#i shan't say anything beyond this

[bredforloyalty]

truly hate to say it but i think noel fucked russell brand

#as we go further into the night the posts get worse and the vibes more rotten. the post quality inspectors (me myself and also i) get sloppy #there was an energy if you know what i mean #i shan't say anything beyond this #kata.txt #noel gallagher #oasis #x

[sxturdaysun]

actually, now that i think about it. the van gang isn't actually doing anything during the Izaya Gets Kidnapped shit, so my insert could theoretically be there amongst that horribly cursed group of people he put together as opposed to it just being a joke. holy shit lmao.

#*iirc they aren't actually doing anything #which means my insert can have the WEIRDEST couple of days of her life bc good GOD LMAO #♡ — text #☆ — 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. [ drrr!! ] #(in which i. did actually also come up with a legitimate reason for her to be there #beyond the ''izumii finds her and just drags her along'' joke #but it's embarrassing so i shan't say. 😔)

[physalian]

The Pronoun Game

*This is not about preferred pronouns, this is writing advice.

I don’t actually know if this is the official term but it’s what we’re going with, otherwise known as contrived vagueness on a character’s identity to keep the secret from the audience.

“You know… ~him~.” “Who?” “HIM.” “One more time.” “HIIIIIIIM!” “…”

Stop doing this. No one talks like this. Or at least come up with a better in-universe code name even if it’s just “the client” or “the target.” Anything is better than this glaring contrivance.

It’s not so much the secret name, it’s how clunky the dialogue becomes without it (ignoring when this is done for humor and supposed to be a little ridiculous).

This is a partner post to how to introduce new characters’ names and the point I’ll be making there applies here: exposition, including new character names, should tell us more about your story than just the information within the text.

But first: just stop doing this. Just name the character. Do it. Audiences will be as confused as if you use a vague “he/him they/them she/her,” but at least they have a name to keep track of, even if it’s faceless at the time they hear it.

It doesn’t even work as a mystery. Characters only play when they’re obfuscating the villain. It’s almost never a red herring. Sure you didn’t say the name, but by deliberately hiding it, you’ve shown your hand.

Real people don’t play the pronoun game unless it’s motivated. So? Make it motivated.

Best example in history: He-who-shall-not-be-named

Why? It’s not just a pronoun, it’s got lore and myths and mystery baked into it. There’s a plot-based reason to be vague. Everyone who says this moniker admits they’re at worst terrified of and at best spiteful of its owner.

I have my own "he who shan't be named" and, can confirm, it's born from glorious spite and satisfying to use every time it comes up.

You can’t copy the epithet, but you can learn from it. Give your characters a reason to be vague beyond preserving the secret for the audience.

Names have power, speaking theirs draws too much attention or bad vibes

Character f*cking hates them, and pronouns them out of spite

Character is being vague to mess with the narrator on purpose

Character fears eavesdroppers and is being careful

Character is testing whether they can trust another by being vague and checking if they’re in on the secret

Character is drunk/high/exhausted and cannot remember the name or care about it to save their life

Optional substitutes here can get quite creative, my personal favorite is “what’s-his-nuts” because I like the cadence but you get the idea

All of these reflect back on the story and the world you’ve built, to give an in-universe reason for the obfuscation.

Now stop playing the pronoun game.

—

Thoughts on the shorter format? I can’t tell if #longpost is supposed to be an insult or not. I have a few of these coming.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #writing #writeblr #exposition #character names

[llycaons]

hl really is so boring. like it was fun in the moment when reading the novel for the first time but then there’s a post-novel clarity where its like huh the relationship is actually so shallow. idk how ppl can compare hl and wx and think hl is better (even tho novel wx has major issues too). but comparing it to cql wx? its not even a competition, cql wx wins by far 💀

for REAL. hualian's big strength is that they have fabulous chemistry. every scene with them together is genuinely really fun and silly and I can tell very easily how much they care about each other, which is why despite my griping I actually do enjoy a lot of the romance scenes in the book. but if you're looking for something deeper, or even something real....it's just not there. it's all fantasy and idealization and hyper-devotion to the point where you have literally nothing else in your life that you care about or think makes life worth living. hc giving xl his ashes and saying essentially 'if you die, there's no point to me living' is actually really sad. xl inspired a traumatized child to live and then instead of actually living his life that child just devoted himself to xl utterly...it's just a self-fulfilling loop. hc never found anything else that he cared about or loved or was passionate about to really live for. he died for xl MULTIPLE times and he never appreciated his existence beyond xl's presence, which is honestly one of the most depressing endings a traumatized child can have

also you're so right when you say it's shallow. hc like 'gege is absolutely perfect and beyond reproach' and xl is like 'hc is so funny and we get along so well' and sure you have the dramatic "I saved your life/I'll kill for you' backstory but that didn't make it more interesting, it's just made it more dramatic. their principles, their morals, their life experiences, their perspectives and goals and respective places in life - it's not that those things are incompatible in the relationship, they're just irrelevant to the relationship. so like...what does any of this matter besides 'well they're happy now!' I personally like when characters care about each other for actual reasons that tie into the themes of the stoy

and yeah, despite its issues novel wx was extremely compelling and their dynamic for the most part made sense bc they complemented each other rly well and there were such good romantic scenes in the book i shan't lie. and like if two characters have never actually had to deal with genuine issues in their relationship because they just accept the other as perfect the way they are, its a very fragile and unstable dynamic because they have no idea how to resolve conflict or come to terms with being angry at each other. yet another reason wangxian is so much more stable and rewarding than hualian. they know what it's like to truly be opposed to each other, disagree with each other, hurt each other, and they found a resolution to that. not that they're perfect but in comparison, they've put in the work

and comparing hl to cql wx is really funny to me actually. real hydrogen bomb vs coughing baby situation in terms of like...themes...knowing each other...growing as people together...living meaningful lives...yeah idk how mdzs/cql fans moved on the tgcf and got into the romance because it's so much more simplistic and, imo, unappealing

ty for the ask!

#asks #Anonymous

[spotsupstuff]

oughhh ur suns and pebbles thing is making me THINK god damn (/very much pos). i guess i just never considered pebbles capable of feeling the want to live or even feeling worthy of life after what he did to moon but if he manages to feel deserving of/happy with his existence, the first thing he would do is lash out at suns for being a shitty mentor and a slightly shitty person. he’s realized that he doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment from someone he was supposed to look up to and it’s so interesting to think about how he’d react to that situation

oh interesting thoughts!

my thinking behind it is more along the lines of like... Pebbles and his self-respect. and self-love. because he never wants to kill himself in canon out of things that people in real life do. Pebbles isn't depressed, he isn't emotionally hurt, he's righteously furious about the injustice that is the painful Iterator existence. that's my favorite characterization bit about him, it's from this

the Iterators' existence is an unjustly suicide mission they were shoved into and cannot leave. the Ancients doomed them to torment until they die- the torment starts once they start breaking down. becaue as we know, despite all that they are, they aren't immune to time

and some of them accept this as if it is fair. as if it is alright and how it is meant to be. as if this is moral. people like Suns

and then there will be people who see this blatant horror and try to fight it. what Pebbles does is this. he's a fighter. he wanted everyone to be okay, free, not have to one day live through that sea of pain that is slowly falling apart at the seams

the only way out of this promised, creeping torment is finding The Solution. *nothing* seems to be fucking working within their Taboo inflicted limits, so he wants to step outside of this cage and look if beyond it awaits help. Pebbles isn't trying to Kill himself, he's trying to find help for everyone

we also need to understand that their world is different from ours. legitibility of religion isn't in question. to them religion IS science. and the final mathematical result is something like a Nirvana. not being anything yet being everything, somewhere else than the real world yet in there as well, presumably

Pebbles is a self-respecting individual. he and Suns probably go way back, to times when things were better, when their existence didn't guarantee agony because they had people to take care of them (the Ancients). then the Ancients left and Suns showed his true colors or simply developed a rather vile horrifying opinion on all of this

and Pebbles ignored it, accepted their advice still, because this is Suns. his mentor. they want the best for him, after all- they are older, they know better. he will listen to them

but then the golden pearl arrives and everything goes down and Pebbles no longer can ignore Suns' outlook on this. it's toxic, it's dangerous to him. and Pebbles respects himself, so when Spearmaster comes a second time with an apology written on a bloodstained pearl, he lashes out

"Astounding," he says. Recognizing. Seeing. Understanding. This is dangerous and he shan't accept anymore of terrible suicidal advice from a moron who didn't think to think and be a responsible mentor

#spot says stuff #rain world #rw #main tagging actually because this is that five pebbles analysis ive been itching to do for months now jgkdlscmklclsd #gods i. love him. im not really the one who gave pebbles the means to go against suns. he doesnt need to find the desire to live to do it #he already has all of it in his characterization. self-respect

[sinni-ok-sessi]

Fic writer interview

Tagged by @bitterflames, thank you!

