#pyre prattles

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Six Years

Vi wrestles with the realization of how much her sister has changed—and how many unwanted parallels she sees between Silco and their father. From a work-in-progress set after heron blue.

In some ways, she was still so familiar. Her perpetual nest of a living condition and geriatric sense of humor; her inability (refusal) to tend to her hair, herself. Yet, in so many ways, she's nothing like the girl Vi remembers. 

A shell. A stranger.

Jinx—a name that doesn't belong to her sister, that christens a girl who spits at the name Powder; whose body bares sinew and steel, wears yellowed stains at her chipped fingernails and speaks a drawl decades beyond her years—isn't a child, anymore. 

Eleven years, enmeshed in each others' days and nights; eleven, that Vi had always been with her. 

Powder's rock and shield. Powder's everything.  

Then the cannery had happened. Stillwater had happened. That monster had happened—

A monster whose gait she could pick out from a crowd: hears prowling over the floors now, above the jukebox and the metal tickings and her sister's self-directed rambling—a heavy-heeled th-thumping up the varnished steps, his coat a devil's whisper against the walls.

Vi steels herself. Beside her, Jinx prattles on. 

"Y'ever thought of fighting in a ring, sis?"

Th-thump, th-thumping over the dark floors.  

"You'd be the scrappiest scrapper in the Underground. Bet they'd call ya the Red Devil—or Lead Lettie—or Sourmouth Suckerpunch—"

She stares, unblinking, plastic squeezed beneath her thumb. Through the sliver of her sister's cracked door, a polish-slick boot wades through the shadows. Stills.  

"What you really need," Jinx says, with a lax crook of her screwdriver, "is a pair of Vandie's old gauntlets—that'll set'em right."

Vi swallows. The hall's dark devours the wraith on the other side of the door: shrouds all but the unearthly cat's-eye that tips over the leather at his shoulder, burning like a funeral pyre over a rotting corpse. 

"Yeah," she says, stiffly. Comb-teeth bite into her palm. "That's all I need."

His stare lingers—three-four-five beats—before it flits to the floor, trails over the blue tangled within her fingers, traces its mess back to the girl lounged beside her. Jinx stays worlds away in her tinkering, head lolled against the floor. She wrenches another screw into place.

"It's late," Jinx huffs, without needing a glance. "I know."

Silence, for a moment. Then Silco agrees, "It's late, indeed."

Jinx scowls. "One'ta talk."

If the shadows weren't playing a trick on her, Vi might have thought he'd smirked. But that bastard never smiled—never did anything but glare over his paperwork, around the vile plumes of his cigars: eyeing her hyena of a sister like a stray in need of a meal, and Vi like a bull ready to charge. 

Signing a blood-pact to his enterprise (their city's scheme for fiscal independence; her sister's unfathomable choice for a homestead) had done nothing in the way of trust. He'd taken an overseer's scrutiny to her, from the day she'd put her name in ink: a dead-eyed panopticon hounding her every waking hour, as though she'd never left that molding cell.

On one hand, a part of her reasoned, he had a right—sizing up her methods, as he would any new recruit; strategizing where best to slot her in the arteries of a drug-machine already years on the march. A more cynical thread knew he was laying his cards flat and playing the long game. Slouching back, idly, with eyes unblinking, to find any reason to put her under his heel.

She stares at the unmarred side of his face: a dim halo in a coal-blackened sea.

Eleven years that she'd been with Powder.

Six—nearly seven, now—that Jinx has had this snake at her side.

From the doorway, his shadow gravels, "I take it you'll be off soon." 

"Soon as the bell chimes." Jinx flits her wrist, pinkie-promise. "Not a rhyme later—cross my hearts and hope to snore."

Silco makes a low chuff at that: strange, quiet, bemused. A not-quite laugh, like Dad used to do. 

For a moment, a breath tangled in her throat, Vi sees him. 

He was tower of a man, thin as a string. His voice itched with smoke-pocked lungs and dreams that glittered like the stars. He kept chewing tobacco sweetened with cinnamon under his tongue, and he wore the mines on his clothes; gave hugs that made one's soul feel like it'd been wrapped in down-feathers; made the moonlight seem like nothing more than hand-sculpted glass: some beautiful thing he'd spooled on a thread and hung up there for all to see.

