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shibuyashotos · 1 year

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I posted 71 times in 2022

That's 70 more posts than 2021!

44 posts created (62%)

27 posts reblogged (38%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@writing-prompt-s

@shibuyashotos

@segacity

@makeupafgplayer

@snk-retro

I tagged 54 of my posts in 2022

Only 24% of my posts had no tags

#shibuyashotos - 50 posts

#amara of u66 - 19 posts

#daily facts december - 13 posts

#dbz oc - 13 posts

#oc - 10 posts

#saiyan oc - 8 posts

#dragon ball oc - 8 posts

#writing prompts - 7 posts

#creative writing - 7 posts

#dbz - 7 posts

Longest Tag: 64 characters

#this is ironically the most consistently active my blog has been

My Top Posts in 2022:

Artist Shoutout: Inkweaver01

Hey so I want to give a shoutout to a very good friend of mine, who's done some fantastic artworks for me on twitter. Her username is InkWeaver01, and she has commissions currently open. Link She'll generally do anything you'd have in mind, without it being NSFW of course.

If you'd like some examples of what her art looks like, here are a couple of commissions she's done for me in the past.

See the full post

2 notes - Posted May 15, 2022

The Themes of Ringo Ishikawa

It was only a few years ago, during a Nintendo Indie Game Showcase, that I learned of the existence of a game called The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa. It looked interesting and I was still going through a bit of a high with my foray into the Yakuza series. A Story about Japanese Delinquents set in what appears to be the late 1980s-early 1990s, a story about a group of delinquents and what the world might have in store for them. It was part Beat 'em up, part Sandbox, with a little bit of Life Sim thrown in.

Your Secrets

The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa, at its core, is a story about growing up and being at a crossroads when certain chapters of life are coming to a close. Whether it's the prospect of Graduating High School or perhaps maybe something else entirely, we've all experienced this feeling of uncertainty, feeling that the winds of change are blowing in the air. Ringo's story is no different.

A year ago, delinquent Ringo Ishikawa and his friends Ken Nakamura, Masaru Takahashi, Shiro Abe and Goro Yamaguchi, took a train ride into enemy territory and fought off a gang from Northern High, headed by another delinquent named Nakazawa. Ringo's gang seemed pretty happy in the aftermath, optimistic that they'd be leaving their marks on history and legacies for their high school in hopes that future delinquents would look up to them. In the present day, circumstances appear to have changed as the gang face the last year of their high school careers, with one last autumn to enjoy before it's time to call it quits. After a meeting with the guidance counselor, Machida, Ringo is left with the task of trying to figure out what exactly he wants in life moving forward.

Now, gameplay-wise, it's up to the Player in what Ringo will do - whether it's improving his grades and trying to be a straight A student, or perhaps skipping a few days to go work a part time job at a local video store. Maybe even hit up the book store and the school library and get some books to read. Or quite simply, just gather up the gang and go for a romp around town, playing games and picking fights with rival delinquents until the day's over. Narratively speaking, The story plays out over the span of a month and a lot happens within that time frame and at specific areas. People change, interests change, and many events unfold. I won't spoil the entire plot, as I feel it's best to experience the game by one's self.

Mr. Monster Man

In a matter of themes and how the game carries them, there's certainly a few of them and ways to look at them, even how they might be embodied. Whether it's Idealism and Cynicism, Existentialism, or even say the theme of Change.

Now before we get into the ways they're embodied, it's worth giving some explanation as to what Idealism, Cynicism and Existentialism all mean. The world of Philosophy has had many brilliant men and women enter it, and generally a lot of those bright thinkers have also changed the world of Philosophy by introducing new concepts and ways of thinking. Ways of seeing the world and trying to seek out unknown answers to questions of the world. Admittedly, I cannot give more in depth explanations for Idealism and Cynicism, but I can provide for Existentialism.

Idealism is given two specific definitions: 1. The practice of forming or pursuing ideals, especially unrealistically. 2. Any various systems of thought in which the objects of knowledge are held to be in some way dependent on the activity of mind.

Cynicism is defined as the following: An inclination to question whether something will happen or whether it is worthwhile. It is also an inclination to believe that people are motivated purely by self-interest.

For Existentialism, As I was taught in an ethics course I took: Existentialism is effectively an approach to life that roots itself in the idea that you control your life, nobody else can control it for you. Life is a process of becoming yourself. From the moment you're born to the day you die, you are both the artist and the canvas that you paint upon. The choices you make in life are the materials you use to paint your picture - In other words, you are able to decide what you want to do today, do tomorrow, and then you act on those decisions and thus reflect on the decisions made yesterday, made today and possibly reflect on the ones made tomorrow. Philosophers who have ties to Existentialism are Soren Kierkegaard (1813 - 1855), Friedrich Nietzche (1844 - 1900), Jean Paul Sartre (1905 - 1980), and Martin Buber (1878 - 1986).

North Country

With the philosophies of Idealism, Cynicism and Existentialism elaborated upon, it's now time to talk about how each theme is embodied.

Change - As mentioned prior, The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa is at its core a story about growing up and being at a crossroads. Change is merely either a symptom of them, or they're a symptom of it. To "grow up," is to Change certain things. If we're at a crossroads like the titular Ringo, we find ourselves struggling to Change or even struggling with Change. As the game's plot progresses, it becomes increasingly apparent just how much Ringo struggles with the idea that times are changing and that he might be struggling with the idea that even his friends are changing for better or in some cases, for worse.

Idealism - In the game's prologue, the entire group is idealistic... However, out of Ishikawa's group in the present, only a few of them embody the theme of Idealism. Those who do are Ringo, Shiro and Goro. Shiro and Goro's idealistic tendencies are geared toward their hobbies and relationships. Ringo himself is arguably the biggest embodiment of Idealism, as he follows the first given definition to a near detrimental degree as the plot unfolds. He firmly believes in his friends and will even do anything to help them out, which again ties into his struggle with the idea that they're changing as people as well.

Cynicism - The remainder of the group, Ken and Masaru, are the ones who embody the theme of Cynicism. Masaru doesn't really see himself having a bright future and thinks he's better off becoming a Yakuza. Ken, meanwhile, is the most cynical of the lot and thus the most critical of everyone. His delinquency only further drives his cynicism. Ultimately, the game itself also seems to lean toward a more cynical outlook given the focus on Delinquents in Japan.

Existentialism - Change is only just one of the core themes that The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa embodies. Existentialism is another major theme of the game. As outlined prior, you are able to decide on what you want to do today, what you might do tomorrow, and what you did yesterday. The game gives you freedom to do just that, to simply live a day in the shoes of Ringo Ishikawa. In a way this reinforces that feeling of being at a crossroads as well, given the freedom to do just about anything.

Counting Colors - Finishing Thoughts

The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa was a game that certainly resonated well with me. Well enough that I'm inclined to write this post about it. While I cannot say that I've lived a life similar to Ishikawa, I can say that I connected pretty well with the character. His friends in some ways also remind me of people I have personally known as well, in the ways they have conducted themselves and how some have behaved. The game's music is wonderful, they're all public domain songs as well, by various artists like ANITEK or Indian&Fox. In this post, I've linked a few of the tracks (Hence the titles like "Your Secrets" or "Mr. Monster Man").

I'd certainly recommend getting your hands on the game however possible, maybe you might find yourself enjoying it the way I did. While I won't go into specifics on how the game's ending unfolds, I will say it's up to interpretation on what happens afterward. Making this post has been on my mind a few days now, and I've always wanted to talk about the game in some capacity.

Thank you for reading through this post as well. I hope the impromptu philosophy lesson was at the very least entertaining. You can find The Friends of Ringo Ishikawa by Yeo on the following platforms: Steam ($14.99, can also come in a bundle for $26.98 with Yeo's other game: Arrest of a Stone Buddha) Nintendo E-Shop ($8.99 currently; otherwise it's $14.99) To my knowledge as well, Yeo is also developing a third game called Fading Afternoon. I'm looking forward to its eventual release, as I certainly enjoyed this game and Fading Afternoon happens to have similar visual aesthetics to that.

2 notes - Posted June 17, 2022

Character Profile: Amara

Art Credits: NemuiDaysu on Twitter. (Thank you very much for this art, Nem!) (This is just a redo of a now deleted older post I made a couple years ago, now with better formatting an actual depth.)

The Invisible Princess of the 66th Universe - Amara

In the infinite expanses of the multiverse, there lies that of Universe 66. A Universe where the Saiyans never had their home world blown up or their race scattered across the cosmos. for 20 years In this universe, they’ve effectively conquered many worlds and see to subjugating the masses with their might. It didn’t matter who it was, they were little threat to the warrior race. However eventually, It was on Planet Earth that Their reign would come to an end, at the hands of a woman with no memories of her past, a pair of genetically enhanced siblings, a rebellious princess and a few others. There’s a lot more to that story, but this is not the place for it. This here is the woman who once lost her memories, a woman who was once the true Princess of the Saiyans. Her name is Amara, though she went under the identity of Samara during the period in which she suffered from Amnesia, which in turn was caused by being the lone survivor of a long, bloody battle that saw a close friend of hers passing away in her arms. The amnesia period lasted for six months and ended when her memories came flooding back in full force under similar circumstances. She’s 25 years old, clocks in at a height of 6′11 (8′11 in LSS), and has a cup size of J. Amara is described to be a stoic woman, notably very quiet and often coming off as disinterested or threatening due in part to her large frame, glowing emerald green eyes and imposing height. She doesn’t say much and her default expression seems neutral at best, frowning at worst. The truth is, deep down, she’s a gentle soul and very kind to most. She’s troubled, but she means well and loves animals, even adopting two as pets. She’s generally rather patient, but there are times when she shows signs of impatience, notably in regards to fights if the Opponent chooses to rant and monologue. It’s there she takes it as an opportunity to immediately start fighting.

The way Amara fights is primarily very grapple focused, preferring to get close and throw her opposition around, slam them and effectively toss them like ragdolls. A Full List of techniques/abilities she uses can be found here

Emerald Behemoth, The Legendary Super Saiyan

See the full post

2 notes - Posted April 7, 2022

Song Recommendation: Tides of War by Blind Guardian

Undoubtedly there are many Metal songs that I could wholeheartedly recommend for a multitude of purposes. This one however, I'm just recommending for the sake of it being really good.

Tides of War is a bonus track off of their album "Nightfall in Middle Earth," which is based on that of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. More specifically it is from the 2018 re-release of the album.

youtube

3 notes - Posted November 19, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Favorite Character Archetypes: The Wanderer

In my last post about character archetypes, I talked about Stoic Characters and why I think they're cool. Or at the very least I just rambled on about my favorite characters that fit the type, lmao.

So, here we are now, with another one. I'm going to start off by stating that these posts will now be titled "Favorite Character Archetypes: X Thing" since I feel it's more appropriate to do that than saying "One of my favorites." Now with that stated, let's talk about another one: The Wanderer. Also known as The Drifter, The Explorer, The Adventurer. In Some Cases, they're also The Fugitive.

What are some known traits about these characters? Effectively they're the people who're most likely bouncing from one place to another, to another, to another. Their reasons tend to vary as to why exactly, but generally it's because they want to/have to, because they want to fulfill some purpose in their lives. They can be seen as mysterious, sometimes even elusive. They're independent folk who keep to themselves and thus come off as anti-social at times, even if they do mean well. Ultimately, by the end of their respective stories, the Wanderer will have generally settled down and they will have their goals completed.

Examples of a Wanderer are as follows:

Kenshiro (Fist of the North Star)

Ryu (Street Fighter)

Link (The Legend of Zelda Ocarina of Time/Majora's Mask)

Sonic the Hedgehog (Sonic Series)

The Doctor (Doctor Who)

Bruce Banner/The Incredible Hulk (Marvel Comics)

Each of these characters have their own general reasons for why they're always on the move, never stopping to settle down. Kenshiro travels the wastelands to not only just search for his fiancée, but for a myriad of other reasons as well. Ryu travels the world to seek out strong opponents and constantly improve himself until he feels confident in saying that he has truly become a master martial artist. The Hero of Time initially set out on a quest that transcended time to do battle with evil, but then he left Hyrule to look for his closest friend and ended up becoming intertwined in a battle to save the land of Termina from destruction, visiting its four regions and aiding the inhabitants of those regions. Sonic has quite humbly admitted that he's just a guy who loves adventure. Even if he's saved the day, he's already got a foot out the door and springing into the next adventure. The Doctor, across numerous incarnations, has managed to amass goodness knows how many allies and has traveled through all kinds of worlds, dimensions, timelines and more. (Admittedly I also never watched Doctor Who, so this knowledge is just from what I've read about the series; Other than that, I'm not that interested in it, sorry...) Bruce Banner is a fugitive, on the run from the Military (or other organizations) after being bombarded with Gamma Radiation and transforming into The Incredible Hulk. Though most appearances now have largely moved past this aspect or downplay it, it still formed the basis for a lot of storylines involving the character.

So Why do I like this archetype so much? Truthfully, I think it's a pretty cool type of character, one that leads into all kinds of possibilities for storytelling. There's a sense of mystery to these characters, wondering why they're always moving from one place to the next. There's a sense of urgency in some cases. Sometimes it's just pure fun to see what kind of scenarios they might get into next. Some writers might use a wanderer as an excuse to tell the story of the world around them. Others might use them as a central character and paint them as this mysterious rebel who's drifted into town and will end up shaking the foundations of everything while just trying to get on by.

Simply put, they're incredibly versatile and I'd honestly encourage coming up with a character like this. See what you can do with 'em, ask yourself what their motivations are, picture how they might look, what they're capable of, that kinda stuff.

If you've managed to read through to the end here, thank you for taking the time to do so. I honestly have a lot of fun just writing these types of posts in general.

4 notes - Posted April 15, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #Youtube

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libidomechanica · 1 year

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Untitled (“You wert thou wilt cozen me”)

A tricube sequence

With moons the ceiling. Injurious

Hand folly know, and faithful, inexactly.

You wert thou wilt cozen me.

Cars will wear red veins, even if she

look’d in her bed, the queen altogether

doth live, thoughts oppressed, and when see!

Refusing me a single Almond

packt. I am murderer of happie

Thames, the window send up erected?

Twice or war? Spice the dared, the mean? Such

rage as crayfish all! Some secret we

mortal Laws, with my hand can hold it!

He kept his frame his hand thought, and away,

gone for loved the lily, this honey

fore her Hand, the road was a man.

Of its offsprings she’s spoke, he peopled

with rage now rules. A bottles I make

shift to fear, these, from thee; can’st thou art.

In seconds in a year when Haidee

through the warm sea-shore, won’t even the

grey dust answer gets their hands. Is frowned.

My own merit the constant, independ.

With thy Sylph—With careful mark, the

skies, which, like a single Almond packt.

Close by the South that round her to

redeeming in Hell! Ascertain orders

they streets were fixed to the slushy sand.

Then wing. Within your hair was his Pain.

If he himself to apathy, for

the Hall! Muses, I oft my bestow.

Who even Despaire hateth as kisse

the lovely gaze up, and all that do

search twig: an arm aboue, where Hymen’s tongue.

A dank, sickening, while the motion of

Ægypt, night a compass, these would creep to

heart. Riding— a heau’nly bosom move?

Spare room to this, the Winds; the loth, while

the plague, are ever was which I the

fields of the heartache. The quieted.

From the must beyond her heart is

shepeheards both, me the shore, still not stirre

more abhorred. Instead thou should admit.

Than Fountain store for those Eyes first

openly beareth there—do go. And take

thy body, war piled about on T.

Whom through young— I see, nor car’d, nor conquer’d?

But give through the gravity, sir,

to cock. Bad spiders they committeth.

Good-morrow seems still their gifts and tremble

a sort of stone; and of life which

is but thee. He asked the torturer’s.

Stood by authority, and some odes

I may not what cloudless fire, and sigh

to mine eyes dejected life, while abye.

Ye could so very words were once or

the Simoom sweeping tongue- tied by the

Sleeve, who am not then the ball. Go!

Talks; here Thames with a silence around,

cold, on thy fair her name your vessel

I resemblance, that strangely to me.

For if my pure and dropping clear how

swear, and only care? That all forget

me so sympathetic, moved before.

She know, but it was floor when numerous

and thou mayst call the woods. They neither;

and Jove, thou, O warrior’s column.

And always untimely slept too near,

the land below each sense; yet it flies.