How many works do you have on AO3? 21, a number that surprises me every time by being both more and fewer than I think it should be

What’s your total AO3 word count? 186, 378 (again, feels like this is both way too many words and also not as many as it ought to be)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Moonlight as My Guide (The Untamed) The Naming of Small Things (The Untamed) Continuing Professional Development (The Magnus Archives) Noli me tangere (The Magnus Archives) Spin Me Right Round (The Untamed)

Nothing suprising here, given the ridiculous size of those two fandoms, but I am always charmed by the love CPD gets, given it's mostly me making jokes about a librarianship conference I went to once

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Aaaagh, I wish I did? I'm bad at thinking of things to say! I think I do better at responding in small fandoms where I know/know of most of the commenters and 'thank you for being on this small liferaft with me' feels like an appropriate sentiment

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I don't really do angst-angst, but The Winding Roads They Led Me Here is probably the most obviously not-a-happy-ending thing I've written?

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? I am surveying my corpus and learning that wow, I write a not inconsiderable number of things about learning to live when you don't really want to? Shan't be analysing that too closely, tyvm, but I do remain pleased with the way And Green the Ground Below and Breathe In For Luck came out. For sheer straightforward glee at the ending, it's gotta be never knew a part of you / you didn't set in ink

Do you write crossovers? No, I imagine crossovers at great length and then make no moves towards writing anything down (see: the sprawling Nirvana in Fire/Vorkosigan series Entity that gets passed around between me and several friends, which consists entirely of one of us going 'hey have you thought about if X met Y?' and then yelling about that for several hours straight)

Have you ever received hate on a fic? lol, only from the one person who told me 'toxic xiyao' was ruining MaMG, which is very funny to me because that's kind of the point in that fic

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? yeahhhh but I find it very difficult. A long, hard process, in fact. As for 'what kind', uh, mutually obsessive D/s dynamics pretty much covers it, I think

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not to my knowledge

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yeah! Someone on Wattpad was translating MaMG into Spanish, though idk how far they got

Have you ever co-written a fic before? No because I am very secretive about showing people my writing until it's 'presentable' and I think that would kill me

What’s your all-time favorite ship? [Douglas Richardson voice] Sir is fickle and changeable [/Douglas Richardson voice], but I think the ship I have spent longest actively contemplating is proooobably MCS/Jingyan?

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? All of themmmmmmm. (No, I would really like to do more with the Langya Hall prequel fic, but I think it's currently beyond my confidence as a writer so...)

What are your writing strengths? Fraught conversations and minute observations of body language, my beloved

What are your writing weaknesses? Plot? I don't know her. Pacing? A distant acquaintance at best

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I doubt I ever would, because I'm not confident in the spoken forms of any language I quote-unquote 'know', and I also find the 'multilingual character uses non-English endearments for their beloved' trope to be...a little painful, but I'm not averse to the idea on principle, though I suspect it requires more skill than people generally think to pull it off well

What was the first fandom you wrote for? hhhhh fucking. Sherlock Holmes (ACD stories), I think. Maybe the Psmith books by PG Wodehouse? I think it's for the best that the fic I wrote as a teen is marooned somewhere on LJ

What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? I'm not going to do it, because it involves way too much compartmentalising not to set off my RPF squick, but god those sad boat men from The Terror are compelling and would bring me nicely back into my wheelhouse of repressed Victorians and also the Navy (I think I never actually finished writing anything for the Hornblower fandom back in the day, but my god it was not for lack of trying)

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? usually my most recent fic tbh (in this case, Make A Mercy Out of Me, which is, uh, unrepentant Disguiser smut and therefore of interest to like. three people worldwide, but that's fine)

tagging: @tallangrycockatiel, @goingsparebutwithprecision and anyone else who's interested and hasn't already been tagged

#tag games #writing about writing

[weministertomonsters]

CH 1 - Unrequited Letters

This is the first chapter of a novel I've committed to writing! I guess I just want to know what y'all think because I'm second-guessing my choices already.💀 (I enjoyed writing this chapter though)

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

On the last night of the Starving Moon, the remaining people of Rushinsea gathered in The Hollow Tavern with the dark brewing in their hearts.

"We shan't stand for it!" Bruckely Sutherman hollered, pausing his passionate rant to ask for more brew, which he was quickly granted.

Bruckely was the type of man whose fists softened when he was inebriated. Built like a bear with the hands of a hunter and the temperament of a volcano, it was hard to look at him and remember that it was his genteel forefathers who had laid the cornerstone of Rushinsea. 

"Stop yellin," Bumbleridge the beekeeper, said. "Words won't fix this no more. I reckon them fair folk haven't cocked an ear to a single peep, that I swear on my bees."

"Oh, and ye think a spoonful o' honey ought to do the trick? Ye think them is butterflies, wuss?"

"Shove off," Bumbleridge took a sip of his tea- sweetened with his homemade honey of course- and muttered into his cup, "At least me business with 'em is still good."

"Why do ye reckon that is?" Someone in the crowd said, pounding on their table. "What else ye offerin' them?"

"Oi, I ain't the enemy here!" Bumbleridge cried. "Maybe they just like me honey!"

"I've got me sights on ye. I ain't never seen any establishment so untouched as yer little bee houses, that," Bruckely growled with a mean squint. 

"Gentlemen, this is no time to fight," a voice cut into the escalating conversation.

Both men turned to look over their shoulders at the door. A rain-soaked silhouette stepped in and was revealed to be William Goodwin, shaking off his raincoat and hanging it on the coat stand. The Goodwin family was fairly new to Rushinsea but came from money, and had easily carved themselves a comfortable spot in the sleepy town. William Goodwin was a doctor of great renown and a man of intelligence. Rushinsea had no person in charge, but the townspeople had come to look up to William Goodwin. Most of the people, anyhow. The rougher folk thought he was an absolute pansy, what with his books and fine, pampered doctor's hands.

"Well, if it ain't the man 'o the hour," Bruckely said with a sarcastic clap.

"Please, no need to stand on ceremony," William said. "I am simply doing my part."

"No one else thought to build a wall," Charity Smith said softly from where she sat in respite behind the piano. "That was clever."

The single mother worked in The Hollow Tavern whenever she could, refilling glasses, dodging grabby hands, and sometimes playing the piano at a customer's request.

"Ah," William said, seemingly blowing the compliment off but not without a reddening of his cheeks.

Bruckely noticed and for a ruffian who was deep in the bottle, he was still remarkably perceptive. Sour as he was, he was not one to spoil such moments, so he kept quiet, choosing to drain his cup instead.

"The wall," William said, "will only hold for so long. Fae magic is powerful and persistent. I do not have the skill to build an effective barrier."

"So we fight!" Bruckely said. "We knock them sharp-ears on their behinds, that's what!"

"Violence is not the answer," William said and added quickly. "Besides, we are not equipped with anything to make a dent in their forces, and we cannot go past the wall."

"Why not?" Bruckely protested, red in the face from the drink.

"No one has ever come back alive," William said. 

"Aye," the tavern-goers murmured as one.

Indeed, anyone who crossed for any purpose, whether good or bad, was sent back in blackwood coffins. The few Fae that had crossed the wall years ago for business could not say what happened upon crossing but warned the townspeople that to attempt was to go at their own peril.

So there went that plan. Curiosity of what lay beyond aside, there was the matter of the beasts that slipped through, permeating the forest surrounding the town with their clicks and calls, rotting the trees with their otherness, and poisoning the soil. The beasts were getting braver and drawing in closer. Granny Mae had even reported sighting one. What a fright it had given her, so much so that William Goodwin was concerned she would pass on from the excitement. She described it as having a knotted ball of a body with too many legs to count, with teeth like firepokers. Everyone believed her and had been that much more afraid since.

"So... What are we to do?" Charity asked, leaning forward on the piano bench, her golden ringlets tumbling over her shoulder and causing more than a few young men to sigh.

"We can send another letter," William said, tucking his hands behind his back and beginning to pace. "Although I did that just last week.'

"Do the faefolk even read them?" She asked.

"Well, the envelopes are returned to the same place, but their seals are always broken, at the very least," William said. "I'm certain no one in the town would do that for a laugh."

"They'd better not," Bruckely said. "Or I'll gut 'em quick and neat. Just sayin'. Charity, more brew!"

Meanwhile, in a sagging cottage on the fringe of the dying forest, an old woman knitted and rocked, singing softly to keep herself company. Her self-appointed name was Moggart since she had forgotten her birth name years ago. Moggart was certainly no longer a young flower, but in truth, she was even older than she looked.

"Ten stitches, twelve more. A rising moon and a knock on the door," Moggart hummed, her spotted, gnarled hands turning over her knitting contemplatively.

