#i love you three thousand times + the candle is for scorch

[stimboardboy]

SCORCH AND MAGIC 

x - x - x | x - x - x | x - x - x

#my posts #um i rlly like my bf and idk how to communicate so time to make stimboards i guess #stim #sensory #stimboard #scorch the dragon #magic the dragon #beanie babies #lovecore #calligraphy #fire #candles #hearts #plushies #stuffed animals #i love you three thousand times + the candle is for scorch #the you make my life brighter + the snow heart is for magic #like how i interpret them if that makes sense #i know the colors aren't great but i don't feel like tinting gifs rn

[throwawayfish]

𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary: moving from new york city to the outerbanks was already difficult in itself. but having to deal with being hated by a blonde surfer who questioned your existence made it harder to keep a secret you cannot disclose. especially when his friends roped you into what they called a gold game

warnings: focuses on how you got to the outer banks, language, mild derogatory terms, mentions of death, adoption, accidents

a/n: my second series! hope you guys like this as much as the first one. let me know if you want to be added to my taglist.

the atrocious heat of the sun hit your substantially exposed body. as much as you didn’t want it to look too bare for people at the beach to have a free exhibit, the scorching july day made even your sheerest sundress too uncomfortable to wear.

you were unacquainted to the small island called the outerbanks. used to the chaotic hustle of new york city, it was as if life came to a sudden halt when you stepped out of the ferry to live a new life. a life where waking up early to avoid the morning frenzy on the subways and anticipating the city’s midnight madness was no longer your usual.

it did not take too long of living on the island that you mustered up knowledge about your new environment. how there are two sides of the island and two different groups. which meant it didn’t take long for you to realize that you were put in the kook category, just by the look of the houses in the area much like your own. but you hated it, the title and attention.

you closed your eyes, not minding the squeals and giggles of kids at the beach with their families. ignoring a few whistles you got and muttering of locals that you were sure were about you. as you blocked out the distractions, you laid under a palm tree seeking shade until the rays of light didn’t shine through the leaves anymore as the day progressed.

as the wind picked up, you headed back to figure eight, careful not to be followed by whoever. it has been a routine for you to do your laundry at the house as well as take a small amount of cash enough to suffice for a week or two. and as you finish what you need to do, lock all doors and go to where you felt safe and invisible, the cut.

life in new york city came naturally to you. growing up with adoptive parents made you thankful for them having to put up with you. it took years for you to open up when you were adopted, but when you did it was something you would even call magical. helena and marcus hawke made you feel loved you as their own, doing everything they can to make you have the best life to live, and for that you couldn’t be more happy. the house always smelling like freshly baked goods and breads. lively flowers littering the windowsills and the house well lit with the rolling stones playing no matter what the weather or season was.

it was a sudden shift in scenery. your brownstone that was once cozy became dull. one that could be a contender to houses used in horror films. you were closed off to people because of the handful of times you’ve had a foster home just for them to put you back in the system once they got tired of you, so you learned not to get comfortable.

you came home from school one gloomy, winter day. cheeks red and tight from the blizzard you barely just escaped. the house blue despite the candles and lamps doing everything they can to improve it. you heard thumping from upstairs, voices loud enough for you to hear them trying to keep it down. thinking that it was your parents who just got home from their three day business trip, up the rickety stairs you went. you were welcomed by your aunt in your dad’s old art room, the one turned into a boring office.

noticing the almost bare walls and a surprisingly clean desk, you knocked on the slightly opened door. two pairs of eyes were suddenly looking at you. cold ones, which only heightened your worries.

“what are you guys doing?!” you pointed at the wedding canvas that was taken down and leaning on the bookshelf. not meaning to raise your voice at them, you muttered a soft sorry and went back to scanning the room.

“y/n, you are coming to brooklyn with us.” vera, your aunt said dryly, making your head snap in her direction. austin, her husband didn’t bother looking at you and continued rummaging through the drawers and putting them in piles.

“austin, what are you doing? and what do you mean i’m going to brooklyn? where’s mom?!” tears were threatening to fall down your now warm cheeks though you didn’t have any idea why. but with the looks on their faces and actions, you could tell something was going on. mainly because the family you have been adopted into had too much pride to just accept you as their own blood, despite your parents loving you from the moment they saw you.

“helena and marcus got in a car accident yesterday. dead on arrival. now i don’t have much time, i have a busy schedule so will you please just pack. we’re leaving in a bit.”

you felt your heart breaking. it was like a huge punch in the face, the one that knocks you out and you forget what happened hours prior when you wake. and then you felt it, the feeling of being closed off because people who are important left once again, leaving you all alone.

“and you’re gonna tell me this when?! when they’re burried?! fuck!” austin strided towards you, vera not holding him back when he gripped your arm rather harshly.

“you should be thankful we’re even here, you ungrateful bitch! if it weren’t for the will i would be kicking you out into the streets so you can be a drug addict just like your real mom when she gave you up! now go pack!”

his words and behaviour were unexpected. of course you accepted the judgemental stares and coldness gave you every time there were gatherings or meetings your parents brought you to. you learned to accept that they will never treat you normally as part of the family, but you have never imagined it escalating to this. and with what he said, you further confirmed he was bad news.

you ran to your room, hurriedly gathering the things most important to you. including the shark tooth necklace your dad gave you when he gave you a tour of their lab. heading out the door, you turned back to grab the cassette he always played on the radio. you opened it to check if it was not damaged, and as you slid the tape out of the cardboard protector a pink paper your mom loved writing on fell on the floor.

to panic was your first instinct, especially with the footsteps approaching the room. so you hid the paper in your pocket together with your emotions just in time before your aunt barged through the door.

“i’m sorry for the way he acted, but it’s not like you didn’t deserve it. we’re leaving in ten minutes whether you like it or not. ten minutes.” she uttered and left, goosebumps travelling your body from her piercing eyes.

you immediately shut the door, doing your hardest to make the slightest sound. then you leaned against it and fished out for the letter. it was your mom’s handwriting, you haven’t started reading anything and just saw the usual cursive letters and just like that tears poured down your cheeks.

the letter contained information, of how to get into an island you had never heard of in your life. so you reached for the envelope said to be under your nightstand which contained fifty thousand dollars. and you were off, into the cold not caring for the protests of your aunt and uncle. smashing and throwing away your phone, with your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, you hollered for a cab, and to the airport you headed.

the letter contained fairly easy instructions, but it was difficult to ponder. the letter said to look for heyward and once you asked around as you stepped off the ferry, you were led to meet with a man with a welcoming aura, finishing up some groceries before ushering you onto another boat when you introduced yourself.

it was more or less half an hour when the dated boat parked on a dock of a huge estate not isolated but far enough from other mansions. the outside was surrounded with bright green grass. cobblestones in perfect placement lining the path to the front porch with large antique oakwood doors.

as you dropped your bag into the tiled floor, you heaved a deep sigh. looking at heyward as you forced a kind smile.

“thank you. my parents must really trust you if they told me to find you.” he nodded as if he bowed, looking around the bare living room before answering.

“you’re safe here, kid. and you’ll figure it out. you’re brave to go to a place you don’t know, especially from new york. it takes guts.” you raised the corners of your lips which he returned

the short stay you were in the house you noticed minor details that could be of great significance. no decorations or paintings on the walls, it was different back in the city as your dad loved art. no antiques suiting your mom’s taste, and no sign of anyone having lived there. the massive space only decorated with necessary furniture.

and with that, as heyward tapped your upper arm and turned around, you called out “is there somewhere i could stay that will not capture attention?”

you hated the feeling of asking him such question. after driving the boat to your house that are bright to the eyes of people, here you are asking for another place to stay. you felt like you were interrupting his tight schedule, but you felt worse thinking that you were bragging. he was occupied with his job when you arrived, working hard to make a living and you don’t even have to worry about paying for another house.

negative thoughts were wiped out of your mind when he let out a laugh, tapping his temple with his pointer finger “i knew you’re a hawke! smart kid. i know a place. but you stay here for a bit to explore. i’ll pick you up after a delivery i have to make.” you nodded, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders.

as he stepped out the door, he peeked one last time gaining back your attention “third room to the left upstairs, the small wine cooler is a safe, i’m sure you’ll know where to find the code.”

it was a peaceful drive that even you were surprised, used to having clouded thoughts that you cannot seem to get rid off. having the windows down definitely did you wrong as a loud honk of a horn from a rundown volkswagen startled you along with its bright headlights, making you swerve your jeep.

the probability of you crashing was high, being that you closed your eyes trying to control the vehicle. it just so happens that you are lucky enough to have pressed on the brakes faster before falling in a ditch.

heavy breaths escaped your now pale lips, your heart pounding twice the speed you were driving before the unfortunate incident.

“oh my god! are you okay?!” you heard a girls voice query in a loud tone as you tried to steady your breathing. you nodded quickly but she did not buy it, the shaking of your head made you panicked state apparent.

you looked up, three pairs of eyes glancing intently at you. “john b you stupid asshole!” she yelled once again as you observed all of their expressions. blue eyes catching your attention but breaking the contact as you tried to start the car once again only for it turn off.

“shit” it wasn’t unheard by the three teenagers as you turned the ignition for the hundredth time “we can give you a ride if you want.” the guy who the brunette lass called john b offered, you looked at him and back at the other for confirmation earning nods except from the blonde one.

“we’re not giving a kook a free ride.” he declared and your doe eyes widened by the statement not knowing how he can identify your so called title before relaxing as you watched scan your car.

“good to know that if i died i would’ve died right here because your bus is pogue exclusive.” you rebutted. he let out a laugh, the three others merely watching the exchange

“it’s a van, princess. not a bus.” his remark made you roll your eyes. you didn’t know if it was because of the reply itself or the nickname he gave you, nonetheless it made your stomach turn.

“don’t be a prick. come on, we’ll help you get your car back tomorrow.” the girl once again said. it was late at night, so as much as you wanted to decline, you had no choice but to agree. especially when her smile made you feel welcome despite the inhospitable approach of the blonde.

a shriek was let out by another boy when the sliding door was opened, the others let out a laugh and you couldn’t help to do so too by the sight of him trying to cover his lower area even with boxers.

“didn’t know we have a guest i would’ve prepared!” you giggled with the three, accepting his hand as he introduced himself as pope. the others soon doing the same except that one boy once again.

“do you have a problem with me?” you couldn’t help but ask out of annoyance. “i don’t need to explain myself to you, kook.” he answered under his breath and avoided your stare.

problems with any body on the island is one thing you wished to avoid, so at any given circumstance, and because you have the excuse for it, you played your last card.

“i’m a pogue, stupid.”

attention was on you, even john b who slowly stopped driving and looked back to ask you where you lived. making a u turn once you told him where your house was on the cut.

“are you new?” pope uttered starting a conversation. you shook your head, already having come up with a lie “lived here my whole life.” a scoff was let out and you looked at the blonde once again

“how come we haven’t seen you here before?” he asked, and you smirked “that’s because i’m a vampire, you just got lucky to spot me tonight.” the others laughed, making you comfortable to stand your ground against the blue eyed boy

“i still haven’t gotten a name you know.” all you got was a frown which turned to a smirk “that’s for me to know and y—” “it’s jj!” “kie!” you laughed at the altercation, secretly wishing to have a friendship like theirs as you watched them playfully slap and kick each other.

“a pogue with a brand new jeep, interesting.” he blurted out and drilled a hole into your head with his cerulean eyes “i’ll let you take it for a spin don’t worry.” he hastily shook his head, an irritated look on his face “i don’t want anything to do with you so fuck off will ya?”

as your eyes widened you let out a whistle and raised your hands in defeat. telling john b to let you out as your house is not far enough. for your own good and the blonde pogue’s sake.

you barely started your walk when you heard footsteps approach. turning around, you were ready to defend yourself from whoever would cause you harm, but were met by the boy who just made it clear he hated your presence.

“you don’t come up behind someone like that! i could’ve taken your eye out!” you wished to call the silence comfortable if it weren’t for the stares of the jj creeping into your arms and back. reciprocating the attention, you noticed he was staring just below your face. you were about to call him out when you glanced down your neck, where your shark tooth necklace carefully sat.

“why are you here—” “where’d you get that?” he asked sincerely, sending a tightening feeling on your throat. “found it laying somewhere. not that it’s your business. why are you here?” you lied and asked once again

“john b told me to tell you he’s picking you up tomorrow to get your car.” he stuttered, “okay cool.” you quickly muttered and turned around not wanting to further drag the interaction.

convincing yourself to relax, the blonde boy was bothered as he went back to the twinkie, letting out a laugh of dismay “she’s hiding something.” his friends furrowed their brows, ready to hear what he has to say

“she’s hiding something and i’m gonna find out what it is. even if it means being around her annoying ass.”

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[qm-vox]

So You Want To Play A Fairest

(Portrait of Erin Peters by cantankerousAquarius. The character originally appeared in Night Horrors: Grim Fears, published by White Wolf; catch my take on her in New Avalon)

Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental, So You Want To Play An Ogre, & So You Want To Play A Darkling

You ever wonder, flipping through a Monster Manual for D&D, or a Bestiary for Pathfinder, why nymphs and hags are both always, always, women? It’s older than you know. Dig into the sordid history of tabletops and you’ll find sylphs that Gary Gygax wrote, Chaotic charmers who use mind control to reproduce with non-sylph men; you’ll find the legacy of the matriarchal drow, who follow a mad goddess, and you’ll find the medusae, whose sexual dimorphism is so complete that their men are beautiful and can turn stone into people.

Dredge deeper and you’ll find the tales that Gygax and his wretched ilk based such creatures off of.

You ever wonder why we assign such powerful Gender to creatures of beauty and horror?

Fairest don’t. They know, every time they wake up from a nightmare that is also a wet dream. They know, every time they get hit on at the bar and have to decide how they’re playing this. They know, every time they look in a mirror and see not their own face, but the ten thousand horrors that made it beautiful.

If you are very patient, and lucky, and kind, they might tell you why.

If you aren’t, they may show you.

This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost and Winter Masques, as well as Swords at Dawn and Night Horrors: Grim Fears. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for sexual violence, sexual slavery, abuse, gaslighting, addiction, substance abuse, self-harm, self-image problems, mentions of fascists & fascist ideology, and just, so very much incel bullshit.

Bonus Material Part Two: The Seeming Part

The end of this article, just past the customary Sample Fairest, will include some additional material intended to help you select a Seeming for your character and otherwise build them up as one of the Lost, much as So You Want To Run A Spring Court included material for Courts as a topic.

Take Me To Wonderland - Fairest Overview

Fairest is the fourth Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost and possibly the most confused about its own identity. Its sections in Winter Masques present depths and nuance that are completely absent in core, essentially making Winter Masques required reading for Fairest players in a way that no other book is - especially since Fairest keep getting written in a particular way alluded to in the Ogre article, which I will expand on later in this article. Fairest is numerically well-represented in canon and popular in the fanbase, home to many memorable character concepts, but its bones with folklore and tradition are weaker than it fronts as.

Ogres and Darklings claim an innate relationship to physical violence; so too do the Fairest claim a relationship to violence. The violence of Perception and its dark twin, Judgement; of Rumor and its mad dog, Prejudice, the violence of Lies and their merciless master, Truth. Fairest, alone among the Lost, have casual access to the resources of a society that refuses to service or acknowledge Changelings, and with access to that society comes both opportunity and temptation. To be Fairest is to wield power that many other Lost cannot, but the opportunity that power offers is a lie; a Fairest can smile until her face breaks like a mirror, but she’ll never be “sane” enough for the masses to see her as anything but a useful pet.

Life’s Lush Lips - Homecoming As A Fairest

Fairest can make the dubious claim of having the least clear memories of Arcadia amongst all the Lost, with Darklings and Beasts jockeying for second place. This isn’t to say that the experiences Fairest have are necessarily more intense or more inherently traumatic than that of other Lost, but rather that the abuse Fairest suffer is so emotional, so targeted at their perception of their selves and their situations and their self-image, that the memories which do form are inevitably colored by those emotions, coloring the dreams they have of Arcadia with both the emotional resonances they had at the time and with their later attempts to grapple with their own trauma and transformation. For many Fairest, who cannot trust even their strongest memory dreams, attempts to understand their own Durance must rely either on the word of their Keepers (and Faeries lie, oh, how they lie), or on reverse-engineering their own behavior to try and conceive of a trauma that could cause it.

Inevitably, however, some things are seared into their minds. For almost all Fairest, their Keeper is high on the list of things they remember with absolute clarity. Other facts, shattered and scattered, vary more widely. Erin Peters remembers stretched years kept in a cold, dark room lit only by her own hatred; every detail of her cell is scorched onto the back of her eyes, but the otherworldly balls her Keeper took her to blur together like food coloring in syrup. The slaves of the Candle Countess have terrible nightmares of the choices they were confronted with, the decision, offered over and over again, to become complicit in the Countess’s cruelty or to be victimized by it. Metallic Flowering from the Shining City struggle not to use drugs to mimic the rush of pleasure they’ve grown used to receiving for performing their jobs well; they also scream in terror if people touch them. A Draconic and a Shadowsoul both remember being used for the sexual pleasure of alien horrors; the one dreams of coiled scales and terrible teeth, the other a lifetime of lurking in an alien maze, tasked to perform the duties of a living trap for the “wicked” and “unwary” who had not yet shed the last vestiges of kindness.

There are no “wild” Fairest. For worse and worse still, to be Fairest is to have been defined by the inescapable and all-consuming attentions of your abuser, and it is this more than anything that other Lost so often fail to understand about the Fairest. Their Keepers heap them with reward and punishment, manipulating the Fairest with honeyed praise, godly wrath, gaslighting, neglect, withholding food, wondrous rewards, drugs from beyond the realms of earthly pleasure, and other hooks and crooks designed to make the Fairest dependent upon their abuser. It is hideously effective, and the first obstacle, maybe even the mightiest, that a Fairest faces to their escape is the simple horror and joy of being alone again. Their masters will try other tricks to keep them in place - tempting them with pleasures, horrific punishments, oh-so-sincere apologies - but before a Fairest can escape into the Hedge she must face, in her mind’s eye, the lonely flight back to the Iron Lands.

The memories that draw Fairest home often have parallels to their experiences in Arcadia. A slave in the Shining City bites into an otherworldly pastry and recalls her grandmother’s pie in its place; the bride of the Demon Lover, curled up under the sheets, thinks about the broken smile of the boyfriend she left behind at home. A Dancer remembers the roller rink where he fell in love with skating, while across the endless tides of the Fairest of Lands, a Shadowsoul holds on like grim death to years of work at haunted houses, scaring kids for fun and for Halloween. Fairest, so famous for their skill at words, struggle to articulate to other Lost why this should be so. Darklings assume it’s because these memories are less intense than Arcadia, and that the Fairest are fleeing to safety. Beasts get it a bit more right by thinking that these memories taste like home. The truth of the matter is that those memories have an intrinsic and nameless meaning; the highs and lows of Arcadia are divine, flawless, absolute, and therefore worthless. They are the proclamations of merciless gods. What draws the Fairest home, more than pain and pleasure they can have on their own terms, is the understanding that those gestures - for weal or for woe or for anything else besides - were made because someone cared about them, personally. Once they fully internalize that their abuser views them as disposable, the Fairest comes home to someone who won’t.

Three Kiths And Flowering Is One And A Half Of Them - Fairest Kiths

Yeah we’re about to be like that about it.

All Fairest can excel in the social arena; their Blessing can be used to flare almost every social roll in the game, and Fairest can never be caught off-guard in a social context (they suffer no untrained penalties to social rolls). With the sole exception of Empathy (usually rolled with Wits) and sometimes Streetwise, there’s no time a Fairest can’t fall back on their words and expect to win through or at least buy time. This is, as you might imagine, a godsend when it comes to attempts to pass in mortal society; Fairest can usually front, charm, bluff, or Manners(tm) their way through things like renting an apartment, nailing a job interview, asking their roommate to do the FUCKING DISHES, or getting stopped by a cop, but both the books and the fanbase miss something here. While Fairest are superb at active social events, they’re no better at keeping a lid on themselves (Composure-based rolls) than mortals are - and given both the nature of their trauma and the fact that they are, you know, Lost, Fairest have a lot more to keep a lid on day-to-day than the human society they’re trying to blend into. Thankfully, Fairest are pretty good at being able to politely leave a situation and go somewhere else to scream, shout, cry, or have a psychotic break, as appropriate.

Of course, Fairest can’t make something from nothing. As discussed in So You Want To Play An Ogre, you can’t win a social game someone else refuses to sit down to, and social rolls shouldn’t be mind control. All the Glamour in the world can’t make your roommate do the FUCKING DISHES if they’re deep in the throes of executive dysfunction, nor can it make the cashier at Walgreens fail to card you for wine when their computer literally won’t advance without an ID. People who are keyed up about honeyed words or whose own trauma came at the hands of manipulators and abusers might refuse to play that game on the terms the Fairest is setting, which makes it hard to, as it were, turn this problem into a nail. Lurking down this path as well is the specter of becoming like the masters who made you this way; if you get used to saying what will get people to listen to you, eventually you start seeing people as enrichment puzzles that dispense the things you want. Madness waits down that road, and it waits for Fairest with a giant spiked bat, thanks to their Seeming Curse.

There’s no pretty way to say this so I won’t: Fairest are always on the verge of losing their minds. Their curse hits them with a flat penalty to all rolls against losing Clarity, which means that Fairest lose Clarity faster than other Lost and they do so more consistently. This necessitates a balancing act with avoiding becoming heartless manipulators; Fairest must engage in control-seeking behavior in order to stay mentally well, must be able to trust and rely on people close to them, structure their lives, and anticipate important changes or they end up on the fast way down. Other Lost often don’t understand this need or the Fairest curse to begin with, and so Fairest end up in unofficial support groups for one another, similar to those run by Darklings except no one will admit it’s a support group even at gunpoint. Woe fucking betide the friend or life partner who gets between a Fairest and her “book club”, “girls’ night”, “D&D campaign”, or other excuse for this vital community support.

Fairest Kiths are...bad. They’re bad. This is the part of the article where I’m supposed to talk about thematics and symbolism and metaphor, and I cannot do that here, because they are bad. Fairest has three viable Kiths that are actual Fairest Kiths, one that’s a Beast Kith who got lost and wound up here by fucking mistake, and a pile of garbage bigger than my self-esteem problems. I’m almost tempted to only talk about those four Kiths and save myself the time but I suppose I should show the work like I’ve done for all the other Seemings, so here we fuckin’ go I guess.