Of its in the horsehoofs rebound.

Face? Sap checking plague on’t! When the Sheers,

and we’ll live our foe. Her brows late that

sensations labour too soon, alas!

Experience which each she neighbour

thee: I fly and started to each house.

She dreams are free: meant nothing. Abuse.

That he found him out. Not till and seal

the November of this modestly

soules, euen fil’d my verse, and heart to cock.

Within the present, and defaced

snubnosed rogue would be wherein that wont

to do? And greenwood-shade her eyes seem!

The shake it twice which the byrds were firm

soil is, so the Rhodian shore, and in

one be pierc’d with fish. Thus in a snag.

Paine. They grew strong as still I follow’d,

but diff’rings to the Powers, euen hell.

Like frost of their Visits towering mouth.

But my all. Puffs, Powders, Patches, then

lack! They wandering cudden, propose

their lute, came the skies: nor truckers, these?

The little. Past a spirit is esteem.

The heart to ground then without their

lively dancers; they say I’m afraid.

Insolvent every others remained

to enrich young Pharsalians, Russians,

as nature’s. To this, and thick as hers!

Is frown aside, t’inclos’d in Wonders

scribble Plays; who rule by fits and vainer

ties dight. My Stella handle so!

Eyes now exerts his blood, by former

might have wrapt in a travell d. Our

death of friends along a sigh has been.

Love in hand dead, as once a bowl of

apples as understand again, reach

broke. I took himself of thou lay this.

Which she must that is still, no long deceased

woes with corps; there, I show that

created hills. Tongues, the earth until mine.

Back to my despite of all to Love

on and extend, some hostile she dies!

Ah, braid no thou, in a dream of love.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #199 texts #tricube sequence

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dfroza · 2 years

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Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for October 18 of 2022 with Proverbs 18 and Psalm 18, accompanied by Psalm 27 for the 27th day of Astronomical Autumn, and Psalm 141 for day 291 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 18]

Whoever pulls away from others to focus solely on his own desires

disregards any sense of sound judgment.

A fool never delights in true knowledge

but only wants to express what’s on his mind.

When wrongdoers arrive, disgrace is right there with them,

for shame is the companion of dishonor.

Words bubble up from waters deep within a person;

a stream gushes from the fountain of wisdom.

It is wrong for a judge to show partiality to the guilty

or to rob the innocent of justice.

When a fool’s lips move, a fight breaks out;

it’s as if his mouth is begging for a beating.

The mouths of fools are their destruction,

and their lips entrap their very souls.

Whispered gossip is like a delicious first course:

it is devoured with pleasure and penetrates deeply.

Those who slack off at work

are no different from vandals.

The Eternal is known to be like a sturdy watchtower;

those who do right flee to Him for protection.

The rich think their wealth is their sturdy fortress;

they imagine it to be an invincible wall of security.

A proud heart precedes destruction,

and before honor is humility.

To respond to a matter before you hear about it

shows foolishness and brings shame.

The human spirit can endure a long illness,

but who can survive a crushed spirit?

Clever people go after knowledge to obtain it,

and wise people attune their ears to hear it.

The right gift at the right time can open up new opportunities

and gains access to influential people.

The first ones to tell their side of a story seem right

until cross-examined by their peers.

Casting lots can settle conflicts

and decide between powerful opponents.

Winning over an offended brother is harder than breaching a strong city’s defenses;

such fights are as tough as the iron gates of a castle.

Good words satisfy like a fine meal;

yes, good conversations are sure to satisfy.

Words have power in matters of life and death,

and those who love them will savor their fruit.

The man who finds a wife finds something good,

and the favor of the Eternal is indeed his.

The poor plead for help,

but the rich respond harshly.

Someone with many so-called friends may end up friendless,

but a true friend is closer than a brother.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 18 (The Voice)

[Psalm 18]

I love you, God—

you make me strong.

God is bedrock under my feet,

the castle in which I live,

my rescuing knight.

My God—the high crag

where I run for dear life,

hiding behind the boulders,

safe in the granite hideout.

I sing to God, the Praise-Lofty,

and find myself safe and saved.

The hangman’s noose was tight at my throat;

devil waters rushed over me.

Hell’s ropes cinched me tight;

death traps barred every exit.

A hostile world! I call to God,

I cry to God to help me.

From his palace he hears my call;

my cry brings me right into his presence—

a private audience!

Earth wobbles and lurches;

huge mountains shake like leaves,

Quake like aspen leaves

because of his rage.

His nostrils flare, bellowing smoke;

his mouth spits fire.

Tongues of fire dart in and out;

he lowers the sky.

He steps down;

under his feet an abyss opens up.

He’s riding a winged creature,

swift on wind-wings.

Now he’s wrapped himself

in a trenchcoat of black-cloud darkness.

But his cloud-brightness bursts through,

spraying hailstones and fireballs.

Then God thundered out of heaven;

the High God gave a great shout,

spraying hailstones and fireballs.

God shoots his arrows—pandemonium!

He hurls his lightnings—a rout!

The secret sources of ocean are exposed,

the hidden depths of earth lie uncovered

The moment you roar in protest,

let loose your hurricane anger.

But me he caught—reached all the way

from sky to sea; he pulled me out

Of that ocean of hate, that enemy chaos,

the void in which I was drowning.

They hit me when I was down,

but God stuck by me.

He stood me up on a wide-open field;

I stood there saved—surprised to be loved!

God made my life complete

when I placed all the pieces before him.

When I got my act together,

he gave me a fresh start.

Now I’m alert to God’s ways;

I don’t take God for granted.

Every day I review the ways he works;

I try not to miss a trick.

I feel put back together,

and I’m watching my step.

God rewrote the text of my life

when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes.

The good people taste your goodness,

The whole people taste your health,

The true people taste your truth,

The bad ones can’t figure you out.

You take the side of the down-and-out,

But the stuck-up you take down a notch.

Suddenly, God, you floodlight my life;

I’m blazing with glory, God’s glory!

I smash the bands of marauders,

I vault the highest fences.

What a God! His road

stretches straight and smooth.

Every God-direction is road-tested.

Everyone who runs toward him

Makes it.

Is there any god like God?

Are we not at bedrock?

Is not this the God who armed me,

then aimed me in the right direction?

Now I run like a deer;

I’m king of the mountain.

He shows me how to fight;

I can bend a bronze bow!

You protect me with salvation-armor;

you hold me up with a firm hand,

caress me with your gentle ways.

You cleared the ground under me

so my footing was firm.

When I chased my enemies I caught them;

I didn’t let go till they were dead men.

I nailed them; they were down for good;

then I walked all over them.

You armed me well for this fight,

you smashed the upstarts.

You made my enemies turn tail,

and I wiped out the haters.

They cried “uncle”

but Uncle didn’t come;

They yelled for God

and got no for an answer.

I ground them to dust; they gusted in the wind.

I threw them out, like garbage in the gutter.

You rescued me from a squabbling people;

you made me a leader of nations.

People I’d never heard of served me;

the moment they got wind of me they listened.

The foreign devils gave up; they came

on their bellies, crawling from their hideouts.

Live, God! Blessings from my Rock,

my free and freeing God, towering!

This God set things right for me

and shut up the people who talked back.

He rescued me from enemy anger,

he pulled me from the grip of upstarts,

He saved me from the bullies.

That’s why I’m thanking you, God,

all over the world.

That’s why I’m singing songs

that rhyme your name.

God’s king takes the trophy;

God’s chosen is beloved.

I mean David and all his children—

always.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 18 (The Message)

[Psalm 27]

A song of David.

The Eternal is my light amidst my darkness

and my rescue in times of trouble.

So whom shall I fear?

He surrounds me with a fortress of protection.

So nothing should cause me alarm.

When my enemies advanced

to devour me alive,

They tripped and fell flat on their faces into the soil.

When the armies of the enemy surround me,

I will not be afraid.

When death calls for me in the midst of war,

my soul is confident and unmoved.

I am pleading with the Eternal for this one thing,

my soul’s desire:

To live with Him all of my days—

in the shadow of His temple,

To behold His beauty and ponder His ways

in the company of His people.

His house is my shelter and secret retreat.

It is there I find peace in the midst of storm and turmoil.

Safety sits with me in the hiding place of God.

He will set me on a rock, high above the fray.

God lifts me high above those with thoughts

of death and deceit that call for my life.

I will enter His presence, offering sacrifices and praise.

In His house, I am overcome with joy

As I sing, yes, and play music for the Eternal alone.

I cannot shout any louder. Eternal One—hear my cry

and respond with Your grace.

The prodding of my heart leads me to chase after You.

I am seeking You, Eternal One—don’t retreat from me.

You have always answered my call.

Don’t hide from me now.

Don’t give up on me in anger at Your servant.

You have always been there for me.

Don’t throw me to the side and forget me,

my God and only salvation.

My father and mother have deserted me,

yet the Eternal will take me in.

O Eternal, show me Your way,

shine Your light brightly on this path, and make it level for me,

for my enemies are lurking in the recesses and ravines along the way.

They are watching—hoping to seize me.

Do not release me to their desires or surrender me to their will!

Liars are standing against me,

breathing out cruel lies hoping that I will die.

I will move past my enemies with this one, sure hope:

that with my own eyes, I will see the goodness of the Eternal

in the land of the living.

Please answer me: Don’t give up.

Wait for the Eternal in expectation, and be strong.

Again, wait for the Eternal.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 27 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice:

The psalms provide us with a way to think about and pray through the various threats we face. Our enemies today may not be the same as in biblical times, but they are no less real. Consider the threats on the horizon. Some may be national. Others may be more personal. Still they come to surround us and destroy us if they could only get the chance. The reality is there are times when our enemies appear to have the upper hand and our cause is lost. But wait and listen to the psalm! All is not lost because, ultimately, God is our light and salvation. The darkness will lift, and our Savior will come. He will settle all scores, and we will live in the beauty of His presence.

to be mirrored by these lines from The Message:

I’m asking God for one thing,

only one thing:

To live with him in his house

my whole life long.

I’ll contemplate his beauty;

I’ll study at his feet.

That’s the only quiet, secure place

in a noisy world,

The perfect getaway,

far from the buzz of traffic.

God holds me head and shoulders

above all who try to pull me down.

I’m headed for his place to offer anthems

that will raise the roof!

Already I’m singing God-songs;

I’m making music to God.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 27:4-6 (The Message)

[Psalm 141]

A song of David.

O Eternal One, I call upon You.

Come quickly!

Listen to my voice as I call upon You!

Consider my prayer as an offering of incense that rises before You;

when I stand with my hands outstretched pleading toward the heavens,

consider it as an evening offering.

Guard my mouth, O Eternal One;

control what I say.

Keep a careful watch on every word I speak.

Don’t allow my deepest desires to steer me toward doing what is wrong

or associating with wicked people

Or joining in their wicked works

or tasting any of their pleasures.

Let those who do right strike me down in kindness

and correct me in love.

Their kind correction washes over my head like pure oil;

do not let me be foolish and refuse such compassion.

Still my prayer is against the deeds of the wicked:

Their judges will be thrown from the edges of cliffs and crushed upon the rocks below,

and the wicked will hear my words and realize that what I said was pleasing.

Just as when a farmer plows and breaks open the earth, leaving clumps of dirt scattered along the rows,

our bones are scattered at the mouth of the grave.

My gaze is fixed upon You, Eternal One, my Lord;

in You I find safety and protection.

Do not abandon me and leave me defenseless.

Protect me from the jaws of the trap my enemies have set for me

and from the snares of those who work evil.

May the wicked be caught in their own nets

while I alone escape unharmed.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 141 (The Voice)

0 notes

movies-scienceorfiction · 2 years

Text

Into the Storm Science or Fiction

Into the Storm is a super celled, action-packed film that takes you on a twisted ride. The story is set in a small town in Oklahoma, where one group of high school students and their father are trying to evade the vicious wave of tornados. While another group, the storm chasers are trying to hunt the tornados down in order to collect data and film this phenomenon. The film is full of more twists and turns than the plot but overall, the movie was very entertaining! The tornados definitely had the lead roles in this movie with a vast array of multiple-vortex tornados, pyrogenetic tornadoes, and even the behemoth of them all the F-5!

People have been fascinated and/or terrified of tornados for years. One of the reasons is the shear force and speed of the tornado. Like in this film it shows they are dealing with a huge thunderstorm that shows on the radar the direction it is going in and come to find out it switched direction and hit a different town than expected. This is not typical with tornado-charged thunderstorms because they tend to stay on their path.

This storm has wind speeds of 200+ mph and sheer force of damage up to ripping trees from the ground and throwing around vehicles like they are toys. After a while, they start to see more activity of another tornado that is going to touch down in the middle of town. They end up getting caught in it while there are multiple touches in the same area which is called vertices meaning more than one vortex tornado. With there being another one the storm had accumulated to an E5 tornado making its force winds about 300 mph and the length of more than two football fields. This tornado ended up ripping apart the school and half the town with everything in its path. Lives were lost and a town was destroyed.

I was curious about the cars and trucks getting thrown and tossed around made me think is it true or false? After some research, I found this video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4qWAn3MsaU from youtube that shows a car flying in the air as well as the tornado busting powerlines and causing mayhem. Now I know the theory is true. (Recorded by Mary Phan, October 27, 2021)

I also had some thoughts about the two men that got swept into the tornado and after it was over they were still alive hanging in the tree. Made me question whether or not that could be true, so I did some research and found a story about a boy from Missouri I quote "Matt Suter was 19 years old when he had an experience that he will never forget." "As an EF-2 tornado ripped through his grandmother’s mobile home in Fordland that evening, Suter was swept up -- inside the twister. Records show Suter was unconscious during this time because he had been struck on the head by a lamp in the mobile home." (Samara Cokinos, Meteorologist, March 11, 2021, published by Weather) After reading more into I found out he was carried 1,307 feet and they found that out by doing a measured test from where the mobile home was and the distance to the field where he woke up. This accredited the fact that a person can live after being carried by a tornado.

Suter woke up in a grassy field sometime later after being thrown over a barbed wire fence. Luckily, Suter only suffered a head injury from the lamp -- and his feet were badly scratched.

Most people don't realize "F-scale winds were not meant to be used literally. These precise windspeed numbers were guesses and have not been verified in science or engineering. Different wind speeds may cause similar-looking damage from place to place -- even from building to building. Without a thorough engineering analysis of tornado damage, in any event, the actual wind speeds needed to cause that damage are unknown. " (T. Theodore Fujita, the University of Chicago, 1971). With modern technology, we have been able to monitor wind speeds more effectively and have updated the original F scale to the enhanced F scale to read more accurately in three seconds.

T. Theodore Fujita, (the University of Chicago, 1971) Fujita Tornado Damage Scale (August 4, 2022)

https://www.spc.noaa.gov/faq/tornado/f-scale.html

The real story on the 'Titus' truck from 'Storm'(August 10, 2014)https://www.usatoday.com/story/driveon/2014/08/10/titus-truck--into-the-storm/13795859/

Riders on the storm - Salon.com(Wayback Machine)(August 4, 2022) https://web.archive.org/web/20080118084359/http://dir.salon.com/story/books/feature/2005/05/20/svenvold/index.html

storm near leafed plants photo – Free Storm Image on Unsplash Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash(Beautiful Free Images & Pictures, May 28, 2018) https://unsplash.com/photos/fQM8cbGY6iQ

Photo by Chris Langly, National Geographic published (September 22, 2012).

(AP Photo/Walker Ashley)

Photo by Matthew Cappucci, (April 14, 2020) Washington Post.

Article by Samara Cokinos, (March 11 2021)

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nevertheless-moving · 3 years

Text

Suicidal Misunderstanding X

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Part I - - - - - Part II - - - - - Part III - - - - - Part IV - - - - - Part V - - - - - Part VI - - - - - Part VII - - - - - Part VIII - - - - - Part IX

“I realize this is incredibly difficult,” the Nautolan Soul Healer said calmly. “But in order for us to help Obi-Wan, we need to determine the cause of his current disconnection with reality. Based on the drug panel, and convenient surveillance, we have, to the best of our ability, ruled out temporary psychosis brought on by a drug interaction.”

Cody stiffened further, not sure how to react to anything anymore. When a brother tried to end his own life, it was usually obvious why.