The yellow bird in the cage by the window whistled and Moggart looked up.

"Visitors?" She said. "Wouldn't that be a treat."

She hesitated at the thought of getting up. "Stupid old bones," she said to herself. "You're just an old lady, that's what you are. Now up you get."

Groaning, she heaved herself to her feet and put her hand on her back. Shuffling forward, she peered out of the dusty window that was framed by herbs drying on a string nailed above. 

"The townsfolk will come, sure as rain," she said. "We'll be ready for them, will we not? We'll have all the answers."

The bird chirped and fluttered agreeably in its confines.

"Aye, cruel it might be, but there must be balance. Someday it will make sense." Moggart went over to the table she used for eating meals and making potions, sifting through empty vials and stacks of recipe books and a basket overflowing with limp, wilted herbs. A cutting board sat to the side, holding a loaf of stale bread that had gone fluffy with mold. Underneath the board, she spied the jutting corner of an envelope. 

"Ah, here it is!" She took it and used a butterknife to break the wax seal. "Let's see here," she said. "What do they want this time?"

Her eyes skimmed the letter and she hummed. Once she had finished reading it she tucked it back into the envelope and hobbled to the birdcage. 

"I know exactly what they want to hear," she said to the bird as she opened the cage. "Now be a dear and put this back for me."

The yellow bird took the envelope in its beak and flew through a hole in the roof, spiraling up into the sky. Moggart fixed herself a cup of tea and sank back into her rocking chair to wait for her guests to arrive.

#wip #work in progress #my novel

[lilflowerpot]

What was Lotor’s relationship with his father like? He seems to be very set on there being a difference between Zarkon and who was his father. What is that difference? Lotor obviously revered his mother a lot, did he feel the same towards his dad or were their differences always a point of divide between them?

Love little blade sm!! I think I’ll be 30 and still waiting for updates (ouch didn’t mean to be backhanded with that. It works anyways)

Okay so I shan't go into //great// detail with this one, because Lotor's relationship with his father is very much crucial to the narrative in that it has a subconscious impact on,,, pretty much everything he does. That conversation—some iteration of which may occur sooner than you think—is one I have dwelled upon e x t e n s i v e l y but what I can tell you for now is this:

When Lotor briefly touches upon his childhood in chapter 12, he speaks of that particular point in time when he and his mother were both frail (Lotor due to his dual lineage, Honerva due to having barely survived being pregnant with a galra child, and the both of them as a result of having spent so much time in such close proximity to such vast quantities of raw quintessence) and Alfor begged Zarkon to close the rift, because the dangers of meddling with what they didn't fully understand were becoming apparent. The issue being, of course, that the rift held the answers to curing Lotor, and so neither of his parents were willing to simply let him die, Alfor be damned.

“He told me what had happened, told me of Alfor’s concerns, and then told me that if the whole damn universe had to burn for my sake, and the sake of my mother, then he’d set each and every planet aflame with his own hand.”

- Little Blade, chapter 12

This bit in particular illustrates the very beginnings of Zarkon's corruption, and isn't that sad? Because, yes, there's an undercurrent of violence there that we see tenfold in the present-day, but in this moment it stems from nothing less than love.

“He loved you,” Keith hears himself say, and can hardly reconcile this image of Zarkon as a devoted father, with the tyrant he’s become.

“Yes,” Lotor agrees, softly, “he did. He loved me, and he loved my mother, and the entire universe paid the price.”

There isn’t anything Keith can say to that.

- Little Blade, chapter 12

As a child, Lotor knew a Zarkon who was devoted beyond compare to his Empire and his family both; a Zarkon who loved his wife and child and was desperate to do right by them; a Zarkon who would have done anything—everything—to ensure the safety of those he held most dear (and ultimately, to his own detriment, did exactly that).

The creature that returned from the rift wearing his father's face was not that man.

And it's not even just Lotor! We see the same dissonance between who Zarkon once was and who he now is presented (though indirectly) by Allura.

She doesn’t breathe a word of Zarkon.

She doesn’t, but Keith hears it regardless, because there are gaping holes in the stories of Allura’s childhood that can only be filled by a great shadow—one that is powerful and disciplined and her uncle by everything but blood. Somehow, Keith never thought to connect Zarkon’s past as Alfor’s dearest friend to Allura in any way.

It seems like an obvious oversight.

- Little Blade, chapter 15

Because once upon a time, long before he was warped into an immortal monster, Emperor Zarkon was....just a man, and a good one at that. A paladin of Voltron, and everything that represents.

#was I prepared for Sad Zarkon Hours™ you ask? why no.. no i was not. #a n y w a y #at this rate I think I'll be 30 and still //writing// it - so I'll take that in the spirit it was intended ;) #i will remind you / inform any newcomers that LB was originally intended to be 4 chapters and like.. 20k words MAXIMUM #AHAHAHAHAHA #i was a blind pitiable fool #Ao3 Little Blade #sa screams back #prince lotor

[regulationbluebunny]

FFXIV write 2023: Suit

Summary: Aymeric fishes for information about Estinien's love life.

Gen/ no cws

"The people have been generous with their donations," Aymeric noted.

A box spilled over with folded linens in all manner of bright colors. It was stacked atop a wooden chest that contained more of the same. The donations were so numerous to spill in almost out of the doorway: dried fruits in tins, picked eggs, sacks of rice, and grain were piled atop each other in crates. Estinien stitched a bright green patch into a vest clearly meant for a toddler as Aymeric sifted through the fabrics.

"They have," he agreed. "More than necessary, really. We don't have that many to feed."

"I'm sure it can be shared back with the community if you find yourself with excess," Aymeric pointed out.

"Aye. We're working on that. Vytra is trying to find someone to manage that sort of thing."

"I'm surprised he didn't ask you."

"Oh, he did," Estinien admitted, "I'm not suited for that kind of work."

"I can't see you managing an inventory," Aymeric laughed. "You are very good with the children, though."

Estinien just grunted in response.

"I might suggest a similar infrastructure for Ishgard," he continued. "There are plenty of war orphans even now. I doubt the people would be quite as generous, however."

"Bloody nobility's purses are clipped tighter than a--" his comparison trailed off as an auri child skipped tgrough the room with her little brother. "Than a, um. No. You're better off making it a tax."

"And that would be taken with such understanding," Aymeric said dryly.

"Don't bother with their understanding. You've got the loyalty of everyone that matters. Use it."

Aymeric hummed. "The repercussions of heavy handed policy might come back to bite me, but my options are becoming limited, I fear."

"When are you going back?"

"I'm uncertain. She takes first priority, as you understand. Artoirel and Lucia can handle things in my absence."

Estinien nodded. She took first priority for both of them. Ishgard could hold itself together without their Lord Speaker constantly at their beck and call. Letters would serve just fine.

"And you?" Aymeric continued, running a hand along the seam of an orange skirt to check the hem line.

"What? "

"After the Warrior recovers. What will you do?"

"I don't know. There's little point in me being anywhere else. I'll stay as long as they need me, I suppose."

Aymeric nodded. He glanced up at Estinien with a shrewd look in his blue eyes.

"They?"

Estinien pursed his lips. Aymeric was fishing for something. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't like it.

"Vrtra has me training the Radiant Host," he said. "There's more green soldiers than anything else after the losses they took during the Final Days."

"I'm surprised the Scions haven't put you back to work."

Estinien snorted. "The Scions can make do without me."

"You could train the Ishgardian troops as well if you find yourself short on employment," Aymeric said, and Estinien knew he wasn't actually offering, thank the gods. No, he was trying to bait Estinien into admitting that he preferred Rads at Han.

"I'd rather not," he growled.

"Of course," his friend said genially. "Priorities. I understand."

Estinien stared blankly. It felt like he was losing a game he didn't know he was playing.

"What the hell are you getting at?" He asked

His face had taken on some color. Aymeric was insinuating something and he didn't know what it was.

Aymeric shrugged. "The children, of course," he said, as if he hadn't just mentioned an equal number of wayward orphans in Ishgard. "I intend no judgement. The environment here rather suits you. Vrtra is lucky to have you at his side."

"You aren't subtle," Estinien said. "What are you hoping to unearth with this kind of talk?"

The other man raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing beyond your interests, old friend. I shan't say another word."

Estinien doubted very much that Aymeric would let it be. He would have to stay on his guard.

"I'm sure you will," he said doubtfully.

Aymeric just smiled.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxiv #dee writes

[missremember]

Helllooo *aggressively bangs on your front door*

For the character opinion bingo can we get Meta Knight or Toga?? Have a good one 👍

B o r b.

"If anything happens to them I'll cry." I say, writing a 30+ chapter fanfiction about him in which...no, I shan't say.

Cringe, American on (not quite) main, I know.