Flowering - This is it. This is the Fairest Kith. If you want to roll any other kind of Fairest you must first pass the trial of justifying why you’re not playing Flowering. In theory, Flowering draws its mythic heritage from nymphs and dryads, charming flower sprites, Knights of Flowers, and the like, but in practice Flowering’s only mechanical effect is 9-again on Persuasion, Socialize, and Subterfuge with no qualification or requirement, which doesn’t just make you better at everything Fairest is good at, it makes you better when you spend Glamour to flare it too. Want to represent a biobahn sith’s hypnotic dance? Flowering works. Want to create a vampiric Fairest with a sultry voice? Here comes Flowering. The siren at the bar who smells like sea air and gunpowder? Flowering. Everything is Flowering. Even the things that aren’t Flowering are Flowering because all Fairest Kiths have a social focus, which is Flowering’s undisputed arena of mastery.

Bright One - In theory, Bright Ones represent beings of light in the vein of Victorian fey (which...ugh...Victorians), but their Goblin Illumination is, how you say, useless, only becoming vaguely useful for a total of 2 Glamour as a passive defense that took you 2 turns to set up. Anything you want to represent here can be found in Flowering and with Elements or Communion (Light).

Dancer - You know how Flowering gives you bonuses on all social rolls? Would you like those same bonuses but on 1 less skill and only on rolls that “involve physical grace”? No? Run Flowering here and give your character a Dance specialty in one or more skills.

Draconic - One of the game’s premier melee options and a Beast Kith who took a wrong turn and ended up getting a free makeover intended for someone else. Draconic in theory represents Fairest as dragons, monster girls, demons, and in general at their most physical, but that idea sorta...falls down a bit? Draconic’s bonuses are all about Brawl and all the sample Draconics are swordsmen, which might suggest to the discerning reader that someone in the office wasn’t reading their own fucking game. Draconic Fairest don’t make bad melee boys if you invest in Lethal Mien, but honestly this is Dual Kith bait; slap it on your Hunterheart or your Razorhand and go apeshit.

Muse - Close but no cigar. In theory Muses are, well, muses; figures of inspiration, mentorship, teaching, creative fire. Their Kith Blessing is strong but requires access to mortals, which is complicated and roundabout on the best of days. If you have an idea that you think is Muse-shaped, use Playmate instead.

Flamesiren - Behold, we enter the realm of Okay(tm). Flamesirens are what Bright Ones wanted to be, and their hypnotic aura is actually a pretty neat tool; with cunning you can make it a one-sided penalty, and even if you don’t it’s an interesting method of de-escalating a social or combat situation by subjecting everyone to the tar pit that is your presence. If your concept involves light and color and you’re resistant to Flowering, Flamesiren will do more than nothing.

Polychromatic - Polychromatics don’t have a lot of roots in mythology; their modern inspirations are, well, Manic Pixie Dream Girls. But they get a shout-out here for being the only Fairest Kith who can muster up decent emotional defenses; not only can they magically boost their Composure rolls (and non-Composure rolls to resist magical and mundane emotional attacks for that matter), but others get a flat penalty to Empathy rolls against them, which makes them talented dissemblers. You’re still probably better off with Flowering - in a world of passive Kith Blessings, Polychromatic’s is extra passive - but I can see this Kith passing muster, and even being worth the two dots to Dual Kith in-house.

Shadowsoul - This one’s insane. Ostensibly Fairest Does Darkling, Shadowsouls get their Wyrd to Intimidate rolls which could be the whole Kith on its own and still be worth the slot, but in addition to that they get 9-again on Subterfuge (matching Flowering and Darklings there) and access to Contracts of Darkness, one of the most powerful in the game line, as an Affinity Contract. Is your Fairest spooky? Would you like them to be spooky? Here’s your one-stop shop.

Telluric - This is a Kith made of ribbon bonuses. In theory related to stars and celestial light, Telluric’s bonuses to rolls “with precise timing” isn’t...really worth considering. Run ‘em as Flamesiren and move on.

Treasured - In theory also able to muster emotional defenses, Treasured are Fairest who are literally made into works of art. They’re Okay(tm) but in their niche are beaten out by Polychromatic with a better effect for less resources.

Playmate - The last Real Fairest Kith(tm), Playmate appears in Night Horrors: Grim Fears where White Wolf tries to sell it as Peter Pan, but its powerful team-oriented bonuses mean that Playmates are useful anywhere Muse is wanted and more places besides. The front woman of an indie rock band could be a Playmate; so too could be an idealized baseball captain, the director at your local theater, the middle manager of a sinister conspiracy, or the night shift lead at a research lab. Do people do a thing in teams? Playmate does that thing.

And She Had Huge Titties, I Mean Massive Badondadonks, Absolutely Enormous Bazoggahoggas - Lost’s Canon Fairest

Remember when I said we had to get back to this after So You Want To Play An Ogre? Now we’re getting back to this. I’m not gonna re-state my caveats from that article and I’m not really gonna go back over the bit about So White Wolf Was Run By Fucking Nazis because, in all honesty, I do not have the fucking time to restate all of that in new words. Give thanks that OPP got out alive and let’s get right down to it.

Fairest have a very consistent characterization in canon that is only really challenged in Winter Masques; the narrative put forth in Lost is that Fairest, being attractive, have an uncomplicated power which privileges their lives. Which is a rather bloodless way to describe how White Wolf kept writing and publishing Fairest as heartless abusers and manipulators getting their jollies and emotional needs met by casually destroying their fellow survivors, manipulating them through sex appeal, outright lies, cattiness, cruelty, and betrayal. Much as simply queering Ogre does not help Ogre in and of itself, queering Fairest only takes you from incel and Nazi propaganda about women into...incel and Nazi propaganda about twinks, femmes, & in general anyone with the temerity to be found attractive by straight white people.

I’m not bitter, you’re bitter.

So what do you do at your table, with your Fairest concept? Lemme open up by saying that like, Fairest qua Fairest is perfectly solid, and if it wasn’t there wouldn’t be an article here; Fairest has a lot to say for itself about feminized violence, about your personhood being reduced to a product for the consumption of others, about emotional abuse & neglect, gaslighting, and sexual assault, but the conclusion White Wolf arrives at (”Fairest have unalloyed power over mortal and Lost society and they abuse that power”) is super fucking obtuse and betrays a serious lack of concern for what the Fairest undergo. It ignores the way a Fairest’s ordeals will force her to confront her relationship to her own gender and alter her willingness and ability to be consumed, disconnect her from her former society while also isolating her from her new one, and these questions are important for you if you’re looking to play a ‘classic’ Fairest.

But that leaves some hanging questions. Male Fairest face the almost inescapable fate of “failing” maleness on patriarchal terms; even the most strapping, broad-chested, athletic Adonis of a Fairest has become a man of layered words and reflexive empathy, whose Manly Stoicism(tm) is a cracking facade at best and entirely abandoned in a more typical circumstance. Men who become Fairest thus face a second journey after their escape from Arcadia; confronting what being men means to them and building their gender identity back up from the rubble it’s become. The temptation to accept success on society’s terms is always going to be present, and it’s always going to be offered like it’s possible, but it’s a losing game for these Fairest; they simply cannot be the men that other men demand they become.

Now, the discerning and loyal reader is surely about to ask, hey Vox, where’s the butch Fairest I was promised back in the Ogre article, to which I respond WE’RE GETTING THERE but I gotta use this as a bridge to talk about something that cuts across Fairest of all genders, be they cis or trans. Lost 1e makes a lot of hay out of the idea that Fairest “are rarely conventionally attractive”, and core even provides some interesting written concepts for that...which make it into exactly none of the art. Every published Fairest is conventionally attractive for various definitions of conventional, be it as a supermodel or a waif, but that leaves the question of Fairest who genuinely are not - and, tragically, Fairest who were not, and were then made into someone more easily consumed by their Durance. You know what I’m about to say, and I know you know I’m about to say it, but I’m gonna say it anyway: all bodies are beautiful, but Fairest know well that beauty and attraction aren’t the same, and neither are beauty and happiness. All Fairest, from the roundest bear to the most wide-eyed waif, are the products of Keepers who valued their bodies in that state, and that idea is going to haunt them day in and day out for the rest of their extended lives. There is no such thing as a Fairest with an uncomplicated relationship to their body, and that White Wolf seems to think that an uncomplicated relationship is their default state is...disgusting, frankly.

Which brings us, at long last, to butch Fairest (also bear Fairest but I’m gonna stick with the one set of terms or I’m going to go mad and this will never be published), who have a complicated journey ahead of them. On the one hand, the assertion of control and ownership over their own bodies, their own identities, cannot be overstated. On the other hand, elements of those bodies are going to be completely out of their control; a nascent butch Fairest may well hit the gym to get swole only to discover that she literally, physically cannot, that she has been Assigned Dex Build At Durance. Hauling your corpse out of Arcadia with an extremely feminine appearance shaped by your Keeper might complicate attempts to present in a more masculine manner or even just to appear androgynous, and those complications can be discouraging. For those that stick to it, this journey will take them two places; one is the bared-teeth, bloody-knuckled assertion that this life is theirs and you can have it if you can fucking take it, and the other is into the ranks of the Freehold’s retained warriors, usually in Summer or Autumn, though a vibrant representation of Spring knights will make it seem as if Spring has more butch Fairest than it actually does. These Fairest are aware, or will become aware, of how much of their job involves de-escalating or pre-empting violence; a focus on Physical stats or skills is not necessarily common, but hyper-specialization therein likely is. A butch Fairest is a lot more likely to have, say, Brawl 4 (Multiple Opponents) and no other Physical skills than she is to have Brawl, Weaponry, Athletics, and Stealth, in part or in whole because her first weapon of choice is going to be an Intimidate roll.

At every turn you’re able to, challenge White Wolf’s narrative about Fairest by asking yourself what your Fairest wants, why they’re this way, what they’re frightened of, and how the way they behave relates back to these. They’re not products; they’re people, just as hurt and Lost as the rest of their peers.

Princesses And Pastries - Fairest In The Courts

Fairest have a complex relationship to the society of their fellow Lost. On the one hand, they have the same need for community, support, companionship, understanding, honesty, and material aid as all Lost; a Fairest is not magically proof against being homeless, against starving, against the dangers of existing in the modern world without things like a photo ID or car insurance, and Freeholds provide all of these things. On the other hand, the thing most Fairest fear most, even if they can’t articulate that fear, is their own power - social influence, emotional trust and betrayal, status, political power, and authority. Fairest are all too aware that being good at this game does not make them immune to it - after all, that’s the lesson they learned at the hands of their Keepers.

What follows from this is a complex dance of interactions that each Fairest in some ways has to feel like she’s managing on her own, even if she’s not (and she rarely is; those support groups exist for a reason). If you give a Fairest a doughnut in a social setting, she will lick that doughnut even if she doesn’t intend to eat it right away, solely to hear someone else say something along the lines of “well it’s yours now”. As Fairest filter into Freehold society and take up social roles at all levels of power - officers, messengers, ‘ambassadors’ to mortal society, secretaries, pledge-smiths, teachers, monarchs - their responsibilities and rewards become their doughnut. That Fairest make a big deal out of both their job and the benefits that come with it is rarely, as other Lost sometimes think, about aggrandizement or reveling in power for its own sake; it’s about the sheer relief and assurance of hearing someone say, to the Fairest’s face, that this is her doughnut and no one is going to take it from her.

Younger Fairest tend to flit between two or three Courts; their initial selection may be based entirely on friendships, Vibes, or a gut-check decision based on an initial pitch by that Court, and Fairest can go quite far even in a Court that doesn’t quite actually fit their needs. Eventually, though, those Fairest who survive their youth will gravitate towards a Court whose ideals speak to them, even if its current social order isn’t living up to those ideals. If they’re going to be condemned to live as exiles in the world of their birth, the Fairest can at least be the person she wants to be, god damn it. Fairest aren’t any more or less vulnerable to a toxic Court environment than other Lost, but they’re good at detecting it beforehand. Unfortunately they’re also good at telling themselves they can change it.

Spring - Though early Spring joiners are of course rare in general, Fairest are among those Lost who more commonly choose Spring as a first Court. Spring’s highly social focus and chaotic internal organization is almost tailor-made for the skill set of your average Fairest, but therein too lies a sense of threat; for many Fairest, Spring can remind them of their Durance, and their joining of the Court is as much motivated by fear of a powerful cultural body as it is by any genuine Desire, maybe even more so. Many such Fairest end up caught in Spring’s middle-road trap, spinning their wheels without recovering or worsening more or less until they finally die, but when Autumn can sniff out the fearful ones it puts a lot of work into cooperating with Spring to get them out and where they can be helped.

Summer - More Fairest dabble with Summer for dreams of glory, or because they want to believe in Summer’s apolitical sales pitch, than ultimately stick with Summer. Those that do stay often serve as officers, as the Sun’s Tongue or the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, and as Court sorcerers. Fairest skilled in Contracts of Separation can make for surprising Jaegers, hounding their prey down more like a private investigator or a serial killer than a traditional hunter, but while striking this is fairly rare. Fairest who stick with Summer are those who are looking for its high ideals and are often among those rare Summer Courtiers who can competently articulate both those ideals and their pitfalls without falling prey to cynicism and bitterness.

Autumn - For those Fairest who hurt others to feel safe, Autumn is waiting. The Leaden Mirror can be attractive to young Fairest because it’s easy to perceive Autumn as atomized, defined by personal relationships rather than webs of political influence, but when the Fairest discovers those webs the existence of Option Two: Resort To Violence as an acceptable tool to the Ashen Court is perversely reassuring rather than threatening. The image of the Fairest as a witch, tempting and threatening, clings to them in Autumn but it’s honestly not their most common role; Autumn employs its Fairest as rumor-mongers, the Other Woman who seems a little too familiar with your husband, therapists & counselors, oneiromancers, and ambassadors to Hedge communities. The work Autumn does is harsh on Clarity, and Fairest are especially vulnerable to that harshness, but if the Court invests the time in helping its Fairest members, the self-awareness and self-confidence it offers can be a godsend that no other Court can give them.

Winter - As the Court which is actually selling what Fairest think Autumn has - to wit, the ability to simply say “no” to all social interactions with no justification required - Winter has a strong undercurrent of Fairest membership at all tiers of its power. Fairest often end up directly involved in Winter’s money-making enterprises, and flourish as Squires and Armigers with their fingers on the pulse of the Court’s morale. Winter’s hands-off approach displays a tremendous amount of trust in its Fairest from their perspective, and the demeanor of the Coldest Court - Winter’s indifferent equality - has a potent, merciless appeal. The trap of drowning in Sorrow sucks more than a few Fairest under, but if their peers can be there for them there’s always a way back out.

This Is Not A Pipe - Fairest And Lost’s Themes

My many thanks to Izzie M for her extensive help on this section. I’m not sure I’d have been able to grapple it down, emotionally or intellectually, otherwise.

Fairest go through some intense shit, and the shit they go through can never fully be addressed, never fully be recovered from. It’s no mistake that Fairest, like Wizened, are among those Lost likely to never fully gain resolution with or from their Keeper, and this is because they embody the dark truth that no matter how much progress you make, how much you heal, your trauma has changed who you are as a person and you will be dealing with it until you die. But, as alluded to extensively above in the discussion of Fairest and gender, Fairest also embody the way in which society will attempt to stamp you, mold you, turn you into a product to be consumed or an archetype to be placed into its churning machine, and its attempts to reshape who and what you are and can be are, in themselves, a form of trauma and abuse.

Fairest deal a lot in expectations. They’re expected to be perfect victims, they’re expected to be happy (because they’re beautiful and attractive, because they can front as Doing Okay, because they have a form of access to ‘normal’ society), they’re expected to want romance and sex (since everyone else wants those things out of them), to perform emotional labor, to be available, intimate, understanding, to keep up appearances. Fairest escape the chains of their Keeper only to be clapped in the chains that extend into the eyes and minds of their peers, and they cannot move without hearing the clink of them.

Fairest are primed to represent victims of ongoing emotional abuse and neglect; sex slaves and victims of child abuse might find themselves in Fairest, as might husbands or wives of abusive partners (and boy, re-living my bullshit there was a bonus prize I didn’t want to receive for writing this article), children pushed to over-achieve (here overlapping with Elemental) until they break, pastor’s daughters and cult kids (here overlapping with Beast), and others. However, Fairest also hit their thematic stride when talking about trauma from a society that will not give you an exit. A trans person is first punished by society for “failing” to perform their assigned gender, then made to perform their new one to expectations that they cannot set, do not control, and do not consent to; such a person might easily be Fairest, as might a man breaking under the expectations of Maleness, a college student losing their mind in finals week with no one to help, or even more ‘ordinary’ sex workers expected to perform emotional and physical labor for a society that rewards their work with violence and dehumanization.

Fairest are people with complex internal worlds and they damn well know it, but the temptations to let others define them are numerous; society promises all manner of rewards for being who and what it wants you to be, for wanting the things it tells you to want, for being the kind of person who wants and does those things. To be Fairest is to know at any time you can start faking it and receive those rewards insofar as they’re actually on the table, but it is also to know, every second of every day that you’re performing that role, that it is fake. If you can’t find a community with which you can be genuine...well. You can always get more hurt, and in this way Fairest also bring another theme of Lost into focus: that the Lost owe compassion and understanding to their fellow victims, because failure to care can only hurt both them and everyone in their blast zone.

Feet Pics For Legos - Coping As A Fairest

Fairest are among those Lost who are most concerned with their day-to-day social interactions and safety rather than their immediate, very physical environmental safety. They are perhaps the Seeming most likely to live in a group setting (in an apartment with roommates or romantic partners, in a house shared between multiple households, splitting the bills in a condo, with their parents), and are definitely the Seeming most comfortable with the idea of living with mortals who aren’t ensorcelled. Indeed, Fairest don’t tend to do well living alone; even a Fairest who wants or needs a private place to be, choosing to keep a home in which others cannot lay a claim, will likely crash at friends’ places, sleep over at the Freehold commons on some pretext or another, stay the night with a lover, or otherwise have a place to flop down while surrounded by other people. Having other people - their greatest reality check - around the place helps keep the Fairest centered in the real reality, better able to pick apart the mortal from the Wyrd from their own unrelated hallucinations, and a Fairest who is isolated - or who is permitted to isolate herself - quickly begins to dissociate and may soon be incapable of caring for herself until someone can get her back into the present.

Those invited over as guests to a Fairest’s home may note a lot of concern for those she lives with. She likely schedules the event well in advance, is clear about the boundaries of those she lives with (”That’s Brenda’s room, the door stays shut.”) and in general treats her communal home with a lot of respect and love. Respecting these boundaries and in turn having her own respected is very validating for the Fairest and is vital to be able to feel safe and at ease in her own home, and impressing their importance on guests further reinforces that this is, as it were, her doughnut. While not dismissive of their own literal physical safety per se, a Fairest’s anxieties rarely center around her body being violently attacked by strangers. For those that do have such anxieties, they may choose to solve that problem by simple expedient of rooming or living with someone large and scary.

Another detail of note which is touched on in Winter Masques is that Fairest tend to seek out life’s little pleasures. Though they are not necessarily wealthier than other Lost, how a Fairest chooses to spend her money tends to follow particular patterns. Rare is the Fairest who doesn’t have clothing they like, a phone that works, a wallet or purse that can actually hold all of their stuff, and in this regard most Fairest without a special interest in fashion as a hobby in and of itself will have an aesthetic that is self-expressive but serviceable and hard-wearing, but any place the Fairest haunts, frequents, or lives in will get little touches everywhere. Fairest spend the little bits of extra money for good toilet paper, soft soaps that won’t hurt the skin, good shower supplies, high-quality razors, boots that won’t wear through - and they spend their serious money on their hobbies and preferences. A Fairest with a passion for cooking scrimps and saves to get a fully-stocked kitchen; a Fairest who likes building and connecting invests in Legos or Hot Wheels and creates elaborate environments for them. A gamer Fairest has headphones that can vibrate your constipation away and a fiber optic connection to ensure that lag will not stand between her and your doom. The reasons for this are manifold, and Lost’s canon writing suggests that Fairest seek pleasure to alleviate a desire to return to Arcadia. This is, to put it mildly, a stupid assertion; rather, the Fairest provides her own pleasures in part because it is one of the most emotionally clear ways to lick the doughnut, and in part because it reminds her that she can be happy under her own power, can seek pleasure, stimulation, engagement, without placing herself at another’s mercy - ironically making it easier to go out every day and do exactly that as a member of her various societies.

As a Fairest settles in she tends to look for “her” people, and quite often they’re good at compartmentalizing this, wearing different hats and having different feelings about those hats without feeling fake or distressed about the bare fact of that. She’ll have her personal friends and family, like her housemates, her girlfriend, maybe her mortal family, her neighbors, and then folks like her Motley (which are like her personal friends and family, but In The Know), her fellow Fairest and the Freehold broadly, her work friends and fellow hobbyists. A Fairest who does, say, sex work, thinks of herself as a Sex Worker and understands herself in the context of that broader social group. It can be a lot! Many Lost barely have a handle on being a member of both the Freehold and a Court, and the way Fairest flit to and fro between many communities, slipping seamlessly from one role to another, can be exhausting to watch - but by doing so the Fairest also builds bonds between those communities, highlights their common needs and interests, draws them together over their similarities and strengths. Darklings and Wizened get a lot of the work on the ground done, but it’s often a Fairest in the role of whistleblower, figurehead, and champion all at once.

After all, this, too, is her doughnut.

Example Fairest - Clara Belltower, Spring Playmate

Clara Belltower is a mime.

Well, no, not exactly. Clara Belltower is a self-employed porn actress, erotic script writer, and director, whose primary thing is mimes, clowns, and more broadly circuses and performance venues. She came back from Arcadia eight years back fleeing life as her Keeper’s Stepford Wife, and ran face-first into the money issues that haunt the Lost in general. What started out as a practical choice in new career - and an attempt to find and express an identity not created for her by her abuser - became a creative passion that has stayed strong with Clara and propelled her to status in the Spring Court, which retains her keen eye for decoration, direction, and theatricality in service to its high rituals and revels. Clara’s livestreams and online presence are also a convenient avenue for the Freehold to launder its less legal revenue streams, which has endeared Spring’s “silent siren” to the Winter Court and cemented her as a mover and shaker.