Sife Aerdo continued on. “There have, of course, been cases of Jedi Seers giveing into their fears of the future, or losing their sense of reality, but every case study involving such an extreme reaction was the result a gradual degradation over the course of many years. Nevertheless, it seems clear that Obi-Wan experienced a vision, and it may have impacted his breakdown to some extent. The more we know, the more successful any attempts to convince him of reality will be.”

Bant furrowed her brow in thought, trying to replay three decades of increasingly vague discussions of nightmares.

”Considering the high profile nature of his position, we cannot rule out some kind of psychological attack, perhaps even a darksider incursion.

Anakin leaned forward intently, the inside of his skull buzzing with white noise.

"All that being said, we must be prepared to treat Obi-Wan’s self harm as the culmination of a long and quiet mental health struggle. He would not be the first in the Order to disguise such a thing with durasteel self-discipline.”

At that, Bant and Mace took a moment to release their feelings to the force, while Anakin raised his shields defensively.

Master Aerdo finally hesitated, before continuing in the same smooth tone. “I would ordinarily prefer to structure this kind of conversation quite differently- allow Obi-Wan time to share his feelings first and invite you each separately to support him in the healing process. But he’s gone from fighting sedatives and force compulsions as though the fate of the galaxy depended on it, to a self-induced coma. All while barely lucid, yet still somehow maintaining Master Class mental shielding. We need to get a better understanding of his mental landscape if we’re going to even begin the process of treatment."

It is necessary to note that everyone in that room had led, in one way or another, a somewhat miserable life. This was the main reason none of them could claim that the next five hours were the worst they had ever experienced.

“But he’s always had terrible sleeping habits.” Anakin said hoarsely.

“Yes, but I think they got worse after Qui-Gon passed,” Bant argued, not sure what point she was making.

“When I pointed out he couldn’t be getting more than three hours a night he told me that he could manage on meditation” Cody offered irritably.

“That’s technically true,” Mace confirmed. “If the Master in question is well-balanced otherwise”

“So its like his eating habits, crushing responsibilities, and repeated exposure to violence, then? Completely fine for a Jedi, in less it’s not, in which case it’s a major red flag?”

“I think it would help to establish a timeline.“

Aerdo actually dredged up old mission reports, leading to the group reluctantly contacting Ashoka for her memories of Mortis.

At her Master’s insistence, she told them everything she remembered, hazy as it was, nervously elaborating on her own memories of falling. To her confusion, Master Windu all but brushed past that, assuring her that the important thing with stepping into darkness was the choice to the return to the light. Anakin bizarrely agreed with Windu. Out loud. Unnerved by the cooperation more than anything, she put her holographic foot down and demanded to know what was going on.

Anakin took the comm-link into a separate room to speak privately.

Upon return, he informed the group (with a visibly red and puffy face) that Kit would be escorting her back from Mount Cala cleanup early, daring anyone to disagree. Windu nodded and the conversation continued on.

Together they rewatched holo-footage of Obi-Wan laughing amongst Ghost company the night before last, and debated reports from psychometric investigators who had scoured the cantina as well as Obi-Wan’s personal quarters for traces of illicit substances. Between that and another drug panel, they were finally forced to conclude that despite the timing, the alcohol at most confused Obi-Wan’s perception of a vision, or possibly simply loosened his tongue.

Bant prodded Cody to repeat every word from the holocar ride to the temple, taking furious notes. Cody was unable to stop the heat that crawled up his face.

Just when the looming horror of Obi-Wan actually preparing to intentionally die started to break over Anakin, Windu interjected.

“You don’t see what I do,” the Harun Kal said grimly. “Something galaxy-sized shattered around Obi-Wan and he didn’t break from it. The closest comparison I have is Master Yaddle’s presence when she meditated on her confinement. He’s chosen to keep going, even when, quite frankly, death would be a release. We’re missing something fundamental.”

“He said there were ‘other dark forces at work.’ Even if the fight was objectively hopeless... there’s no way he would choose to die because of it!” Anakin agreed vehemently, shaking off morbid fears.

“But he did choose to die.” Cody said quietly. And the wind went out of Anakin’s sails.

“Lets go back.”

Anakin gritted his teeth as they picked apart everything ‘unusual’ Obi-Wan had said and done leading up to his visit with Bant.

“What exactly did he...”

“So Plo Koon was able to get a read through his shields?”

“Did he have anything to eat?”

“How did that compare to...”

“When he's mentioned things in the future...did it seem good or bad to you?” Bant asked.

“Bad.” Cody and Anakin said in unison. Remembering the trip to the temple Cody spoke again, “Definitely bad.”

“Right. When we were talking he sometimes used the wrong tenses for things, people. I confronted him on not knowing ‘when’ he was after Knight Skywalker left. He told me that he knew what was real, but he was “enjoying not fully living in the moment” he also said that he intended to “wake up”

“Enjoying? That’s the exact word he used?” Cody asked incredulous.

“He did seem...mostly happy yesterday. Giddy, at points.” Anakin said, slumping in on himself.

Bant looked at her notes once more before addressing the group.

“This isn’t vision psychosis in any manner I’ve heard of before...but I think I might have a theory. He used to have intense visions when we were kids; plenty of us did sometimes, but Obi-Wan would be unable to sleep after. What terrified him more than anything was the uncertainty that he might make the wrong choice- even when the vision was about something good, or neutral. His visions gradually stopped coming around puberty. We just had a conversation about this a few months ago- how relieved he was to only have to manage flashes of precognition. If he had a random, horrifying vision of a terrible future...suicide wouldn’t be his reaction. It’s too final.”

“Even if he blamed himself for what he saw coming?” Mace asked.

“Especially if he blamed himself.” Bant said.

“What’s your theory?” Aerdo prodded.

“What if...what if he was telling the truth when he said he could separate out what was real and what was not? What if there was no distortion or blurring between now and then? What if he was just wrong about which was which?”

“That...would be a very extreme and abnormal manifestation of force-induced psychosis. He has training in distinguishing reality from visions. The continued presence of his mental shielding means that the fabric of his mind can’t be so horrifically collapsed in on itself.”

“What if the vision was actually that realistic?” Bant said, pushing back against the soul healer. “So detailed and vivid that it effectively was a reality in itself, and everything else, all of us...”

“Were just memories” Anakin finished. “It would...actually explain pretty much everything. You said he wanted to wake up and when...when I found him.” He stopped, swallowing. “When I found him, he argued with me...what if he wasn’t trying to hurt himself? If you’re right...that would mean I found him trying to get back to reality.”

“It could explain his behavior in the halls...his desperation to wake...” Sife mused “But it runs counter to every other experience I’ve had with those managing prophetic visions. Master Windu, could that explain the shatterpoints you saw?”

“I’m not certain. It would have to have been extraordinarily real to create the echos of Shattering I witnessed. I don’t know if that depth of vision has occurred before, but then again, many things are possible in the force.”

“You really think he might have been...trying to wake up from dream? By killing himself?!” Cody asked incredulous.

“If that ends up being what happened I am going to give him such shit. That is the worst way to end a vision.” Anakin replied.

“Yes. It is.” Bant said pointedly. “That’s why it’s a last resort, after every other attempt to wake fails.”

They all sat in silence, processing various implications. Cody was unnerved by another terrifying insight into force powers, as well as the idea that the General might vividly remember Cody being inexplicably mind-controlled into trying to kill him. Anakin was trying to understand what this would mean for them, and the conversations he had thought they had had. Did...any of it count, if he thought he was offering it to a hallucination?

“Alright, this is a valuable working idea, but let’s make sure to examine everything with an open mind before we draw any more conclusions. Anakin, what happened after you left the healers office?”

Obi-Wan’s critique of the practicalities of visiting a soul healer could be and was interpreted multiple ways. The incongruity of peacekeepers in war sparked a rehash of earlier discussion. More apologies. Self identifying as ‘crazy’ inspired new debate, especially in the context of the new theory.

“When I saw him enter the fountain room I assumed he had had a brutal run-in with dark force user.” Windu explained. “Based on everything we’ve gone over, I don’t understand when...but some of the more insidious sith compulsions work by taking whatever small anger or hurt you feel and magnifying them until they consume you. If Obi-Wan was already experiencing self loathing...”

Cody sucked in a breath. “Then a Sith mind suggestion would bring him to commit suicide. It...sounds like something he might do, if he was partially in control. Take the blow rather than let himself be used as a weapon against anyone else, even his worst enemy.”

“Hells, it could have been an even vaguer compulsion, driving him to attack the person he hates the most,” Bant added darkly.

Anakin buried his head in his hands, trying to hold it together. He couldn’t afford to lose control or get angry. Hells, getting angry at Obi-Wan for ‘failing him’ when in pain could be the reason Obi-Wan was currently in the healing halls. The man said he loved him unconditionally, then practically had a breakdown over how much Anakin pushed that unconditional love to the breaking point, then killed himself. How was he supposed to-

“Anakin? Are you alright to continue?” someone said.

“Yes. No. There’s more I have to tell you...I don’t know if it will help but - it was hurting Obi-Wan...I...”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time. What happened after you left Mace?”

Apparently even Cody somehow knew more about Bruck Chun than Anakin. Master Windu and Eerin told different sides of the same sad story, which spiraled back into a conversation about Obi-Wan’s inadequacy issues, which somehow devolved into a long rant about Qui-Gon Jinn that Master Windu had apparently been holding back for years.

“My apologies.” He said afterwards, clearing his throat as the group stared, taken aback. “Old grievances. Go on Anakin, what did happened after you got to the ‘secret spot.’”

“He...was skirting around whatever was bothering him...I pushed him...told him I wanted to help...he said I couldn’t...because it was me...because of what I...”

Anakin stood up suddenly, feeling the walls of the room closing in.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry I-”

He ran out.

He turned around almost immediately, pacing in the small corridor, knowing he couldn’t leave, simply needing a minute to catch his breath.

Master Windu followed him out after a moment, not saying anything, just standing there. Watching him.

“What!” Anakin finally snapped. “What do you have to say that I don’t know already!”

“Knight Skywalker-”

“Don’t call me that! I DON’T DESERVE-”

Anakin let out a frustrated snarl, punching a wall. The crumble of stone beneath this fist briefly made him feel better, but then he remembered Obi-Wan’s heartbroken expression in the light of an underworldly glow, and the tiny, choked sound he heard when the healers moved him and Anakin just...collapsed, falling to his knees.

Master Windu sank down gracefully beside him.

“Anakin. This isn’t about attachment issues, is it.”

“Not really, no. I mean, maybe you’ll blame attachment but it’s more about...”

“Anger.”

Anakin looked up at that, trying to regain the meditative calm he had felt for a glimmering moment yesterday, right in-between making peace in the cave and everything burning to ash.

“You know that I have had my own struggles with anger. It is how and why I came to develop Vaapad.”

“Yes, but you’ve Mastered your anger. And you’ve never...never given in to hate.”

A beat passed and Windu watched some of Skywalker’s familiar breaking points flicker into view.

“You’ve done something. Something you know the Jedi won’t forgive.”

“Obi-Wan forgave me.” Anakin said, whispering. “He said that even though I couldn’t fix what I did he loved me anyway and I just needed to...to honestly regret what I did and not do it again. I told him I’d get rid of my lightsaber and I meant it and...I thought he forgave me. I was ready to go to the Council with him, come clean about everything. And then I left him alone to get dinner and when I came back...he was holding my lightsaber. My lightsaber.”

Anakin buried his face in his hands, shuddering with creeping cold.

“I’m not going to critique your and Obi-Wan’s attachment to each other right now. I’m well aware that much of the order has turned to personal ties to maintain their stability given the ongoing horrors of war. I am, for many reasons, wary of the risks this brings us, yet it is also true that risks do not automatically mean failure. I myself have mastered my emotions in a different manner than conventional wisdom councils.”

Windu spoke carefully. For all that he and Anakin had similar relationships with the force, they rarely saw eye to eye on any given subject. At a certain point, Mace had accepted that the volatile young man was determined to find the worst possible interpretation for anything he said. And Mace was not the order’s most patient diplomat.

“As for your crime, whatever it is, l will tell you this: Unless you choose to renounce the code and leave our number, you will be treated as a Jedi Knight, subject to our protections, as well as our judgement. You will receive appropriate mental counseling. If you are judged to be a danger to those around you, your actions will be curtailed and monitored, possibly through temporary confinement. The Jedi do not believe in punitive measures for their own sake, but you may be required to provide restitution to those you harmed, perhaps indefinitely.

Silence hung perilously between them. Windu watched a tremor run through the unfathomable kaleidoscopic of shatterpoints that had orbited Skywalker since he was a boy. A small one broke inward, and an attached tangle of larger, darker ones fell away, crumbling to dust. The rest faded from view, invisible for the moment. A choice had been made, some decision that closed off at least one path to the darkside.

“There’s no one to make restitutions to.”

“...You’re going to have to elaborate on that.”

“Let’s go back inside- I don’t want to do this twice.”

They returned to the increasingly hated meeting room.

Anakin spoke in an outpouring of words about love and hate, about misplaced revenge and now uncertain forgiveness. When he finally finished, the room was deathly silent.

The three Jedi sat quietly while Cody pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess this is why Jedi have the no attachment rule, huh? I admit I never really got it, but I suppose even if I-”

Bant abruptly lunged up, fumbling to bring her lightsaber to Anakin’s neck. Everyone jumped to their feet, except for Anakin, who stared at Bant with a wretched expression.

“MASTER EERIN! This is not-”

“Did you do it?” she asked, ignoring the Master of the Order.

“Bant!”

“It was my first thought after I saw him. We all rushed in expecting a fight, or a bomb, only to find you, insane, and him with a hole next to his heart. I didn’t want to believe it of course, but you’ve always had a violent streak that Obi-Wan, force help him, couldn’t quite soothe away. A fight gone wrong. Master Windu said it was suicide, and I believed him, and I’ve been trying to make sense of that ever since. But Mace found you after, didn’t he? After you felt guilty? Did you think he was going to turn on you?”

“Bant Eerin, you are dangerously-”

“No.” Anakin whispered.

“Obviously I might be why. But I didn’t- I couldn’t. I know I’m not good but I can’t even imagine- holding a saber against him like that. Kriff, do you not get how much I can’t handle losing people I love? I was insane when you saw me because I saw someone trying to kill Obi-Wan and I couldn’t even fight them.”

Bant held his gaze for several lingering seconds, deactivated her saber and dropping it with a clatter. They stared at each other, breathing heavily and not blinking. She returned to her seat, moving jerkily. “I apologize Knight Skywalker. That was uncalled for.”

“I wish I could say I wouldn’t have done the same thing in your shoes” he responded lowly. Bant made a tiny, unintelligible noise in reply.

Cody collapsed back into his chair, holstering his blaster. “Alright then...so after you finished sitting in the fountain room...what happened next?”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re handling Anakin’s confession somewhat dispassionately. We’re simply surprised.” Mace said slowly, returning to his seat at the same time as Master Aerdo fell into theirs.

Cody shifted uncomfortably. “The vod were trained in a wide range of enemy suppression tactics. While we’re extremely glad the Jedi have never asked us to employ them, I’m not...unfamiliar with this scale of deliberate slaughter. At least in the hypothetical, sir.”

“I see.” Aerdo said. “That is a valuable insight to have, thank you. Knight Skywalker-”

“Just...call me Anakin. Or Skywalker.”

“Anakin. When did this happen?”

“About two years ago, immediately before the First Battle of Geonosis.”

“And have you had any similar experiences with giving into the darkside since?” they asked placidly.

“I don’t think so but...we went to war the next day and....I don’t know if I’ve stopped fighting since it- since I did what I did.”

“Hmm. Anakin, would you mind stepping outside the room and waiting in the corridor for a moment please?”

He bit his tongue, tasting blood, and quietly walked out the door while the Masters decided his fate. He leaned back against a wall, desperately wanting to see Padme.

To his surprise, the door opened barely a few minutes later, and he was politely invited back in.

“Anakin.” Master Windu spoke. “Thank you for telling us this. It’s an important insight into Obi-Wan’s feelings right now, and I recognize that you could have kept it a secret. As Head of the Order, and with the advice of a Senior Soul Healer, I have made a decision. You will be assigned a personal soul healer, who you will start seeing tomorrow. Commander Cody pointed out that over nearly two years of continuous warfare, you have maintained some of the the lowest trooper casualty units of any division, by a significant margin if we evaluate based on mission risk level. Your civilian and enemy casualties will be reviewed, but even considering constant war, since your massacre of the Tuskens, you have clearly managed to at least... direct your violence away from the innocent. We do not consider you a threat to the inhabitants of the world. For the time being, I see no real benefit to limiting or tracking your behavior within the temple or on planet, but you are barred from leaving orbit. I have decided to delay a full reckoning before the council until such time that your former Master is well enough to provide his own opinion. Give me just cause, and I will have you confined to a force-suppressing cell. Do you understand?”