This is so funny you could not have possibly known but you happened to have asked me about one of my favorite League of Villain-s. I have to note that while it IS true that I'm particular about the interpretations of Toga (and frankly all of the LoV tbh) that I see, "everyone else" primarily means Kōhei Horikoshi. I'm watching that bitch.

(Also I'm only on ch. 310 so if something DOES happen to her beyond that...no spoilers.)

#character bingo ask game #not writing #kirby #hoas #bnha #ask #you'd better not have damaged my door..... #thanks for stopping by!! #steelcrops

[reaperkiller]

1, 2, 3, 7, 18 and 25 for sebastian my utmost beloved,,,,,

1. Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

he doesn't but he Does have a big cushion that he sleeps with bc he needs Something to hug while he sleeps or he will go insane. or just. not sleep very well. he had an actual person to hug once but ALAS!!! DIVORCE!!!! very funny but also not at all. im so sorry king.

he doesnt have many plushies, but he definitely needs more bc i think they would fix him. he's got like... 2 little rat plushies from when he was younger and theyre kind of falling apart but he refuses to fix them. for the Authenticity. also bc it would take away the charm and they remind him of his siblings, so if anything happened to them he'd be in complete and utter shambles

2. Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

he could NOT look after a plant or a child he does Not have the time. he couldnt bring them with him to work. he barely spends time at home. but he DOES have a cat that goes everywhere with him. and bc the cat is there, well. he can easily feed the guy whenever. he is almost always asleep on seb's lap. or climbing up his arms. frankie stromboli my most favourite little menace.

3. Ask them to describe their love interest.

AURHGFDHghh he can barely talk about his own feelings. you expect him to be able to talk about his feelings about someone else?? i'm doing it for him. i'm taking the thoughts out of his brain. prettyboy. most specialest tired little guy that he loves so much. when you and a guy try killing each other so many times and Fail. each and every time. and then you end up holding hands??? true love baybey. the trust is there. theres so much about it that i could scream about. im going to throw up. this is incoherent. i am aware. there is just. so much going on in my brain about that. aguhhgh [explodes]

7. already answered and i could say more but i shan't. it would be an essay. im already vibrating too much

18. Kissing: tongue or no tongue?

he is beyond touch starved of Course he is going to go absolutely ham sloppy style. he's allowed. do what you will with this information.

25. Safety or possibility?

SAFETY 100% everything needs to be accounted for at all times. a backup plan for every backup plan. he can't stray away from that. bc his life is always on the line so he can't take any chances. No Fun Allowed. but,, he eventually starts to loosen up a bit. he needs to live a little. send the mf to a theme park. put him on a rollercoaster. Please.

#oc seb #ehee h. heHEGh. eheheheh. you know.

[rachymarie]

A lil TMI for your morning (or night probably anywhere else in the world) but I got a ✨cosmetic upgrade✨ recently in the form of freezing off this (benign + non-contagious) thing I've had near my eye since like 2021 or earlier. It was just really starting to bother me, with its appearance always slightly changing, my makeup always getting caught on/gathering/clumping on and around it, leaving a portion of dry scaly mess cluttering up my "lewk".

It was a chronic pain in my ass, one of the (lesser, but still) banes of my life and (now apparently not so) eternal chagrin

Fingers crossed that's all of it gone and that it shan't return (not sure if that's a thing?)

Damn i love liquid nitrogen 😅

If you don't get keloids, or have otherwise risk-factor afflictions, and it's accessible to you (sorry I'm not at all versed with how things work in the rest of the world, so I'm basically saying this applies if it's possible for you) and this is your sign to go get that thing removed if it bothers you or brings you down-- or even, in the interest of catching the more nefarious conditions early check your lumps n bumps

It's a great confidence boost and i feel like maybe skin stuff should be more talked about and less taboo. Not to hand anyone any future psychological weapons against me or anything (ha, that's basically my whole blog at this point, right), but one of my biggest insecurities has always been skin/unwanted hair (and the penalties I often face when trying to removing it, what with my intensely sensitive skin) - like, I can live with being overweight/not being my goal weight (fuelling/procuring energy for basic and beyond basic functioning to survive and perhaps someday thrive (hopes and dreams y'all) is most important at this juncture)) more than I can live with having skin imperfections (yay internalized toxic beauty standards prevails 🙃). Am coping somewhat nevertheless (Trying not to go on a tangent rant about the time I was complaining to my bff about my skin issues etc comorbid with my illness, and was told to just "think positive" (LoA) and they will go away - but alas I guess I just failed that attempt. Geez will I ever get over that convo it doesn't look like it lol 😅)

Damn i love liquid nitrogen but also much love to all my keloid-prone babes out there, i see you. I didn't get this thing frozen off for all these years only due the fear of leaving potential keloid scarring to the point where it makes me feel worse than the actual spot did. Though now I'm not so sure I am actually keloid-prone (lowkey havin' an identity crisis about it) because i get normal scarring and turns out my big "keloid" scar is actually more liekly the result of poor/inexperienced suturing in the butterfly-stitching of the open wound at the time. but in my heart i will always kinda hold feel bound to the keloid-prone identity even though it turns out I've maybe been an impostor to it all this time. I mean the mentality of avoiding activities that may cause wound/scars, (translating to being "extremely precious" about partaking in things like sports or risky physical behaviours, altercations etc etc yada-yada-ya) body mods etc has affected me haven't gotten tattoos or piercings my whole life due to this

Anyway yet again this has become yet another Rachel Ramble™ - but basically get your spots, lumps n bumps checked if you can, and even if for a cosmetic upgrade/confidence boost/make your life easier (now i can start my beauty YouTube journey relatively unhindered, aside from nowhere to film (need to clear my desk)) get those babies removed.

Goodness goshness even my post-ramble-amble becomes a ramble 😅

#Rachel rambles #rambling #ramblings of a schizo #schizospec rambling #skin stuff #personal #tmi #life goals #confidence #skin issues #keloids #keloid-prone #keloid scar #keloid scarring #keloid-prone problems

[rosegolddoodle252]

◈Rose. she/her (or bee/bees). 18 ◈my art alt is @rosegolddoodles! I post my drawings there, but reblog them to here as well. I also have @aerospray-rosegold which is a splatoon blog but is somewhat inactive. ◈I do a bad job at interacting in fandom spaces but the media I'm currently interested in is: Adventure Time, Bee & Puppycat, Splatoon, Homestuck & Minecraft! (I also reblog some hermitcraft and life series stuff but not much mcyt beyond that.)

◈Common sorting tags under the cut :]◈

#rosegold's doodles, is my art tag, and #rose's rambles, is for original textposts I put #oc posting, in anything that includes my OCs or other posts that I relate specific OCs to, along with the relevant OCs' name(s) #you wouldn't download a car, is for well.... I shan't say I also use #saving this, #fave, and #art ref but those are more straightforward. most fandom related posts get sorted with the source's normal name but TOH (the owl house) and bapc (Bee & puppycat) are notable exceptions to this rule.

#first pinned yippee #rose's rambles #oh and the picture is a screenshot from Journey

[grandhotelabyss]

I find that much of social language is a contestation for power, either to dominate another or defend against threats of domination. When I say social language, I mean spoken, daily, relational language. The complexity of this phenomenon and its implications for survival are almost too much for a single human mind to take. For example, if someone insults me, I am not defensive towards the symbolic content (i.e, “you’re an idiot”), rather it is the drive to overpower me into weakness that I perceive, which churns beneath the words, and I am evolutionarily compelled to repel my assailant.

I think of past demonstrations and ongoing opportunities for evil in this arrangement and it is enough to induce a terror in me as I contemplate the millions of lifetimes and minds which have been destroyed by social language, and I hope that mine is not ultimately counted in such a dismal category.

I wonder if you can speak to this observation, which I’m well aware is quite psychological in nature, and describe a role, if there exists such a role, for the writer to silence and arrest the free flowing terror and unconscious brutality of the things we say to each other (and to ourselves), and arrange them into a new form? Is it the job of the novelist to tame and recast as aesthetics the latent violence of these words’ sum total spoken history in nature. Literature is not social language, I suspect, along these lines. Can you heal?