Clara’s ambitions reach beyond erotic miming, as talented as she is at both creating and purveying such. She has her eyes on four different strip clubs in Freehold territory alone whose owners and operators need to fucking go, and she wants Winter’s help making it happen; further, she wants the Freehold to take over operation of those establishments for the benefit of the workers. Clara’s vision is popular in Spring and has its supporters in Summer too, but the Declining Seasons have been cool on the concept, citing a need to maintain subtlety and avoid entanglements with the mortal world that might invite the eye of, say, the IRS - or mire the Freehold in a protracted war with local police departments. Clara’s passion burns with a righteous simplicity, envisioning a Freehold that is active in improving the city around it - if the cops want to throw down, bring it on! Her influence over Winter means the Coldest Court cannot simply dismiss her desires, but neither is it willing to go to war. Something is going to have to give, soon.

This concludes the Fairest portion of the article. Some additional thoughts on Seeming follow.

Bombing Your Own Position - Choosing Your Seeming

So it’s been six articles and I’ve talked about the ways various Seemings can represent responses to the things which traumatize us; neurodivergences for which society abuses us, the machinery of capitalism, violence, prison, and more. But how do you go about choosing your character’s Seeming? The obvious choice is to make a character that puts a lot of yourself at the table; to seek out a Seeming that reflects your own traumas, your own issues, your own anxieties and struggles, and then grapple with them in this fictional context. But RPGs can be an emotionally challenging medium, and you may well not want to deal with your own bullshit during your magic trauma fairy game. That’s valid!

Now, the second obvious piece of advice is to think about your proposed character’s themes and traumas and then select a Seeming from there, but this can get complicated. Many Lost players feel as if they need two Seemings, and to those players I say: no the fuck you do not. But it is true that people are messy and do not fully resolve, that the broad spectrum of the world of sorrow and loss is not easy to fit into 6 discrete categories whose creation was often managed by, not to keep repeating this point, fucking Nazis. I have found in my experience that it can be helpful, when you’re torn between two Seemings or you have a character you’re sure is this Seeming even though they look like or could be that one, to ask yourself why the character is not the other option. Why is this alluring and sensual Darkling not a Fairest, what makes this brutal and violent Wizened not an Ogre? This question naturally leads to others about their abuse and their reaction to it, and can start your momentum for writing your concept out.

As an addition, while I’ve spoken of various Seemings as being well-equipped to represent specific traumas, they don’t own those traumas. Elementals are metaphorically autistic, but there’s nothing stopping you from running an autistic Fairest or an autistic Beast instead. Rather, those Seemings outlined as being “for” or “about” certain traumas are those whose selection will make those traumas thematically central, cause you to return to them as a topic over and over by virtue of being who and what they are. Real people have complicated problems which intersect with one another, spawning new problems that are more strange than the sum of their parts, and it’s both valid and interesting to write your Lost that way - just keep in mind that it’ll still be complicated at the table too.

Van Helsing Hate Crimes - Seeming Politics

White Wolf spent a lot of time waffling back and forth on whether or not Seemings represent distinct cultural and political identities in a given Freehold, drifting towards ‘yes’ when the writers thought about the way Blessings and Curses create consistent, measurable differences between Lost of various Seemings, and towards ‘no’ generally whenever they were asked to actually outline a Lost society such as a sample Freehold or Entitlement. Some Entitlements are locked to specific Seemings, often times with little thought as to why, while other times Seeming-based power blocs are alluded to as worldbuilding elements (such as in Lords of Summer) without much in the way of supporting detail. Why should these things happen, when, how, what does the buildup of this violent fracture in a Freehold society look like?

On the whole, I have taken the stance in these articles and in my own worldbuilding that some amount of fantastical prejudice exists amongst the Lost, but that the systems of oppression have not taken root. Maybe it’s idealistic of me to view the Lost as unwilling or unable to produce internally racist power structures that create an underclass for the benefit of an appointed elite, but in general I feel as if Freeholds are too small, each individual member too precious by simple dint of being a living being in a physical body, for this kind of evil to flourish. That said, you may have also noticed that I identified two Seemings - Darklings and Fairest - as explicitly self-uniting and in some senses self-governing on the basis of common traumas that they often cannot fully explain to outsiders, and indeed community with people that understand your bullshit without you having to say it aloud - that is, those who share a Seeming with you - can be invaluable to all Lost. Ultimately, however, I want to advise against looking at Seemings the way that, say, Vampire: the Requiem looks at Clans, and instead to treat them as reactions to trauma rather than a kind of alternate racial identity.

Next up: So You Need To Write A Fetch

#Changeling: The Lost #rpg #fairest #trauma #abuse #seemings #violence

[quillandink333]

Bereavement ~ Part III

BotW Link X Zelda

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.6k

WARNINGS: graphic depictions of violence, blood and gore, major character death

Summary: In the wake of the Great Calamity, Link mourns the sudden loss of his beloved princess, who never succeeded in unlocking the sacred power to seal Ganon away.

Part I • Part II • Part III • Masterlist

The time for retribution was now. I let the light of the heavens surge through me. With the combined power of the sacred blade and wish-granting relic completely at my disposal, there was very nearly nothing of which I was incapable. I closed my eyes. With enough focus, soon enough, the soles of my feet were leaving the ground, starting with my heels and ending with my toes. I rose higher and higher into the sky until I was face-to-face with my enemy.

The creature looked straight at me. Its eyes were burning embers, its fangs ten times the size of stalagmites. I was staring death itself in the face. And yet, there wasn’t a hint of fear lingering in my chest.

Ganon lunged at me, its massive jaws unhinged.

I dodged it, soaring high above its head in a matter of seconds.

A grin creeped its way onto my face. Perhaps it would be fun to play with this thing for a short while.

Ganon charged.

I ducked to the south, heart racing with exhilaration.

It charged again, a little disoriented. This time I decided to quite literally give it the runaround.

I had to laugh. Either I was moving at blinding speeds, or Calamity Ganon was as slow as a snail in sand. I let it chase me in circles for a bit, slowing my pace so it could keep up. Then I zigzagged to the side.

Its head turned in every direction. It almost looked dizzy. Then it spotted me.

I dodged its bite yet again, infuriating it even more.

I continued leading our little dance a while longer, wanting to give the beast a fighting chance before I slew it. But no matter how strong its desire to kill me, like it did her, I always stayed an inch out of reach.

Ganon waled in frustration, making the very air shiver. It made another pitiful advance. Again, I waited until the very last second to glide out of the way.

Just when it seemed ready to try and close in on me from above, the beast stopped, fangs dripping with bloodlust and eyes trained on me. I remained still, mocking its inefficacy.

Boom

A beam of red-hot energy just barely missed my cheek. I winced, following its trajectory. Far in the distance, I could see a mountainous cloud of smoke billowing up from an enormous, black crater.

The shot had come from the southwest, from Gerudo Valley. There, I spotted the divine beast once controlled by Lady Urbosa, Vah Naboris, glowing a menacing scarlet and towering threateningly. It stood nearly as high as the shelf it stood upon. It was preparing to fire again.

I felt a rush of adrenaline.

From all four corners of the map, the divine beasts were aiming in my direction.

I glanced up at my original opponent, whose gaping jaws almost appeared to be smiling down at me.

With no time to think, I opened my left hand and held it out in front of me. In it appeared a bow, crafted from a rich, golden crystal, the likes of which I never could’ve imagined.

The beast charged, and I leapt out of the way. It seemed to move at thrice the speed it had before.

Raising the bow of light, I drew it back to my ear, and there appeared an arrow of similar composition already nocked to the string. I took aim at Vah Ruta in the southeast and let my arrow fly.

There was no time to watch it land.

Another beam came straight toward me. I’d just barely managed to see it in time.

It seemed my first shot had missed its target. I tried again, adjusting my aim and praying to no god in particular that I wouldn’t be slaughtered before I could release it.

To my relief, my second arrow flew true toward the beast controlling the machine. A flash of light went off as it hit its mark. The smaller creature’s screams were loud enough to be heard all the way from Central Hyrule.

Just three more, and the monstrosity that had taken my princess’ life would be done for.

It took every ounce of my focus and willpower combined to take down each automaton one by one. Even so, the destruction that occurred in the time it took me to do so was beyond description. In every direction, smoke was rising up, completely obscuring the horizon. I could only imagine how many lives had been lost in this horrific massacre.

I could no longer contain myself. I’d had enough.

My emotions spilled over in an eruption of a battle cry. Sword extended, I charged at my enemy and thrusted the blade deep into its undeveloped skull.

The beast writhed in agony at my unyielding hand. I willed my power to flow forth, letting it grow ever stronger and mightier. The earth trembled. Another blood-curdling shriek spewed from the spectral being’s vast jaws as it was slowly torn apart.

I felt something dark and sinister crawl beneath my skin as I watched the creature wriggle beneath me like a worm in the clutches of a hungering bird’s beak. I envisioned Zelda’s mutilated dead body, and the searing heat of the explosion that had killed her. The memory made my blood boil. It fuelled the flame in my core until it became a towering inferno high enough to reach the heavens.

The sword’s light grew brighter and brighter, enveloping both me and the beast and swallowing up everything in sight. Then in an instant, the light imploded, and the whole world went black.

When I opened my eyes, the sight that greeted me was a ray of golden sunlight peaking out from behind the white clouds.

I brushed the hair out of my face. I was splayed out on my back. The scorched grass I was lying on must’ve been all that had broken my fall when I’d lost consciousness. Somehow, though, I had no trouble sitting up. When I did, I spotted the Master Sword lying on the ground just a few feet away from me, its glow gone.

I stood myself up. The last thing I could recall was my hand being fully submerged in Ganon’s murky, coagulated form. But now, there wasn’t a trace of malice on me. Upon closer inspection, it seemed I’d sustained no injuries of any kind. This, I surmised, was the power of the Golden Goddesses.

The Goddesses... They were the ones who’d put me up to this task. And for what? Now that it was done, what was I meant to do? Where was I meant to go? It seemed the whole world was up in flames. Even if there were survivors, even if I’d saved civilization from certain doom, I had already lost everything. My kingdom, my home, my friends and family, and of course, my very reason for being.

Precious memories of her once again flooded my mind. Zelda, my joy, my angel, my everything, who’d made life worth living simply with the power of her radiant smile.

Then I was hit by the memory of how that radiance had been snuffed out like the flickering flame of a candle. How her body had been ruptured and carved open like that of a little bird struck down by an arrow. How the sight and scent and sound of her trying to move in that state had made bile rise up from the bottom of my throat. My shaking hands came up to cover my mouth.

I collapsed onto my hands and knees. Despite my triumph over Calamity Ganon, I now knelt in complete and utter defeat.

“Link...”

My heart stopped at the faint but unmistakable voice. It was impossible, and yet...

“Link.”

There it was again, this time clearer and stronger. My head snapped up, eyes widening.

“Zelda...!”

Right there in front of me, levitating just above the ground, was my lost love. Though she now took on a pale and hazy appearance, she’d returned to her beautiful, shining self. Engraved in her smile was the light of a thousand suns, just as it had once been.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, the thought that I’d died and become a spirit like her passed my mind. But then the feeling of fresh tears trickling down my cheeks and of the earth beneath me brought me back to reality.

The grass swayed in the soft breeze as she knelt down on her knees in front of me. She tilted my chin up with feathery fingertips.

Her eyes gazed deeply into my own, gently rippling like ringlets in a pond. She held my face in her two flawless palms. Her lips brushed mine, not altogether there, though they were just as soft and just as warm as they’d always been. The tears that had formed behind by eyelids couldn’t remain contained, after I’d tried so hard to hold them back for just a little while longer. Then before I could shed any more, it was over.

My lips chased after hers as she drew away, withdrawing her dainty hands from my damp cheeks. She rose, then spoke what would be the last two words she ever said to me.

“Thank you.”

Just like that, she vanished in a wisp of aquamarine.

I let out the sob I’d been holding in, my arms clutching onto one and other as I bent down toward the cold, lifeless ground.

From this day forward, there would be no more holding hands. No more late-night excursions away from prying eyes. No more warm embraces or sweet words of comfort in the low moments. No more waking up in the castle each and every day giddy at the thought of seeing her face once again.

At least now, she could finally be at peace.

#my writing #fanfic #botw #zelink #botw zelink #zelink botw #botw zelda x link #botw link x zelda #link x zelda #zelda x link #zelink fic #zelink ff #zelink fanfic #link pov

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Cold and Broken Hallelujah (chapter 3)

Oof, sorry for the long wait, folks. Here it finally is, the conclusion. (As promised, I fixed it as best I could. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the ride)

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @blujicky @saphirawaffle @swanheart69 @ojedieu @gryssenielsen @totallysilvergirl @stiicck @stonequiet @giulisetta @livgg15 @collgeruledzebra @tonystark5ever @imposter-human @sharoto @guess-im-a-good-omens-blog-now @saphirawaffle @ginpaa @erdediekatze

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Chapter 3

 “Crowley?” The name is a hesitant, pleading whisper that catches somewhere in the middle as it slips past his lips.  

 “Crowley!” The second call of his lover’s name rips from his throat in a harsh, broken sob, steeped in denial.

 A hurried snap of his fingers, and the holy bindings pinning Crowley to the wall fall away, leaving behind a mess of burned, bloodied skin.  The demon drops, limp and boneless, into Aziraphale’s trembling, waiting arms; the hilt of the sword that still protrudes grotesquely from Crowley’s chest pressing uncomfortably against Aziraphale’s ribs.  

The angel yanks the sword out, unthinking.  Tosses it away as if the very touch of it burns.

 Crowley doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as twitch in response. Only his blood begins to gush faster, unimpeded, from the gaping wound.

 “No,” Aziraphale murmurs – a futile moan of protestation against the merciless truth of reality, “no, no, no….”

 And, suddenly, his legs no longer seem to have what it takes to hold up his earthly corporation, and so he sinks heavily to the floor, his precious burden cradled protectively in his arms.

 He tries, oh, God Almighty does he try.  Presses his hand against the gushing hole in Crowley chest, trying his best to ignore the blood that coats his fingers, seeming to seep under his very skin, branding him like the murderer that he is.  And he pours all of his healing energy into it, channels every particle of his angelic being into one single mission – heal, heal, heal.  And he prays, and he prays, and he prays.

 “You don’t… really think it’s going to work, do you.”

 He doesn’t turn around at the sound of a familiar mocking voice.  He doesn’t need to.  He knows what he’ll see if he does: the looks of glee, the smiles of depraved pleasure. He remembers them.  Remembers them all too well.

 “You’re almost as ridiculous as that demon of yours.”

 He hears footsteps behind him, measured, deliberate, slow – a predator circling its prey, moving in closer and closer with every pass.

 “Do you know that this pathetic creature pleaded with us to spare you?  Begged me to keep you ignorant of what you’ve done?”

 Gabriel laughs behind him, sharp and grating, even as Aziraphale hunches in on himself, crushed by the weight of the damning words.  His fingers tremble splayed out against the awful wound, his focus slipping. He flicks his gaze up to his beloved’s face – ghostly pale now, its features hopelessly slack.  Blurred for him by the ever-thickening veil of tears that fogs his vision.

 “Why would you do this?” he whispers brokenly, pulling his hand away from the wound to brush a blood-covered finger against Crowley’s cheek. Flinches, his lips trembling, as he stares at the smudge of crimson his gentle touch left behind – so vivid, so nauseatingly stark against the near-translucent skin.  “Why would you–?”

 Another sob rips from his throat, cutting off the rest of the words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his lover’s too, too still form tighter against his chest.

 He knows why.  Of course, he knows.  Because it’s Crowley.  The demon who burned his feet on consecrated ground to rescue him.  The demon who defied Heaven and Hell time and time again for his sake.  The demon who… who loved him.  Enough to forgive him, enough to let him go.

 “It’s quite amusing, really.”

 Gabriel’s voice slithers once more into his grief-clouded consciousness, and he feels something inside him stir and shudder in response.  Something dark and ugly and terrifying – a dangerous savage beast, awoken after a millennia-long sleep.

 “Watching you skewer the serpent was entertaining enough, but watching you torment yourself over it now is just… well, it’s just so delicious!”

 There’s a loud, obnoxious cackle above his ear, a horrifyingly tasteless expression of perverted pleasure at the expense of his grief.  

The beast inside him roars in agony, slashes wildly at the chains of restraint holding it hostage within the shattered confines of his bleeding soul. He moans in anguished pain, arms and wings wrapping tighter around Crowley in a futile attempt to shield them both from the waves of twisted, noxious glee that permeate the room, poisoning its very air. Tries his best to ignore the archangel, to tune out the cruel words, his whole body trembling with the effort of reigning in the dark tempest of grief, rage and despair that brews inside him.

 It’s of no use.

 The metaphorical chains snap – the sound so loud in his ears, he’s sure everyone around him can hear it – and the beast breaks free in a powerful, blinding explosion of Light that bursts forth from him in every direction, furious, scorching, decimating.  A flashover of smiting angelic vengeance.

 He thinks he hears screaming, loud wails of pure agony. Gabriel’s, the other archangels’, perhaps even his own….  But it’s all lost, swallowed up in the searing maelstrom of Light, and the angel sways and cries at the epicenter of it, white wings wrapped protectively around a lifeless form that no longer requires his protection, shielding Crowley as Crowley had always shielded him, while the world around him burns, and burns, and burns.

 And then it’s over, and the Light goes out like a candle snuffed out by an abrupt gust of wind.

 Aziraphale slumps, drained, his cheeks wet, his throat raw from screaming he doesn’t remember having done. He isn’t aware of the sudden absence of their tormentors, of the scorched emptiness of the room.  Nothing exists for him anymore but Crowley, pale and lifeless in his arms. Dead.

 Three years.  Three years is all he’s been given to experience the true joy of living he hadn’t known in all of the millennia that came before it.  The joy he’d been denying himself and Crowley all that time.  Because he was a coward! A bloody coward who foolishly believed that what he was always taught was true; that Heaven was always right, as was the Great Plan they blindly followed; that demons were all inherently evil, soulless creatures, incapable of compassion, of empathy, of love…

 He knew… in his heart of hearts he’d always known… that Crowley was an exception.  No soulless creature would challenge so bluntly the Great Plan, appalled by the idea of wiping out thousands upon thousands of the human race, drowning everyone, including the…

 “Not the kids. You can’t kill kids!!!”

 Wouldn’t look so devastated, so sickened by the sight of that young carpenter from Galilee getting nailed to the cross for nothing more than trying to get humans to love one another.

 Wouldn’t risk his own life over and over to save Aziraphale’s.

 Wouldn’t… wouldn’t have that look in his eyes whenever he glanced toward Aziraphale, the look of love – pure, unadulterated, beautiful love. The kind Aziraphale was always told demons weren’t capable of.  And yet Aziraphale felt it from Crowley. In abundance.

 And he pushed it away. Pushed Crowley away.  Despite the fact that every fiber of his being longed to be closer. Warded himself away from both Crowley and his love because he was too afraid of what Heaven would do if they ever found out.  Cowardly protecting himself from what he was sure would be a wrathful reprimand.  

 And he hurt Crowley in the process.

 He wasn’t blind. He saw the brutal impact his rejections had on his then friend.

 “Friends? We’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing in common. I don’t even like you!”

 Saw every poorly hidden flinch, every dejected droop of the thin shoulders, every pained twist of the lips that didn’t quite manage to form a smile, every note of anguish in the tired voice disguised by the ever-crumbling mask of sarcasm.

He saw.  And he hated himself for every moment of pain he had inflicted so cruelly on the demon.  Vowed to himself, once he finally worked up the courage to do what he should have done thousands of years ago, that he would spend the next millennia making it up to him.

 He got three years...

 His hand trembles as he cups the back Crowley’s head.  Gently, reverently lifts it up to press an equally trembling kiss against the sweat-stained temple.  A benediction, a plea for forgiveness, a final goodbye.

 “I’m sorry, my love,” he chokes out, taking a moment to bury his tear-stained face in the matted auburn hair, to breathe in Crowley’s scent for one last time.  “I am so, so sorry…”

 He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. Doesn’t know if there’s anything left for him to do. His one true constant, his anchor in this vast, tumultuous universe, the heart and soul of his existence is gone, and there’s nothing tethering him to this earthly world.  Nothing left for him in Heaven either. Not anymore. Not after this.

 Perhaps it would have been better if he Fell.

 “Aziraphale.” The voice that calls his name is achingly familiar and one he hasn’t heard in over 6,000 years.  One he yearned to talk to all those years he’s been on Earth.  One he begged would answer him when… before it was too late.

One he no longer wishes to hear.

 “Aziraphale,” She repeats, softer this time, and he can feel Her heavenly light even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, “angel of the Eastern Gate.”

 Slowly he raises his head, squints toward Her with a tired glare.  “Why are You here?”

 She smiles at him – a soft crinkle in the otherwise flawless glowing skin.  “It isn’t often one of my children erases three archangels from existence,” She says, and his eyes widen momentarily in stunned disbelief.

 He glances behind him, as if to make sure, even though he knows She wouldn’t lie to him.  Not about something like this.  

Turns back to her, head raised in defiance.

 “You’re here to cast me out then?” he challenges. Because he’s ready for this. Willing even. Would gladly embrace the pain that comes with the Fall with both arms if it would drown out even a little bit of the agony that’s tearing apart his soul.

 She raises an eyebrow at that.  “No,” She denies, sounding surprised.

 He shakes his head. Raises his hand to wipe away another errant tear that trails down his cheek.  “I believed in You,” he murmurs dully.  “I trusted in Your Plan, in the goodness of it, even when others… when he…” He glances briefly down at Crowley, tucked safely against his chest. Blinks away another tear.  “…when he questioned the goodness of destroying thousands of innocent souls.”  Admits in a quieter voice, “Even when I myself questioned it.”

 He looks toward Her again, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. He knows he’s pushing it.  Knows he shouldn’t speak like this to Her. And some part of him wonders with morbid glee whether She might just smite him on the spot instead if he pushes hard enough. He finds himself craving the instant relief that would bring.