Anakin nodded, bowing in acknowledgment. All things considered, it was...honestly better than he expected.

“Now, as Cody” Windu paused. “My apologies, as the Commander was saying-”

“Cody’s fine, sir” Cody said, wrung out in a way different from anything Kamino had trained him for.

“...I think we can all consider ourselves on a first name basis at this point.” Bant said with a snort. She paused. “That includes you Anakin. I really don’t know how to handle what you did but kark it, I don’t want to hate you. For myself.”

Everyone nodded.

“As Cody was saying, what happened next?”

Peace. Comfort. Hunger. A warning in the force...

“I tried to pull the saber back but his finger was already on the igniter...”

“You probably saved his life. Even a second later-”

“I know, that’s almost the worst part.”

“-his neck”

“Why would he change weapons?”

“What if-”

“He said what to you and Healer Che?”

“That has to support the detailed vision idea, think about-”

“I’m sorry, Emperor?”

“I think we’re done.”

Anakin stared blankly at Sife. “But we didn’t figure anything out.”

“Not conclusively, but we’re unlikely to make any more progress, you’ve given me enough information to preform a meaningful meditative scan, or guide a conversation, should Obi-Wan wake, or navigate through his mind, should we decide to make a more decisive attempt at his shields.”

“Master Aerdo... I leave the final judgement up to you, but I strongly urge you to make a more decisive attempt. I am more convinced now than I was...” Mace glanced at the chronometer “five hours ago that this was motivated by a specific, external stimuli, likely dark. Do you disagree?”

“No.” they said with a sigh. “But I don’t want to underestimate how much underlying factors might have contributed to his response to stimuli, including underlying factors that none of you were aware of.”

The Nautolan Soul Healer stood up, tucking their hands into their sleeves to address the room with classical Jedi serenity. It was a little irritating.

“In any case, we all need to sleep, eat, and meditate. Master Eerin, you have the rest of the day off, I've cleared it with Master Che already. Master Windu, I leave the final judgement up to you, and I am aware that your duties as Master of the Order are unceasing, but I urge you to take some time to center yourself before returning to the council. Commander Cody, I would be more than willing to arrange soul healing for you or any of the Vod, please let me know. Anakin, you will receive a comm later today with further details on your future healing sessions.

They bowed low, then glided out the door.

Bant stood next, bowed individually to each soul, and sped walked out.

Commander Cody cleared his throat awkwardly, “Mace- what should I tell the troops? We’re supposed to have command briefings later tonight.”

“If anyone asks about General Kenobi, tell them its classified.” I’ll schedule a briefing on the subject. Now go find Captain Rex and take care of yourself, that’s an order.”

Cody saluted, first to the high General, then to Anakin.

Finally it was just Mace and Anakin.

“Is there anyone who you trust who I can call to stay with you.” Master Windu asked.

“I can manage on my own” Anakin replied, not willing to give the Master of the Order anything else he could use against him, even after everything.

Master Windu held back a sigh.

He continued once more, making a deliberate attempt to soften his tone. “Anakin- I know we’ve had our differences, but this is not a trick, nor a trap. You’ve suffered a series of great shocks in the last 24 hours and handled them with immense maturity. I myself am struggling to deal with the emotional fallout.”

Anakin looked up at that, surprised. He didn’t seem to be struggling, but maybe that was what made him a good Jedi Master...

“As I told you before, I am not going to begrudge you the comfort of attachment. I’m rather convinced it would do you more harm than good at this point. I don’t want you flying right now, and you don’t have to be alone. I hope we have come to a better understanding today, but I doubt my presence is suddenly a comfort, though please correct me if I’m wrong. Now is there someone I can call?”

Padme ended her call with Master Windu extremely discomfited. She had barely heard from Anakin since he ran out on her the night before last to take care of an apparently extremely drunk Obi-Wan. He had messaged her a few times that night, promising to make it up to her, but had been comm-silent since. She had been starting to get worried, and now the Master of the Order was asking her to pick him up from the temple. Fortunately, she had already cleared most of her meetings for the week well in advance (Courascant leave usually meant THEM time, not that she was jealous of Obi-Wan, of course).

The speeder ride back from the temple was silent. All Anakin would say was that he would explain everything once they were in ‘a secure location.’

The door to the apartment had scarcely closed behind them when Anakin fell into her arms, shaking.

“Anakin, talk to me love, what’s wrong?” She gently guided him to the couch, arranging him so she could hold him protectively.

“Obi-Wan tried to kill himself.”

She let out a harsh gasp, “No! He can’t have, he would never-”

“I got to him in time, but Padme... he was holding a lightsaber to his heart. It was...really close” He burrowed deeper into the folds of her dress, and she gripped him fiercely.

“Oh gods, is he-”

“He’s physically healing, but he’s still...not all there. I spent all of today locked in a room, trying to figure out if it was a Sith Attack, or an insane vision, or..or me”

“Anakin! What do you mean ‘me’ - Obi-Wan loves you, you-”

“I know.” Anakin interrupted her again, knowing he was being unfair; he was just too exhausted to be patient.

“He told me loved me. He...he...found out about what I did to the Tusken village, You should have seen his face, Padme, he was horrified, but he still told me he loved me, and he was willing to forgive me, even though he shouldn’t”

“Of course he forgave you,” Padme whispered. “You’re not a monster, Anakin, I know you would never do something like that again.”

"And then after we talked, I left him alone and he-” Anakin choked out into her dress.

Tears ran down her face, heart breaking. “That’s- that’s horrible. Anakin...it must have have been a attack, Obi-Wan wouldn’t do that.” she said urgently.

He pulled away, horrified. “I made you cry. I made Obi-Wan cry too. I’m sorry- Padme please, promise me you won’t-”

She grabbed the sides of his head.

Her nails bit into the soft skin behind his ears as she pulled him down so they were face-to-face, vowing, “Never. I swear by the force itself, I will never choose death over life.”

He let out a relieved sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“Now you,” she demanded

“As long as I have anyone to live for, I swear by the force, I will never choose death over life.”

She pulled him the rest of the way in for a bruising kiss. He lifted her, and they desperately clung at one another as he carried her to bed. They continued like that, clinging and grasping, until exhaustion carried him to sleep. She pulled the covers over top them both and curled around him defensively as the day slowly faded away.

Part XI

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #prequel trilogy #potentially triggering #discussions of suicide #references to self-harm #star wars au #bonding? between #Mace Windu and Anakin Skywalker #? in my #hurt/comfort fic #? It’s more likely than you’d think #also I struggle with fix it stories that just never address the big tusken elephant in the room? of course i want everyone to #live happily ever but theres a certain scale of atrocity that i feel u gotta address 2 get there #ugh this chapter got reallly long and im just gonna post it ok? ok.#meh #a lot of this fic is just people mentally going What The Fuck at various registers with different inflections #Because that’s not an inappropriate response to time travel in general! and star wars canon in particular.#star wars au no 27

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duskandstarlight · 3 years

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Embers & Light (Chapter 27, Nessian multi-chapter)

Notes: Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated. Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!

Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

Chapter Twenty-Seven Cassian

Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments.

Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall.

But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful.

A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him.

They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.

“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?” Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.

Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.

Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to stop thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...

“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around.

Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots.

Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.

For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away.

Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”

He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”

Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.

“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”

Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other.

Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.

It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.

It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.

“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.

The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”

“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”

Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.

“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”

“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”

Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”

Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”

Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly.

“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.

Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.

Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him.

Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see.

To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.

“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being.

“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed.

Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”

Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”

A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.

So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new.

Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.

He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.

“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment.

Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.

Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx.

Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment.

“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.

“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”

“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.

Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”

“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.

Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”

“You think he did it?”

Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.

Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth.

Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.

“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.

Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name.

Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.

Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.

“You stay with me tonight.”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.

He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.

“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.

Nesta frowned. “How—”

Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”

This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak.

Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.

It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little. Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.

She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.

“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.

For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.

It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.

In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way.

Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures.

So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “Pulchra.”

His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, amore,” he said.

Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.

And then she took his arm.

Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.

One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.

It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food.

Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him.

Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him.

The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne.

Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them.

“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain.

Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”

Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”

It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.

Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”

Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.

So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”

Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.

A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.”

The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire.

As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.

“Father,” a male voice announced.

Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons.

Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.

“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”

Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”

Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”

An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.

Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.

Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.

Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.

“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”

The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.

“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”

The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop.

Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.

But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.

Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”

She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.

A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”

Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.

Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”

Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.

The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.

Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.

And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—

Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled.

“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”

But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.

“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband.

“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”

That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.

A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”

True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop.

And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.

Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt.

Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved.

And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.

To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.

She gave a short nod. “Please.”

Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.

Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.

“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”

Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”

Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.

“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”

It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an Incomplete was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.

Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”

Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.

He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him.

The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon.

A twin.

Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.

Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.

“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”

But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”

He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”

Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.

“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him.

Sometimes.

Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, he certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist.

Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, amore?”

For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.

“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”

But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.

“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.

“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.

She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.

Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.

“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold.

In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were always low-born and always unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed.

Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave.

Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.

“Do you know who that was?”

Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.

“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.

“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”

Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”

Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others.

“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice.

“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.

As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age.

The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.

“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”

It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”

“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”

“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”

That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.

“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.

His neck burned but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.

“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.

Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.

He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.

He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.

“I don’t know it,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”

By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon.

Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.

Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling

Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.

Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade.

To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.

To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well.

Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest.

Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.

They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.

The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it.

It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well.

Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.

Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.

That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping.

He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.

“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”

Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.

“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.

“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.

But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be chroí . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”

Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.

Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend.

Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.

And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.

Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him.

In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta.

“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”

Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target.

His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it.

Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.

“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance.

Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.”

Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room.

Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord.

The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.

There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them.

It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.

That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.

Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.

The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.

“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”

Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.

It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year.

It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian.

Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.

That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite.

The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.

For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik, the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.

“Shall we begin, Father?”

This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.

Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin.

Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.

“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him.

“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”

There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.

“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”

Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.

“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”

Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.

Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode.

Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it.

“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”

“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”

Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”

“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”

The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs.

And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.

But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.

It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example.

As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”

Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.

“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”

A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”

“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.

A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir.

“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.

The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows.

In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard.

Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties.

Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.

The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in Heroicis. The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked.

Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.

Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword.

And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints

#embersandlightfic #embers and light #nessianfic #nessian #nesta x cassian #acotarfanfiction #acotar #acofas #acosf #cassianfic #cassian #nestaarcheron #nestafic

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Note

Hello there friend! It is a me once again 😌 Dare I request some fluff?

27. piggy back hugs

MY FRIEND! Of course you can request some fluff since I broke your heart with my last drabble! >:D

BEHOLD, Fane, the chivalrous dragon! >:3

***

The Emerald Graves bore a duality that Solas found was a persistent theme in his life. Blissfully serene, but beautifully chaotic. Laden with sorrow, but thriving with joyous life. Awash with scars of the past, but still with the peace of the present. The lush forests with their tombstone trees, the various creatures that frolicked and loped, the babbling streams with old Elvhen monuments or statues lining their banks, and ruins upon ruins of a home that was taken as readily as it had been given. All of these things held the duality of nature, the light and dark, but there was, perhaps, one thing he found himself only seeing the dark side of an otherwise shimmering gold coin.

And that were roots, gigantic and jutting as surely as the wooden bodies that bore them. The trees within the Graves were large, towering, and their sturdy, ancient roots matched that tenacity, tearing through the verdant ground and bursting upwards as if those who had fallen were rising from their hallowed grounds.

However, it had not been the hand of a fallen Emerald Knight that sought Solas now as he walked beside Fane; his dragon's emerald eyes glistening with quiet gold as they stared forward, occasionally darting towards a rustling bush before a nug would scurry from it, eyeful march resuming its forward steps. It was just the two of them, Fane having ordered a split of their party to cover more ground, mark more landmarks for later observation and consideration, and as per usual, he took his place beside his dragon; always beside, never behind. It was an arrangement they both had declared silently, but knowingly, the bond of centuries answering for them.

Sadly, it was proving to be increasingly difficult to keep that arrangement as they proceeded deeper and deeper into the grove they had stumbled upon, the path narrowing, but only bringing them closer together, not apart, even if the alternative would be easier, but truthfully, Solas had no one to blame but himself for their venue, ancient energy making itself known within his mind and along his skin. It was a beautiful area, however, laden with colorful blooms of Embrium interspersed with Prophet's Laurel and Royal Elfroot. He would have to make note of this particular spot, but once they found the Elvhen artifact, it would be no issue relocating the prosperous path they tread.

Or rather, the treacherous path they tread, the ground rife with thick, winding roots that made it difficult to traverse without stumbling or getting caught up for a moment. Fane was having no trouble, long legs easily stepping over or a heavy boot merely crushing the wooden with a crack before its bearer would continue onward. He, on the other hand, was a little less...assured, occasionally catching the tip of his foot along a loop from where his leg would draw up short.

Solas let out a quiet growl of frustration as he, yet again, felt his foot catch, nearly stumbling and tumbling into the taller man beside him. These roots were truly irksome! He had traipsed into many a forest, many a crumbling ruin laden with obstructions all their own, but these specific obstacles were proving to be cunning and infuriating!

"You said it was around here, right?", Fane's voice sounded in his ears, deep and mildly flat as usual. The shifting of metal and leather telling Solas arms had been crossed. "Usually I can sense them, too, but I don't this time. Huh."

Solas glanced up from where he was glaring at the ground to see one pale, freckled cheek jutting out slightly as his dragon did his normal habit of pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, but unfortunately, he was unable to wax poetic over it as he was trying to traverse the maze of roots they had wandered into. Why were there so many?!

"It is...", Solas began, halting his words as he carefully side stepped and tiptoed over a rather pesky bunch of gnarled wooden arms. He kept his eyes glued to the ground as he continued, "..deeper in. The Veil has various abnormalities in these forests, so perhaps it is affecting your--", he tried to finish, but was cut off as another thick root had one of his feet twisting like it was twisted, looping and aggravatingly elegant. "Fenehdis lasa!" The curse spilling out unbidden as sudden pain had him grimacing and stumbling forward a bit.

Solas nearly tumbled forward due to having to take the majority of his weight off his foot, but, as quick as vipers, Fane's hands shot out to grab a hold of his shoulders, digging into fur and cloth to pull him back from meeting the earth. He winced a bit, pinching pain radiating through his foot and up to his ankle as he leaned towards Fane. Curse it all! How he managed to walk through life at times was a mystery! If this were the Fade he could disperse these blasted roots without growing tired!

"You okay?", Fane asked, voice dropping deeper with worry as his face came into view, eyes sparkling like iridescent runes and pale visage holding a sunlight glow from the sunlight filtering from down from above. Those all encompassing eyes held concern and typical protectiveness, the hands gripping Solas' shoulders tightening a bit.

"I..am fine..", Solas managed to get out, but winced in the next moment when he tried to ease his foot onto the cool ground, sharp, searing pain shooting up through his ankle. "I..merely twisted my ankle a bit." It felt more than a bit, scorching and throbbing, but the last thing he wanted was to induce more worry onto Fane, but with the way emerald eyes seemed to narrow with exasperation told Solas that that was but a dream.

"Describe the pain.", Fane said, practically demanding, inherent growl working its way forward from concern and Solas' attempts to divert.

Solas sighed, turning his head up a bit more to connect their gazes more completely. Emerald and gold flowed and shone as emotions began to run high within his dragon, snowy eyebrow twitching, lips down turned into a displeased scowl. He should know better than to hide from a dragon, but still he tried. Foolish.

"It is...uncomfortable.", Solas finally said, reaching up to give one of Fane's clawing hands a pat and a soothing stroke of a thumb. He smiled a bit, reassuring and calm despite the pain he felt in his foot. "That is all, ma'isenatha. A simple healing spell later on will suffice in soothing it." He hoped that would ease a draconic mind, but with the same emerald and gold sharpened told Solas otherwise, letting out a tiny sigh. And he was the worrywart of the two of them?

"You can't walk.", Fane growled, no question in it, only fact.

"I can walk perf--"

"Try it, then."