Thank you for that eloquent observation. My own experience is a somewhat different one. I find spoken language to be the tiniest extrusion into consciousness of an ocean of unspoken, unspeakable, un- or half-conscious thought and emotion roiling just beneath the surface of life. As such, language matters less to me than mood, and the exact same words, if said in different tones, in different settings, and by different speakers, can mean very different things, even opposite things: an insult from an enemy, for example, can use the same words as a necessary truth from a lover. I do believe that language can react back upon moods and alter them in their turn, which alters the future use and experience of language. Literature uses language to pass beyond language; it is not trapped in words. The best thing the writer can do in these conditions—and what the modern writer has done in Shakespeare, Austen, Tolstoy, Joyce, Woolf—is to expose as much as is intelligible of the whole mood-language manifold operating in any given situation as possible, to make us aware of the depths whose surface our words tread, wearily or nimbly. An example of this art at its best:

"Who can—what can," asked Mrs. Dalloway (thinking it was outrageous to be interrupted at eleven o'clock on the morning of the day she was giving a party), hearing a step on the stairs. She heard a hand upon the door. She made to hide her dress, like a virgin protecting chastity, respecting privacy. Now the brass knob slipped. Now the door opened, and in came—for a single second she could not remember what he was called! so surprised she was to see him, so glad, so shy, so utterly taken aback to have Peter Walsh come to her unexpectedly in the morning! (She had not read his letter.)

"And how are you?" said Peter Walsh, positively trembling; taking both her hands; kissing both her hands. She's grown older, he thought, sitting down. I shan't tell her anything about it, he thought, for she's grown older. She's looking at me, he thought, a sudden embarrassment coming over him, though he had kissed her hands. Putting his hand into his pocket, he took out a large pocket-knife and half opened the blade.

Exactly the same, thought Clarissa; the same queer look; the same check suit; a little out of the straight his face is, a little thinner, dryer, perhaps, but he looks awfully well, and just the same.

"How heavenly it is to see you again!" she exclaimed. He had his knife out. That's so like him, she thought.

He had only reached town last night, he said; would have to go down into the country at once; and how was everything, how was everybody—Richard? Elizabeth?

"And what's all this?" he said, tilting his pen-knife towards her green dress.

He's very well dressed, thought Clarissa; yet he always criticises me.

Here she is mending her dress; mending her dress as usual, he thought; here she's been sitting all the time I've been in India; mending her dress; playing about; going to parties; running to the House and back and all that, he thought, growing more and more irritated, more and more agitated, for there's nothing in the world so bad for some women as marriage, he thought; and politics; and having a Conservative husband, like the admirable Richard. So it is, so it is, he thought, shutting his knife with a snap.

"Richard's very well. Richard's at a Committee," said Clarissa.

And she opened her scissors, and said, did he mind her just finishing what she was doing to her dress, for they had a party that night?

"Which I shan't ask you to," she said. "My dear Peter!" she said.

But it was delicious to hear her say that—my dear Peter! Indeed, it was all so delicious—the silver, the chairs; all so delicious!

Why wouldn't she ask him to her party? he asked.

Now of course, thought Clarissa, he's enchanting! perfectly enchanting! Now I remember how impossible it was ever to make up my mind—and why did I make up my mind—not to marry him? she wondered, that awful summer?

"But it's so extraordinary that you should have come this morning!" she cried, putting her hands, one on top of another, down on her dress.

"Do you remember," she said, "how the blinds used to flap at Bourton?"

"They did," he said; and he remembered breakfasting alone, very awkwardly, with her father; who had died; and he had not written to Clarissa. But he had never got on well with old Parry, that querulous, weak-kneed old man, Clarissa's father, Justin Parry.

"I often wish I'd got on better with your father," he said.

"But he never liked any one who—our friends," said Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her.

Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. I was more unhappy than I've ever been since, he thought. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon. She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight.

—Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

#language #virginia woolf

[useless-thought-pit]

A little collection of recent poems

They were all written about a month ago, and to give you just a teeny bit of context I was unfortunately under the spell of some scourge we like to call love (the best of all, of course, being unrequited love). No seriously though, I am now free from this transient infatuation (you'll get to see that word in a bit cos I am a shit poet with a bad memory for synonyms). I've ordered them chronologically, and have also included unfinished fragments.

Also this was pretty much one of my first times actually composing poetry in English, like with meters and rhymes and stuff. You may also find poems written in french on this blog if I please to post them, but that's if you speak it so ahah

Enough babbling now, enjoy.

***

I know not how to get to thee safe and alive Future appears farther and farther with the days There's within me an evergreen spreading its arms Or is it I who bury my roots in the soil Nothing seems surer than when thou flow through my veins When I try to sleep it away I swiftly shift Towards elsewhere a humongous desert of heart The sun glistens as thy dark eyes still yet unknown O wand'ring soul O newest woe but who art thou Does thine essence lie in my mind so delusive Am I the jittery dreamer are thou the dream Are thou but a deadly pommel on which to press With painted hands of thine ego bearer of light Burnt witch that crawls under the wick of candlesticks Nonsense to me and in the end shan't we forget How I made thee aim for my bosom with mine eyes

***

Strange infatuation hath grabbed me hard There seems to be nothing at all to try Attempts to write it off but ain't no bard If anything it stoked instead of dry How come a single thought seed of evil Can grow into such monstrous tentacles Been looking ev'rywhere for some old spell To rid of the disease that harsh and dwells

***

Things do get out of hand And leave myself to hang Exorcism is nigh I pray that I won't die Mayhap all that junk is But a petty pretext To know how to feel next All of that sorrow biz Isn't it so frightening To know not how to live Though easier that to heave Thoughts so unbecoming Tomorrow says the fool But there's no way I could Throw thyself at me cruel Fate do hurt me real good

***

Two glimmering dark pools I can see myself in Am I just acting fool In the abyss peering Lash out thy wrath Kyrie God have mercy on me Am I looking drowning Narcissus in denial Katie I write thy name Thinking it bravery When all it is really Is I can't my heart tame Shall it pass shall it stay Forever evermore I love thee I implore That thou take me away

***

If instead of stumbling upon thy beauty I could have fallen into some old chasm Forever floating into infinity Mine heart wouldn't be prey to all those spasms But alas now each time I go to bed I'm forced by my own mind to dream of thee I shift into reveries so ghastly Wherein I'm charmed ev'n by thy lofty tread I hope I shall in the end kiss thy hands But I'm oh so afraid that thou reject My confession leaving my hopes to mend Why must love be our greatest soul's defect Katie I'm cold I don't mean to be bold But it seems to me that my end cometh With scythe and hourglass so now do behold What I'll gently whisper in my last breath

Fragments

I can well suffer into some long hours If only for a transient sight of her If it means I get one fast sight of her My heartbeat rises far up to the skies When I turn round and see her cherished eyes

---

Feeling beat down life's got me bad or so it seems I cannot think of anything but thee, caught in the stream Feeling beat down life got me real bad The thought of her's deadly as a last strike

---

Tonight at least I get to say What a pleasant ev'ning it's been Although moments of relief sway To fall beyond tomorrow's veil

#Poetry #Sappy asf but you get it #no I didn't find anything to name them #almost feels like oversharing but shhh art

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

The day after the dinner party in the late afternoon, Celaena was whiling her time away by flipping through the pages of the latest monthly issue of the fashion magazine La Belle Assemblée when she recieved a note of invitation from Lady Towper, one of her recent acquaintances, to a walk in Hyde Park later that afternoon with her and Mrs Burnwell, another society lady Celaena had befriended. The wording made it quite clear it was more a summons than an invitation and having spent the morning by herself, Celaena was eager enough for company that she happily put down her magazine and called for her pelisse and outerwear with alacrity. Twenty minutes later she was roaming around the park when Lady Towper spotted her, gliding across the path—there really was no other way to describe her graceful movement—with an elegant swish of her skirts and a look of exaggerated distress on her countenance, followed by Mrs Burnwell who looked rather piqued. "Dear Miss Sardothein," cried the former, looping an arm around hers. "How glad I was to hear you accepted my invitation. I wanted to take a walk around the park, refresh myself and Mrs Burnwell recalled you were rather fond of exercise and suggested we take you along with us."

Celaena rather thought that on a fine weather such as this, the ladies' primary motive for a walk was perhaps to see and be seen by the upper ten-thousands of the ton, most of which had returned from their summer estates for the social season which was to start soon but said instead, "I am grateful for the invitation. Your Ladyship has quite rescued me from certain death at the hands of boredom."

The ladies tittered politely, protesting that it was no great sacrifice on their part and the trio walked along the paths making light conversation until Mrs Burnwell jerked to a halt with a pinched expression. "Mrs Whitethorn."

Though Celaena had only met the lady once, she had been left unimpressed and could not fault Mrs Burnwell for looking piqued.

Mrs Whitethorn did not improve on a second meeting - not that Celaena had had any expectations that she would - and participated as much in the conversation with as much fervor as a lifeless statue, making occasional noises of agreement and dissent. Celaena who prided herself on being able to draw someone out of their reserve met with failure at every turn and it was not long before the ladies ran out of polite remarks to exchange and their party took their leave. Celaena spotted a group of children from her neighborhood racing each other in a less scenic path around the park and soon abandoned all sorts of decorum to join in on the shouting.

"FASTER, TOM! FASTER, YES, A LITTLE FASTER!" cheered Celaena, bouncing up and down in excitement.

Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her petticoats muddier than usual. She let out a high-pitched noise when little Thomas reached the finishing line and beamed. "I did it, I did it, I said I would, did I not? Oh, Cece, did you see me? I won!"

"You did very well, dear," said she, kissing his cheek. The smug look he sent his siblings' way had her struggling not to laugh.

"Yes, you won this time—" said his eldest brother in an arrogant tone, "—but I shall be the winner next time. Shall we play something else now?"

"Hide and seek!"

"Hopscotch."

"No! We must play cops and robbers today. You promised!"

"I want to play tag."

"We don't," said the twins simultaneously.

"Then blind man's buff?"

"I suppose we could—"

"Oh, no, I will not play that ever again."

Celaena smiled, watching the children argue over what they wished to do and looked at two children - presumably brothers - finely dressed and staring at the brood of children she was so fond of wistfully. "Here, you two, why don't you play?" asked she.

The younger boy beamed at the prospect but the elder looked uncertain.

He glanced over his shoulder anxiously biting his lip. "Oh, no, mama will be furious if we get our clothes dirty." But he looked at the noisy little children with such longing and he looked so serious in general with those deep blue eyes filled with sorrow and the brows that remained creased as if by default—more serious than a nine-year-old should be; he held himself with a ridiculous amount of poise, posture stiff and yet looked unsure of every little movement or sound he made, Celaena had a whimsical desire to have him enjoy himself.

"I shall tell you a secret," she gave him a conspiratorial wink. "It is healthy to disobey your parents once in a while."

The poor boy looked scandalized at the thought of disobeying anyone. When had he last had some fun? she wondered.

He looked at the boys again, then at his boots, properly polished and finely made, then straightened as if he had come to a decision. "I-I thank you, miss, but my brother and I shall take your leave now." The formal tone so became him, she was struck by the intelligence in his expression and the confidence of his words despite the apprehension evident in his posture. He continued in a softer tone, "Mama says it is not proper to talk to anyone without being introduced."

"Then perhaps we might perform the service ourselves since no one else can? I am Miss Celaena Sardothein of Raven Hall in Derbyshire." She curtsied formally, suppressing a smile.

"Oh." He looked down at his feet.

Celaena took pity on him and smiled. "It's alright, I shan't force you into anything. You are a good boy, dear, to obey your parents so." He looked so surprised, and blushed all kinds of red, though his chest did puff out a little. When had someone last praised him? Knowing there was no more she could do, Celaena was about to bid the child a farewell when a familiar figure rounded the corner.

"Papa!" cried the little boy, latching onto his father's leg.

Mr Whitethorn patted his head and gently freed himself to step forward. "Stephen, what have I told you about talking to—Miss Sardothein!" He jerked to a stop, then recalling himself, bowed to her. "I cannot say how surprised I am to see you."

"Are you really, sir?" asked she. "You know me to be unconventional. This is exactly the kind of place you should expect to find me in." She nodded towards the elder boy who looked vastly relieved to have someone else do the talking on his behalf and the younger who clung to his father for attention, bouncing on his toes. "These fine young gentlemen are your sons?"

He confirmed that they were.

"Perhaps you and your sons could join us for a while?" Both boys looked excited for such a prospect though one was more successful at hiding it than the other.

"Please papa?" asked the five-year-old.

Mr Whitethorn rolled his eyes fondly. "After recieving that look, I should not dare refuse."

The child hugged his father tightly, then ran towards the group of boys. They accepted him immediately, having settled on the blind man's bluff finally and noisily took up positions, directing and misdirecting the child with the blindfold.

His elder brother looked lost standing by the side. He looked down at his hands. "...And he has run off already."

"Why don't you join him?" she nudged gently. I know they will be happy to include you."

Stephen swallowed, looking at his father who had a neutral face on and turned to her. "I thank you, but no—" then at her stern look, he admitted, "I, I won't know what to say to them."

"Just say you want to play."

"But surely, I don't, oh, I am fine here."

Celaena signalled for him to offer her an arm and escort her there. When he refused, she said, "You know it is not gentlemanly to refuse to escort a lady somewhere, do you not?"

Stephen huffed but gave in.

Shs clapped to get everyone's attention. "This is Master Stephen Whitethorn and that—" she nodded towards the younger, "—is his younger brother, Master..."

"Charles," the boy happily supplied.

"Right. Master Charles Whitethorn." The boy grinned toothily. "Be nice to them."

Stephen blushed at the attention, standing stiffly as one by one the boys spoke their names. He half expected them to call him names like wuss or a dreadful bore like his cousins and friends always did but no one did. In fact, as long as he played well, no one cared how loud he shrieked or how often he stumbled on the tree roots or how dirty he had gotten. As every minute passed, he relaxed some more until he was laughing and jumping along with the others with no care for his clothes or boots which were already ruined. Mama would have his head if she found out, yes, and she would scold him until his ears bled but was not all this fun worth it? How often did he have such a chance? He looked back at the spot where his father stood beside the woman—Miss Sardothein—and noticed she was watching him. He rolled his eyes when she mouthed 'you are welcome' but could not help the smile that followed after.

"Poor boy," Celaena sighed to herself. "He is too shy, and he feels inferior to his brother."

Mr Whitethorn said, "He is wise beyond his years. I do not know what to do with him sometimes." He looked down at his feet, a gesture she recognised as evident in his eldest son. "You sound like one talking with experience but I cannot imagine you being shy at all." The concern expressed on his face touched her deeply and she had the strangest urge to smooth the wrinkles away from his forehead.

"I should imagine not." She chuckled. "Eleanor, my adoptive sister is very shy—not like your son, mind—but I have seen firsthand her longing to join in on the fun and her hesitance to act on it."

They watched the children play and he chuckled. "Their mother will have a fit if she finds them so muddied."

"Their mother," said Celaena, barely restraining herself from snorting. "I do not think your wife likes me, sir."

"I think that is a point in your favor, Miss Sardothein," he replied dryly, though his lips twitched. Had she paid more attention to her dance partners the evening of the Thorpe's ball or less occupied with Lord Fenrys' veiled hints, trying to figure out the meaning behind his pointed commentary and the suspicious dinner invitation she had accepted out of curiosity, she would not have been surprised by how handsome he looked. But indeed, occupied as she had been on the previous occassions, it was not until he smiled a little that she was taken completely by how well the expression of fondness became him, how his features so perfectly formed, looked more beautiful and pleasing than ever. She gasped at how beautifully his green eyes sparkled when he stood just so, with the sunlight shining in them and how gracefully he carried himself with a hint of pride that was not unbecoming on his noble mein. If at that moment he had told her he was a prince from the fairytales, she would have easily believed him.

"Are you well, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena flushed bright red with mortification. "Oh, yes," she breathed out. She spent the better part of their afternoon walk attempting to squash the flutter in stomach by conjuring a confused, miserable Mrs Whitethorn waiting for her husband to return home. The trick did not work as well as she had hoped and when the sun started its descent, she was grateful to be able to part with some measure of equinanimity.

"You met who at a dinner party?" asked Lord Rhoe incredulously for the fifth time.

"Aelin." Seated across from his father in his private study and being the current object of the Earl's ire, James felt like the nine-year-old recieving a lecture from his father over one mischief or another when Rhoe could be bothered enough to care about something more than his next meal or the port supply. He had retreated into his own world soon after they lost his little sister and neither brother was inclined to give him more courtesy or respect than what was his due as a father. James felt he would have been perfectly justified in not informing his father of this discovery but he felt an uncharacteristic anxiety about her visit and was not inclined to risk her running into his ignorant father who would easily recognise her from afar. "Aelin was at the Thorpe's ball, the one my cousin and I attended recently, though we were not introduced. Fenrys ran into her at a nearby bookstore the other day and recognised her. Though I was initially sceptical and asked my solicitor to launch several inquiries into the girl in question and her family, Fenrys convinced me to meet her once and I—" there were hardly enough words to explain himself on this and James fell silent.

Lord Rhoe looked his disbelief.

"I know you do not wish for false hopes, sir, but I would not have come if I was not sure."

"I grieve her still," said Rhoe at last in a tone of gruff affection, "—and I know how it feels to latch onto hope but it is insanity to claim this-this madness—"

"It is not madness."

"You are letting your sentiments rule over reason. Aelin is dead, boy," said he, "and you had better drop this."

James was in no mood to drop it but Rhoe was overcome by a fit of coughs and slumped into his armchair. James rushed to his father, not sure what he would do but there was something so wrong about seeing his ever stoic, ever impassive father reduced to a fit of helplessness - no matter how small - like a common fragile old man that disturbed him greatly. James rubbed his father's back and called for a maid.

Rhoe tried to speak but a hoarse whisper was all that came out.

A maid stood at the doorway while the other rushed inside, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher. Rhoe drank it slowly, allowing the coughs to slowly fade.