He'd been everything to her—her image of whistle-toothed optimism, her laughter, her guiding light—until he wasn't.

Freckles smattering her cheeks, her unruly hair the color of redmilk tea, a younger version of herself had shrieked over the idea of having to share her plates, pillows, toys with some snot-nosed little girl—a blue-haired, rambunctious, wailing thing—a sister. She'd stomped her feet and thrown fits over it. Told Dad, flat out: I don't wanna have her!

He'd stood slouched over her, hands bracketed at his thin waist, a glitter in his pale eyes, and chuffed. You'll do great, Lettie. His smile always pulled a touch crooked at one corner: a sincerity that, without fail, made her believe him. 

She'd always believed him, then. 

She was too young, too naïve not to.

Staring into an empty threshold, into a shadowed hall, a ghost of footsteps thudding down the dark floors, Vi fights to forget their father's voice. To block out the echo of a rasp no part of her wants to compare to it. To ignore the remnants of smoke on the air—tower of a man, thin as a string, heels heavy-footed from those damn mines—that belonged to a man she'd sooner wring the neck of. Wouldn't dare put in the same vein of everything their father was.

(Complicated. Self-loathing. Hellishly tempered. Kind.)

#first arcane wip post in...how many months?? #truly cannot remember #work has been an absolute hellhole but I am. slowly. catching a break #i have so many fics i need to catch up on reading ghh #arcane #arcane fanfic #fic excerpt #writing #jinx arcane #vi arcane #silco arcane #this wip has been burning a hole in my files and augh i want to finish it at some point #the daughter vi dad silco dysfunction just hits different

[laurelsofhighever]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 2/? Rating: T Warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

--

The encampment at Ostagar reeked of smoke, from the pyres for the dead and from the balls of pitch-soaked rubble the catapult crews had stored on-hand to keep the line of the horde back from the trees. Faint curls of it rose into a blank, grey sky, an expanse of cloud that muted the sounds of an army at war, turned the hulking southern mountains into smudges of washed charcoal on the horizon, and sealed the crown of the old Tevinter fortress into a bubble of still, humid air heavy with the threat of snow. No birds sang. Even the lay sisters’ recitation of the Chant of Light warbled only reed-thin through the ranks of oilcloth tents, the usual comfort of the words diminished in the face of the horror that was the darkspawn taint and its slow, inexorable transformation of living tissue.

Alistair disregarded all of it as he strode through the lines, heartbeat pounding in his ears. His brother’s words, not those of a king but a man struck by sudden, wearying grief, burned through him. Someone unexpected turned up this morning with Warden-Commander Duncan, brother. You… you should go and see her. A watch-soldier saluted him as he passed the gate from the main camp into a smaller cluster of tents girded by banners of fluttering grey and blue silk. Most of the warriors here – humans, dwarves, elves, and even some mages scattered through their number – paid him no deference. They attended to their weapons instead, or sat joking around their small fires.

The joking stopped when he approached. Some evidently knew his face and bowed their heads in acknowledgement, but the motion lacked the true humility most of the other soldiers would have shown. He did not care.

“The new recruits?” he asked.

A dwarf with a dark beard and a thick tattoo over one of his cheeks pointed the way before going back to his meal. Throat thick, Alistair nodded thanks to the rest of them and continued on.

He found who he was looking for around the next corner. A much larger fire, edged with stacks of whole logs to direct the flames skyward, stood on a small rise within an archway of crumbled marble, with the full Griffon banner of the Grey Wardens stabbed into the earth over a small group sorting through a pile of mismatched armour. Rosslyn’s back was to him, closing the last straps of a leather vambrace around her arm, her woollen tunic travel-stained and her black hair ordered in a simple braid down between her shoulder blades. Even so dishevelled, she was unmistakeable, though as he watched her scrounge for parts like a stray dog in a midden, unease drew a deep furrow between his brows. Aside from the fact that she was here at all – in the camp, in the wrong shade of blue – she ought to have had access to much grander garniture, the full set of plate that had been bestowed on her last name-day.