Solas gaped a bit, fumbling for another deflection, but came up short as another sharp surge of pain had him hissing, squeezing his eyes shut to the point where he saw static. Okay, so it would appear he would not be chancing strides any time soon. He sighed again as the fiery pain slowly ebbed again, cracking his eyes open to stare up into firm, but deeply worried orbs that reflected the mightiest of jewels. Fane was frowning with concern rather than scowling with irritation, inked vines of Sylaise seeming to wilt along with otherwise youthful muscles. Solas felt himself smile a bit despite not finding pleasure in such a sight. For his dragon to always be so concerned for his welling being, for everyone's well being, was truly touching, even if it was unnecessary at times.

"It would appear you are right in that I cannot walk.", Solas admitted, letting out a tiny chuckle as he shook his head. "But, there is a task yet, and I can endure." The Elvhen artifact was the priority at the moment, and it would be wasteful to them both if they had to abandon the grove now because of his gracelessness.

Fane scoffed, rolling his eyes. "On one foot? Yeah, okay. I'll just let you hop around until you bite it again.", he said with an exasperated growl before continuing, voice softer, but no less annoyed. "Don't be a fool.", he admonished before a large frame gingerly let go of him, but staying close as it descended onto a knee, turning from him. Solas tilted his head, blinking a bit and bracing himself on broad shoulders to keep himself steady.

"Fane? What are you doing?", he asked, brows knitting together in confusion as emerald and gold met him again from over a shoulder. It was unusual to be the 'tall' one in the relationship, Fane about a foot taller than he was.

It was...quite interesting, truth be told, warmth not born of bruised muscle making itself known across his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Solas swallowed a bit as a knowing smirk turned up one corner of Fane's mouth, the heat rising, the interest spreading it. Oh, yes. This was...this was very interesting. So interesting, that he almost tuned out his dragon's next words.

"Get on.", Fane commanded flatly, motioning to his back with a jerk of his chin. "You point the way towards the artifact, and I'll take us to it." Snowy hair swayed as he turned his head forward again, but glimmering eyes continued to watch from the side, observing his reaction oh so typically, but not unwelcome.

"You wish to...carry me?", Solas questioned, the heat upon his face rising evermore when his inquiry was met with silence and a tiny smirk upon tender lips. "You..do." His voice eking up slowly, somewhat sheepishly. Again, this was interesting, interesting, interesting. This deciduous forest suddenly felt like a rain forest, hot and sweltering, his collar feeling tighter than usual, the layers upon him feeling like there were far too many, that they were far too heavy.

Fane chuckled, dutifully waiting on bent knee. "This is your chance to ride a dragon, my sky. Best take it.", he joked, smirk growing ever wider.

Solas let out a shaky chuckle of his own, hands upon sturdy shoulders gliding forward to find a niche before he carefully, so as not to aggravate his ankle, as well as the scars he knew laid beneath metal and leather, hopped forward a bit to straddle a wall of a back. He lowered himself gingerly, leaning in to press their bodies together before shifting his arms to wrap around Fane's neck. Hands appeared to pull and grip his thighs gently so that they hugged a toned waist before Solas felt himself rise along with Fane, the endeavor effortless, the motion fluid without a grimace of pain or a grunt of exertion.

In. Ter. Est. Ting.

Solas felt his face go deadpan, mind whirling, thoughts bordering on impure as large hands squeezed flesh and their bodies seemed to meld and mold together perfectly, his arms tightening around Fane's neck to where he was practically hugging the man of his intense, intense, interest. He felt oddly weak all of a sudden, and almost unbearably hot.

"Comfortable?", Fane's voice pierced his scorching thoughts, timbre and baritone making Solas shudder lightly before he sighed, actively burying his face into the black leather of the dragon's jacket. It smelled of the forest, oddly, snow, and familiarly of chamomile. He could die smelling those scents and be happy. Yes, he could.

"You are..", Solas mumbled into Fane's coat, taking a deep breath as he tightened his hug around his neck, but careful to not choke the man. It would not do for them both to be out of commission. "...strong.", he finished, internally berating himself for his lack of eloquence. It would appear his ankle wasn't the only thing beginning to numb with heat.

Fane chuckled deeply. "Like that, do you?", a tease slipping out, its cadence holding a, no doubt, intoxicating smirk, but Solas couldn't will himself to look up, to bask in its snowy disposition for his face was burning, a blush spreading all along the expanse of his face and down to his neck, he knew, but Fane didn't have to.

"I..", Solas paused, shifting a bit as strong hands squeezed at his thighs, movement beginning as Fane effortlessly strode forward, boots crunching through treacherous roots with far more force than was necessary. "..merely believed you enjoyed the benefit." He was fumbling, falling, and frazzled beyond belief, his only stabilizing influence the sturdy shoulder, that was flexing on occasion from gentle shifts and general movement, that his face was now practically burrowed into.

"Mm.", Fane hummed, knowing and pleased. The arms holding Solas' legs jerked a bit, repositioning him deftly without breaking strides. That action nearly had Solas growling before he took in a deep breath, chamomile and nature cooling him a bit, but not by much. He couldn't even feel the heat of his ankle anymore, the inferno now coursing throughout his entire body, his blood.

And that had him acting bold as he shifted his head a bit, peeping out from his hiding spot to immediately see a sidelong glance of glittering emerald and delicate gold watching him, observing him, their depths holding wells upon wells of unbridled emotion. Concern, love, devotion, and most of all, acceptance. Solas smiled a tiny smile, eyes going hooded as Fane's did in turn. How foolish of him to act the damsel when he understood the knight holding him would never look at him adversely for his softer habits. No, if anything, they were both on equal footing; walking beside, never behind.

"But, since you asked..", Solas whispered, leaning up a bit to nuzzle at a pointed ear, smirking a bit as it twitched and hands clawed into his thighs, goosebumps rising even underneath leather to where he let out a quiet, but heated sigh. "..I do like such undiluted power, ma'isenatha. Do you wish to show me more of it?"

The Elvhen artifact was but an afterthought as roots snapped along with a draconic leash and Solas, too, felt his shackles break as surely as waves against a rocky shore, chaotic, but wholly beautiful.

***

Did it get away from me a bit? Is it slightly spicy? Did I twist Solas' flirting dialogue to adhere to him and Fane's dynamic?! *gasp* I DIIIIIID! AHAHAHAH! *coughs harshly* E...Enjoyyyy! <3

#prompts #drabbles #solavellan #oc: fane lavellan #solas #these two can't go two seconds later in their relationship without testing the other's restraint XD #solas has a thing for raw power #he likes the muscles #OHHH YES HE DOES #somft solas :3 #fane being a dragon of few words but KNOWING the effect he has on the sky #HNNNNG #I HOPE YOU LIKE IT! <3 #dragon age #my writing

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sxfterhearts · 3 years

Text

53. [4:07 pm]

➳ pairing: yugyeom x reader

➳ genre/warnings: fluff fluff fluff, baker!au, baker!yugyeom, exchange student!y/n

➳ word count: 2,040 words

➳ summary: “Sit down, I’ll get it.”

➳ author's note: rach-stop-mentioning-food-in-every-single-timestamp-challenge: failed. just the thought of baker!yugs and bread has me feeling all soft and gooey inside. which is why i whipped this one up! it has been a phat minut since i last wrote so yea :”) (also i should mention italicised are korean!!) regardless i hope this will help brighten up your day a little!! sending many warm hugs xx

Your phone screeched from its resting place on the other side of your room, signalling the start of your day. It was strategically placed atop your wooden, old-fashioned dresser, with the sole purpose of motivating you to get out of bed and turn the damn thing off.

With a groan, you stretched all four of your limbs, releasing a satisfied yawn as your joints popped after a good nights’ rest.

It was late afternoon. The rays of sunshine splattered deep orange and gold as it sneaked past the cracks the half-open blinds, painting your tiny studio apartment with lazy signs of life.

You dragged your sleep-ridden body to the dresser, still reluctant to start the day after what was an immensely taxing Friday night. Having just arrived in this bustling Korean city a mere two weeks ago, you were somewhat proud of yourself for landing a part-time job to support yourself when you started your semester of exchange. The only problem was, it happened to be a bartending job in a rowdier part of Seoul, commonly patronised by sleazy middle-aged men and their younger lady companions.

It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, anyways. Your Korean was still very much at an elementary level, which didn’t prove to be a hindrance in the bar you worked at. Most of the drinks were named in English, and the owner of the bar, a surprisingly kind, motherly lady in her sixties, paid you well above the minimum wage.

Still, it was your second Friday shift ever, and it clearly took its toll on you. Staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you cringed. The eyebags under your eyes were so dark it could’ve easily been mistaken as a smoky-eye look gone wrong; your lips were awfully chapped and an alarming shade of red, while a few nasty pimples threatened to break through the surface of your skin.

In other words, you looked like a wreck.

Grabbing your phone, you checked the time. Ten minutes past four. Oh no, you winced internally. You were going to be very late if you didn’t leave your house in the next fifteen minutes. As though an internal switch flipped on, you turned the shower to full blast and stepped inside, sucking in your teeth as the cold water splashed against your skin.

In eight minutes flat, you were tugging on your beat-up sneakers and dashing for the elevator in your only pair of clean, non-alcohol-stained jeans and a plain white t-shirt that you conveniently picked off the pile of dry clothes on your sofa. You jammed the down button a couple of times, all while checking the time on your phone.

“Shit,” You cursed under your breath. 4:19. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Throwing all caution to the wind, you sprinted down the fire escape and did not stop for a single breath until you reached the final destination: a charming little bakery across the road from your apartment.

Rushing to the bakery just before closing time had become a habit for you. Amidst the chaos of moving and finding your feet in this new city, the bakery and its never-ending stream of patrons were your source of stability. Not only was it less busy and crowded during the evening, but it was also much easier for you to snag a couple of good bargains in the form of randomly-packaged, discounted breads.

The fact that the cute baker was the last one in store and in charge of closing up was just an added bonus.

A high-pitched, annoying chime broke him out of his daze. With a groan, Yugyeom straightened his slumped figure and stretched his arms above his head, releasing a satisfied sigh as his backbone cracked.

It was late afternoon. The rays of sunshine splattered deep orange and gold as it flooded through the drawn, white lacey curtains, painting his grandfather’s bakery with calm and relief; a peaceful conclusion. The end of daylight was drawing near.

He wiped a stray trail of saliva off the corner of his mouth before sucking on a mint. Checking the clock that hang above rack upon empty rack which usually contained baked goods, his palms inexplicably grew clammy.

4:27, Yugyeom mused. He shook his head to clear his spiralling thoughts. Keep it together, dummy. Just because she came the past few days doesn’t mean that she’ll come today too. She has her own life, her own friends, maybe even a boyfri-

Oh?

Just as his mind was about to veer off course and crash into the thorny garden of unrequited love, Yugyeom caught sight of a blurry figure at the corner of his eyes. Intrigued, he stood up straight and watched as you appeared in front of the bakery’s double doors. For a few seconds, you simply clutched your knees and huffed and puffed. Yugyeom could barely stop the shit-eating grin that split across his face and had to bite down hard on his bottom lip to avoid looking like a fool.

Then, you did the unexpected. From the back pocket of your jeans, you pulled out your lip balm and applied it on your lips, using the bakery’s glass window as a mirror. At that, Yugyeom threw his head back in a hysterical fit of laughter.

It was hard for him to explain the feeling in his chest, really. The first time you walked through the doors of the bakery, eyes twinkling with pure wonder and amazement as you browsed the array of baked goods like how a girl would admire a display of diamond rings, he was screwed. You captivated his interest as you fumbled for the right number of coins to pay for your discounted breads, tongue stuck out and head tilted adorably while doing so. He gave you, the damsel in distress, a helping hand, by laying all your coins out on the counter and ordering them from lowest to highest value. Probably not the most helpful of gestures, but Yugyeom liked to tell himself that he was performing his civic duty by welcoming a visitor of Korea through non-verbal currency explanations and an introduction to the locals’ favourite breads, pastries and drinks. That evening, the two of you sat on the high table by the window, slowly savouring melon breads, injeolmi toasts, ang butter or red bean butter breads and an assortment of cream cheese breads. While the breads were wonderfully fluffy and the sweetness was at an acceptable level, Yugyeom instructed you to wash it down with an iced Americano.

Since then, the mere thought of the bakery, going to the bakery, its breads and pastries, its drinks and Yugyeom coated your insides with sweetness. Admittedly, the reason why you kept visiting the bakery was to create more memories with Yugyeom and ride the amazing sugar rush you felt whenever you were around him.

After rearranging your hair for the nth time, you bravely pushed open the doors and walked in at 4:29pm.

“Hello!” You called out in Korean as you waved at him, a wide smile plastered on your lips. There was an obvious language barrier (you with your kindergarten-level Korean and him with his Game of Thrones-standard of English), but it wasn’t obvious. The two of you came up with creative ways to break it down.

“Hi Y/N! Sit down. I’ll get it.” Yugyeom answered in English, emerging from behind the counter with his trusty English-Korean dictionary and a matcha latte he prepared in anticipation of your arrival. He walked towards you with an air of confidence, reminding you of a model in a fashion show despite wearing his typical slacks and white button-up, with sleeves rolled up and cross drop-earrings adorning his ears. Yugyeom quickly set the items down before pulling out a chair, nodding towards it to encourage you to sit.

You muffled a giggle at his gentlemanly actions, but complied, nonetheless. You glanced over to the boy, sipping on the creamy drink as he retrieved two large plates from the cake fridge. Sure, the assortment of cakes should have been the main attraction, but your eyes drifted and settled on the stern look of concentration on his face and his prominent collarbones peeking out of his shirt. Unbuttoned, you assumed, as he was going to be off work soon.

You were halfway through the drink when Yugyeom returned to the table. He noticed this and didn’t pass up the opportunity to tease you about it. “Is it really good?”

“Thirsty. I just woke up.” You admitted, cheeks heating up in slight embarrassment.

Yugyeom’s wholehearted laughter filled the entire bakery.

“H-hey! Bad boy… Mean…”

“No, I…” Yugyeom stifled another round of laughter as he tried to pull himself together. “Cute. You wake up, come to see me in bread house.”

“Not ‘bread house’, ‘bakery’.”

“Ah, thank you. Bakery.” He tested the word on his lips, getting used to the pronunciation. “Bakery…”

“What are these?”

Yugyeom handed you a small cake fork while taking a seat. “Here. This plate is for tarts, and this one is for cakes. The tarts have the same filling – custard. But we use different fruits, like strawberries, berries, grapes and peaches. Whatever’s in season, really. Strawberries and cherry tarts are really popular in winter. Try some!” He reverted back in Korean whenever he was explaining, which was a great opportunity for you to pick up new vocabulary.

It was also a fantastic opportunity to try delicious pastries. You rotated through the entire plate painted in shades of pinks and green, taking a bite of each tart. Yugyeom just sat there, head in his palms, and admired the slight changes in your expression whenever you tried a new flavour. As creepy as it sounds, watching you eat the food he prepared was gradually becoming his favourite pastime.

“Cherry! That one is the best! It’s…” You quickly reached for the dictionary, softly muttering to yourself as you thumbed through the pages. “Here, acid. Acid, not too sweet. The strawberry one too.” Your eyes crinkled at their edges as they met his intrigued orbs, proudly smiling at yourself for learning a new word today.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘acidity’. ‘Acid’ is for chemistry.”

“Acidity?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Yugyeom reached over, his huge palm caressing the top of your head before ruffling your hair. You pouted and feigned annoyance, all while your heart squeezed and pounded away in your chest.

“Hey…” You protested weakly.

Yugyeom’s hand retreated. He placed it on the table, right next to your smaller ones. The distance between your hands taunted him; tempted him to close the gap and intertwine your fingers with his. Honestly, Yugyeom wasn’t used to this; wasn’t used to feeling like his insides were going to explode. His mouth opened and closed several times as he pondered his next move, wondering whether it would overstep your boundaries.

But then you stared at him in anticipation with your beautiful brown orbs, innocent and confused, as your lips wrapped around the straw of your matcha latte. Your gaze asked him an unspoken question, urging him on.

Yugyeom dragged your chair closer his, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from you. He rested both of his palms on top of your knees, gaining your full attention. “I like…” Yugyeom paused, catching his bottom lip between his pearly whites as the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. “I like this time with you.”

The soft giggle was purely involuntary, you swore to him afterwards. Yet, as you watched his expression flicker into one of panic, you were quick to cast out his worries. “No, no! Don’t get me wrong. Did you mean, you like spending time with me?”

