The ghost asked.

Gail eyed the dates. "I'd expect so."

"Still…" He adjusted his waistcoat, smoothing it down reflexively. "I recognize the name, somehow. Not all of it, but… Samuel sounds familiar."

Gail nodded, his wandering making sense. He had been looking at names. "Is it your name, do you think?"

He shook his head. "I don't… I don't rightly know. But I don't think it is. It sounds familiar but it doesn't… it's too big on me. Or maybe too small? It's… not quite right. Not that… well, honestly, I don't know that I'd recognize my own name if I heard it."

"Maybe a friend or relative of yours goes by that name, then."

"Maybe." He touched the stone, drawing along the corner of it.

Crows could be heard in the distance, one of them cawing on the roof of the church. The grass rustled and waved, with a smell of age and wood and wind and—very faintly—the sea. It whispered of life, of change, of normalcy, of nothing really.

"I'm not exactly alive, am I?" he said.

Gail let the grass and leaves speak a little longer. "Not as far as I can tell."

"I… I don't think I'm quite dead, either."

"You are still here."

"Were… were you going to tell me?"

"As soon as I could figure out how, and not sound mad in the telling."

He nodded, and ran his hand along the arch of the gravestone, like petting a tired horse.

They stood like that for a while.

"I was reading the hymn," he said. "'Not the labour of my hands, can fulfill Thy law's demands.' There were other bits that stood out to me, but I don't really remember them now. I'm not very understanding of all that Mr. Toplady was thinking or went through, and all that the words themselves mean, but I understood well enough the feeling of it. 'I am not capable of doing anything, I don't know what I could do, but I desperately need help.'"

It was a hymn that Gail knew very well. "'Thou must save, and save by grace.'"

"Yeah. I, um, I prayed too, while you were praying. For some kind of guidance. I don't know that I've quite got it yet. But… I guess… there's still nothing I can do. I can't make myself remember, and I'm not sure how to tell what I am or have become. And I feel like… I don't know. That I was heard. That I still need to let the moss settle."

Gail nodded, moving her basket to be held in both hands. "That's true enough. Answers take a good while sometimes."

"I suppose they do." He kept running his hand back and forth, as if he could dust the gravestone off and find the answers somewhere beneath.

Taken with an idea, Gail moved away, leaving him to himself as she made her way back to her son's grave.

"I hope you don't mind sharing," she whispered, "just this once. It's for someone that needs it."

Gently, she pulled a daffodil from the bouquet and carried it to where the lad stood, still staring at the stone.

"For you," she said.

He turned, and saw the flower. For a moment, he just stood there, one hand on the gravestone, one hand hovering in front of him. Without a word, he took it and cradled it to his chest. Stepping back from the grave, he let his hand trail off of it as if pulled down by an immense weight. "I… I still haven't given you something to call me. I was hoping I could figure out a name of some kind—figure out my name—but… this is the closest I could find. I think… I think you can call me Samuel , for now."

"Oh?"

"It's not my name, but, well, I don't think I'm quite myself." He smiled in a glum sort of way, touching the daffodil petals with the tips of his finger. "It will do well enough."

Gail weighed the matter in her mind, examining the gravestone. "It's a good name. Very well then, Samuel. A pleasure to meet you."

"Thank you." He crouched down, kneeling on one knee, and tenderly lay the flowers in front of the old stone. "And thank you," he added to the grave. “I never knew you, but thank you for your help.”

Samuel stood up, straightened his shoulders, and adjusted his waistcoat once again.

"I'm ready to go back to your house now," he said. Melancholy still clung to his face, but it seemed more settled and peaceful now, and he seemed more solid.

"Alright then." Gail moved ahead to unlatch the gate for him to pass through.

He did so, murmuring thanks as he passed by.

He did not look at the lighthouse on the way back.

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