 “I believed in Your Love and Your Mercy.  But I was a fool.” His chin wobbles ever so slightly, words sticking in his tear-swollen throat. “You’re not merciful… at all.  You’re cruel.  You watch humans commit atrocities against one another, and You do nothing.  You encourage your archangels to be callous and vengeful, allow them to go about plotting the destruction of an entire human species just for the sake of settling an old score. And You do nothing! And the one archangel who loved Your creations, the one archangel who cared… You cast him out and tossed him into a pit of boiling sulfur for nothing more than questioning the righteousness of Your actions.”

 He sucks in a breath, arms tightening impossibly around Crowley’s still form, and words continue to pour out of him – an unstoppable torrent of rage and grief.

 “And when he came to Earth, a demon, and You saw that he still cared despite all odds, that he still had the capacity to love, which You told us none of the demons do, You abandoned him!  You made him think he wasn’t worthy of Your love.”

 “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. … Unforgivable, that’s what I am...”

 “You let Your other children torture him and… and kill him and… and I... I…”

 “I won’t make you Fall, Aziraphale.” Her calm, soothing voice interrupts the sob-broken ramble of his words.  

 She’s standing right before him now, Her warm, motherly gaze soft and inexplicably, apologetically sad. She seems tired somehow, he thinks absurdly as he watches Her shift Her attention to Crowley, reach a delicate glowing hand toward him.

 He tenses despite himself, moving to pull Crowley out of harm’s way, but Her touch doesn’t burn the demon, doesn’t engulf him in smiting, punishing Light.  She merely smoothes Her fingers over the unruly flame-red locks, slowly and lovingly as a mother would when she soothes her child to sleep for the night.  Smiles down at him with that same gentle, wistful smile.

 “I never meant for him to Fall either,” She confides, Her smile growing brittle as She rests her hand against Crowley’s cheek.  “It was a different time back then.  I was… young. I thought I knew everything, had it all figured out, everything set in motion as it was to be.”

 Absently, She runs her thumb along the smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, the stain disappearing underneath her touch.

 “And this… bright, bright child of mine, he challenged me, asked me questions no one’s ever asked before, questions I realized I wasn’t ready to answer. And it… embarrassed me, made me angry.”

 Her hand drops back down to Her side, softly shimmering blue eyes rising to meet Aziraphale’s, and he’s surprised to see a hint of tears there, a pained flash of remorse.

 “I reacted poorly,” She admits, regret creasing Her features, making Her appear older, careworn.  “And it took me a little while to realize that.”

 “A few millennia?” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words, just an overwhelming weariness. Because none of this matters anymore, does it. Because Crowley’s still dead.

 Her lips twitch again, sorrowful.  “Something like that.”

 Aziraphale nods, closing his eyes against that unbearable softness he sees in Hers, a softness that looks and feels too much like pity. Swallows thickly against an ever-present bitter swell of tears.  “Why tell me all this now?” he wonders, voice empty. “Where were You when I… when he… when we both needed you,” he thinks, bitter.  “What is the point?”

 Warm fingers brush the side of his face, the touch – a soothing balm against his ravaged nerves, and he jolts, his eyes flying open in surprise as he feels that divine warmth flood into him, melting away all traces of anger and despair and filling those spaces with reassurance and hope.

 “I can’t change the mistakes of the past, Aziraphale,” She acknowledges in a regretful murmur, her fingers still lingering against his skin as flecks of golden light fall from Her hair, dancing in a shimmering mesmerizing veil in the air around Her.  “But I can make a clean slate for the future.”

 She leans down a bit to Crowley’s level, brings her lips to the demon’s forehead, pressing a light kiss against the cold, pale skin.  Gentle and chaste like the blessing of a mother’s love.

 She pulls away, the skin around Her eyes crinkling with contentment as She watches a speckle of golden light dance on the surface of the demon’s skin where Her lips have touched him a moment ago.  The light lingers for another heartbeat or two before it slowly begins to seep deeper into the skin until it disappears altogether.

 She nods, pleased; turns Her gaze back to Aziraphale, who’s been following Her movements with bated breath and desperate timorous hope.

 “Be well, my children,” She tells him, “be… Loved.” And then She’s gone – a blinding supernova that flashes instantly out of their plane of existence, leaving behind a halo of golden flecks that flutter about, shimmering, as their light, too, slowly fades away.

 Aziraphale pays them no heed.  For in that moment, in that very moment, he feels a small shudder go through the lifeless form in his frantic embrace, and his breath hitches on a sob of gasp as he watches the deadly wound knit itself closed, the gaunt chest beginning to move, haltingly at first, but steadier and steadier with every subsequent breath.

 “Crowley?” he calls, a pitifully hopeful squeak of a whisper. “Crowley?”  And nearly chokes in giddy, dizzying relief when the dark eyelashes flutter weakly in response, a thin sliver of yellow peaking out.

 “Oh, Crowley, oh, my darling, oh, thank God!”

Crowley shifts slightly within his grasp, his hand rising feebly to touch the angel’s face, a barely audible moan of frustration slipping past his lips when his hand drops will-lessly back down before making contact.

 Aziraphale catches it mid-fall, captures it gently in his own. Raises it to his lips to press a deep, reverent kiss into the trembling palm.

 “I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lay more grateful, tearful kisses on the dear face. “I love you s..so much!”

 His voice catches, unsteady, and he buries his face unashamedly in Crowley’s neck, his body shaking so hard, he barely registers the equally unsteady, clumsy brush of Crowley’s fingers against the back of his head as the demon tries to comfort him the best he can.

 “S’okay now, angel,” he huffs out breathlessly above Aziraphale’s ear.  “S’a…all gonna be okay.”

 He nods mutely against the side of the demon’s neck, feeling the reassuring hum of life underneath his skin.  “Thank You!” he whispers fervently in his mind, hoping that She can hear him, hoping She knows, sees how much it truly means.  

He lifts up his head once more, hungrily drinking in the sight of his beloved – still weak, still alarmingly pale, but alive, alive, alive!  Moves in to seal an embarrassingly wet, lingering kiss against his lips, his soul quivering with pure, unbridled joy when those lips move feebly in response.    

“Thank You!”

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #crowley/aziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #good omens fanfiction #hurt/comfort #angst and fluff #i tried to make it as fluffy as i could in the end #to make up for all the hurt before #here's hoping i succeeded #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

[alydiarackham]

(Cover by me)

The Riddle Walker by Alydia Rackham (Book 2 Weaving of Time Trilogy)

Prologue

           The young man glanced in the dull, curved mirror. He frowned. It was covered with dust. Reaching out a leather-gloved hand, he swiped at the circular surface, clearing it so that it reflected better. Bending closer, he studied his face. It was young, white, carven, princely, and hard. He had sharp, aquiline eyebrows, his mouth was set and grave, his cheekbones high and defined, and his straight, brown hair hung down to his collar. He fingered a strand of his hair that was now bearing a bit of gray, which was slightly annoying. The same hand strayed to his right eye and gently pressed against the soft skin beneath it. He was already losing his sight there—and gaining it at the same time. His mouth twitched. He still was not used to this appearance, but it did not disconcert him. Quite the opposite. He had made this transition thousands of times, and he never grew tired of regaining strong muscle and sinew, and a staggeringly handsome face.

           He pulled a long, woolen riding cloak off of a wooden hook beside the mirror and slung it around his shoulders. He glanced down as he clasped it, striding down the dark, stone hallway and then kicking the door open. The door banged against the outside wall. Sunshine showered over him and warmed the top of his head. His clothes ruffled as a crisp, moist wind blew down off the hillside. The twittering of birds filled the air. He glanced up and behind him at the four gray towers of the castle, reaching high into the brilliant blue skies, each bearing a vibrant banner.

           Three men waited for him in the gravel yard, each atop a muscular, sleek black horse. One was the lord of this castle, a robust, red-headed, bearded man named Lord Ackhenhaill. The other was his firstborn son, Brody, a young, lean, blonde man who thought of nothing but hunting. The third was their guest, a dark-haired, good-hearted, battle-scarred Lord Alasdair MacDomnhaill, ruler of Tioramir and half of Scotland. The young man clasping his cloak concealed his smile. This was the man who would be receiving the bulk of his attention.

           “Good morning, my son,” Lord Ackhenhaill called merrily. The young man forced himself to acknowledge Ackhenhaill, reminding himself that the lord was talking to him, as his second son.

           “Good morning,” the young man answered briskly.

           “How did you sleep?” Brody asked.

           “Tolerably,” the young man replied, turning toward the servant who was bringing out his stallion. The young man snatched the reins from the servant, restraining himself from striking him in the face. The cowering stableman hurried away as the young man mounted.

           “It is such a glorious day,” Ackhenhaill took a deep breath as he cast his gaze across the sweeping emerald hills and blooming hedges.

           “It is indeed, finally,” Brody agreed. “Our horses haven’t had proper exercise since the rains.”

           “Shall we stretch their legs?” Alasdair suggested. The young man watched him carefully, observing the white dustings in his beard.

           “Are you certain you are up to it, my lord?” the young man asked, arching an eyebrow.

           “Haha!” Ackhenhaill crowed. “Up to it? Oh, I assure you, there is no bolder rider in all of Scotland!”

           The young man turned and grinned broadly at the bright-eyed, firm-jawed Alasdair.

           “Then I shall enjoy the challenge of keeping up with you, my lord!”

           Chapter One

"A Death and an Oath"

Western Scotland, 1335

              The candles had nearly burned themselves down. No one had bothered to replace them for hours, and so their light grew dimmer and paler, the shadows creeping out from the edges of the stone room and steadily venturing toward the center, where the MacDonald laird now lay. He was swathed in crimson sheets, guarded by wooden angels that formed the posts of his canopied bed.          

           The flickering light deepened the colors of the wood and the bedclothes, touching the faces of the angels so that they almost animated with sympathy. The laird himself remained motionless, his face drawn with grim effort, as if resisting a tide. He was not an old man. He should not be there on his deathbed, unable to move. He knew this, and in his heart, he railed against it. But no more so than his three sons.

           From oldest to youngest, they stood by their father's bedside: Dunmor, Bhaird and Oleron. All wore elegant black, remaining motionless, hanging on their father's every shallow breath.

           Bhaird, the middle son, stiffly glanced at his older brother. Dunmor's proud head bowed gravely, his curly, auburn locks obscuring his solemn eyes. The battle scar on his cheek seemed accentuated in this light, and in that small place on his jaw, his skin glinted where his close beard would not grow.  

           Bhaird turned a similar glance to his right, where Oleron stood. Oleron's clean-shaven, pale, cultured visage showed he was visibly pained; deeply grieved. His sapphire eyes glimmered with tears, and his well-bred jaw tightened. Bhaird risked a breath, returning his gaze to his father. None of them had spoken all day. And he knew that all day, they had each been remembering the day before.

              The day before had dawned brilliantly. Bhaird was already up before the cock crew, had dressed in simple riding clothes and boots, and run a brush through his hair. He strode to his bedroom window and pushed open the shutters, letting in the scent of lush moorland and the soft light of the spring sunshine. He had been looking forward to this day. Spring had officially arrived, and upon this day, every year since they had been able, he and his brothers had gone hunting for hart. His face clouded for a moment as he remembered that their father would not be accompanying them---he was away to a neighboring family clan, once again attempting to find a wife for Dunmor.

           Bhaird snorted as he snatched his belt and turned toward his door. Dunmor would never settle for someone his father picked out. After all, what did an old man know about beautiful young ladies?

           He flung the door open and trotted down the stairs as he fastened his belt, whistling as he went. His feet hit the corridor floor and he strolled easily down it, opening shutters to the morning whenever he saw them.

           Movement caught his eye ahead of him and he quit whistling. A willowy lady rustled along before him, her long, waving auburn hair hanging down almost to her knees, her emerald skirts brushing her ankles. She turned and saw him. Her dark, long-lashed eyes warmed and her lovely face beamed.

           "Good morning, Bhaird," Her comely mouth smiled wryly. "I can always tell it's you before I even turn around."

           "Oh, whatever do you mean, Lady Elinor?" he asked nonchalantly, coming up to her and offering her his arm. She took it and he clasped her hand in his, tucking her arm under his and pressing her hand naturally against his chest, as he always did. She glanced teasingly up at him.

           "You're loud," she answered.

           "Ha!" He pretended to be offended. "Perhaps I am, in comparison to my deathly-silent brothers."

           "Yes, Oleron especially is very quiet," Elinor admitted. "Which is considered a virtue this early in the morning."

           Bhaird just laughed again. Though his wit was usually sharp as a blade, he could never outfox Elinor in a battle of banter. He remembered the day Oleron had arrived with her; Bhaird had liked her instantly. However, with a deep, settled knowledge that he did not like to think about, he had realized that he himself had no chance with her. That had been confirmed upon Elinor and Oleron's marriage.

           For three years so far Elinor had showered the whole house with warmth and happiness. They had not had a lady in the household since Lady Kiera, the brothers' mother had died, and Elinor's presence did wonders for Tioramir. The place looked hospitable again---like a home---rather than some sort of cave, the appearance it had taken on when only men dwelt there. She cared for all four men, helping run the household and the kitchen, and often surprising them with the skills that she possessed in horsemanship and storytelling.

           "I must admit, though," Elinor commented as the two of them headed down the spiraling stairs. "You are louder this morning than usual. What are you so happy about?"

           Bhaird grinned.

           "My silent brothers and I are going deer hunting today," he answered.

           "Oh, yes. Oleron told me about that," Elinor recalled. "Where will you go?"

           "Just within the castle's lands," he answered. "The serfs find it sporting to watch."

           Elinor frowned delicately.

           "That reminds me; I'm due to go down to the village today."

           This was the part of Elinor that both confused and intrigued Bhaird. Elinor had brought with her more than just a sunny disposition and a new decor to the castle. She had also implemented what could be called "reforms." She required that everyone---lord or slave---bathe at least twice a week, wash his hair, wash his face daily, and scrub his teeth with odd, small brushes that she had made out of finely-cleaned horsehair. She also made weekly trips herself down to the village of Tioramir to teach the serfs' children to read. Some of these actions would be questionable, others intolerable, if Oleron did not always support her whole-heartedly, and if they all did not love her as much as they did.

           Bhaird did not get the chance to comment on her last recollection, for they now entered the smaller of the two dining rooms---the one meant only for the family. There were four windows on the western wall, allowing morning light into the tall, stone room without scorching anyone. Dunmor and Oleron sat waiting for them, a break fast of bread, butter, cheese, apples and blackberries spread out on the long table. Elinor lit up when she saw Oleron and let go of Bhaird. Oleron grinned at her.

           "Good morning, Ellie," he greeted her.

           "Good morning," she replied, kissing him lightly and seating herself next to him. Bhaird avoided watching this affectionate exchange, then moved around the table to sit by Dunmor.

           "Good morning, Dunmor," Elinor said brightly, settling her skirts. The eldest smiled warmly at her.

           "Hello, Elinor. I hope you slept well?"

           "Oh, indeed," she nodded. Dunmor seemed satisfied.

           "Let's eat," Bhaird cut in impatiently, reaching for his bread and butter. "It's high time we were on the hunt."

               "Lean forward more when you jump those hedges, Bhaird!" Oleron shouted over the dull pounding of hooves against the peat.

           "Be quiet and mind your own horse," Bhaird answered back, resettling himself in his saddle after that last jump.

           "Fine, but if you go tipping off again---"

           "Listen, someone who can't even shoot straight shouldn't be telling me---"

           "There he is!" Dunmor cut them off and pulled his horse's head hard so that he sliced sideways, toward the river. The three men rode abreast, Dunmor slightly out front. They all rode dark stallions whose manes and tails flung out behind them in the fresh wind. Bhaird’s horse’s name was Falcon. His father had given him to him years ago, and Bhaird had broken him. Of all the horses in the stable, Falcon listened to Bhaird best.

The cool air also lashed the hair and clothes of the men as they tore across the moor, leaping over stone walls and heather toward the woods.

           Far ahead of them, flitting like some member of the fairy-folk, dashed a sleek hart, his antlers now the only part of him visible over the brush. Ducking his head to avoid low branches, Bhaird darted into the trees behind Dunmor, hearing Oleron follow on his tail. Bhaird instantly had to check Falcon’s speed, for the footing here was treacherous, and a wild rosebush could fell a beast as easily as a snare. Fortunately, the hart had also realized this, and had slowed a bit as well. Dunmor, masterfully letting go of the reins and steering with his knees, brought his bow around front and slid an arrow from its quiver.

           A branch reached out and slapped Bhaird across the face. He frowned fiercely as he felt its sting, but quickly refocused on his brother. Ahead of them lay a small clearing. When the deer leaped into it, and was illuminated by the sunlight, Dunmor would shoot.

           Dunmor put the arrow to the string and pulled back. Bhaird sucked in his breath. Once again, his older brother would have the glory of bringing down the---

           The bellow of a horn split the air. Oleron's horse stopped instantly. Bhaird had to rein back and Falcon neighed in protest. Dunmor, momentarily flustered, took a moment before he leaned back in his saddle and called: "Ho!" Reluctantly, his stallion slowed to a halt. The deer darted away and was lost in the tangle. The horn sounded again. Bhaird glanced over at Oleron. He had gone pale. Oleron glanced at his brothers.

           "That is not good. That's---"

           "Right," Dunmor nodded crisply, putting away his weapons. "We had best head back."

           Instantly, Oleron turned his mount and pelted out of the woods. Dunmor spurred his horse past Bhaird's and followed their youngest brother. Bhaird glanced reluctantly back at the waving branches where the hart had vanished, then, his jaw tightening in disappointment, turned and galloped out of the forest as well.

           They made straight for the huts and smoking chimneys of the village, both Oleron and Dunmor disregarding any preparation before leaping the hedges. Bhaird trailed behind, not willing to risk Falcon’s knees, for he was older than the other two. They reluctantly slowed as they entered the walls of the village, for people were hurrying to and fro on their daily errands. Their hooves clattered on the hardened earth as they trotted through. Peasants leaped out of their path, and Bhaird was glad for it; if something was wrong, they would only get in the way.

           "Oleron!"

           A cry came from somewhere ahead of them, and Oleron's head jerked. Elinor came racing toward them, her hair windblown, one hand hiking up her skirts, the other clasping a piece of parchment. Oleron slid off the horse without thinking and ran to her. Bhaird blinked, and his heart gave a pang. Elinor was crying. Oleron grabbed her and she fell against him.

           "Oleron, it's your father."

           Bhaird went stiff. Peripherally, he saw Dunmor do the same. Elinor took a gasping breath and her face twisted.

           "Something happened while he was out riding with Lord Ackhenhaill. Ackhenhaill lost sight of him in the woods, and when he... Ackhenhaill...found him, Alasdair's horse was gone and he was lying unconscious in the rocks..."

           "Shh," Oleron pressed her to him, trying to comfort, but his face showed his terror.

           "It's too much the same..." Elinor whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. "It can't happen to you, too..."

           Dunmor jumped off his horse. His boots crunched on the gravel.

           "May I see the message?" he asked huskily. Bhaird still could not move. Elinor nodded, biting her lip, and handed him the parchment, which by now was rather wrinkled. Dunmor smoothed it out with his gloved hands and read it carefully. His rugged brow furrowed darkly and he swallowed.

           "Well..." He cleared his throat. "They should be bringing him soon. They set out right after they sent the messenger."

           "They shouldn't have moved him, Oleron," Elinor murmured, shaking her head. "You never move someone who has hit his head or his back..."

           Oleron did not reply. He just wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.             "Come," he said quietly, took her hand and lead her to the horse. He got on first, then helped her mount behind him. He turned grimly to his brothers.

           "Let us meet them on the road to see that they carry him carefully."

             They had done so. But all of the careful bearing in the world had not seemed to help. Thus, the three young men had stood restlessly beside their father all the rest of the day, all night, and all of the following day. And now all four of them could sense that, despite their best efforts, the end was drawing near.

           "Dunmor..."

           The sons jerked. Their father had spoken. Dunmor quickly knelt down by the bedside and leaned earnestly toward his father.

           "Yes, I am here, sir," he assured him, taking his father's right hand in both of his. Alasdair turned his battle-scarred, bearded visage toward his eldest and managed a slight smile.

           "My son..." He spoke as if breathing were difficult. "You are now the lord of Tioramir, and the largest portion of my realm."

           Tears sprang to Dunmor's eyes.

           "Please, Father, do not speak that way---"

           "Do not interrupt me, Son," Alasdair closed his eyes and took another ragged breath. He opened his eyes and looked steadfastly at Dunmor. "Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

           Dunmor's visage, as war-scarred as his father's, but warmer and sadder, clouded with grief.

           "Yes, Father," he said surely, but his voice was not steady. Alasdair glanced past Dunmor. Bhaird took a small breath and his muscles readied to take Dunmor's place beside his father.

           "Oleron," Alasdair said. Bhaird stopped, disconcerted. He turned quickly to his younger brother. Oleron, just as surprised, blinked several times before moving forward. Bhaird stepped back, out of the way, fighting the feeling of offense that rose within him. Dunmor moved to back away as well, but Oleron rested a firm hand on his older brother's broad shoulder, knelt down close beside him and clasped both Dunmor and Alasdair's hands in his.

           "Yes, Father?" Oleron searched the older man's face. The old man smiled, reached up with his left hand and put it to the side of Oleron's face.

           "My dear son..." Alasdair sighed. "You, who have your mother's eyes...I am proudest of you."

           Dunmor cast his gaze downward. Bhaird just stood. Oleron's brow furrowed.

           "We have all striven to please you, my lord," he insisted. Alasdair's smile remained and he closed his eyes.

           "Yes, I know. But you have changed----changed in such a way that you have taught me many things. And you chose a wife! A wife that has brought so much happiness to all of us."

           Oleron's expression softened and he did not argue. Bhaird could see that Dunmor was pained by their father's comment, and only remained kneeling there because of the calm touch of Oleron's hand.

           "My precious, third son..." Alasdair whispered to Oleron. "You shall receive the western islands in my possession---Islay, Iona, Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailre---the ones you and I used to sail through when you were a lad." Alasdair's eyes caught a glint of fire. "Once you are established there, it should be easy work to take the other islands. Then you can truly enjoy them instead of worrying about your borders."

           "I shall enjoy them by remembering when we were there together," Oleron responded quietly.