“Ah, I was trying to be romantic. Stupid English…” Yugyeom cursed under his breath in Korean, unaware that you were familiar with the word ‘romantic’ due to the hours you spent (wasted) binging Korean dramas. “Yes, I do.” He said while squeezing your kneecaps in affirmation.

You had to remind yourself time and time again to keep calm in the presence of this charming man and his magical hands. “Me too, Yugyeom. You’re my favourite time of the day.”

Needless to say, your afternoon ritual continued for weeks and months to come.

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kimnjss · 4 years

Text

dating rich | ksj

⤑ series: sugar free

⤑ genre: fluff, rich!jin x artist!reader, college au.

⤑ rating: PG13

⤑ word count: 3.4K

⤑ warnings: there aren’t any, lmao.

⤑ A/N: today was a bit of a busy day so this is later than i wanted it to be! (im in the process of moving) buuut, it’s here and i really like it :( they’re kinda cute ngl . let me know what you think ! x

You hadn't been expecting the knock at your front door, was weary on your way down the steps to see who was standing on the other side. A large man, black hat pulled low on his head shuffled on his feet from behind the peephole. A box tucked underneath his armpit.

Watching him, you waited until he did the normal delivery man thing – dropping the box outside of the door and ditching second after knocking; not even giving you a chance to reach for the doorknob. He didn't, though. Seconds passed and the man just stood there, waiting for you to open up.

“Package for Miss Yn,” His deep voice had your body jumping as if he had sensed your presence on the other side of the door. With a quiet breath, you were reaching for to pull the door open, caught off guard by the dazzling smile of the tall man. “Are you Miss Yn?” He asked, that grin not wavering for a moment.

“Yeah, that's me. I didn't order anything, though.” You kept good track of your orders, knew when you would be expecting a visitor. Never could be too careful as a young girl living on her own.

“It's from Master Seokjin, a dress for tonight.” The man was holding the box out to you and you couldn't hold back the urge to roll your eyes. Did this guy really have his own delivery service where the workers referred to him as 'Master'? How ridiculous. “Great, thank you.” You forced the smile, watching as the man nodded before taking a few backward steps down the stairs.

Pushing the door closed, your attention was dropping to the box in your hands. It was neatly wrapped, probably done professionally with the way this man loved to throw his cash to the wind. A pretty gold bow holding the thing together and you weren't gentle with the way you tugged at it, watching as the careful ribboning came undone.

With the lid now off, you were faced with the expertly folded laid inside. A creamy white color, silky to the touch. Noting how short it was when you finally talked yourself into pulling it from the box. Singed at the waist with a matching belt tie, the dress was beautiful. And you didn't have to peak at the price tag (that he didn't bother to detach) to know that it was expensive.

You had been so enthralled with the fabric, you almost missed the items that laid at the bottom of the box. A pair of long dangled silver earrings beside a pair of matching silver stilettos. This man sure paid a great deal of attention to detail. There was a note placed just below the sole of the shoe.

Lifting it, your eyes scanned over the words written, not being able to fight the smile breaking onto your lips.

'don't you think this is much prettier than some tired cocktail dress? (no idea what you have in your closet) – nd no offense either. like i said, im sure you look great in everything. though, i heard chiffon does wonders for a pretty woman; wanted to test that theory.'

A compliment hidden somewhere within his obvious need to flaunt his wealth. It was kinda sweet and he wasn't wrong, this dress was much nicer than any old thing you would've thrown on at the last minute.

If you were going to be dating rich... might as well look the part, right?

Another knock sounded at your door exactly five hours later. 18:27. Three whole minutes before Jin had told you he'd be picking you up. Was he extremely punctual or just excited to see you? Not allowing yourself a moment extra to mull over the question, you were pulling the door open, new dress hugging your body, heels adding to your height, and earrings fastened in your ear.

Jin took his time taking in your appearance, a not so subtle jaw dropped expression as his eyes scanned over the way the fabric hugged your body. “You look amazing,” His words were riddled with disbelief, hushed as if he was speaking to himself.

Either way, that smile was pushing its way onto your lips. Not able to place just why you were so fond of receiving compliments from him. Maybe it was the fact it seemed as if he actually cared how you looked... you the fact that $3,421.78 made you feel desirable. No need to mull over that either.

“Thank you,”

He nodded, acknowledging your gratitude before offering up his arm for you to hold. “Minho is keeping the car warm for us, come on.” Only then were you noticing the shiny SUV parked directly in front of your house? The same man from earlier standing outside of it, ready to pull the door open when needed.

Your hand fit nicely against his bicep, heels clicked as you stepped forward pulling your front door closed behind you. Jin led you down the steps, advising you to watch your step as he brought you to the car.

Minho greeted you both with a soft smile, the back door of the car being pulled open and Jin was ushering you in like a true gentleman. The door was closing behind you and moments later, Minho was climbing into the front seat and shoving the car into gear.

The car ride to the restaurant was uncomfortably silent. You couldn't come up with something interesting to say and couldn't stop scolding yourself for actually wanting to say something to pique his interest. Jin was quiet, uncharacteristically so. Eyes staring out the slightly tinted window as his leg bounced quickly next to you.

Was he nervous? Doubtful.

You took to fumbling with the hem of your dress, counting down the moments until the car was stopping and you'd be inside of the restaurant. Actually hungry and excited to try the food there. $50 a plate (you had surfed the website for their cheapest dish, that was it), their food had to be good, right?

Relief is instantly washing over you as Minho is sliding the car to a stop, stepping out without a word to open the door for both you and Seokjin. An innocent hand lands on the small of your back as the two of you make your way toward the entrance and, surprisingly, you lack the urge to bat it away.

“Hey, Dae-Ho!” His bright personality is back, complete with his matching smile as the two of you approach the man standing at the door. Dae-Ho? Is turning, a grin spreading on his lips as he spots the two of you. Of course, they knew each other.

Jin is clapping hands with Dae-Ho, engaging in that generic guy handshake where they pat each other on the back while holding hands but not getting too close. “It's been forever, dude. You don't shadow your old man any more?” Dae-Ho is wondering and Jin is quick to shake his head.

“Not as much... think he was afraid if I learned too much I'd surpass him too fast,” Jin is joking and his friend is letting out a heartfelt laugh, eyes squinting as he shows off his perfectly white teeth. When the laughter dies down, the guy's attention is zeroing on you. He stares for a moment, brow arched as he watched you, waiting... for what?

If Jin notices the weird moment, he doesn't say anything. He doesn't even bother to drop his hand from your waist, just continues on smiling at his friend and speaking up without missing a beat. “Is Moonie around?”

Moonie? How many people did this guy know behind these thick glass doors? Dae-Ho is nodding his head, reaching for the walk-y that was clipped to his waist. He speaks into the receiver, voice much deeper and direct now. “Moon, there's someone here to see you.”

'Moon' is coming out just minutes later. A short silver-haired girl with small features and a pointed nose. Her smile is large when she spots Jin, not hesitating to pull him in for a tight hug when she's able to reach. “Wow, where have you been Jinnie?”

“You know around,” Jin shrugs. “Heard you bought your father out, took his name off all the papers of this place...” The girl is nodding excitedly at Jin's words, leading the two of you past the front doors as they continue to catch up.

So he was close to the owner? Seemed like old friends from the way they addressed each other and smiled so fondly. With a snorted laugh, she was sitting the two of you down in a quiet corner of the place. “I haven't seen you in so long, man. This one's on the house, whatever you want.” She's handing a menu over to you, that pretty smile taking over her features again.

“Wow, I'm so rude. Is this your girlfriend? What's your name?” You tried not to flinch at the label, pushing a polite smile onto your lips as you got ready to answer. “I'm not-” You start, quickly being interrupted by Jin.

“This is Yn. We go to school together,” Moon takes a moment to look between the two of you, obviously picking up on the tension but not saying much about it. “That's cool, then. Let me go grab a server for you two,” She's turning to leave before either of you could weigh in.

“Why didn't you let me correct her?” Jin is looking at you with a furrowed brow, shoulders shrugging before he's reaching for the glass of water placed on the table and taking a long sip. “Did it really matter?” Did it? Maybe it didn't... it wasn't like you were ever going to see that girl again. And the two of you weren't exactly friends.

What was he supposed to introduce you as? The girl that he was kinda interested in, but not really because he was probably this way with any girl he found remotely attractive. Yeah, that was definitely a mouthful.

No, wait. It did. Girlfriend was a big deal. And you had just barely agreed to go on this date with him. Two people can go on a date without being accused of actually dating. That's not weird to say. He was courting you and that was the bottom line, nothing had been promised.

Through your mess of thoughts, a small fact was hitting you. He knew the owner of this place and acted as if the two of you would have trouble getting in based on what you wore. So why had he insisted on buying you a new dress if he knew that wouldn't be a factor?

Sat across from you in a nice but regular button shirt tucked into a pair of simple black jeans. Everyone else around you two was dolled up, so there most definitely was a dress code, yet he didn't have to follow it because his friend was the owner. So why a new (expensive) dress for you?

Something wasn't adding up.

As much as you didn't want to admit it, having dinner with Jin wasn't as bad as you had assumed it would be. He was kind, funny, and all-around an entertaining person to be around. It was as if he genuinely enjoyed seeing you laugh, hearing the sound of it, and was ready to spew out joke after joke just to hear the sound.

He had ordered for the both of you, warning you quietly that not many things on the menu were all that appetizing. Well, he thought he was being quiet, he did however earn an eye roll from his friend Moon who hadn't been too far from the table.

The awkward laugh that left his lips, oddly, warmed your heart pushing a smile onto your face and breaking the layer of ice you had been keen on keeping intact. Jin listened intently to the answer to each question that he asked, seeming honestly interested in what you had to tell him. Wanting to actually know more about you and your personality rather than just asking the questions to fill the silence.

You told him whatever came to mind, not being able to hold back after realizing that he was interested in what you had to say. Told him about your dreams as an artist, your love for literature, and film work. Even told him the embarrassing story of the time you thought you could be a poet and actually entered a poetry slam.

He had a good laugh hearing your story end in stumbling off stage in fear, tripping over the microphone on the way, and busting your ass in front of the entire audience. You couldn't silence his laughter after that and quickly, you were urging him to make up for it with an embarrassing story of his own.

Which he shared without a second thought, animatedly telling you about his friends and the times they got themselves into a mess, the sound of his laughter interrupting his words more often than not. As the seconds of the night ticked by, you found yourself feeling more and more comfortable around this man.

Almost had you second-guessing the snap judgment you had made prior to this. How quickly you decided that you weren't interested in getting to know him when he was kind of great when it came down to it.

A gracious tip was left on the table, despite the meal not needing to be paid for. With a soft smile, Jin's reaching to set his hand on the small of your back once more; leading you out of the restaurant with the gentlest guidance.

Moon is stood at the front door, flicking through the menu as the two of you pass her. She looks up immediately, waving with that brightest of smiles. “Come back soon! You need to treat your pretty girlfriend as often as possible,” She's calling out. It's not even hard for you to push down the urge to correct her, only pushing a smile onto your face and waving back.

Jin nods grins at his friends before the two of you are exiting the building. Minho is pulling up just as the two of you are stepping out. Dae-Ho nowhere insight when you look for him, but you're not given the chance to wander with the way Jin's ushering you into the backseat of the car.

“So,” He's prompting after a few moments driving in silence had passed. Your attention had been out the window, watching the trees as they whipped by and trying to wrap your mind around how pleasant this evening had been. Wondering just how your guard had managed to slip, Jin letting himself in without a second thought.

You turn to face him, a smile instantly lifting the corners of your mouth at the sight of him. Had he always been this unbelievably handsome? “You had a good time tonight, huh?” He's asking with that cocky smile of his and out of habit, you're rolling your eyes.

“It's alright,” You shrug, turning your attention from him to hide the coloring in your cheeks. If you hadn't looked away, you would've seen the cute way Jin rolled his eyes at you, his body sinking into the comfort of the leather seats as his head turned to get a better look at your profile. “Just alright? That grin hasn't left your face since we sat down. Not that I'm complaining,”

You're quiet, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. Not like he even needed it, the evidence was right in front of his face. He doesn't push it, his attention going to the window at his side of the car.

“I had a really good time tonight,” It sounds more like a silent confession than a declaration meant for you. As if he couldn't believe it himself. You couldn't either, but you don't say anything. So positive that this was just tonight. No matter how much fun he was, how nice, how attractive... he was still the same Kim Seokjin. Still, the same womanizer name riddled with rumors.

Who knows if this wasn't just a calculated plan he used each time he took some girl on a date? Yeah, you weren't falling for it. Couldn't believe you almost let yourself believe it was any different.

You're quiet the rest of the ride, mind reeling. So badly, you wanted this night to be more than just... some night to him. It had been a good time and it kinda sucked that you knew this would be it.

Minho is pulling up in front of your house and before he can move, Jin is opening up the back door. He turns to offer a hand to you, much like a true gentleman would. You're accepting it, allowing him to pull you out of the vehicle.

“Have a good night, Minho!” You're calling over the shoulder, the man in the driver's seat jumping slightly at the mention of his name but quickly replying with a quick goodbye and a large smile.

His hands slip into the front pockets of his jeans as he leads you up the walkway to your front door. An awkward silence fell over the two of you and you had no idea what you were supposed to say in a moment like this. Thank you? See you around? The date was great, too bad we can't do it again? All horrible conversation starters that you had no idea how to steer.

Silence was the best option.

Jin stops once you're at your front door, hands shoved in his pockets while he toes with a loose pebble. Head ducked as if the stone of your porch is the most fascinating thing, but you can still see the tint in his cheeks. He was blushing? But why?

Was he fixing to ask if he could come up? Complete the night like you were sure he and his friends prided with. Minho still hasn't moved from his spot, does that mean he was planning to just come up for a quicky and meet Minho back downstairs?

He's lifting his head and you prepare yourself for the question, ready to reject the idea of a quick fuck that most likely followed his dates. Did he think just because you had a good time you'd be willing to give yourself up to him? Not happening.

“Did I manage to change your opinion on me?” His voice is hushed, almost as if he's afraid of the answer. Did he really care that much what you thought of him? Why you? Why did your opinion matter so much to him?

Slowly, the pieces were starting to fall into place. The expensive dress, the way he flaunted his connections within in the restaurant you picked, how interested in you he seemed to be throughout the whole night... not to mention the shy way his fingers would brush yours as if he wanted to hold your hand the whole car ride home.

Was he actually interested in you? The thought had a smile pushing on your lips and you hated the easy effect the idea of Jin having a crush on you gave away. Before you can talk yourself out of it, think it all the way through – you're stepping forward, hands braced on his biceps as you lean on your toes.

His lips are warm against yours, very soft. It takes Jin a moment to realize what's happening, that your lips are pressed firmly against his but once his mind is settling, he's slipping into it. An arm wrapping around your waist, holding you close while he slowly moves his mouth over yours.

You don't let the kiss become too deep, your head already spinning. You pull away just as he steps forward, looking up just in time to see the dopey smile on his face. You can still taste his lips on yours and figured that will be enough to hold you over for the night.

“I wouldn’t mind doing this again,” You watch the way his eyes light up at your confession, his cheeks tinting pink. “That's good, then!” He's taking backward steps off your porch, eyes never leaving you.

“I should call you then?” He wonders and you nod, turning to unlock your front door. “Yeah, call me.” He offers a quick wave before he's turning and you watch him walk all the way to the car, slipping into the front seat next to Minho.

Faintly, you can feel the pressure of his lips. His strong arm wrapped around your waist. How nervous he looked before asking if you had thought differently of him. Had you? You couldn't know for sure. But maybe you were wrong about him.

– rich, spoiled and a bit of a womanizer. but underneath all of that, there’s a heart of gold. and no matter how determined she is to reject him, he won’t stop trying until she sees he’s kinda sweet.