"Aelin died," he choked out.

"You don't know that," reminded James gently. He was hesitant to press more but James wanted to clear this first hurdle before she arrived.

"I saw—I saw her body." Rhoe closed his eyes shut as if he was trying to block out a vision. "There was a body. Her body."

"Aelin disappeared," corrected James. "You found a body and identified it as hers but what if-what if it wasn't?"

"The magistrate found her anklet near the body. It was her. I saw the anklet."

James snapped his mouth shut. He had been nine when his sister disappeared and what little he knew about it was pieced together from eavesdropped bits of conversations and accidental slips from his uncle and aunt between the years. The Earl of Narrowcreek all but banned talk about Aelin in his home and neither son mentioned her for fear of his temper until memories of childhood acquired a dreamlike quality in his mind.

"The other anklet?"

"They never found it," said Rhoe.

James tried to consider his words carefully but . "I am aware my story sound like wishful thinking but I have—sir, I would not have believed my cousin if I had not seen her. She looks like my sister but more than that, she is-she is what I always thought Aelin would grow up to be: witty, charming and-and so wickedly clever." His words were more passionate than rationally thought out now but his father looked unaffected. James blew out a breath. "I invited her here for dinner, father. I wish to make Miss Sardothein aware of my-my suspicions. Despite what you say, something tells me I am right. I know I am. If you change your mind by dinner, you are welcome to join us tonight."

He thought his words might cause his father to at least promise to come; instead Rhoe latched onto another part of his sentence. "Miss Celaena Sardothein?!"

"The very one."

"You cannot mean to invite a tradesman's daughter into my house!"

"She is your daughter, sir!" said James sharply, feeling himself losing his control. "I mean to tell her of her identity today and you will not dissuade me from it." So saying, he quit the study door and left, suddenly quite anxious for the upcoming visit.

Celaena felt strangely off-kilter looking at a house that was as familiar as it was strange as she was handed down the carriage by a footman. Her nerves hightened for some unfathomable reason and in an attempt to distract herself by looking around the foyer of the Galathynius Townhouse, which was very grand. In the pride of the place stood an elegant water fountain, around which she could imagine a noisy brood of children splashing in and out. The elegant structure captured her interest until she stepped inside, feeling a vague sense of deja vu though she could swear she had never seen such a fine house before in her life—surely she would remember it if she had? It was not a forgettable sight—she pushed her unease aside, squared her shoulders and allowed the butler to divest her of her cloak and gloves while a maid waited to escort her to drawing room. The old servant started at the sight of her before he hid his surprise with an impassive expression like a well-trained servant, efficiently performing his duties, though she did not miss the way his eyes flicked back to her face repeatedly. Having never been invited to a private dinner before, Celaena had no expectations from the evening but was nevertheless surprised to be ushered into a private study instead of the drawing room.

A man sat in his armchair in a posture more befitting a young gentleman than an old, wealthy peer, though the grey hair at the edges of his temples belied his age.

"Miss Sardothein," said he.

Lord Rhoe noticed her surprise at being addressed by her name and smiled strangely. "Your reputation precedes you, dear. You have the whole town in a tizzy and you have in twenty four hours coerced my son into issuing a dinner invitation that is quite improper; an unmarried lady dining with two bachelors? Huge scandals have been created on far less."

"Then I wonder at your son's reasoning, for he issued the invitation. I only accepted it."

The Earl shook his head. "I know his reasons but I wonder at yours."

"I was curious."

He raised an eyebrow but she did not offer more explanation than that. "By accepting his invitation, you are putting your reputation in jeopardy, and with it, my son's."

She dimpled. "I might argue he did that himself when he issued it."

"I told you—"

"No, I told you," said she, rising from her seat, "—I am here on invitation. If you wish me gone from your home, ask and I will. But I will not accept an interrogation."

"I demand respect, Miss Sardothein."

"I shall never give it for that reason alone. I could not respect you if I wanted, sir," said she defiantly, rising from her seat, "for you were decided against me before I even entered your house—you who valued the gossip's opinions, or was your prejudice because of the grave sin I committed in being raised by a tradesman?" Her eyes flashed with ire and her breaths came faster. The Earl noticed none of it, struck as he was by the image of another adolescent ages ago shouting at his own father in the very same place. Miss Sardothein was a little older, perhaps and her features were not as delicate and soft but there was no mistaking her. He had crossed swords with his wife's younger sister to recognise her ashryver eyes and the colouring—

"Evalin," he whispered.

Bloody Hell.

Celaena's eyebrows creased when the older man looked at her in shock, then collapsed into the armchair he had been occupying.

"Uncle Rhoe? I heard raised voices—good gods, Aelin! Whatever happened here?"

If either of them noticed what name Lord Fenrys had unintentionally called her and to which she had answered, neither gave any indication. "He was telling me I should not have come and I was-I was defending myself but then he was, he was shocked at something and he said a name—Evelyn or something similar. Then he just collapsed into the chair." Lord Fenrys quickly and efficiently took charge of the situation, pouring her some wine for some semblance of calm, sending for his cousin and a footman to escort His Lordship back to his chambers. Lord Fenrys and his cousin had apparently been waiting for her in the drawing room downstairs and were not aware of her arrival. He had come to fetch a book from the adjoining library to pass his time when he heard raised voices. This assured her to some degree that she was not unwanted in the house, however as it belonged to the master whom she had quite shocked into fainting with her poor manners, she was not sure how much longer she would be welcome and expressed her desire to leave.

Lord Fenrys said immediately, "Leave? Goodness—no, my cousin will be quite cross with me if I let you leave before he comes. Do feel free to look around."

She did look around, taking in the elegant but never ostentatious furniture and the wall patterns which, though pretty, looked rather outdated. The study was well-lit with wax candles but looked cozier than she would expect an Earl's private sanctuary to look like. Her attention was caught soon by a bookcase by the farthest wall—presumably his favourites—and was surprised she shared similar tastes in reading with a man who had in a few minutes embodied all the worst qualities of the aristocracy. She moved past that wall only to come face-to-face with an unexpected portrait. It's objects—a husband, wife and their three children—sat in a formal pose but the picture radiated contentment, happiness and affection. It was perhaps something in the way the refined, elegant woman stared adoringly up at her husband or the look of affection he in turn bestowed on his two sons and a daughter who looked by turns bemused, bored and awfully wicked.

Her stomach twisted uneasily looking at the eldest son. "That. Who is that?"

"Edward," answered he. "Viscount Layton is not much fond of society. By the way his expression darkened, she surmised there must be some rift in the family—

Edward.

Edward Galathynius.

Celaena felt her own disquiet increase. Where had she heard the name before?

She glanced quickly at her host's cousin who was rifling through the drawers and examined the painting more closely. The children and the woman looked a great deal similar in colouring and in their eyes which were turquoise—

Turquoise eyes ringed with gold.

"Miss Sardothein?" Fenrys asked.

"Yes, yes, forgive me, Lord Fenrys. I feel a little, a little warm. He, your cousin—cousins, that is," she corrected herself, "they have—their eyes are a very unusual colour," she lamely finished.

"The ashryver eyes, yes." His tone was flippant, as though he had not seen her eyes. "As rare as they are beautiful, won't you say?"

Her stomach plummeted. She wanted to go somewhere—anywhere else.

Celaena tried to leave the room, her skin feeling too hot. Her knees buckled.

"Aelin!" Mr Galathynius stood in the doorway with his eyes wide.

Aelin.

She tried to ignore the implications of all that being called that name entailed.

Mr Galathynius gently led her to a seat away from the fireplace. Her head spun and her palms felt sweaty. "Home," she croaked out, unable to make out her own words. "I want home." Her skin flushed even more, her palms grew sweaty and her clothes felt coarse against her body.

Ashryver eyes.

The fairest eyes, from legends old

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold

She shut her eyes closed, willing her hands to stop shaking. It didn't work. How did she know that? She couldn't have known that. She had never met these people before, had never seen this place.

She had not.

She could not have.

Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her.

Aelin.

But how could it be?

Aelin died in a fire thirteen years ago, Fenrys had told her. When she was but five.

Arobynn brought her home and introduced her as an orphan the same year, the year she had turned six. Arobynn had found her as an orphan roaming the streets of London when she was five.

The dates matched.

The fire. A warehouse. Two men. A pistol. She tried to remember but came up short.

"Aelin," a voice gently called out.

"You are wrong," she insisted vehemently, "I am not, I am not your sister!" Her voice turned screeching. "I was—my family gave me up, they didn't want me. Arobynn saved me. He told me they didn't want me, he told me so himself."

Arobynn lies to everyone.

But he had never lied to her. To her, he had been honest as he should.

He would not.

"Shh, It's alright, Aelin." James scooted closer and talked in a gentle tone, wishing his elder brother was present to comfort her. Edward would have known how to calm her.