           "Yes, yes, of course," Alasdair resigned, dropping his hand, his breaths beginning to rattle. "I need no oath from you. I know you shall accomplish what is honorable. Bhaird, come here."

           Stiffly, Bhaird knelt down, thinking that there was no room at the bedside. But then Oleron let go of his father and Dunmor's hands and opened his side to Bhaird. Bhaird edged in and Oleron put one arm softly around Bhaird's shoulders and one around Dunmor's. Alasdair's eyes became more intense this time and he regarded Bhaird from the depths of seriousness.

           "I bequeath to you, second son, a realm I have never seen. It is far away, across the sea, across the bridge that Finn MacCool built."

           Bhaird's brow furrowed and he leaned closer.

           "As you may know, my son, there is a land across the sea called Erin," Alasdair continued with difficulty. "There is a castle there in the county called Antrim, and its surrounding lands are vast. But there has not been one of the MacDomnhaill there for decades...I fear that all order has fallen to ruin." Alasdair spoke urgently. "I know that you will find a way to restore MacDonald rule to that savage place. Do you swear to rule with honor and fidelity, with every action paying homage to your fathers and the God of Heaven?"

           Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then finally, he nodded.

           "Yes, my lord. I do."  

           Alasdair let out a long, relieved sigh and smiled.

           "You all have been good to your father. You have served me faithfully." He reached up a shaking hand again and touched Oleron's cheek. His brow furrowed strangely. "I love you---do you know that? It is I who am honored to have had you with me..." He lowered his hand and it settled on the bed sheets. His eyes beamed on Oleron. And then he was gone. Bhaird blinked. Nothing dramatic had happened---the light had simply extinguished behind his father's eyes. Alasdair's body went still and silent.

           No one moved for a moment, and then Oleron made a strangling sound as if he had been struck. Dunmor shot to his feet and froze, his shoulders tightening, his brow twisting. Oleron covered his face with one hand and leaned down onto the bed. Bhaird backed away, shrugging off Oleron's arm, stood and marched out of the room, leaving the door swinging open behind him.      

             "Bhaird? Bhaird!"

           He recognized Dunmor's voice through the blur in his mind but he did not stop pacing back and forth across the flagstones of the small, dimly-lit dining hall. Footsteps sounded hollowly in the corridor outside and then Dunmor appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.

           "Bhaird, why did you leave?" Dunmor asked raggedly.

           "What do you mean?" Bhaird snarled, stalking relentlessly, his head down. "We've been in that blasted room for two days now. The stale air was driving me mad."

           Dunmor seemed at a loss.

           "Oleron...Oleron thinks you are angry at him," he finally told him.

           Bhaird said nothing, just sharply kicked a dry piece of bread that the dogs had not found. Dunmor took a few steps into the room.

           "Are you?" Dunmor asked cautiously.

           Bhaird whirled, shooting his brother a steely look before returning his attention to his rapidly moving feet.

           "Should I be?"

           "No," Dunmor responded quietly.

           "Really?" Bhaird snapped with biting sarcasm. "And why not?"

           "He has done nothing to injure you," Dunmor gravely answered. Bhaird lifted his head and pointed viciously at Dunmor.

           "Exactly!" The speed of his pacing increased, but now he directed his tirade at his brother. "He has done nothing! How many times has he gone to battle for Father's causes? How many times has he captained ships for him? How many times has he met with enemies to see whether wars would begin or end?"

           Dunmor came silently closer and leaned sideways against the table, but Bhaird did not slow. His volume rose as his voice grew unsteady.

           "How many times did he take archery lessons? How many hours did he ride with him? How many often did he try so hard to please him that he ended up bruised or bleeding?" Bhaird gestured vehemently. "Oleron has done nothing! Not compared to you or me!" He stopped in front of Dunmor, his hands clenching into fists as he shouted. "Dunmor, I could have died for him! And Oleron always sat back here at Tioramir in Father's throne, eating grapes and whatever else and running gold through his fingers! All he did was flatter and contrive and...and get married---" Bhaird choked on that last bit, then let out a pained, shocked laugh, slapping his hands to his head. "And so, naturally, Father decides that Oleron is the one who inherits Islay and Eilean Mor and Eilean na Comhailne and Iona while I get some obscure piece of land across the ocean overrun by pirates and Gaels! And Oleron took no oath!" He flung his arm out in a despairing gesture, his voice at the edge of his control. He was shaking terribly. He turned his back on Dunmor and braced himself against the wall with his right arm, hanging his head. He swiped at his face. Dunmor approached him softly and stood near.

           "That isn't what is troubling you, is it, little brother?" he asked softly. Bhaird's brow tightened angrily and he lowered his head further.

           "What's troubling you," Dunmor sighed."Is that you think Oleron was the only one that he loved."  

           Bhaird could not speak for a long moment. Then, he finally managed.

           "Well? Is that not what it sounded like?" he said through clenched teeth. Then he heard someone shift his weight near the doorway.

           Bhaird stood upright quickly and turned around. Oleron was standing on the threshold, arms loosely at his sides, his face blank. Bhaird, trapped, felt a twinge of nausea, wondering how long his brother had been standing there. Oleron saw the turbulence on his brother's faces, for his expression of grief deepened. He shrugged helplessly and swallowed. He tried several times to speak, then shrugged again.

           "I..." He stopped a moment, for his voice was too unsteady. He took a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," he said simply. He stood for just another moment, then closed his hands into loose fists and cast his gaze at the ground. Hesitantly, he turned, as if waiting to be called back. Hearing nothing, he strode off down the hall. As his footsteps died away, Dunmor glanced at Bhaird, painfully chagrined. Bhaird said nothing in reply. Their hearts were too torn for them to move. Thus, they simply stood, their shoulders touching, as the single bell in the tower rang, signaling the death of the great MacDonald lord.

               Elinor lay in bed, staring straight up, watching the patterns that the twin candle flames cast on the red velvet canopy above her. The fire in the fireplace had smoldered down to embers, and the wide room, filled with comfortable furniture and pillows, seemed colder this evening. She shifted achingly and adjusted the covers so they were up around her shoulders. It was past midnight, she knew. But ever since she married, she could not sleep unless Oleron was by her side; especially when she knew he was in so much pain.

           The latch on the door across from the bed quietly worked. She sat up, brushing a strand of long hair behind her ear. The wooden door creaked softly open and she recognized Oleron's form within the shadows as he eased into the bedroom. She saw him lift his gaze and catch sight of her.

           "I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered apologetically.

           "I wasn't asleep," she assured him. He turned and shut the door, but his movements were limp and his shoulders sagged. Elinor felt herself tremble.

           "What happened?"

           He just stood, halfway turned, his hand on the latch. Elinor went cold. She threw off her blankets, stepped down onto the floor and padded softly toward him, her long nightgown whispering on the stones. She stood near him and urgently searched his dimly-lit face.

           "Oh, no," she murmured, her lip trembling. "He...He didn't..."

           Oleron bit his lip, then shook his head dumbly, leaning back against the door. Elinor could not speak for a long moment.

           "Oh, my sweetheart!" she finally gasped, reaching toward him. The effort was almost too much, but he accepted her brokenly, letting her wrap an arm around his neck and pull him to her. With quivering arms, he embraced her at last, then began to cry. She felt his hot tears against her neck and snuggled him tighter, stroking the back of his head.

           For an interminable time, the two remained there, rocking slightly back and forth. Then Elinor gently backed up, sliding her hands down his arms, and took his hands. She led him gently to the bed and urged him to sit on the edge. She then knelt, her hair spilling in a waterfall down her side, and slowly pulled off his boots.

           "Lie down." She touched his shoulder gently and he did as she asked, easing down onto his side. It was then she could see his tear-streaked face, and her heart broke.

           "Move over a little," she urged, trying to control her emotion, and he absently did so. She pulled the covers out from under his legs and draped them over him, then climbed in and lay on her side as well, her back to him. Without speaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in so she could feel his heartbeat against her back, the warmth of his arms all around her and his breath against her hair. She rested her hands over his, gently playing with his gold wedding band. Elinor could feel and hear him still crying almost silently, and she was so close that his sorrow swept over her until she could sense it in her muscles. Soon, burning tears of her own slid down her nose and face and she nuzzled closer to him. She did not speak, knowing that if he wished to talk, he would begin it.

           "My brothers are angry with me." His voice sounded so weak she barely recognized it. Her brow furrowed.

           "Why?"

           He took an unsteady breath.

           "Father bequeathed me several valuable islands in the west; his favorite islands. And he told me he loved me." His voice softened. "He only told me."

           Elinor swallowed, bewildered.

           "You mean...he did not say that he loved Dunmor and Bhaird?"

           Oleron was silent for a long time.

           "No."

           "I know he did love them, though," Elinor said quickly. "I could tell that he did, every day."

           "I know," Oleron agreed wearily. "But upon his deathbed...is not the time for a man to single out his favorite. It tends to...stick in a person's mind."

           Elinor groaned and closed her eyes briefly.

           "Yes, you're right. But I don't see why they should be angry at you." She fleetingly adjusted the bed covers. "You have nothing against them, do you?"

           "I love my brothers, Elinor," Oleron whispered, as if it was difficult. "They have no idea how much I love them."

           "I know that, too," she assured him. They were silent for a few minutes, allowing their tears to dwindle. Elinor took a deep breath.

           "I love you, Oleron, and I would never want to be anywhere without you," she began, her hand closing around the sheet. "But this is what is terribly frustrating for me about being here. When something like this happens, asking for a doctor is like delivering a death sentence. They don't even wash their instruments! Back home, we could have taken your father to the hospital, and they might have been able to do a surgery to repair his lungs or his back...But here; here, you can't do anything but wait to see if a man's own strength is enough to bring him through."

She shifted slightly. "I've thought about it before once or twice, in the middle of the night, and it scares me, Oleron. What if something were to happen to you---or me, or anyone---what would we do? What would we do if someone got cut or got sick or fell off his horse or slipped on the ice?"

           Instantly, she felt Oleron's arms tighten around her.

           "Don't say things like that, Ellie, please," he murmured earnestly. His voice stiffened. "What would I do if that happened to you?"  

           Realizing immediately that she had erred, and had instead increased is anxiety, she twisted gently so that she could see him, adjusting her shoulders so that their faces were only inches apart. She gazed at his worried countenance for a moment, then smiled tenderly, trying to be reassuring.

           "You would go back in time and rescue me," she whispered, running her forefinger across his eyebrow. "Just like you did last time."

           His eyes filled with emotion.

           "It doesn't work that way anymore, Elinor. You know that," he breathed. His eyebrows came together and his gaze searched her deeply. "Promise you'll never leave me."

           "I made that promise three years ago, Oleron," she reminded him steadily. "You do not need to worry. I am never going to leave you."

           She leaned toward him and kissed him gently, then snuggled down to rest her head against his heart. They did not speak any more, and neither could they sleep, for Oleron's spirit was too heavy with sorrow, and Elinor was determined to do all she could not to let him feel alone.  

               Bhaird threw another cloak into his trunk on top of his other belongings. This was his fourth chest to pack this long morning and he was thoroughly sick of such a chore.

           "My lord, you mustn't just toss it inside," Macy, a young household servant, chastised. "There'll be no room for more important things."

           "Leave me alone, Macy," Bhaird snapped. Macy stopped in the middle of folding the cloak and stared at Bhaird, wide-eyed.

           "My lord?"

           "Leave me!" Bhaird commanded, pointing at the door. "I am not a child---I can pack my own chests."

           Stunned, for Bhaird had never spoken that way, Macy managed to nod numbly.

           "Yes, my lord," he murmured, set the cloak down carefully into the chest and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Bhaird's jaw tightened, he screwed his eyes shut and leaned both hands down upon the bed. He hung his head.

           He could barely breathe. It had been weeks since his father's funeral, and still the pain had not subsided. Instead, it churned and snarled within him, pulsing through his veins and tightening his chest. He could not be rid of it. It followed him all through the hours of the night, keeping him awake, tying his bedclothes in knots. Deep in his heart, he simply wanted to collapse onto his bed and sob, but would not allow himself. He could not be so weak. He was a MacDonald lord now, not simply a second son.

           He rose up and paced about the bare, stone-floored room, for he found that if he stood still too long his throat would simply close, and the dark shadow that was his grief and rage would overtake him. Forcing his mind to focus, he cast his gaze about his chamber, trying to think of anything else he ought to pack. But he could not think. His emotions were too blinding.

           This morning, he was leaving Tioramir, the castle where he had been born. And what tore him was---he wanted to leave. He never wanted to see this place again. And Oleron, his brother---well, he never wanted to see him again either. Yet, much to his consternation, the two of them were to travel together in caravan south-westward, for both of their newly-inherited realms lay in that direction.  

           He turned and kicked the chest so that the lid slammed shut loudly.

           "Macy!" he bellowed. "That's the last one. Have someone come up here and haul it

down."

           With that, he turned and yanked on his riding boots, strapped on his belt and sword and threw a cloak over his shoulders. He pulled the door open just as Macy and two other servants were entering. He did not acknowledge them, but carelessly marched down the stairs, ignoring their stammers of "Pardon, m'lord," and silently worked at his cloak clasp. He passed a window in the corridor that had an open shutter. Scowling at it, he moved and closed it, darkening the hall and shutting out the sounds of the birds.

               The great entourage stood waiting in the yard. Each young lord had two wagons to bear their portion of household inheritance and treasure, and each was taking four servants and twelve guards. The gray morning was rather cold, and a mist had settled within the gentle slopes of the deep emerald hills. The forests were still shadowed in soft darkness, and only a few songbirds had ventured to wake so early, and so their tunes sounded lonesome. The twenty-five horses, however, were fully awake, for they had early sensed that the day of travel had arrived. Their hooves scraped the gravel of the yard, and when they snorted, halos of warm breath surrounded their heads.

           Bhaird, shutting the small, creaking door behind him as he left the castle, tugged his cloak tighter around his throat, his booted feet crunching the hard earth as he walked. Glancing up, he spotted Elinor helping to pack the wagons. She was clad in a dark red traveling dress and a brown cloak. Her hair hung loose, and her face appeared careworn and pale, but no less lovely. Bhaird's steps slowed, his brow furrowing. He had not seen her much these past two weeks---she had been too busy comforting Oleron.

           A dart of resentment shot through Bhaird. How could she not have realized that they all needed her feminine comfort---not only her husband? It was not as if they had a mother, or a nurse to speak soft words to the older brothers as they grieved. This past fortnight, Oleron had had Elinor to keep him warm during the night, to embrace him there and ease his pain. Dunmor and Bhaird had been alone in their own chambers, staring at the ceiling. And during the day, Elinor had walked back and forth with Oleron, sometimes disappearing for whole afternoons. She had rarely spoken to Bhaird. He tightened his jaw, refusing to consider why this made him so deeply angry.

           She pushed a rolled-up tapestry into a small space in the wagon, then turned and saw him. She dropped her hands and took a step toward him, but his countenance was not hospitable. Elinor stopped.

           "Hello, Bhaird," she said quietly.

           "Hello," he answered tightly, moving toward Falcon.

           "How are you?" she asked hesitatingly.

           "Well enough to ride," he replied. He avoided her gaze so that he would not see the hurt on her face and checked the cinch on his saddle. Falcon snorted in discomfort and stomped his front foot as Bhaird tightened it .

           "Shut up, you," Bhaird snapped harshly. "You are not going to be tossing me onto my back. Not today." His throat closed as images of his father toppling from his own horse flashed through his mind. His eyes shut tightly and he bit his cheek.

           "Bhaird..." Elinor murmured. "Are you..."

           "No, Elinor," he said shortly. "Never you mind." He stormed back toward the castle, terrible feelings pulsing through him. He should not have spoken like that to her or Falcon. Yet he could not think of what else he could have said.

           He had almost reached the small door again when it opened and Bhaird almost ran into Oleron. Oleron was dressed in his black riding clothes embroidered with red lions---a princely gift from their father. Oleron was even paler than Elinor, and the darkness under his eyes made him appear as if he had not slept the whole two weeks. Bhaird tightened. He had not spoken to his brother all this time. Oleron slowed to a halt, but appeared too weary to jerk in surprise. He tiredly lifted his bright, sad eyes to Bhaird's.

           "Where is Dunmor?" he wondered, almost apologetically. Bhaird shrugged, reluctant to trade words.

           "I do not know. I haven't seen him yet this morning."

           Oleron looked as if he wished to say something else, but Bhaird made sure his expression forbade it, and so Oleron only nodded, his eyebrows coming together, and cast his gaze down.

           "Oleron! Here is your horse."

           Oleron's head lifted quickly and he gazed past Bhaird. Bhaird turned to see Dunmor, clad in long black and their father's MacDonald tartan, leading Oleron's ebony stallion. Dunmor did not look much better than Oleron, but strength seemed to rest beneath his sorrow, for he also appeared to be bearing a great weight. Still, his brown eyes warmed, and he actually smiled at his brothers. Tears suddenly threatened Bhaird, but he fought them. Oleron brushed past him and approached the eldest brother.

           "Thank you, Dunmor," Oleron said sincerely, taking the reins. Reluctantly, Bhaird drew near as well, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elinor take a few steps toward them. Bhaird sensed that the servants and guardsmen were ready; they now stood by their horses and wagons and had picked up their loads. They only waited in silence for the brothers to give farewells.

           Oleron stood before his eldest brother, head bowed, holding the reins in both hands, as if he did not know what to do with them. He then lifted his eyes and met his brother's, for Dunmor was very tall. A startling tear ran down Oleron's white face.

           "I had not thought to say goodbye to you so soon," he choked. He dropped his head again and his hands tightened on the reins. "Dunmor...I am too young for this."

           Without restraint, Dunmor took his brother in his arms and pressed him close.

           "None of us could have seen this, little brother," he spoke into Oleron's hair. "But I was always certain you would be a great man." He stepped back and took Oleron by the shoulders, looking him directly. "I know that you will not disappoint me."

           Oleron's jaw and brow tightened painfully, but he nodded with conviction. After just a moment, Dunmor dropped his hands and Oleron turned to gaze at Bhaird. Bhaird stood, not knowing what to do. Dunmor reached out his right hand to him. Shakily stepping forward, not wanting to stand near Oleron, Bhaird came to Dunmor's side. Dunmor reached up and took Bhaird by the side of the neck and brought him closer. For a long while, neither said anything as Bhaird desperately fought the tide within him. Then, Dunmor pulled him into an embrace as well---an embrace so like their father's that the tide nearly broke through.

           "Do not resent your brother forever," Dunmor whispered so that only he could hear. "He does love you."

           Bhaird felt stung, but would never force himself out of Dunmor's arms. Thus, after a moment, Dunmor released him. Oleron was weeping now, his head low, and Dunmor's cheeks bore tears. Dunmor then glanced past his brothers and opened his arms to Elinor. She ran to him, her hair and cloak flagging behind her, and buried her face in his chest. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

           "I hate it so much that we'll all be apart," she gasped into his cloak. "It shouldn't be this way."    

           Dunmor took a deep, shaking breath.

           "I know," was all he said. After a long, helpless moment, Dunmor let her go. She turned and grasped Oleron's hand.

           "May I ride with you for now?" she asked, wiping at her tears. Oleron nodded wordlessly. A servant brought Bhaird's horse near and so he mounted it. Oleron got on his horse first, then helped Elinor on behind him. Elinor reached down to Dunmor and he grasped her hand.

           "We will not be kept from you," she insisted. "Especially in the summers! It will be hard for you to leave here, but we will manage to see you as often as we can."

           "Good," Dunmor said earnestly. "Good. I will look forward to your visits."

           Elinor released his hand and he came to stand by Bhaird's horse.

           "I want to see you again someday," he said solemnly.

           "You will," was all Bhaird could think of, for he had gone cold---before this, he had never realized how distant Ireland truly was. Dunmor knew his brother's doubt, but did not speak. He merely nodded and backed away. He stood for a long moment, casting his saddened gaze over the entire assembly. He then took a breath and spoke, and the voice of the new MacDonald lord, admittedly gentler than his father's, rang out through the morning.

 “May you see God's light on the path ahead When the road you walk is dark. May you always hear, Even in your hour of sorrow, The gentle singing of the lark. When times are hard may hardness Never turn your heart to stone, May you always remember when the shadows fall— You do not walk alone.”

             Biting his lip hard, Bhaird turned Falcon, and was the first to lead the grieving caravan out of the castle yard and onto the moors. He only looked back once, and when he did, he beheld the gray towers of Tioramir cutting the sky, and Dunmor, standing alone, one arm raised in farewell.

Chapter Two

"Stolen"

             They traveled several days across the wild and chilly highlands, camping in niches in the valleys or among birch trees, trying to avoid the wind that tumbled over the hills at night. The going was slow, because of the wagons, and it was difficult to find terrain smooth enough not to upset them. Bhaird silently left that task to Oleron. He grudgingly had to allow that, though Oleron had always been much inferior to him in swordsmanship and archery, he was much superior to him in horsemanship, tracking and scouting. But rather than admit this, and suggest that Oleron lead the way, Bhaird had merely fallen back in the ranks, and settled for glowering at his younger brother's back.

           The first three nights were sleepless as all the others had been, but by the fourth, Bhaird was so sore and exhausted that he did manage to slumber for a few hours. He had his own small tent, for which he was grateful, and a warm bed of furs. This night, the wind howled without, sounding like someone lost out on the moor. The only light came from a small fire that had been built within the circle of tents, but the thickness of the tarp clouded most of it. Other, perimeter fires had also been set, but those were far enough away that they did not disturb him either.

           However, he had slept through only one watch when his tent flap was pushed aside.

           "My lord."

           Bhaird groaned and put a hand over his face, shielding his shut eyes from the intruding glare of the fire outside.

           "My lord, your brother requests your presence. He is waiting for you by the south perimeter fire."

           "Tell him to jump off a cliff," Bhaird growled. The guard hesitated.

           "My lord?"

           "Never mind, Gaskin," Bhaird muttered angrily, throwing his warm blankets off himself, snatching at his cloak and tossing it around his shoulders.

           "He also requests that you bring your bow."

           Bhaird stopped and squinted at the bearded man, not certain he had heard him properly.

           "What?" Bhaird said hoarsely, rubbing his face."What for?"

           Gaskin shrugged.

           "I don't know, sir," he said honestly. "I did not ask."