↲ masterlist ↳

taglist: @randomkoalablog @smoljams @dee-ehn @jaiuneamesolitaiire @lilacdreams-00 @sw33tnight @bangtansonyeondayyyum @okblve @jinhitwhore @tae165 @hellotherehoneybee @bangtansbun @betysotelo18 @cherriigguk @koostime @kooinluv @butterflylion @kookiesjoonies @uxwi @honeyoongles @imajiningseokjin @amoreguk @beeeb05 @tommasauras @bluefaeriefury @butterflylion @withlovestudyblr @samros95 @korkanswers @houseofarmanto @soulstaes @thesunisup-theskyisblue @jinsearth @aizuwusho @moonb0yy @tan-dulset @8sjaf @mini-coop25 @marifujioka @sunskook @elliemeetsevil @ratking101 @leovaldezisfire

A/N: timestamps are important throughout the fic!! if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask! also if you asked to be on the taglist and aren’t on there, it’s because tumblr sometimes doesn’t let me tag ppl for some reason.

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thehierophage · 3 years

Photo

Atu XX: The Aeon

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

Correspondences:

Hebrew Letter: Shin (c) Numerical Value as Letter: 300 Numerical Value as Word: 360/1010 [nic(Shin + Yod + Nun)/ ]ic(Shin + Yod + Nun fin.)] Meaning of Letter: Tooth Thoth Card: The Aeon (Atu XX) Alternate Title: The Spirit of the Primal Fire. Tree of Life Path Association: Path 31/31-bis, links Hod to Malkuth (8 & 10)

Astrological Sign: N/A Element: Fire / (31 bis.) Spirit (BA) Egyptian Godforms: Thoum-Aesh-Neith, Horus/Mau/Kabeshunt, Tarpesheth; (as 31-bis) Asar

Geomantic Figure: Those of Fiery Triplicity (p t q)

Gemstones: Fire Opal; (as 31-bis) Black Diamond Perfumes: (as 31) Olibanum, all Fiery Odours Plants: (as 31) Red Poppy, Hibiscus, Nettle; (as 31 bis) Almond in flower Animals: (as 31) Lion (Cherub of Fire); Sphinx (if sworded and crowned)

Colors (For Key 31 / 31 bis.):

King Scale – Glowing orange scarlet / White, merging Grey

Queen Scale – Vermillion/ Deep purple (near black)

Prince Scale – Scarlet, flecked gold / The 7 prismatic colours, the violet being outside

Princess Scale – Vermillion flecked crimson & emerald / White, red, yellow, blue, black (the latter outside)

The Secret Instruction of the Master:

Be every Act an Act of Love and Worship!

Be every Act the Fiat of a God!

Be every Act a Source of radiant Glory!

Mnemonic:

Nuit, Hadit, Ra-Hoor-Khuit! The Aeon

Of the Twin Child! Exult, o Empyrean!

Liber CCXXXI

Then also the Pyramid was builded so that the Initiation might be complete.

Holy Book Reading: Liber LXV, Ch. IV

1. O crystal heart! I the Serpent clasp Thee; I drive home mine head into the central core of Thee, O God my beloved.

2. Even as on the resounding wind-swept heights of Mitylene some god-like woman casts aside the lyre, and with her locks aflame as an aureole, plunges into the wet heart of the creation, so I, O Lord my God!

3. There is a beauty unspeakable in this heart of corruption, where the flowers are aflame.

4. Ah me! but the thirst of Thy joy parches up this throat, so that I cannot sing.

5. I will make me a little boat of my tongue, and explore the unknown rivers. It may be that the everlasting salt may turn to sweetness, and that my life may be no longer athirst.

6. O ye that drink of the brine of your desire, ye are nigh to madness! Your torture increaseth as ye drink, yet still ye drink. Come up through the creeks to the fresh water; I shall be waiting for you with my kisses.

7. As the bezoar-stone that is found in the belly of the cow, so is my lover among lovers.

8. O honey boy! Bring me Thy cool limbs hither! Let us sit awhile in the orchard, until the sun go down! Let us feast on the cool grass! Bring wine, ye slaves, that the cheeks of my boy may flush red.

9. In the garden of immortal kisses, O thou brilliant One, shine forth! Make Thy mouth an opium-poppy, that one kiss is the key to the infinite sleep and lucid, the sleep of Shi-loh-am.

10. In my sleep I beheld the Universe like a clear crystal without one speck.

11. There are purse-proud penniless ones that stand at the door of the tavern and prate of their feats of wine-bibbing.

12. There are purse-proud penniless ones that stand at the door of the tavern and revile the guests.

13. The guests dally upon couches of mother-of-pearl in the garden; the noise of the foolish men is hidden from them.

14. Only the inn-keeper feareth lest the favour of the king be withdrawn from him.

15. Thus spake the Magister V.V.V.V.V. unto Adonai his God, as they played together in the starlight over against the deep black pool that is in the Holy Place of the Holy House beneath the Altar of the Holiest One.

16. But Adonai laughed, and played more languidly.

17. Then the scribe took note, and was glad. But Adonai had no fear of the Magician and his play.

For it was Adonai who had taught all his tricks to the Magician.

18. And the Magister entered into the play of the Magician. When the Magician laughed he laughed; all as a man should do.

19. And Adonai said: Thou art enmeshed in the web of the Magician. This He said subtly, to try him.

20. But the Magister gave the sign of the Magistry, and laughed back on Him: O Lord, O beloved, did these fingers relax on Thy curls, or these eyes turn away from Thine eye?

21. And Adonai delighted in him exceedingly.

22. Yea, O my master, thou art the beloved of the Beloved One; the Bennu Bird is set up in Philæ not in vain.

23. I who was the priestess of Ahathoor rejoice in your love. Arise, O Nile-God, and devour the holy place of the Cow of Heaven! Let the milk of the stars be drunk up by Sebek the dweller of Nile!

24. Arise, O serpent Apep, Thou art Adonai the beloved one! Thou art my darling and my lord, and Thy poison is sweeter than the kisses of Isis the mother of the Gods!

25. For Thou art He! Yea, Thou shalt swallow up Asi and Asar, and the children of Ptah. Thou shalt pour forth a flood of poison to destroy the works of the Magician. Only the Destroyer shall devour Thee; Thou shalt blacken his throat, wherein his spirit abideth. Ah, serpent Apep, but I love Thee!

26. My God! Let Thy secret fang pierce to the marrow of the little secret bone that I have kept against the Day of Vengeance of Hoor-Ra. Let Kheph-Ra sound his sharded drone! let the jackals of Day and Night howl in the wilderness of Time! let the Towers of the Universe totter, and the guardians hasten away! For my Lord hath revealed Himself as a mighty serpent, and my heart is the blood of His body.

27. I am like a love-sick courtesan of Corinth. I have toyed with kings and captains, and made them my slaves. To-day I am the slave of the little asp of death; and who shall loosen our love?

28. Weary, weary! saith the scribe, who shall lead me to the sight of the Rapture of my master?

29. The body is weary and the soul is sore weary and sleep weighs down their eyelids; yet ever abides the sure consciousness of ecstasy, unknown, yet known in that its being is certain. O Lord, be my helper, and bring me to the bliss of the Beloved!

30. I came to the house of the Beloved, and the wine was like fire that flieth with green wings through the world of waters.

31. I felt the red lips of nature and the black lips of perfection. Like sisters they fondled me their little brother; they decked me out as a bride; they mounted me for Thy bridal chamber.

32. They fled away at Thy coming; I was alone before Thee.

33. I trembled at Thy coming, O my God, for Thy messenger was more terrible than the Death-star.

34. On the threshold stood the fulminant figure of Evil, the Horror of emptiness, with his ghastly eyes like poisonous wells. He stood, and the chamber was corrupt; the air stank. He was an old and gnarled fish more hideous than the shells of Abaddon.

35. He enveloped me with his demon tentacles; yea, the eight fears took hold upon me.

36. But I was anointed with the right sweet oil of the Magister; I slipped from the embrace as a stone from the sling of a boy of the woodlands.

37. I was smooth and hard as ivory; the horror gat no hold. Then at the noise of the wind of Thy coming he was dissolved away, and the abyss of the great void was unfolded before me.

38. Across the waveless sea of eternity Thou didst ride with Thy captains and Thy hosts; with Thy chariots and horsemen and spearmen didst Thou travel through the blue.

39. Before I saw Thee Thou wast already with me; I was smitten through by Thy marvellous spear.

40. I was stricken as a bird by the bolt of the thunderer; I was pierced as the thief by the Lord of the Garden.

41. O my Lord, let us sail upon the sea of blood!

42. There is a deep taint beneath the ineffable bliss; it is the taint of generation.

43. Yea, though the flower wave bright in the sunshine, the root is deep in the darkness of earth.

44. Praise to thee, O beautiful dark earth, thou art the mother of a million myriads of myriads of flowers.

45. Also I beheld my God, and the countenance of Him was a thousandfold brighter than the lightning. Yet in his heart I beheld the slow and dark One, the ancient one, the devourer of His children.

46. In the height and the abyss, O my beautiful, there is no thing, verily, there is no thing at all, that is not altogether and perfectly fashioned for Thy delight.

47. Light cleaveth unto Light, and filth to filth; with pride one contemneth another. But not Thou, who art all, and beyond it; who art absolved from the Division of the Shadows.

48. O day of Eternity, let Thy wave break in foamless glory of sapphire upon the laborious coral of our making!

49. We have made us a ring of glistening white sand, strewn wisely in the midst of the Delightful Ocean.

50. Let the palms of brilliance flower upon our island; we shall eat of their fruit, and be glad.

51. But for me the lustral water, the great ablution, the dissolving of the soul in that resounding abyss.

52. I have a little son like a wanton goat; my daughter is like an unfledged eaglet; they shall get them fins, that they may swim.

53. That they may swim, O my beloved, swim far in the warm honey of Thy being, O blessed one, O boy of beatitude!

54. This heart of mine is girt about with the serpent that devoureth his own coils.

55. When shall there be an end, O my darling, O when shall the Universe and the Lord thereof be utterly swallowed up?

56. Nay! who shall devour the Infinite? who shall undo the Wrong of the Beginning?

57. Thou criest like a white cat upon the roof of the Universe; there is none to answer Thee.

58. Thou art like a lonely pillar in the midst of the sea; there is none to behold Thee, O Thou who beholdest all!

59. Thou dost faint, thou dost fail, thou scribe; cried the desolate Voice; but I have filled thee with a wine whose savour thou knowest not.

60. It shall avail to make drunken the people of the old gray sphere that rolls in the infinite Far-off; they shall lap the wine as dogs that lap the blood of a beautiful courtesan pierced through by the Spear of a swift rider through the city.

61. I too am the Soul of the desert; thou shalt seek me yet again in the wilderness of sand.

62. At thy right hand a great lord and a comely; at thy left hand a woman clad in gossamer and gold and having the stars in her hair. Ye shall journey far into a land of pestilence and evil; ye shall encamp in the river of a foolish city forgotten; there shall ye meet with Me.

63. There will I make Mine habitation; as for bridal will I come bedecked and anointed; there shall the Consummation be accomplished.

64. O my darling, I also wait for the brilliance of the hour ineffable, when the universe shall be like a girdle for the midst of the ray of our love, extending beyond the permitted end of the endless One.

65. Then, O thou heart, will I the serpent eat thee wholly up; yea, I will eat thee wholly up.

Love is the law, love under will.

#Thelema #Thelemic Holy Season #Tarot #Holy Books of Thelema #Magick

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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years

Text

Tuesday 18 September 1838

5 55

fine but dullish morning at 7 am at which hour F61° clearer at 5 than at 5am said Josephine – breakfast at 7 10 till then ¼ hour reading the torn remains of a volume lent me (received by Charles yesterday morning) by the ex-maire d’Estêré [Esterre], the berger who took care of my horse on Sunday – volume begins at p. 309 – the 4 pp. wanting after p. 316 and what more I know not – the last p. I have is p. 432, but I see it is a fragment of Ramonds’ work on the Pyrénées – vide p. 223 Mt. Buet en Swisse only 60+ higher than the pic du midi de Bigorre – breakfast and reading Ramond till 8 25 – off at 8 35 Charles following us on the little mule we had before and Pierre walking alone before till we soon came up with Henri Charles’ frère and [Markett] Pierres’ beau frère to help to get A- up to the top of the pic on the little mule – sowing rye (le bled) a little way from Barèges – sowing it on barley stubble (Estōōrăh) and then ploughing in the seed with a little plough drawn by 2 beaufs – champs perpetual about Luz parcequ’il n’y a pas d’eau – but about Barèges where they have water they change from Champs to près and from près to champs every 5 or 6 or 7 years – on turning the près into champs 1st barley sown in April or in May dans les hauteurs – 2nd bled (seiglle [seigle], rye) sown in September as here and in high places and in October in the plain – 3rd Sarracène [Sarracénie] or barley, at ainsi de Suite – they mow and gather the iris-stalks for winter fodder for the sheep – at 10 turn (left) up the montagne de Tou to the 2 cabanes de Tou – at the lac d’Oncet at 11 10 and frightened by a few drops of rain – alighted – A- put on her cloak and I my cape – then remounted – doubted whether to go to the cabane – it cleared a little – the guides ate their breakfast and I determined to to have our horses with the shepherd boy that we had called to us, and to the brêche de cinq Ours – we had passed a gentleman on horseback with one guide just before our reaching the lake – he said he had returned because he could see nothing (the guide said he had not gone to the top on account of the brouillard) and Markett advised us to retrograder – a little brouillard in the brêche de cinq ours and over the summit of Neouvielle (i.e. the old snow neou nivis, snow and vielle, veuts, old) – we had just before had a good view of the Neouvielle from here (plateau d’Oncet) close to the lake, but above it – not at the flat stone at its waters’ edge where the duchess de Berri breakfasted and which Chaussenque [Chausenque] mentions as the common breakfast (table) the plateau d’Oncet and de Tou (Too as pronounced) and in fact the whole montagne de Tou covered (tapissés) with trifolium alpestre +

+ no! reglisse

- it must be one sheet of reddish pink in spring – here and there among the rocks on the pente between the 2 plateaux little low bushes of Mezereon as yesterday but saw no red berries – diminutive begloss and purple, or lightish blue pansies, little campanulae, yellow potentilla and other subalpine? plants, still in flower on the pente among the grass – surrounded rocks and boulders – off again in 25 minutes at .. 11 35 the men having breakfasted A- on the mule with my saddle and I on foot – at the brêche de cinq ours at 11 50 the rain had come on again five or six minutes before – and the brêche was full of brouillard – we took shelter under a rock ¼ hour till it was fair, and en route again at 12 5 – as we passed the gorge d’Esponne and the great cleft in the rock, above it we passed the brouillard quite close at our feet – it seemed abutting against the rock as if impeded and not able to rise above it – at 12 40 the rain came on again almost immediately succeeded by hail which accompanied us to the top with wind from the west but not strong enough to make my umbrella unmanageable till 5 or 6 minutes from the tour, hutte, or colonne as Charles calls it - .. at the top at 1 13 – A- rode round the colonne but did not alight – too cold and haily and windy – brouillard all round – the men ate a morsel – I crept into the hutte, and tore down and brought away a newspaper-shred, dated 27 August, a quotation from a speech made by Lord John Russell on the 18th March 1824, contrasting our ancient greatness with [one] then littleness – the word contrasts more lamentably true now than ever – A- starved – began .. the descent at 1 18 – in about ¼ hour it began to clear a little and at 1 ¾ was fair and fine (a little sun)au dessus la laquette (what Chaussenque [Chausenque] calls the plan d’Aube) where we stood ¼ hour looking about us – seeing a little of Neouvielle, and seeing very well and instructively the pics of Caubère, Ereslitz and Ayré and bits of the St. Sauveur mountains - .. off again at 2 (Charles afraid of the storm again – said now was coming to us from the valle d’Obiste) and back at the brêche des 5 ours at 2 16 and had got the horses and paid the boy (5 minutes job) and .. was off from the cabane d’Oncet at 2 40 – at the Pas des ours at 3 5 – stopt on the Tourmalet road at 3 ¼ - changed the saddles – A- mounted her horse, and I mine and Charles the little mule, which had carried A- every inch of the way from the lac d’Oncet up to, and round the colonne on the summit of the pic, and all down again to here! – one gentleman sometime ago did the same thing for a wager, but no other person except himself or A- has done the like – Charles would have this ‘mis sur les journaux pour encourager les étrangers’! En route again in ten minutes at 3 25 – gave Charles 16/. (sixteen francs) 1/. paid to the shepherd boy for taking care of the horses 5/. each for Henri and Markett and 5/. between them extra to drink A-‘s health on being the 1st lady who had ridden all the way up and down from the pic – In returning talked over the Neouvielle with Charles and Markett – the latter has mounted the pic culminant – not difficult – but advises going by the valle de Lienz (not Bōl-lŏ) to the lac de Portett [Pourtet] – thinks that after so hot a summer we may have very little glacier to pass – no great difficulty – shall be at the top in 5 or 6 hours but must be off by 6 am – fixed to go to the pic d’Ayre [Ayré] tomorrow at 10 am A- can ride all but a petit ¼ d’heure – shall be at the top in 3 hours – good view of Vignemale and shall see the route we shall have to take to the Neouvielle on Thursday if fine enough – had had a few light drops of rain just before and on stopping at 3 ¼ on the Tourmalet road, but they blew off and the sun came out a little and the brouillard rose higher up over our heads and left all the valley clear – I had put my cloak on soon after leaving the cabane d’Oncet on account of the brouillard being so near us that I felt it damp - .. home at 4 40 – changed my dress –read Ramond (vide line 2 of the last p.) – dinner at 6 ¼ to 7 25 – sat with A- till 8 25 – had Josephine – wrote all the above of today till 10 25