Edward always had.

"Don't call me that." She shook her head tearfully. "I am not Aelin. I am not."

James placed an arm on her shoulder cautiously. The gentle touch, the compassionate voice and the genuine concern almost undid her. "Aelin," said her brother—her brother, she thought with amazement that the words did not sound as strange as they should have—"I am sorry you found out this way. Indeed, there are a great many things we are not sure of but—but my father's reaction and your own confirms what I suspected."

"You told me she died." The words came out almost as an accusation.

"It is all speculation on my part, mind, but we were informed my sister died in a fire in a nearby warehouse. The owner was a rather genial fellow and my sister—you—were friends with the man's clerk. You were playing with Edward that day—that is our elder brother—and you broke your ankle. He went to fetch help from the manor house but by the time father was able to come, you were not there. The search parties could find no signs of you until the magistrate informed her of two bodies found in a nearby warehouse. The first a child, had near her an anklet we knew you wore that day and father thought—we all thought it was you. I do not know where you did go and how the anklet appeared there but—"

She frowned. "You think Arobynn abducted me for some nefarious purposes."

"Indeed not—"

"You do," she accused, looking away from the hurt in his ashryver eyes. "You think—you think he did that. But he did not. He would not do that to me."

"Aelin, I never—"

"He wouldn't!" Celaena sobbed hysterically. "And even if you do not, everyone else will. No one will believe this—this story of ours—your father, oh god, he doubted it! He thought me a fortune hunter and—and everyone will—"

"Father did not wish to hope only to be met with disappointment, dearest."

"I all but told my father to go to the devil," she said between sobs.

"And it is a darned good thing you did," said Lord Fenrys in a flippant tone. "Someone needed to take that old man down a few notches. Besides, I suspect when he wakes up, he will have his fair share of apologising to do."

Mr Galathynius hesitantly placed an arm around his sister's shoulder as though he expected her to pull away and run. But she was too exhausted to protest and too grateful to have something solid to hold onto while the earth shifted beneath her feet. Aelin buried her face in his chest, clutching at the lapels of his coat and James felt a tender affection towards this creature who was clever and witty in ballrooms, whose ire faded as easily as it was stoked and who went from one emotion to another to another in a few moments. If in that moment someone had told him he needed to fell a dragon in order to protect her, he would have happily taken the beast on with his sword. James had been too young to do anything but squabble with his little sister but he felt all the protective instincts of an elder brother now and the first stirrings of hope that his family might not be doomed to unhappiness forever after all.

Aelin pulled back and sniffed. "I am sorry, Mr Galathynius, I suppose—"

"It would please me greatly if you would call me by my first name, dearest." James wished again he had his brother with him. "I do not think father will be angry and even if he is, I hope you will not mind him too much. I sent an express to Edward the moment we returned from the dinner party. He will be here soon and he will be ecstatic. I know I am."

"I don't remember anything."

He shrugged helplessly. "It is to be expected, Aelin. You were only five."

"But Arobynn told me I was given away by my family to, to an orphanage. He found me on the streets."

Mr Galathy—James looked at her seriously, clutching her hands in his. "I don't know if he lied or not, Aelin, but know this: your family did not give you away—indeed, we have been miserable since you left us." He bit his lip, swallowed and asked, "Do you remember even a little bit of that day? You and Edward were playing outside, you broke your ankle and he came back to the house to fetch help. He was—"

"He told me to stay there," she whispered, tears rolling down her face. "I didn't."

"You were but five," said Fenrys in an attempt to soothe. "You could hardly be expected to listen to anyone." The siblings started in surprise, having forgotten his presence.

"Do you remember what happened after our brother left?" James prodded gently.

Celaena shook her head, eyes shut. She tried to remember the day on the field near the estate. A mud puddle. A fallen ribbon. Her anklet's weak clasp. Why are you alone here? A voice.

It was a man's voice.

He had promised to take her back. I will carry you home, come with me. Into the carriage, there. She had climbed into the carriage. Perhaps she knew the man? Surely she would not have climbed into a stranger's carriage?

You were but five.

She tried hard to concentrate but could not remember anything beyond that and she told her brother so.

"You need not force yourself to, but if you do remember anything more—"

"I will tell you," she agreed. "I always wanted an elder brother, you know?"

James Galathynius was an affectionate man and he itched to embrace his sister tightly, but restrained in fear of overdoing things. The last shreds of his reserve melted with her words and he pulled her close. His little sister. He wondered if there were sweeter words in the world. "I missed you so," he answered tearfully, "So did we all. Edward refused to look at pianofortes for months, they reminded him of you, he hardly ever comes to town and father so retreated into his study and there I was—Oh, Aelin, please don't leave again."

"I shan't," she promised.

"A gentleman's word?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I am a lady."

"It's the only kind of promise you didn't break when we were children. A gentleman's word?" She heard her own voice ask the question long ago. A vague memory.

Celaena smiled. "A gentleman's word."

Fenrys broke the moment, his eyes glimmering suspiciously. He sniffed. "Stop monopolizing her, cousin."

Celaena hesitantly rose from her seat, pressing a kiss against her cousin's cheek. "I know it's all a muddle still but thank you for finding me, Lord Fenrys." She smiled sweetly at him. "You told me Aelin was—that I was—your favourite cousin, did you not, Lord Fenrys?"

"You were—you are." He grinned. "Do stop with the lord business though—I am already determined we shall be the dearest of friends. We have always been alike in our dispositions."

"What he means," James grinned back, "is the both of you have always been utter rascals, making all our lives difficult."

"I don't know what you are talking about," huffed she with feigned indignation in her voice. "I am positively an angel."

"Oh, hardly!" Fenrys shook his head. "I never saw a more mischevious child. Aunt Meave swore you were the devil's spawn."

"Oh no," she said.

"Oh, yes." James grinned at a fond memory. "And I cannot blame her. You once sneaked a frog to her dinner table. It ended up in her plate somehow; it was horrific."

"Indeed, you scarred the poor woman," Fenrys quipped. "She specifically invites only adults ever since. James told us later how you twitched and groaned, shifting in your seat, trying to hide it in the folds of your dress."

Celaena narrowed her eyes. "If you knew, why did you not help?"

"I did not want to incur her wrath," he said. "Our father or brother would have protected you from her. I was on my own."

The remark brought her back to reality. "Father—Lord Rhoe—my goodness, I implied he was proud and arrogant and—and he fainted!" James hurried to assure her that he fainted occassionally and a physician had been sent for in any case and she should not worry overmuch about that but she could not help herself. However, not wanting to worry him more—the poor man was acting so casually as if expecting another fit of hysterics—she changed the subject to one she was curious about. "And Edward—you said he has been informed."

"If I know him at all, he will come running." Then, with due caution, "I know you don't remember a thing but Edward and you were particularly close—you filled buckets worth of tears when he left for Eton, you know? And when he came to visit for the summer or holidays and you were obliged to return to the nursery in the evenings, you threw such a royal fit until father allowed you to spend the nights in his room." By the tone with which he said it, Celaena rather thought it cost him something to admit this to her and she thought she heard a touch of envy in those words.

"It was perhaps not proper," agreed Fenrys, "but you would not eat or drink and he was forced to acquiese."

Celaena laughed. "That does sound like me." Then, sobering, "I should not—it's too late, I think I should return home."

"Home?"

Celaena amended with a smile, "Well, not my home, then. But I could not move here today, not with Lord Rhoe so—"

"Father will not object," said he, with conviction. "This is your home as much as it is mine or his. I am sure Edward will be furious with me if I let you leave." Then, noticing her reluctance, he gently smiled. "I understand you will need to get used to reality and I really would like it if you stayed but if you cannot—"

"Oh, no," said she, interrupting him. "I will—I will stay if you send a note to the Rhunns informing them where I am and if my maid and a few of my clothes can be brought—Elide, my maid, she will know what to bring—then I shall stay."

This was agreed to with alacrity and orders sent to prepare one of the finest guest rooms for temporary occupation. James noticed her pale countenance and offered to send a dinner tray to her rooms in a half hour if she would like to retire early. After they were informed that Lord Rhoe had been given laudanum to calm himself and would see them in the morning, there was nothing left for her to do and she accepted her brother's offer happily. Celaena thought she would not be able to sleep for hours, ruminating on the eventful day but the overwhelming emotions of the overdeal caught up with her and she was asleep before dinner arrived.

tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @towhateverend17 // @aelinchocolatelover // @justabunchoffandoms // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @didsomeonesayviolin // @atozfantazyxx // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @bitchy-knees // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @totenhamboys20 // @sanakapoor // @louisleblancdiggory

#throne of glass #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #sarah j maas #aelin ashryver #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #valiant #aelin-queen-of-terrasen