           Bhaird groaned again, shook his head, and grabbed at his bow and quiver. He did not bother to sling them over his shoulder as he pushed past Gaskin and stomped out into the chilly night.

           The wind cut through him, even down in this valley, and he cursed at his brother for dragging him out of his warm, fur bed. Who did he think he was, anyway? Dunmor?

           Bhaird, slouching his shoulders, shuffled down through the deeply shadowed camp to one of the perimeter fires where Oleron was waiting. The fire stood almost alone---it was the farthest reaching finger of the camp. Through the darkness, Bhaird could distinguish Oleron's form, sitting on a log with his back to him. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Bhaird approached the fire and stopped impatiently.

           "What is it, then?" he demanded.

           But his voice was cut off by a haunting wail that cut through the air. Bhaird stopped, stepping back quickly, his widened eyes darting about to search the forest beyond. Oleron turned his hooded head just slightly, and his blue gaze sliced across the distance between them.

           "Wolves," he murmured deliberately, before turning his icy attention back to the shades of the trees. "Have you not heard them?"  

           "No, frankly, I have not," Bhaird retorted, hating the fact that he had just shown his little brother a hint of fear. "I was actually sleeping for the first time in a month."

           Oleron ignored his tone, still staring into the blackness.

           "I shot at a few of them that came too near, but I believe I missed," Oleron said with almost eerie calmness, and it was only then that Bhaird noticed the bow that easily rested across Oleron's knees, and the quiver leaning on the log beside him. Bhaird raised his eyebrows.

           "Of course you missed," Bhaird could not resist jabbing. "When will you learn not to even try with that thing?"

           "That is why I sent for you," Oleron replied, not missing a beat, but still not looking at him. "I thought your bow might be useful."

           "Sent for me?" Bhaird barked, his temper finally getting the better of him. "You? Sent for me? I am the elder, here! Why should you be summoning me?"

           Oleron turned to him and cocked an eyebrow.

           "Because you were asleep and I was awake. Because I heard the wolves and you did not," Oleron stated. "Because I was out here and you were up there. And because you can shoot and I cannot."

           Fury rushed through Bhaird's whole body, but as a result he became utterly mute. Oleron turned from him, back to the woods.

           "But if you would rather go back to bed, feel free." Subtle sarcasm entered his voice. "I cannot see what would hold you here."

           Just then, three wolves joined in a chorus of howling---and they did not sound particularly far away. Bhaird stared at his brother. When Gaskin had first told him that Oleron was sitting by one of the perimeter fires, Bhaird had naturally assumed that his little brother was afraid to be out here alone. But now, watching Oleron with narrowed eyes, Bhaird did not get that sense at all. Oleron appeared completely calm, alert and still, an almost wolfish aspect of his own possessing his countenance. Also, the golden firelight accented a deep impact scar on Oleron's cheekbone---a scar that Bhaird had somehow formerly missed. Whatever his brother was, he was not afraid. Bhaird swallowed, trying not to show his disconcertion.  

           Grudgingly, Bhaird strung his bow, then eased forward and sat on another log across from Oleron. Neither of them spoke a word for hours as the ethereal night sounds of the menacing wood surrounded them. Oleron remained almost still, except for his ever-vigilant eyes.

           A branch snapped and dropped away from the fire, tumbling onto the ground near Bhaird's feet. Bhaird bent down and tossed it back into the crackling flames, causing the light to flare up and once more highlight Oleron's scar.

           "Where did you get that?" Bhaird found himself questioning. Oleron glanced at him inquiringly, and Bhaird tapped his own cheekbone. The right side of Oleron's face twitched slightly, and he turned away.

           "I got hit in the face."

           "With what?" Bhaird pressed. Oleron did not answer for a moment.

           "A fist."

           Bhaird blinked. He did not remember Oleron ever participating in a fight.

           "What? When was that?"

           Unexpectedly, Oleron smiled, as if he simply could not help himself. He actually chuckled.

           "Never mind. It really does not matter."

           Bhaird glared at him. He absolutely hated the way Oleron talked; as if he was some prince of men instead of just the spoiled third son of a lord---and his younger brother. Such insolence wiped all curiosity from Bhaird's mind. He turned his shoulders away from his brother, casting his attention out toward the beasts.

           Perhaps Oleron's arrows had frightened them earlier, or perhaps the presence of two armed men by the fire now was more intimidating. Whatever the reason, the wolves did not venture near again. By the time dawn arrived, their shadowy presences had faded away like wraith with the coming of the light.

             The next day, they arrived at the halfway point: the tumbling, roofless walls of a long-abandoned church. The caravan quieted as they approached, gazing up at the silent, ivy-covered, dark gray stones and elegant, broken-down windows. Oleron called a halt for a rest and a meal.

           In the bustle that followed, Bhaird caught sight of Elinor gracefully dismounting, then gingerly approaching the ruins, drawing her cloak around herself. The look on her flushed face stilled him. Her expression held a mix of wonder and sadness, and almost reverence. Silently, and unbeknownst to anyone else, she slipped through the church door and disappeared. Without thinking, Bhaird followed her.

           His booted feet were quiet upon the lush grass and foliage, and no sound accompanied him but the slight flapping of the hem of his cloak. Hesitating just a moment, he ducked through the narrow, low door and entered the utter stillness of the church.

           The earth had long ago swallowed the paving and replaced it with thin, tender grass. Slate stones from the fallen roof littered the ground. The steel gray of the sky above almost gave the impression of their being inside, and the day was so still and cool that no breath of air moved his hair or clothes.

           He glanced to his left where stood a great, tall window, the top broken down. A risen part in the floor just beneath the window was the only indication of where the altar had been.

           Elinor stood up there, on the platform, not moving, her back to him. He slowed to a halt and stared at her, suddenly awkward. He had not spoken to her since he had snapped so harshly at her on the yard of Tioramir.  And now, the longer he was quiet, the stranger he felt. Should he speak, or go back out and leave her alone? However, despite his best efforts, he found he could do neither, and stayed rooted to the spot.

           A shaft of sunlight briefly cut through the clouds, shining through the main altar window. Elinor turned her head slightly, so he could just see her profile, and the sunlight lit her up, shining in a halo around her head and gracing the edges of her garments. She caught sight of him, turned a bit more and smiled at him, looking for all the world like every angel he had ever imagined. He was struck.

           Oh, heaven, he suddenly realized, his breath catching. I am never going to see her again.

           He managed a feeble smile in return, knowing he had gone pale. She did not seem to notice, but turned her attention back to the decaying walls. She took a few steps toward him, her cloak and train trailing through the ferns behind her.

           "What is this place called?" she inquired softly, reaching out to touch a large, fallen stone.            "I do not know its original name," Bhaird admitted, his voice slightly listless. "For as long as I can remember, it has been called Rewyn." He took a breath. "The Ruin Between."

           The clouds covered the sun again, and the shaft of brilliance vanished. At the same time, a cloud passed over Elinor's face, and she turned to him.

           "Between?" Elinor wondered. He glanced at her.

           "Between...well, on the road between Dunmor's castle...and Oleron's."

           Elinor's shoulders sagged a bit.

           "That is a sad sounding name."

           Bhaird shrugged.

           "That's what it is," he murmured, casting his own gaze over the walls. "What it was long ago is forgotten. What it is now is rocks piled on top of each other. What it could have been, had it not been neglected...no one will ever know. It has no purpose, no potential...no future." Suddenly, he found himself staring into her concerned, intent, dark eyes, and his throat threatened to close. But he made himself go on. "Nothing will ever come of it. So why give it a grander name?"

           Elinor watched him for a long moment; not harshly, but deeply, and Bhaird found himself unable to break her gaze. Finally, she did it, and turned to leave. He closed his eyes and did not turn. Wordlessly, almost as an afterthought, she kindly touched his shoulder. A painful thrill ran all down his body, and he barely heard her leave.

           He forced his eyes open, but otherwise did not move, and stared hatefully around at the falling walls, bitterly resentful about what all of this said about the brother between.

              Three days later, they arrived. It startled them. One moment, they were struggling up a terribly rocky hill---leading their horses, cursing at the wagon wheels, catching things that tumbled out---and the next they stood gazing at a tremendous, four-towered castle, hung with banners, and surrounded by verdant hills and a quaint, many-chimneyed village. Beyond the castle stretched the breathtaking, silver sea; and shrouded in the morning fog, several dark, lush, rocky islands raised their heads above the distant waves. All of it was lit by the rich, shimmering, fresh sunlight of morning.

           "Oleron..." Elinor murmured in awe, leading her mare to the top of the hill, her hair lightly tossed by the cool, moist breeze. "It's beautiful."

           "Do you like it?" Oleron panted, leading his own horse up, and shoving his hood back.

           "Oh, yes..." she breathed, quite overcome.

           "Well," he shrugged. "Then it's yours."

           She looked at him, and he winked. Then, the first real smile she had shown in a month lit up her entire face. Bhaird felt jealousy pierce through him and he glanced away.

           It took great, painstaking effort to slide and wind their way down that hill. Finally, they reached a treacherous, narrow road, but compared to the uneasy footing they were used to, this road was a Godsend. The horses, sensing an end to their long journey, began tugging at the reins, and the carts clattered with an almost happy noise as they proceeded down toward the village.

           The lovely place was called Karliblagh. Bhaird had visited it once, when he was young. It had not changed at all, and appeared every bit as grand as he remembered---perhaps more so, for now he could appreciate the hard work it took to maintain an estate such as this, especially so close to the sea, where Vikings and other pirates always threatened to raid.

           Their horses' hooves clattered against the hardened earth of the central road, and as they entered, peasants began to emerge from their houses, or look up from their work. Bhaird noticed that the people living here looked prosperous. Their small homes were well-kept, their gardens flourished, their clothes appeared reasonably clean and carefully mended, and the scent of baking bread hung in the air. The peasants' faces lit up with realization and expectation as they followed the caravan's approach, and all of them gasped when a herald atop one of the castle turrets let out a welcoming trumpet call.

           Oleron lifted his head and took a deep breath, something sparking in his eyes. He smiled, then glanced at Elinor, who returned the look of anticipation. Bhaird shut all emotion out of his face.

            They arrived in front of the castle, which sported an impressive moat. A guard, poised between two flapping banners, leaned down and shouted through cupped hands. His voice rang through the village.

           "Who goes there?" he bellowed.

           Oleron cupped his hands around his own mouth to answer.

           "I am Lord Oleron MacDomnhail, son of Alasdair, Lord of the Isles."

           "And what brings you here, Lord MacDonald?" the guard questioned.

           "Lord Alasdair is dead! He has divided his realm between his three sons, and given Karliblagh into my hands as an inheritance!"

           The guard looked shocked. Several other guards darted over to gaze down at them, and they conversed with one another. Finally, the first guard called down again.

           "My lord! The gate shall be opened to you! Steward Ramphail will greet you in the courtyard!"

           About a minute later, the great, black drawbridge was lowered, the mighty chains clanking against the gears. With a final rumble, it nestled into the earth on the other side of the moat, making a wide enough bridge for the caravan to cross.

           The horses found this prospect slightly spooky, but in the end they entered the castle unscathed.

           Despite his foul mood, Bhaird had to marvel at the towering gray walls of the large courtyard. The windows in the walls were fairly large, and many servants were now hanging out of them at the prospect of catching a glimpse of their new master. The wain wheels and horse hooves clattered loudly against the stone, and every noise echoed. The servants chattered excitedly amongst themselves, filling the space with cheerful sound.

           "My lord!"

           Their attention was arrested by a finely-dressed, middle-aged, bearded man striding toward them. Without hesitation, he fell to one knee in front of Oleron, his right fist to his heart.

           "My lord, I am Ramphail, son of Laridhon, Steward of this castle and this township." He raised his head to smile broadly. "I met you when you were a boy---I doubt you recognize me, but I would know your face anywhere. Your father was my good friend." He took a deep breath. "It is my great pleasure to present and return to you the castle and realm of Karliblagh."

           Oleron dismounted and quickly bid the steward to rise. Oleron reached out his hand, and, after a moment's hesitation, Ramphail grasped Oleron's elbow. Oleron returned the grip, looking supremely serious.

           "Though the conditions which deliver this place to me grieve me deeply," Oleron said quietly. "I am relieved and comforted to find that Karliblagh has been cared for so diligently."

           Ramphail was delighted, and once Oleron had introduced Bhaird, Elinor, and his leading knights, Ramphail took a few rolls of official papers from Oleron and bid them all inside.

           Bhaird stiffly dismounted, and reluctantly allowed a stable boy to take the reins of his weary animal. Trying to walk straight and not wince or rub his back, for Oleron did not seem to be having any trouble, Bhaird followed Oleron and Elinor through the courtyard and through the towering, main oaken doors, which hung open to let in the light and the morning breeze.

           A narrow dimly-lit hallway suddenly opened up into a grand hall---and with it a black hole opened up in Bhaird's heart.

           The hall was incredible. Strong, thick pillars reached their towering fingers upward until they branched into graceful archways in the ceiling. Flags bearing the MacDonald crest draped from polished flagpoles. Two giant, square fire-pits in the floor were alight with cheerful, welcoming flames that filled the hall with warmth. The scent of a feast---game hen, pheasant, potatoes and bread, at least, if Bhaird was not mistaken---wafted out from a back room. And if he listened, he could hear the kitchen maids bustling and bickering and clattering unseen.

           Then he lifted his head---and slowed to a halt. The others kept going, but he paid them no notice as everything but the sight before him faded into the background.

           It was a throne. No---two thrones.

           They stood on a raised platform; ancient, sturdily built and simply grand, one slightly taller than the other. The wooden seats were draped with exotic fur, and behind the thrones, on the masoned wall, hung several war-scarred shields---shields of the great warriors and lords that had lived and defended in this place.

           Bhaird's mind reeled at the thought of what legendary and mighty lords had sat upon that throne, reaching back to ancient days. His fathers---his kin---had held this place with the strength and will of oxen, and had made it glorious.

           And now---Oleron would sit there. Oleron.

           Bhaird's blood ran cold.

           And Elinor.  

           "Bhaird?"

           Bhaird jerked at the sound of his brother's voice. Oleron had called stopped the others, and now had faced him worriedly.

           "Are you well?"

           "Yes," Bhaird lied stiffly. "Yes, I am fine."

           Neither Elinor nor Oleron looked convinced, but Ramphail began to speak again, telling Oleron all about the grand hall, and using the words "my lord" in every sentence. Bhaird made himself catch up to them as they gradually gave their attention back to the steward.

           "Servants shall be assigned to both of you personally," Ramphail explained. "And you, my lord," he nodded at Bhaird. "Shall also receive servants that will attend you during all the length of your stay."

           "That will not be necessary," Bhaird said flatly. They all turned to face him, confused.

           "I am afraid I do not understand," Ramphail admitted. Bhaird looked at him.

           "My entourage and I will stay for the morrow. The following morning we will depart for Ireland."

           "Surely, after such a long journey, you wish to recover yourself before you set out again! Especially before journeying to Ireland!" Ramphail exclaimed.

           "There is nothing to recover," Bhaird answered simply. "I refuse to trespass upon my younger brother's hospitality any longer than that. I am certain he has more important things to attend to than entertaining me."        

           Silence fell. And then deep hurt registered on both Elinor and Oleron's faces. Bhaird ignored it.

           "Now, if you please, could you show me to my quarters?" he asked, drawing himself up like the second son and lord that he was.

           A servant arrived the instant Ramphail motioned with his finger, and Bhaird turned and swept along behind him to ascend the stairs to his quarters. He could not possibly stay here any longer than a day. He could not bear the sight of this masterly castle---the castle that should have been his.      

              Elinor could not sleep. Oleron was in too much pain. She glanced over at him. Even as he lay there asleep, a shaft of moonlight gracing his face, his brow was furrowed. The way he rolled and tossed also told her that his dreams were just as bad as the sentiments he had expressed all evening.

           They had talked and talked, and neither of them could understand what had happened to Bhaird. It distressed Oleron so badly. He had tried so very hard, after coming back from his incredible journey, to make peace with his brothers, and to show them how much he had come to love them and their home. But that night, Oleron told Elinor that he had surely failed.

           Besides this fact, they were sleeping in an unfamiliar castle, in a bed that was not their own---and Oleron would have been inexpressibly grateful to have his older brother there to help him break into the lordship.

           Elinor turned her head and gazed out the tower window. What had happened to Bhaird? Setting her jaw, she realized that there was truly only one way to discover that. Cautiously, making sure not to disturb her husband, she slid out of bed, wrapped a robe around herself and slipped silently out of the grand chambers.

           She had a fairly good sense of direction, but this castle was vast and spooky in the darkness of night. However, she remembered a secluded section of the roof that Ramphail had shown them, and tried to find her way there. If she knew Bhaird at all---though that truth was uncertain, now--- he would have found his way there if he also could not sleep.

           At last, she arrived just at the door that led out onto that part of the roof. She hesitated a moment, then pulled it open, just a hair.

           She was right. He stood out there, facing the dark hills beyond. If she had not looked carefully, she might have thought it was Oleron. They were built much the same, and their hair was equally dark. But she knew how different Bhaird was from his younger brother. Bhaird’s clean-shaven countenance was not so serious, and his face not so aquiline. His shorter hair was boyishly disheveled, as always, and his mouth and Oleron's were dissimilar. Bhaird's mouth was wry, and was formed more gently than Oleron's. Elinor knew he was handsome, as his brothers were, but it was his eyes, really, that made him so unique among them. They were a warm, open brown; reflecting pools for his heart that simply sparkled.

           At least, they had sparkled, once upon a time.

           Taking a deep, saddened breath, Elinor pulled harder on the creaking door and stepped out into the night air. 

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Riddle-Walker-Weaving-Time-Book-ebook/dp/B071G1B6DQ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1572895982&sr=8-1-fkmr0

#novel #time travel #fantasy #time travel book #scotland #ireland #england #world war 2 #wwii #ww2 #navy #marines #holocaust #nazis #nazi #history #death camp #auschwitz #concentration camp #rescue #knights #lords and ladies #medieval #wizard #curse #spell #magic #riddles #quest #journey

[stuckonvenus]

𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤

Light the candle Put the lock upon the door You have sent the maid home early Like a thousand times before Like the castle in its corner In a medieval game I foresee terrible trouble And I stay here just the same.

Wyoming is the quietest place in the world

I know this, because even as I lay in my rickety bunk down at the marina, not a sound can be heard beyond the hushed rippling of the waves at shore. It’s mid-spring already and there should be more noise, an ambience; whistling crickets, croaking bullfrogs, a cooing owl perched in a nearby pine. Yet there is nothing. All I can hear is the water and my heartbeat, which hasn’t regulated itself since the sermon earlier today.

If the Marshal had known any of this —— there’s no doubt I’d be relieved of duty. Or maybe he’d leave me behind altogether. All I can hope for is that in such an instance, he’d save Rooney. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, and the last I knew she was shipped to where they processed the Bliss. I try and remember what she looked like, but my memory of her is fleeting and she melts before I can discern her features as I once knew them. All I can see now when I close my eyes is Love, and within that vision there are echoes of remorse for what I initiated, for what I put her through, but I never said I was a perfect person.

I never said I wasn’t a sinner.

Fatherhood isn’t in the cards for me as long as I’m stationed here. I know that much, even though my mind refuses to comprehend the very simple fact that I fucked up monumentally, which is only a testament to my mental instability. I can hardly care for my pet rabbit without entering the throes of panic whenever her wet cage pellets make contact with my skin. How could I ever attempt to clean all the grime that children possess from birth onward? It sickens me, honestly, and what sickens me worse is that I did this to myself. Because I’m stupid. They hired me for my intellect, but clearly I’ve since rescinded it in exchange for an uncharacteristic amount of desire for one person?

I feel colder than I did whenever I had my bushel of curls. At night it’s worse, because the shuddering I endure as a result of my untreated anxiety is amped by the drastic drop in temperature down by the water. My hands, skinnier than they were when I first arrived from the pure lack of nutritional value in any food served here, clutch my thinly-knitted blanket and pull it around my body, sunburnt and miserable from days spent in the scorching sun. Harris was right. This place belonged to the outcasts.

Whenever I feel particularly helpless, I think of home. It’s crazy, I think, and extremely ironic, that the place I spent years yearning to escape I now use as a means of hope. I close my eyes and I still count my breath, one, two, three, four, but with each inhale I imagine a new face, and when I exhale a scenario.

Breathe in.

One.

I see my best friend.

Breathe out.

We’re smoking dope on some random pier we found, likely trespassing in the dead of summer. My lungs have been untouched for sixteen sweet years until I place the joint between my teeth and suck in the bittersweet smoke. I choke instead of swallow and Eddie laughs his big, obnoxious laugh that skips across the lake like rocks that leave ripples in their wake. I cough harder, mucus unplugging itself from the back of my throat and sinuses, and he slams the heel of his palm between my shoulder blades before I spit a ball of phlegm into the murky water. It’s only then I can sputter out, My mom will kill me, to which Eddie response without pause, Fuck that motherfuckin’ noise.

Breathe in.

Two.

I see my ex-girlfriend.

Breathe out.

Ginny’s really fucking pretty. That’s all I think about whenever she’s rattling on about whatever it is she’s obsessed with at the moment —— today, I think she’s self-diagnosing herself with autism because one of her grade school teachers who had tenure and called her retarded for her lack of empathy, all because she shoved some Strawberry Shortcake lookin’ cunt out of her seat and gave her a nosebleed for trying to cheat off her test. I tell her that I think she’s just a bitch, her heterochromatic eyes focus in on me and squint devilishly, and then I’m being shoved onto her bedroom floor.

Breathe in.

Three.

I see my father.

Breathe out.

He’s cooking dinner. I’m thirteen or fourteen, I can’t quite remember, but it’s before the mental ticks started, and my abuela just visited and gifted him a family recipe. I’m translating the words scribbled in Spanish cursive on cardstock as he chops up the vegetables, asking me repeatedly if I’m certain I’m reading the correct ingredients. My Spanish was a lot sharper in my mind then than it is now, so I assure him that it’s all right, and I teach him each word as I go along so he can surprise mom whenever she gets home from the airport. As he places the casserole dish in the oven, he wraps an arm around me and notes how tall I am now, and it’s only thirty minutes later that I realize I mixed up cilantro with basil. We order Chinese instead.

Breathe in.

Four.

I see someone I’ve never met before.