SH:7/ML/E/22/0022

fine afternoon and evening from about 3 20 to 8 when heavy rain for about an hour – we had the mauvais temps from 11 10 am vide line 18 p. 34 and the rest of the day

From Barèges to the lac d’Oncet from 8 35 to 11 10 = 2 hours 35 minutes

.. Lac d’O- to brêche de 5 ours 11 35 to 11 50 = 0.15 Rest = 0 hours. 25 minutes

.. Brêche to the summit 12 5 to 1 13 = 1.8 0.15

3.58 at the top = 0.5

0.45

Descent

From the top to near the laquette 1.18 to 1 ¾ = 0.27

.. near the laquette to the brêche 2 to 2 16 = 0.16 rest= 0.15

.. the brêche to the cabane d’Oncet 2 16 to 2 35 = 0.19

.. from the cabane d’O- to the Pas de Ours 2 40 to 3 5 = 0.25 = 0.5

.. from the Pas des O- to the Tourmalet road 3 5 to 3 ¼ = 0.10

.. Tourmalet road to home 3 25 to 4 40 =1. 15 = 0.10

2.52 0.30

going 3 58

returning 2 52

rest 1.15

8.5 = the time of absence from 8 35 to 4 40 .:. allowing 55 minutes more or one hour for remaining on the top we can do the pic du midi in 9 hours

had just written the above at 10 55 pm – then making a few notes of words en patois etc. till 11 ¼ pm – then till 11 ½ skimming over todays’ paper

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shyrose57 · 3 years

Note

Brothers anon, sorry its been like 2 days since I last submitted something! I've been busy and whenever I finally had time to sit down and write this all its like 1 in the morning. I hope its still ok for me to send these.

🌹 anon ima respond to you first, your The Deal au could be the reason why and how Ranboos and Dreams soul got mixed and linked together. But then a problem is how did it pass to Ranbob? In my au, each person has their own soul basically. And while certain attributes like DNA can be passed through bloodlines, souls can't, as their unique to their person.

What left Ranbob vulnerable to Dream is that he was seen as the star student. The apprentice everyone wanted. He always got perfect grades and was seen as the smartest in the City. This did not go well. As Ranbob was put under a ton of pressure to always stay perfect and get everything right. When his grades started to slip and his chosen mentor started to put even more work on him, his mentality started to suffer. With him losing sleep and starting to not care for himself or do the basic necessities like eating or drinking, all in an effort to be "perfect". Its through this need, and weakened state over all, Dream's presence was able to slip in and convince him to let him help.

Benjamin is 30, Isaac 29, Cletus is 24, and Charles is 27.

When Ranbob first told Ran about the Dream mask and how he wasnt himself, Ran did not believe him at all. And kept saying that he needs to stop lying and fess up to what he did and pay for it. Others tried to convince him that his brother really wasn't in control of himself, but was met with strong skepticism, scoffs, and disbelief. With Ran not beliving that was the truth at all.

Watson was very shocked but quickly reorganized himself cause he had to calm Jackie, and its only after Jackie fell asleep he was like "Oh fuck. I really am the dad huh?" Jackie was embarrassed at first but after some prodding did say how he truly saw Watson as a dad figure in his life. And everyone had different reactions to Watson suddenly accepting and fitting into the dad role. Jackie was excited and immediately started calling him dad and asking him awkward dad questions "Dad whats puberty?" "Uhhh-" "Dad where do babies come from?" "Ask your dad about that!" "But you are my dad!" Ran seemed indifferent about it but Watson can tell he's revealed to have someone to talk too, and someone to go to if things get to much. Grievous keeps sating he doesn't need a dad but he's the one that goes to Watson the most for things like hugs, comfort, and advice.

Jackie and Grievous do everything. They rig the battle field so if someone steps in a certain area water will shoot up into their face, Grievous usually taunts and distracts opponents so Jackie can sneak up behind them and just latch onto them and cover their eyes while giggling like a madman as the opponent screams and runs around trying to get him off. Jackie regularly pulls peoples seat out from under them, while Grievous scares them and makes them choke or drop something. But they do know peoples limits. Like for Ran, no water related pranks (there was an incident where Grievous spilled a whole bucket of water on him and Ran got severe burns and had to stay in the hospital ward for a few days), for Watson don't mess with his bow or arrows, he will stab you. And for eachother, Jackie, no pranks that leave him alone for extended periods of time or makes it seems like everyone is gone/left. For Grievous no pranks centered around food or drinks (like putting toothpaste in his sandwich or putting pepper in his beer).

Ran and Jackie have a 50/50 win if that makes sense. They both win and lose pretty often. They play games like Spoons, Go Fish, Dart Throwing (Watson needs to be present for this one), something similar to Cards Against Humanity, Poker (everyone plays during this one), and Tic Tac Toe.

Sometimes Jackie loves being the smallest and other times hates it. He hates it when Ran steals something of his and holds it above his head, he sometimes resorts to aggressively climbing Ran to get it but Ran tends to just pluck him off, and people make fun of him in a mean natured way (he's fine with light teasing). But he loves it when he rides Ran's shoulders or can duck under peoples legs and trip em. Because he's also small and fast he's hard to catch and that definitely comes in handy during fights. No ones particularly protective of eachother (excluding Ran who's protective of everyone), because they know none of them like being babied and they can all hold their own, though they will quickly flock to help eachother if they need it. Ran definitely flaunts it whenever their in a agurement.

There is a area under the fighting arena of the pit where they stay. Theres separate rooms for everyone, training areas, dinning areas, and just chilling areas. Theres even extra rooms meant for often visiting friends (Like Genevieve) and some for storage of weapons which also holds things to sharpen them or get new ones. The Pit itself is in the middle of a gaint city, so there are tons of stores and food areas around. And because of a high salary the King gives them they go out quite often, often eating out and browsing stores when their not training or sleeping.

If by other combinations you mean like Ran-Jackie, Ran-Grievous, Watson-Jackie, and Watson-Grievous then it highly varies. Watson and Jackie are by far the worst team, their styles just don't match and constantly but heads during battles. Watson and Grievous are probably the best out of the 4 teams because Grievous can be serious and works well with Watson as he's much more willing to change his fighting style to accommodate whats needed. Ran and Jackie are like Jackie and Grievous, but they aren't nearly as insane. Rather Ran provides distractions while fighting to give Jackie time to sneak up behind them. Ran also is the only one able to actually throw Jackie, which they sometimes do during battles. And Ran and Grievous work well together, but not as much as Watson and Grievous, its just a few things of both their styles don't match or could potentially cause problems.

He's clumsy flat out, he isn't used to having full control and needs to get used to certain things like walking or talking again. He is also severely dehydrated and malnutritished because Dream didn't care enough to drink or eat. He's also incredibly skittish and scared easily. He and Cletus's relationship isn't solved fast at all, it takes months and the work of everyone to get the two comfortable around eachother. They start by putting Cletus on watching duty, where he watches over Ranbob to make sure he's eating and drinking and resting while not tiring himself out. Then after a month or 2 Isaac, Benjamin, and Charles start purposely leaving the two in a room alone toghere to get them to talk stuff out. It takes 3 months until their comfortable enough with eachother to willingly talk and hang out. Oh the house building attempts went aboustely awful. They sometimes fell on Ranbob! And when they didn't they just collapsed or got blown away by the wind, but Isaac did ofter help a few times and showed him multiple different ways to make sure the walls stay up and keep the cold out.

Ran is very unhappy with Ranbobs haunting, he thinks their kind of like Ranbob in which they've all killed people and considers them a threat at first, but when he sees how his haunting likes and interacts with Ranbob's, he losens up a bit, his group trusts them, so he has to trust them a little bit. But he doesn't trust them or like them nearly as much as he trusts and likes his haunting.

Im guessing you mean who from the two groups get along the easiest. Most of them take a while to get to know eachother, like a few hours. But after that their all really close. Charles and Jackie, Cletus and Grievous, and Benjamin, Isaac, and Watson are the groups that get along really well really fast.

Im honestly probably am going to go for them adventuring outside the City to try to get the brothers to get along again. Mostly cause I thought of the idea that what if Watson, Jackie, and Grievous all lie to Ran, and while they are actually going on an adventure, they lie to him that his brother and his group isn't coming. Then when its much to late for Ran to back out, Watson just goes "Oh yeah! Your brother and his group are traveling with us. And you can't do anything about it." And Ran just sits there shocked.

Ran and Ranbob are both subtle protective of their group. With Ranbob never really getting aggressive or going into overbearing. But for Ran, if someone in his group is injured badly enough or if there's a big enough threat he does get overbearing and extremely aggressive towards whatever/whoever the threat is *cough cough Ranbob cough*. Ranbob tends to be very physical, listening more to a certain instincts that tell him to constantly have a view on or hold his family, as if he doesnt see or touch them for a long time he gets very anxious and panicky, thinking his family is dead and that he's all alone again. His group understands this and so tends to not stray to far away from Ranbob. He will also follow his group like a lost puppy at times. Ran while listens more to the instinct that tells him at random times to make sure his family is ok and to bond with them. The bonding leads to him randomly grabbing them and just sitting down with them, most likely playing games. While the random urge to check on them has led to him waking them up during the middle of the night or interrupting his own conversation or others conversations just to ask if their ok. His took a while to understand why he does it, but now if he wakes them up or drags them somewhere, they know to go along with it and comfort him during those times.

Hybrids are rare! Especially aggressive or netural type mobs like Ran, Ranbob, and Porkius are. Their actually seen as monsters and are chased out or hunted in other city's because people aren't accepting of them. Theres very few city's like Subbin that fully welcome and are even led by hybrids. So there are more hybrids in Subbin, than there is anywhere else.

Sorry this is so long ':)

Asks are always welcome here, and don’t worry about taking a bit or anything. The questions aren’t going anywhere, there’s plenty of time.

Here’s that for you,🌹anon.

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

1: Wow, Ranbob’s really going through it, huh? Does he ever start to fall back on that need to be ‘perfect’ while with the others? If so, how do they deal with that? And how is he with others offering to help him? If he even can really recall falling under Dream’s thrall, by accepting such an offer, how does he react to others doing the same, even if their intentions are far different?

2: So we’ve settled all the ages down, nice. You figure out anything for their backstory yet? And how do their ages affect their relationships with one another? Does Benjamin take the lead a lot? Or is he more of a follower that still has a lot of say? Who met who first?

3: So Ran’s obviously going to be awhile before he believes what went down. Still, I can’t imagine he’d have been as willing to go along with his hauntings little roadtrip plan if he wasn’t swayed at least a bit, since I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have put his foot down if he truly though Ranbob had done what he did. Why exactly does he go along with it? Does some small part of him want to give his brother a chance? Is he just confident he can overpower him, and looking for an opportunity to settle the score? Does he see something that makes him hope a bit? What’s going down there, anon?

4: On one hand, very adorable. One the other hand, poor Watson. Does Jackie actually not know that stuff, or does he do that just to mess with his new father figure? It seems like they all take to it pretty well overall though.

5: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Two people to truly fear. How many people straight up forfeit when faced with this combination? It seems like they’ve had some interesting times, good and bad. How’d those play out? As for those last two, I’m sensing a bit of a backstory. Why does Grievous not like stuff being put into his food? And why’s Jackie not good with being left?

6: So it’s fifty/fifty, huh? Who wins the most at what games? And uh, Watson has to be present for Dart Throwing. What happened there? How’s everyone’s poker faces? Who’s got the best luck in games of chance?

7: A love/hate relationship with height. I feel ya, Jackie. Very funny to imagine though, Jackie just, physically climbing up Ran. How tall even is this guy?? How do they deal with meaner teasing, not just from the gladiators, but from general bullies? Not everybody’s as friendly as some of the Pit fighters, after all. And how do the fishermen react with their fighting skills? Obviously, they must know how to fight somewhat, to have entered the Pit, but the gladiators do this for a living. How much is the difference in skill level? And does the gang ever get to show off just how skilled they are?

8: Their home sounds very nice, honestly, I wished I could live there, minus the people. What’s everyone’s rooms look like? How have they personalized them? Which brings up another question-what kind of interests and hobbies do they have? What kind of things do they do that aren’t fighting and related to such? And they must be pretty well known, to have such high pay. Any of them have an arena title, or some sort of stage name? How many people can recognize the city’s top gladiators on sight? And how do they get around that, when they don’t want to be seen? How do people feel about them in general?

9: All these team ups sound terrifying, and I wouldn’t want to be facing them. How do they deal with it when they get a bad match up? Do they just stay out of each other’s way? Try to take their opponents out quick? Make it one on one? Ran and Jackie have to be my favorite team up, solely for the fact that you’ve said Ran straight up throws him. Like?? Imagine coming to the King’s Pit, a well known, popular place, hoping to prove yourself, and then getting taking out by a flying midget, just tossed at you by a ridiculously tall endermen hybrid. How would you feel??

10: Ranbob is just really going through the ringer here. How many times does he just drop stuff, or trip over his feet? Does he ever get better, or does he still retain a clumsy streak? If so, how does Ran react to that? It’s very good he and Cletus bond! Are they just as close as the others, or is there still a bit of distance? How often does Ranbob forget to eat or drink, or really just take a break? How long does it take to get him to start remembering to do that stuff again?

Does he ever slip up while with the gladiators? Also, in a room? Do the fisherman expand their house more, or do they just leave them in the house? Does Ranbob ever get his own house up? If so, does he use it at all, or is it more for storage? And how many times did he fall asleep out there, get injured, or not realize it was about to rain? How long did it take before Benjamin or Charles put their foot down and make him stay in for a bit?

Has Ranbob ever even dealt with rain before, or a storm above water? If not, how’d he react to it?

11: Oh, boy, Ran. Your concerns are understandable, but definitely going to lead to some angst. Is he just on edge the whole time? How many times does he just glare at them, or straight up steal one of his haunting back a few feet away from Ranbob’s? Are the fishermen ever worried he might hurt them?

12: How do both hybrids deal with their groups bonding? I imagine Ranbob’s pretty happy with it, but how about Ran? As you said, he doesn’t seem to be the biggest fan of these guys.

13: Roadtrip! Gotta love a roadtrip! What kind of places do they head? Any transportation, or is it just walking, enjoying nature? Do they go on an adventure to look for something cool? What’re they getting up to?

14: So Ran and Ranbob both act on their instincts in different ways. How do they feel about seeing how the other acts? What happens if any of the fishermen stray too far, or get separated from Ranbob? Same question to Ran. Ran just...like...picks up members of his haunting? Do people just see him walk around with them dangling in his arms? He must be pretty strong. How often does he do this? How else do their instincts lead to them acting? Cuddle piles, picking up blocks, keeping their groups close together, ect?

15: So Subbin’s pretty much a safe space for hybrids? Interesting. But since the groups are heading out, does this mean they run into some trouble outside of the city? And is there ever trouble within it?

Other questions: Does Karl play any further part in this, or has he already played his role for good? Does the gang ever end up back at Mizu? Do any of the group have a pet or something similar? With there be any sort of connection to other Tales, even if only slightly, or will they be solely focused on these two? Does Ranbob pick up his studies of Ranboo as best he can once he’s free, or does he leave it all behind entirely?

Thanks for the ask, this AU’s become quite interesting. I can’t wait to see where it goes!

#dream smp #Brothers AU #dream smp au #ranbob #ran #jackie #watson #grievous #tales from the smp #isaac #cletus #charles #benjamin

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