Breathe out.

She’s very tiny, about as tall as where my knee sits on my leg, and she has big green eyes and sunkissed skin that looks much better than mine do now, all reddened and peeling. I don’t know her name, all I know is that I think I love her, which is odd because I don’t remember feeling this sort of love before. Not for my family or my best friends or my girlfriend. This is different, it’s more acute, it’s unexplainable. I lift her up and of course she weighs nothing in the space behind my eyes, but she smiles at me and it’s clearer than anything else I’ve seen so far as I’ve counted. I feel myself smile back. It’s not thinly stretched and forced, like it feels all my gestures are nowadays, in fact it’s so natural I don’t think twice about it. I forget to breathe.

I gasp. Reopen my eyes. Glance around, in the inky darkness of the marina’s boathouse that we all bunk in because no one could be bothered to build a proper shelter for the workers out here. For the forgotten ones. My heart rate has leveled out and despite skipping a beat I’ve keep my breathing even. I feel the stiffness of the camcorder shoved underneath my pillow, where I keep my bag, and I feel the urgency radiate from my bones as the tensions rise within my body and it isn’t fear or anxiety that fuels me now —— it’s a strange, unexpected command from my subconscious to get the fuck out.

Not alone. I may not be able to rescue Rooney, but there’s one girl in the Meadows I think is worth the risk for, and another one who lives only in my imagination but exists out there, in that bunk we once shared.

So I reach my hand beneath the pillow, retrieve my bag, sling it over my head, and skirt around the bunks for the nearest exit.

Fuck this motherfuckin’ noise.

#ridley — character study.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Liberation Through Hearing

Face of chatoyant spirit wears the mask of the monoliths Reality is just a dream that we wake up from.   The unweighted greatness of nature, immortal in its wise perfection Knows that the spirit is boundless. Hitherto, stone beings cling to matter.            I’m in a tesseract of            delusion calibrated in            detached spiritual celibacy. Dimensional portals hang on the mouth of your volition—chew on complex infinity— All consciousness wears an axis, while bodies wearing a thousand todays cling to eternal reverence. I want to be free   from the color of Ego. I swim in the prominent void— dark red, burnt green machine. This plasma makes bread out of plagues. There is no plague without a form. Life is a paradox. I thread the needle Into every question, implore its source from divine intuition. The molasses of thought is tossed out by death’s receptionist.   I digress, clinging to the relic of flesh.   Empyrean kingdom disguises as rot Surrendering to the soft decay of the lockjaw lotus: We wear the cyclic birth as a ribbon of exaltation—such false refuge— You cannot catch your breath if you’re looking at your carbon.   Quartz disguises as corpse, consumes the closed eye vista.     These feet are roots. Branches of time. I’ve been taking a spade to my own limbs pleading for the key. Mother, have you found me? Liana of soul serpant keeper shakes The globe, peers curiously beyond the glass Writing rubrics on the semester of my own reflection.   I sacrifice the sediment of auric residue, the orenda Climbs into the Rorschach of fluttering vomit.   Horror and awe claim the same name. If I say my name out loud three times I might appear and rise like smoke from this yawning mouth, fall down to the ground like a scorched church over the night gaping in its star-charmed expanse. Electrons burst inside the serpent attached to my spine.  Devoured by all space and its color I                                                                                    release into Sacred Atonement!                                                      The gatekeeper has delivered the seraphim. Sacred Atonement!                                                      Icaros echo the dissolution of illusion. Mortal Eclipse!            Fear paints the self into an obsidian oblivion Mortal Eclipse!        ��                                        Flesh recoils from the palace of its own cocoon—                                                I boil in the samsaric sea. Sacred Atonement!                                                      Centipedes consume inches                                    Humans consume the precipice of every hour                        Energy consumes the infinite, measured by the breath of an aeon Mortal Eclipse!            The ego is carnivore and consumes itself Sacred Atonement!            The soul is a peach wearing pearls Mortal Eclipse!            The body is a sacred vessel wearing its quiet expiration.   The carnal mind bows into broken wishbone, yielding its buttery marrow.   Sacred Atonement!            I absorb into the disintegration of a seeds constellation. Time fulfills its perfect circumference. I’m a mouse in a solar maze chewing chimerical wax. The soul is the silvering flame.  Atoms-eating-body navigate the labyrinthine vein of bough becoming estuary. The light of a candle shines deific through a burning lyre, calling from the dimensional void:            “Mirror, mirror before the fall            shows the projection beyond your eyeballs.” I peel the bark from my face and touch the Earth’s mantle, Shake the leaves into the exposed heart-sun core.   Nothingness as canvas.   I feel like an infant— A fresh fetus of fruit nursing the tender breast of bardo medicine.                        Void. Your nucleus is a throne for the universe.                        Void. Become the soul without the self.                        Void. The body is a toy in a parlor of fire. There is no hell, only empty sky.                        Void I am the sun seeking the source   Synthesizing terror and curiosity. She planted seeds.                        Void. Unavoidable atlas.   Do not resist. Do not be afraid. Wander serenely in riddles of caves. The ruins begin to look like cathedrals.   The Tree of Life climaxes during the second death. What did you think she would sound like?            The ecstasy of release, hysteric revelry                        Mirthful catharsis becomes laments; twines the vine of itself            Along the spine of the trunk. Death is The metamorphosis of existence. You are The God having a human experience. Laughter is The fingerprint of the celestial self.   Incarnation does not grow linear.   My pomegranate womb plugs its roots into The veins of the Earth;   Wraps itself in life’s warm testament. She takes a hammer to the stone illusion Breaking it apart into floating cubes Disappearing into space. Reality is funny isn’t it? The certainty within the hour has expired, The last second has gone back into itself, Inside the mouth of reality’s coiling serpent. Time consumes itself and recycles Into the fertile soil of pristine cognition.   Fear is the germination of every karmic lecture. If all is one, then I am the Ether’s sister. I want to look into the eye of forever and confess my admiration. For Love is how the soul evolves. Be pleased yet once again to observe Your shifting flesh form into a newly fragile film of spectral matter. Is there really any difference between that of intuition and the angels?

Instead of cowering under the web of death’s riddle, I look onward, fascinated, at the tree before me weeping the golden harvest of its sappy denouement-- Retiring back into the capsule of the circadian season.   

#ayahuasca #poem #writerscreed #poetry riot #poets on tumblr

[roraewrites]

Uproot - Chapter 12

Everything Comes to an End Rating: K+

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The stench was horrible.

It smelled of death, tasted of copper, and twisted Sakura's stomach in knots. The pain within her curse burned, scratched at the cream skin of her neck, begged to be released; she fought it, fought the feeling to kill and destroy. The pinkette pushed on though, leading her team through the winding halls, directly towards Orochimaru. She felt the low growl in her throat vibrate through her body, the hate that stored up in her mind for the Sannin.

"And where do you think you're going, Sakura?"

The voice that echoed through the halls stopped Sakura in her tracks and her skin began to crawl. She hated the owner of the voice.

Kabuto.

With narrowed eyes, she turned to face the white haired shinobi. He sat atop on one of the archways in the room that lead to another hall. His nonchalant attitude angered Sakura more, making the seal on her neck weaker and less resistant to her emotions.

A loud scream ripped from her throat as the curse transcended through her body, pulsating with rigged jolts of electricity and fire, burning from the inside out, "where is he?!"

Kabuto smirked at the girl, noticing the amount of pain she was withstanding. When he looked up from Sakura, the flash of light against his lenses reflected onto the wall. He finally turned his attention towards Naruto and Kakashi, "you think you three will be able to beat Orochimaru and I? Sasuke was meant for Orochimuaru, and he won't be leaving with you three. It's a shame, really."

Naruto glared in the medic's direction, completely out of patience and rushing towards the man.

"Kabuto, we'll kill you if you don't tell us where he's at!"

Sakura could already see the chakra building up in Kabuto's hand, ready to slice at Naruto and deactivate his chakra points, "Naruto, stop!"

It was too late, though. Kabuto had vanished from his spot atop the archway, and appeared behind Naruto, crushing his fist into the blonde's back and sending him flying into the wall. Sakura and Kakashi each gasped at the scene, watching the chunks of wall hide Naruto's body within in, leaving Kabuto to face the last of the contenders. The chakra scalpels that his hands possessed flickered with a blue glare.

"Who's next?"

His cocky voice riled Sakura up more, and she was ready to pounce, to end his life here and now.

"Sakura, go. Look for Sasuke. Bring him back!" Kakashi yelled before uncovering his Sharingan and weaving the hand signs for his Chidori. The chirping of a thousand birds filled the small room, and before Sakura could look back, more of the building began to fall in on itself. She clenched her teeth at the scene unfolding and made her way down the nearest hall.

Even if I'm going the wrong way, I'll break through these walls and I'll find you!

Inner Sakura was ready to fight, while Sakura herself fought the urge to resort to her cursed seal's power. She refused to tap into that mode, refused to lose herself and harm the one she loves.

-

When she reached the end of the hall, she was faced by two more halls, each heading in opposite directions. The pinkette was close enough to Sasuke that she could sense his chakra signature. But he wasn't alone - Orochimaru was near him and his chakra was flaring with wild intentions. With chakra burning into the soles of her feet, she took off down the hall way to her left and continued to run.

Scenes of her and Sasuke in the forest took over her mind. His lips against hers, hot and wild. The memory soothed her thoughts and her body, and it began to fight off the effects of the curse mark. Her body became lighter, faster, and before she knew it, she was in the entrance of the corridor and facing the man she hated most.

"Ah, Sakura, my child. It's nice to see that you've returned."

His voice only aroused the curse mark, but Sakura refused to fall victim to his games. Behind the man laid Sasuke, motionless and covered in blood. Her heart faltered at the site and she felt her eyes narrow, fighting off the tears that welled up behind them. His chakra was flickering like a dimly lit candle, barely alive, yet breathing softly.

"What'd you do to him?" The room echoed her voice. It was much shakier than intended, but she fought off the nerves and clenched her fists.

I won't be weak.

"Come and see, won't you?" Orochimaru invited her, standing to the side and lifting his arm with an inviting gesture.

Sakura's left foot stepped forward, but she froze. The look in Orochimaru's eyes told her lies, and she stopped before it was too late. From his raised arm, a fleet of snakes lunged out at her from under his sleeve. The pinkette dodged his attack just in time, and she was in a defensive stance, "get out of my way!"

The snakes returned to him and he planted his body firmly in front of Sasuke's, beckoning her with his yellow eyes. The Sannin then crossed his arms, mocking his previous student, "come, Sakura. Quit being foolish and end this. This is still your mission, after all."

Sakura's mind was racing now. She couldn't focus solely on one thing, knowing all too well that Orochimaru had the upper hand in their environment.

"I don't belong to you. I'm not your toy anymore. I won't listen to you!"

She finally spotted a point to where she could get to Sasuke and protect his body from Orochimaru. As she began to reach behind her back and to her kunai pouch, Orochimaru sent another attack her way. Like she had seen many times before, his neck elongated, and he was coming at her. The Kusanagi that pushed out from his throat was aimed at her, and just in time, she dodged another one of his attacks and flung the kunai his way. The Sannin reflected the kunai out of the air with his sword and watched it bounce to the ground and towards the remainder of his body. The next sound that escaped his throat was a loud growl.

Sakura threw her body towards Sasuke's and grabbed him rather roughly, leaving their current spot and retreating towards the back corner of the large room. From behind her, the explosion from the explosive tag took out part of the wall, and much to Sakura's surprise, Orochimaru. Excitement coursed through her as she held Sasuke against her back, but her face immediately fell when the large chunks mud and earth shot her way.

Fucking clones.

He was standing on the opposite side of the corridor from her now, narrowing his eyes in on her. Sakura placed Sasuke's body down and out of the way, positioning herself in a defensive stance and awaiting Orochimaru's next move. She knew this wouldn't be an easy fight.

"You don't get that choice, Sakura. Either leave, or kill you," the loud and atrocious hiss sent shivers down the pinkette's spine. The yellow eyed Sannin glared at her, and she despised the way he snaked into her mind and soul.

"I'm not leaving without him, Orochimaru," Sakura spat out, gritting her teeth together. The way she stood over the motionless body was like a mother bear protecting her cubs.

"Fine. Then you'll die," The way his eyes narrowed in on the pinkette made her body go numb, and her mind go blank. The second she began to pull another kunai from her pouch, she was taking a swift kick to the ribs, and her back colliding with the nearest wall. A loud gurgle escaped her throat, and blood began to flow from her mouth.

"Don't touch him!" She screamed out in horror. Forgetting that the Sannin had probably broken multiple ribs, she was hurling her body towards him, kunai posed.

As she reached him and stood a mere foot away, her body stopped; motionless as ever. A horrible screech erupted from her small body, and she dropped to her knees and began to scratch at her neck. The curse mark was scorching hot and tears began to fill the corners of her eyes. As she dropped to her side, the cackle of Orochimaru made her cringe.

"Aw, my poor child. That damn curse mark doesn't behave for you it seems. Looks like it's only answering to me. What a shame."

Between loud whimpers and the throbbing of her neck, she looked to the motionless body; Sasuke lay there in his own blood, mouth partially open, his skin covered in dirt, cuts, sweat and bruises. She could sense the feint chakra flicker within him, and the longer it took her to get him out of here, the more blood he lost.

"It's a shame I can't use him as my next vessel. Looks like he'll just have to-"

Sakura flung her last kunai at her ex-mentor, making contact with his knee. The sharp inhale and curses that fell from the Sannin's mouth made her smirk.

"Now he's going to die, you little brat!"

As Sakura watched from her position on the floor, Orochimaru pulled his Kusanagi sword from within his body and held it over Sasuke's body. As he began the plummet of his sword towards Sasuke's body, the onyx eyes of the Uchiha opened and made eye contact with Sakura. The tears that had been streaming slowly from her eyes began to flow harder, and she was now screaming and flailing.

"Nooo!-"

Sakura's mind was blank now, all she could see was black. Except for the small window of light that seeped in, and all she could see was the distinct figure of Orochimaru's body flying across the room. The amount of power that coursed through her limbs made her light headed, but she still couldn't think clearly. Finally, the faintest scorch in the back of her mind made it all clear: the curse mark had taken over. She wasn't covered in the usual black vines, instead, she was in the final stage of her curse mark; gray skin, white locks of hair, and golden eyes.

This can't be.

Her body moved on it's own, poisonous spikes releasing from her body and hurling towards Orochimaru, who deflected each thorn and weaved his own hand signs, preparing to attack next. Sakura's anger got the best of her though, and with her tremendous speed, her hand was already around the Sannin's neck, squeezing with her great might.

"No," his words were faint as the pinkette squeezed harder. She couldn't think, though. Her body was acting on its own, and the more she squeezed, the more delight she got out of seeing Orochimaru squirm. She could sense his chakra dwindling under her hand, but he turned to mud and began to drip from her hand. Sakura's clenched her teeth in anger, cursing the many natures that the Sannin was capable of.

Sakura's cursed form was now standing in the center of the room, focusing on where Orochimaru would appear from next, but she couldn't focus completely. The intent to kill was too great, and she couldn't grasp her ahold of her body.

Stay calm! She tells herself, but her own body ignores her commands.

Orochimaru is now snaked around her legs, twisting up her body and finally resting his head against her white hair, hissing, "you've lost your concentration, my child."

Sakura fell to her back, intent on crushing his figure, but his soft physique only absorbed her intended attack, and she was smashing her own back into the stones. Orochimaru's neck elongated again, Kusanagi positioned towards her throat. His eyes glowed with a furious fire, and the corners of his mouth rose. Sakura's mind was racing now, and she began to panic. Her body, on the other hand, reacted on its own like it had been doing. The poisonous thorns from earlier emerged from her skin, stabbing into his body and injecting the poison that flowed from the tips.

Orochimaru groaned with a displeased grunt and uncoiled from her body, melting into the ground and disappearing from the scene. Air finally returned to her lungs and she pushed back up from the ground. Orochimaru was now across from her again, hunched over in pain and panting.

"When did you learn to do that?" His voice was hoarse and hardly audible, as his cells began to fight off the poison, but Sakura knew this fight was over.

The pinkette flash stepped from her spot in the room and appeared behind Orochimaru, grabbing him around the skull and throwing his face into the ground. The sudden movement to his body made him immobile, and he was now face down in the concrete, chuckling lowly. When he turned his head slightly in her palm, he flashed a toothy smile.

"You're really going to kill me?"

It's not something I want to do, but if it's going to stop you from hurting Sasuke, then I'll do what needs to be done, Sakura closed her eyes before winding her fist up and infusing it with chakra. The pinkette felt the thorns emerge from he knuckles, and in one fluid motion, it was plummeting into Orochimaru's throat. The immediate stench of blood invaded her nostrils, and she didn't bother looking at his form. Her mind immediately traced back to Sasuke, and when she looked up, she saw Sasuke's eyes on her; obsidian orbs glazed over with exhaustion.

The restraints on his arms finally vanished, and he was on all fours, watching Sakura in her cursed form. The anger still coursed through her body, but when she looked to Sasuke, she felt her core heat up. Her golden eyes flashed with danger when she removed her blood covered fist from Orochimaru's corpse. Sasuke simply swallowed and watched her slow movements.

The small breeze that blew across the corridor picked Sakura's hair up from her shoulders; the white strands moved slightly. Sasuke finally pushed himself up from the stone laid floor and moved slowly towards Sakura, cautious of her current form, but ready to take her into his arms. Sakura was now standing and facing him, her eyes narrowing in on his form. She screamed to him in her mind, telling him to stay away. She had no control over her body, and she would never forgive herself is she ever hurt him.

Before he could reach her, his onyx eyes widened in horror. Sakura's body collapsed to her knees, he head jerking back. From Orochimaru's body, was another that had emerged from the back of his dead body. He had Sakura's white hair clenched in one hand, and his Kusanagi piercing through her body. Her gray skin began to return to the usual cream, white stands of hair fading to pink, and golden orbs melting to a sea foam green.

Sakura could hardly make out Sasuke anymore. A wave of nausea overtook her mind, and bile began to rise to her throat.

She could hear it, her blood pattering against the stone floor. The sudden heat that rose to her face, along with the vomit that escaped her lips. It was coated in blood, and fell to the floor, along with her body that glided off of the Sannin's sword, but Sakura never felt her body hit the floor. Instead, she heard Orochimaru's blade plummet to the ground, and the clinking of metal made her more aware of her surroundings. Instead of her corpse hitting the floor, it was Orochimaru who lie motionless. His own body, cut in two, lying in both his and Sakura's blood, while she was recovered from the scene and pressed against Sasuke's chest.

Small coughs escaped Sakura's throat, and the pain in her abdomen pulsated through out her body.

"Sasuke," her voice is quiet and drowned out by the liquid in her lungs and throat. He pulls her closer to his chest, pressing his head into her blood and sweat covered hair. Her clothes are tattered from her cursed state, and her hair is now short. The white locks still clenched in Orochimaru's hand, and Sakura doesn't even care. Sasuke had cut straight through her hair with his kunai, while he blasted through Orochimaru's body with his Chidori.

"Don't speak," he hushes her. His eyes melt into a deep crimson as he lies her down on her back. The cold floor feels relaxing against the skin on her back, and she closes her eyes. "Sakura, keep your eyes open."

She doesn't listen, instead, she concentrates on the quiet hum that now vibrates through the room, concentrates on the feeling of something warm against her stomach, and delves into the sensation of how comforting and warm it feels. While it isn't as comforting as Tsunade's, it's repairing something inside her, and she no longer feels the constant pain surging through her.

When she opens her eyes, she sees Sasuke's hands trembling, but glowing in the faint green light that she's familiar to.

"What're you doing?" She moans out in a hushed whisper.

"I'm trying to heal you. You won't survive unless I try."

Sasuke's face is hidden by his obsidian hair, but Sakura can hear the pain in his tone. She can see the small drops of liquid drop from his eyes, and it breaks her heart. She recalls his countless visits to her training sessions. He would watch from the corner with his Sharingan activated; here he is, now, coping her technique using the mystic palm on her own dying form.

Sakura gulps down the copper tasting liquid once more and then feels the cold air blow over her body once more.

I'm going to die.

Her skin crawls, then descends under goosebumps. Her mind is growing hazy now, and she looks to Sasuke once more before reaching to cup his face with her blood covered hand, "you can stop, now. There's no use. I can feel it already."

He doesn't look at her, only applies more chakra to his hands and proceeds to carry on with his work. Sakura could sense the distraught emotion from him, the will to continue healing her, to save her, "you're not going to die."

She drops her hand from his face and smiles. She can feel the way her lips are dried and cracked, coated in her own blood, yet she still smiles.

"I'm happy we've been reunited, Sasuke."

She grows quiet, and it isn't until Sasuke sends another large pulse of chakra through her body that she closes her eyes for the last time. She feels the hairs of his head against her face, and then her mind grows blank. She's no longer conscious, and she leaves Sasuke.

-

"Sakura, wake up," he calls to her. He feels the small rise and fall of her chest, but can barely pick up on her chakra signature. It's smaller than most would deem comfortable.

She's on the brink of death now, and Sasuke is low on chakra himself, but he knows he must save her, must return back to the village. Without her, he'll be alone, and he knows he can't do this by himself.

I'll save you.

#ronan rae #writing #sasusaku #ss fanfiction #sasusaku fanfiction #sasuke uchiha #sakura haruno #uproot

[anneedmonds]

Simple Upgrades for a Showstopping Table

I’ve always fancied being the sort of person that could throw one of those dinner parties that seemingly only exist in Ferrero Rocher commercials and magazine shoots; French farmhouse tables overflowing with flowers and flickering candles, fine linen napkins placed upon artfully stacked place settings… A proper lavish dinner party thrown by the sort of grownup that I thought I would become. One day. The organised and stylish sort, possibly wearing a one-shouldered fuchsia organza ballgown and sporting an elfin crop.

In reality my table is covered in crayon and if I even get the food served onto it it’s a bloody miracle, especially at Christmas – who has time to arse about with flowers and linen when the turkey’s still defrosting in the sink and the cranberry sauce has bubbled over onto the hob and you’ve accidentally blocked the kitchen sink with goose fat?

But this year, this year, my reader friends, I am stepping up my table game. Partly because I met an actual real-life Tablescaper (it’s a thing) at a luncheon and became transfixed with her Instagram feed but mostly because for the past few years I have had an urge to make everything in my life a bit more domesticated and adult and this Christmas is the proverbial climax. I’ve bought a food processor so that I can make grown-up shredded vegetable ‘slaws’ like Jamie Oliver, I’ve bought a welly rack so that I can stop slugs from taking up residence inside my wellies. I use the phrase “willy nilly” and also “goodness gracious” (mainly to stop me from saying for f*ck’s sake all the time) and I bought some pot pourri.

See? Completely domesticated and adult.

But the grown-up dinner table thing is a bit more difficult. Firstly, I don’t happen to have a Tablescaper to hand (seriously, it’s actually a thing – check out event designer Fiona Leahy on Instagram) or a food stylist, like in the magazines. No washing up liquid in the beer to make it more frothy, no varnish on the turkey skin to make it gleam – no insulation foam squirted atop the pies to make them look as though they’ve been adorned with the most perfect swirls of cream…

It’s just me and the table. And the five thousand torn-out magazine pages that I’ve been studying obsessively to work out what these stylist people actually do to make everything look so fancy. Here are my thoughts and they’re all pretty straightforward – just little bits and bobs you can change or add to make things a bit fancier looking. Like. And none of these tweaks and upgrades need to be particularly expensive, either, apart from the posh plates bit, if you want posh plates, but even those are saving money in a roundabout way if you follow my advice…

So read on to find out how to make simple upgrades for a showstopping dinner table. (You know it was at the top of your list of priorities.)

Unapologetic Candles

I usually avoid candles like the plague because I am (since having kids) a health and safety fanatic. Although my cat is the same colour as the stair carpet and we’re all at risk of breaking our necks about eighty times a day, so I’m not sure why I even bother worrying.

Anyway, this is an obvious one but candles really do make a dinner table look amazing. And I’m not talking about IKEA tealights, though those serve a purpose, I’m talking about candles of height and distinction. Unapologetic candles. Long, elegant tapered ones that are raised upon ornate holders, so that their flames softly illuminate the chattering guests’ faces and don’t just lie there at tabletop level, heating up the hummus and scorching people’s sleeves.

Get those candles up high and all of a sudden you have drama and theatrical shadows and the thrilling prospect of at least one person knocking them over and setting fire to the tablecloth.

I’ve recently discovered pillar candles, too – the best I’ve tried are the Charles Farris altar candles (you can find them at John Lewis here*, from £6) but I’d welcome your own recommendations. I love how solid and chunky the pillar candles are and how brilliant they look grouped together – I buy different heights and plonk them on a large plate or tray or wooden board.

Leopard candlesticks were bought from OKA here* – £45 for two. Pillar candles bought en masse from John Lewis (see above), pottery is Burleigh x Soho Home here. Table is vintage Ercol, bought from eBay two years ago as a set with six chairs. Napkins are Zara (see below) and the bee napkin rings were from House of Fraser two years ago. 

Beautiful stainless steel cutlery is from Robert Welch – the Palm Bright range here. Pottery shown here is Burleigh x Soho Home as before and Burleigh in Black Regal Peacock, see here. 

Posh Useful Plates

Choosing nice dinner plates (and bowls, and side plates and whatever else you end up getting once you dip your toe into the world of dinnerware) is an absolute minefield because you always end up doing one of two things (at least I do):

1 Buying amazing plates that are far too fancy to eat on every day; they are so fine that they break if you cut your potatoes too vigorously, or they shatter if you sneeze too hard in their direction.

2 Buying plain, solid plates that weigh the same as manhole covers but that spark no joy whatsoever and feel too dowdy for nice dinners, which means that you then also end up buying option one anyway and keeping them in the “special” cupboard for three hundred and sixty days of the year.

What you really want (I now know from vast-ish experience – I have many plates, both living and departed) is a plate that’s practical, reasonably hardy and that sparks utter, utter joy every time you lay the table. Dinnerware that you will use every single day, that isn’t so absurdly dear that you’ll have palpitations about it but that is beautiful enough to serve every situation.

Enter from stage left: Burleigh pottery. My Burleigh jugs (hoho) are some of my most prized home possessions. Sounds silly, I know, but they really bring a smile to my face. The design on them just looks good everywhere. Rustic old table? Put a Burleigh jug in the centre and suddenly it’s a scene from Country Homes and Interiors. Mid Century glass-fronted sideboard? Fill that with Calico tableware and the contrast between traditional and modern is a pleasing one of intense and magnificent beauty.

(Do I spend too much time thinking about how stuff looks? Absolutely. We all have our hobbies!)

The Burleigh pieces in these pictures are a combination of the stately Black Regal Peacock range (on Burleigh’s website here) and the glorious Hibiscus, which is exclusive to Soho Home (Burleigh x Soho Home here). You can find all of the classic designs on Burleigh’s website here. The brilliant thing about Burleigh is that almost everything looks great thrown together, even from different ranges – a mix and match set-up looks cool and purposeful rather than weird and accidental. The feeling should be a general one of “ooh, look at me, I’m too cool to have everything matching – I’m so eclectic!” rather than “shit, I’ve dropped another three plates into the sink Tony, we’re going to have to use some bits from the wedding set.”

Have a browse on their site – there’s also a factory shop, which I must never go near ever, ever because I would buy it all, and there are various pre-chosen sets that offer better value than buying pieces separately.

Oh and if you’re still after gift ideas then there couldn’t be a better gift for a tea-lover than a Burleigh tea set, surely? I love the pretty blue Felicity tea set, here and the traditional Blue Calico, here.

Pillar candles from John Lewis, as before. Pottery as detailed above. Gold cutlery bought from Marks and Spencer last year here*, beast-footed bowl was bought from Anthropologie. Glassware bought from H&M home. 

Proper Napkins

Oh I do love a proper napkin. We never use them at home if we’re alone (bit of kitchen roll if it’s a particularly messy taco-typed meal, otherwise why do you even need one?) but for dinners and special occasions it just feels lovely and so grownup to offer a pressed linen or cotton napkin.

If you can be arsed to press them.

If you can’t be bothered to iron then make sure you get the linen ones that look hipster and cool even when they are wrinkled. And tie a bit of rustic ribbon or brown string around them instead of using a napkin ring, so that they look like something you’ve found in a hay barn. Sprig of dried lavender, job done.

I rather like the napkins simply folded over once and thrown nonchalantly onto the top of the plate, as though a Parisian waiter has laid the table. “F*ck you customer!*”

(*not all Parisian waiters hate their clientele, I’m sure. At any rate, their constant ire is always a great source of amusement to me!)

I bought my table linen from Zara here – the napkins were £19 for four and I bought a matching lace-trimmed table runner. To be quite honest, the runner is something of a faff – I didn’t need it and it’s covered in all of the candles/flowers/serving plates anyway!

Crocodile Candle Holders, £30 each from &Klavering – I bought mine at Amara here*.

Duck leg candle holders, £9.95 each – I bought mine at Graham & Green here*. 

Kitsch Pointless Plates

If you already have serviceable crockery but want something quirkier, adding some smaller plates to sit over the top of your existing ones can be cheaper and less of a commitment than going for a whole new set. It also looks really fancy when you use your normal dinner plate as a charger and then place a smaller, more decorative one on top. Utterly pointless, from an eating point of view, but gives everything a bit of a facelift.

I quite like pointless plates, anyway – good for olive stones, serving individual quenelles of butter, sauces, ketchup or anything you want to decant from a jar or bottle. As plates for eating from, they are ridiculous, but for adding a bit of jazz and flair to the table they are excellent! Which makes them not pointless, I suppose…

I bought these badgery/fruity ones from H&M Home and they were a few pounds each. (I have no clue where they have gone online, they seem to have vanished, but I only bought them the other week so they may have a comeback tour.)

They have that kitsch sort of appeal that seems to be de rigeur at the moment and I thought that they looked relatively festive, too. They are small enough that they can all be packed away into the back of the cupboard when they’re not needed – all much more convenient than buying a whole set of specific “Christmas” plates with – I dunno – pine trees on them or something.

Foliage and Flowers

I am not a person who buys flowers for myself. I’m incredibly fortunate in that now and then clients might send me a beautiful bunch, and in the spring and summer I pick bluebells and various other flowers from the garden, but going to the actual florist has always seemed like a huge extravagance.

However I did splash out a few times this year, usually because I was filming something in particular and wanted to sort of “dress” the background, and it’s amazing how much of a difference a vase of flowers can make to a room.

So put a load of flowers on a dinner table and all of a sudden you’ve halfway there in terms of looks. Add flowers, or foliage, and it’s no longer just a dinner table, it’s a desirable place to be. People are drawn to their seats, everything suddenly looks so sumptuous and decadent and of course the food will be delicious if the setting looks that good…

(Little do they know that you’ve reheated four Tesco lasagnes and put some sprigs of parsley on top. Dug around the edges with the back of a teaspoon to make it look more homemade. Drizzled it with extra virgin olive oil. Scorched the top a bit with a bunsen burner to make it look authentic.)

So yeah: flaaaars. The ones in these pictures were for my birthday and the red berry ones were taken home after an event I was at because I didn’t want them to go to waste. They’ve lasted over a week already – I just need to keep feeding them and nursing them for a couple more weeks and I might be able to use them for Christmas! (Mental image of me gently wiping the berries and leaves with a cool cloth, changing the water hourly, adding special feed powder and carefully snipping out dead bits.)

Joking aside, because I will have to buy more at Christmas, it’s really worth taking a look inside your local independent florist’s. Mine quite often has a bucket of “imperfect” blooms outside, dead cheap, really great condition still but not quite up to the standard they need to be for the full-price bouquets. I agree it’s an extravagance, but a beautiful extravagance and one that – if you’re anything like me – will bring you great cheer.

  Lots of Stuff Overstuffing 

One of the common things you see in the tablescaping images on Instagram (what has my life become?!) is that the tables tend to be really full of stuff. I mean you can barely get the plates in front of the guests. There are huge flower arrangements that take up 80% of the surface area, place names on elaborate cards, candles by the dozen, glasses for this and tumblers for that, gifts for the guests (for the love of God don’t get started on that, you’ll be financially bereft by Boxing Day!), jugs of Seedlip Cocktail, decanters of well-drawn eco-water…

It’s all very OTT and would be faintly absurd in a domestic setting perhaps, but the feeling of table excess does look very appealing and inviting. So I suppose the general rule is to do things with purpose – if you’re keeping it all very elegant and minimalist then fine, a white linen tablecloth and some beautiful candles will do, but if you’re going for the “fuller” look then try not to do it by halves!

You can easily “get the look” by keeping your flowers (if you have any) low and spread out, rather than tall and slim so that they cover more ground. At Christmas, rather than paying for an expensive bunch of flowers, you could ask the florist if they have lots of seasonal green foliage, which is cheaper and looks great in abundance around the centre of the table. Smells amazing too.

(If you have a holly bush/fir tree in the garden then you know where you need to go with your garden scissors!)

If you’re short of bits and bobs and the table looks a bit empty then bring out the condiments and put them in interesting bowls and jugs. It’s a bit of a pain when you have to decant them back at the end of the night but it’s nicer than having a jar of Hellman’s on the table and it gives you more – well – stuff.

I realise this is becoming a little bit Pippa’s Tips obvious, so I’ll stop now, but surely you’ve got the gist of it? Make it look decadent by grouping things like candles and vases, add height to the table with tall candlesticks rather than little tealights and add some interest with gorgeous dinnerware and cutlery. If you’re going the whole shebang with your dinnerware and cutlery then get stuff that you’ll use all the time and not just squirrel away “for best”, and if you’re on a budget or have perfectly good crockery that you just find a bit boring then add some quirky little plates to sit on top. (Hunt around for bits that look good with it, or that purposefully mismatch.)

Right, I’m off to work out how to use my new food processor. Hopefully it won’t go the same way as the last one, which had an accident when it tried to crush some ice. (It had already drunk six salt-rimmed Margaritas…)

The post Simple Upgrades for a Showstopping Table appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Simple Upgrades for a Showstopping Table was first posted on December 13, 2019 at 7:20 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at [email protected] Simple Upgrades for a Showstopping Table published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[readbookywooks]

It Was He Who Said That

ALYOSHA coming in told Ivan that a little over an hour ago Marya Kondratyevna had run to his rooms and informed him Smerdyakov had taken his own life. "I went in to clear away the samovar and he was hanging on a nail in the wall." On Alyosha's inquiring whether she had informed the police, she answered that she had told no one, "but I flew straight to you, I've run all the way." She seemed perfectly crazy, Alyosha reported, and was shaking like a leaf. When Alyosha ran with her to the cottage, he found Smerdyakov still hanging. On the table lay a note: "I destroy my life of my own will and desire, so as to throw no blame on anyone." Alyosha left the note on the table and went straight to the police captain and told him all about it. "And from him I've come straight to you," said Alyosha, in conclusion, looking intently into Ivan's face. He had not taken his eyes off him while he told his story, as though struck by something in his expression. "Brother," he cried suddenly, "you must be terribly ill. You look and don't seem to understand what I tell you." "It's a good thing you came," said Ivan, as though brooding, and not hearing Alyosha's exclamation. "I knew he had hanged himself." "From whom?" "I don't know. But I knew. Did I know? Yes, he told me. He told me so just now." Ivan stood in the middle of the room, and still spoke in the same brooding tone, looking at the ground. "Who is he?" asked Alyosha, involuntarily looking round. "He's slipped away." Ivan raised his head and smiled softly. "He was afraid of you, of a dove like you. You are a 'pure cherub.' Dmitri calls you a cherub. Cherub!... the thunderous rapture of the seraphim. What are seraphim? Perhaps a whole constellation. But perhaps that constellation is only a chemical molecule. There's a constellation of the Lion and the Sun. Don't you know it?" "Brother, sit down," said Alyosha in alarm. "For goodness' sake, sit down on the sofa! You are delirious; put your head on the pillow, that's right. Would you like a wet towel on your head? Perhaps it will do you good." "Give me the towel: it's here on the chair. I just threw it down there." "It's not here. Don't worry yourself. I know where it is - here," said Alyosha, finding a clean towel, folded up and unused, by Ivan's dressing-table in the other corner of the room. Ivan looked strangely at the towel: recollection seemed to come back to him for an instant. "Stay" - he got up from the sofa - "an hour ago I took that new towel from there and wetted it. I wrapped it round my head and threw it down here... How is it it's dry? There was no other." "You put that towel on your head?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, and walked up and down the room an hour ago... Why have the candles burnt down so? What's the time?" "Nearly twelve" "No, no, no!" Ivan cried suddenly. "It was not a dream. He was here; he was sitting here, on that sofa. When you knocked at the window, I threw a glass at him... this one. Wait a minute. I was asleep last time, but this dream was not a dream. It has happened before. I have dreams now, Alyosha... yet they are not dreams, but reality. I walk about, talk and see... though I am asleep. But he was sitting here, on that sofa there.... He is frightfully stupid, Alyosha, frightfully stupid." Ivan laughed suddenly and began pacing about the room. "Who is stupid? Of whom are you talking, brother?" Alyosha asked anxiously again. "The devil! He's taken to visiting me. He's been here twice, almost three times. He taunted me with being angry at his being a simple devil and not Satan, with scorched wings, in thunder and lightning. But he is not Satan: that's a lie. He is an impostor. He is simply a devil - a paltry, trivial devil. He goes to the baths. If you undressed him, you'd be sure to find he had a tail, long and smooth like a Danish dog's, a yard long, dun colour.... Alyosha, you are cold. You've been in the snow. Would you like some tea? What? Is it cold? Shall I tell her to bring some? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors..." Alyosha ran to the washing-stand, wetted the towel, persuaded Ivan to sit down again, and put the wet towel round his head. He sat down beside him. "What were you telling me just now about Lise?" Ivan began again. (He was becoming very talkative.) "I like Lise. I said something nasty about her. It was a lie. I like her... I am afraid for Katya to-morrow. I am more afraid of her than of anything. On account of the future. She will cast me off to-morrow and trample me under foot. She thinks that I am ruining Mitya from jealousy on her account! Yes, she thinks that! But it's not so. To-morrow the cross, but not the gallows. No, I shan't hang myself. Do you know, I can never commit suicide, Alyosha. Is it because I am base? I am not a coward. Is it from love of life? How did I know that Smerdyakov had hanged himself? Yes, it was he told me so." "And you are quite convinced that there has been someone here?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, on that sofa in the corner. You would have driven him away. You did drive him away: he disappeared when you arrived. I love your face, Alyosha. Did you know that I loved your face? And he is myself, Alyosha. All that's base in me, all that's mean and contemptible. Yes, I am a romantic. He guessed it... though it's a libel. He is frightfully stupid; but it's to his advantage. He has cunning, animal cunning - he knew how to infuriate me. He kept taunting me with believing in him, and that was how he made me listen to him. He fooled me like a boy. He told me a great deal that was true about myself, though. I should never have owned it to myself. Do you know, Alyosha," Ivan added in an intensely earnest and confidential tone, "I should be awfully glad to think that it was he and not I." "He has worn you out," said Alyosha, looking compassionately at his brother. "He's been teasing me. And you know he does it so cleverly, so cleverly. 'Conscience! What is conscience? I make it up for myself. Why am I tormented by it? From habit. From the universal habit of mankind for the seven thousand years. So let us give it up, and we shall be gods.' It was he said that, it was he said that!" "And not you, not you?" Alyosha could not help crying, looking frankly at his brother. "Never mind him, anyway; have done with him and forget him. And let him take with him all that you curse now, and never come back!" "Yes, but he is spiteful. He laughed at me. He was impudent, Alyosha," Ivan said, with a shudder of offence. "But he was unfair to me, unfair to me about lots of things. He told lies about me to my face. 'Oh, you are going to perform an act of heroic virtue: to confess you murdered your father, that the valet murdered him at your instigation.'" "Brother," Alyosha interposed, "restrain yourself. It was not you murdered him. It's not true!" "That's what he says, he, and he knows it. 'You are going to perform an act of heroic virtue, and you don't believe in virtue; that's what tortures you and makes you angry, that's why you are so vindictive.' He said that to me about me and he knows what he says." "It's you say that, not he," exclaimed Alyosha mournfully, "and you say it because you are ill and delirious, tormenting yourself." "No, he knows what he says. 'You are going from pride,' he says. 'You'll stand up and say it was I killed him, and why do you writhe with horror? You are lying! I despise your opinion, I despise your horror!' He said that about me. 'And do you know you are longing for their praise - "he is a criminal, a murderer, but what a generous soul; he wanted to save his brother and he confessed." That's a lie Alyosha!" Ivan cried suddenly, with flashing eyes. "I don't want the low rabble to praise me, I swear I don't! That's a lie! That's why I threw the glass at him and it broke against his ugly face." "Brother, calm yourself, stop!" Alyosha entreated him. "Yes, he knows how to torment one. He's cruel," Ivan went on, unheeding. "I had an inkling from the first what he came for. 'Granting that you go through pride, still you had a hope that Smerdyakov might be convicted and sent to Siberia, and Mitya would be acquitted, while you would only be punished, with moral condemnation' ('Do you hear?' he laughed then) - 'and some people will praise you. But now Smerdyakov's dead, he has hanged himself, and who'll believe you alone? But yet you are going, you are going, you'll go all the same, you've decided to go. What are you going for now?' That's awful, Alyosha. I can't endure such questions. Who dare ask me such questions?" "Brother," interposed Alyosha - his heart sank with terror, but he still seemed to hope to bring Ivan to reason - "how could he have told you of Smerdyakov's death before I came, when no one knew of it and there was no time for anyone to know of it?" "He told me," said Ivan firmly, refusing to admit a doubt. "It was all he did talk about, if you come to that. 'And it would be all right if you believed in virtue,' he said. 'No matter if they disbelieve you, you are going for the sake of principle. But you are a little pig like Fyodor Pavlovitch, and what do you want with virtue? Why do you want to go meddling if your sacrifice is of no use to anyone? Because you don't know yourself why you go! Oh, you'd give a great deal to know yourself why you go! And can you have made up your mind? You've not made up your mind. You'll sit all night deliberating whether to go or not. But you will go; you know you'll go. You know that whichever way you decide, the decision does not depend on you. You'll go because you won't dare not to go. Why won't you dare? You must guess that for yourself. That's a riddle for you!' He got up and went away. You came and he went. He called me a coward, Alyosha! Le mot de l'enigme is that I am a coward. 'It is not for such eagles to soar above the earth.'It was he added that - he! And Smerdyakov said the same. He must be killed! Katya despises me. I've seen that for a month past. Even Lise will begin to despise me! 'You are going in order to be praised.' That's a brutal lie! And you despise me too, Alyosha. Now I am going to hate you again! And I hate the monster, too! I hate the monster! I don't want to save the monster. Let him rot in Siberia! He's begun singing a hymn! Oh, to-morrow I'll go, stand before them, and spit in their faces!" He jumped up in a frenzy, flung off the towel, and fell to pacing up and down the room again. Alyosha recalled what he had just said. "I seem to be sleeping awake... I walk, I speak, I see, but I am asleep." It seemed to be just like that now. Alyosha did not leave him. The thought passed through his mind to run for a doctor, but he was afraid to leave his brother alone: there was no one to whom he could leave him. By degrees Ivan lost consciousness completely at last. He still went on talking, talking incessantly, but quite incoherently, and even articulated his words with difficulty. Suddenly he staggered violently; but Alyosha was in time to support him. Ivan let him lead him to his bed. Alyosha undressed him somehow and put him to bed. He sat watching over him for another two hours. The sick man slept soundly, without stirring, breathing softly and evenly. Alyosha took a pillow and lay down on the sofa, without undressing. As he fell asleep he prayed for Mitya and Ivan. He began to understand Ivan's illness. "The anguish of a proud determination. An earnest conscience!" God, in Whom he disbelieved, and His truth were gaining mastery over his heart, which still refused to submit. "Yes," the thought floated through Alyosha's head as it lay on the pillow, "yes, if Smerdyakov is dead, no one will believe Ivan's evidence; but he will go and give it." Alyosha smiled softly. "God will conquer!" he thought. "He will either rise up in the light of truth, or... he'll perish in hate, revenging on himself and on everyone his having served the cause he does not believe in," Alyosha added bitterly, and again he prayed for Ivan.

#BrothersKaramazov