“– Anyway, name’s Daveth,” prattled one of her fellow recruits, a man with a thin face and close-cropped brown hair. “Since we’ll be fighting together. We should have each other’s backs out there, don’t you think? And if you don’t mind me saying, that’s hardly going to be a chore, with as lovely a figure as you’ve got.”

Alistair bristled, but she got there first.

“Do I look like someone offering favours in the marketplace?” she snarled. “Speak to me like that again, and your back will be the least of your concerns.”

“Alright, alright.” Daveth held up his hands. “Can’t blame a man for being friendly.”

She stalked past him to pick up a cloak and did not respond. Deep shadows haunted her eyes, and as he edged closer Alistair noticed the frayed strands of her braid where her hair was coming loose, as if she had slept in it and lacked either time or the inclination to brush out the knots. It was the snap of her voice, however, that struck like a lance in his chest. He had never heard it so cold, so like winter.

As he watched, another recruit, broader and balding, stepped up to the man named Daveth.

“Fool,” he chided. “Don’t you know who that is? That’s Lady Rosslyn Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce himself. Even if you didn’t recognise her, a churl like you should still be able to notice nobility when you see it.”

Daveth looked her over, unimpressed. “Whatever she was before, she’s a Warden now. Anyway – how would you know who she is? Ain’t you from Redcliffe?”

“I was recruited in Highever. And my Helena would skin me if I failed to recognise the daughter of her liege lord.”

Frowning, Rosslyn turned. “You’re from Highever?”

“Ser Jory is my name, my lady.” He bowed. “I won the grand melee in the Satinalia tourney.”

“Yes…” she replied after a moment, voice hollow. “I remember presenting the prize to you. But you’re not one of my father’s knights.”

“No, my lady. As I was saying to this dullwit, I originally hail from Redcliffe, but Arl Eamon gave me leave to serve in Highever when I married my Helena. Duncan recruited me after my victory, though I heard he stayed behind to recruit at the castle as well. Isn’t it lucky we’re both to be given the chance to join the Grey Wardens?” He offered her a bright smile, but it dimmed in the face of her silence, turning brittle, and in his retreat his eyes locked on Alistair, eavesdropping just a short distance away.

“Your Highness!”

She stiffened. Two years, and she had barely changed, except that her features had maybe lost the final roundness of childhood; he recognised the storm-grey eyes, the straight nose, the thin mouth… His throat crowded sharply with all the things he wanted to say – an apology first of all, then all the thoughts that had risen to fill the hole of her absence – but his lungs would not work. She was not well. Her pale skin stood out sickly, like marble in twilight; there were bruises, a scabbed cut over her brow, and a lock of hair at the front of her head that had been singed almost to the scalp. Some more turbulent emotion ran beneath her shock at seeing him, but before he could work out what it was, she dropped into a low bow with the others.

“Your Highness.”

He had always hated that from her.

“At ease, recruits,” he commanded, waving his hand in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner as he came forward. The words he wanted stuck in his throat. “My lady…”

She interrupted. “His Majesty told you.”

“He told me you were here,” he replied.

“Then you don’t…?” A jagged breath tore through her chest and she reeled away from him, hunched over as if in pain. “Please –” she turned to the other recruits “– give me a moment.”

Daveth exchanged a glance with Ser Jory, then shrugged. “Hurry back, we’re all eager to head off into the Wilds, I’m sure.”

--

As he followed her in search of somewhere quiet to talk, Alistair’s concern grew with every step. Nobody paid them any mind beyond the occasional salute, but people were scurrying everywhere to prepare for the next battle, leaving no empty corners for a private conversation. Eventually, he caught up to her enough to touch her arm and point up the hill to a secluded level of the ruins that looked over the cleared gauntlet the king’s army had cut into the mountainside to channel the darkspawn. It was being used as a store for pitch barrels, and the guard on watch only needed a glimpse of Alistair’s expression to duck into some more populated part of the camp. He watched long enough to make sure the woman was gone, then turned back to Rosslyn, who was looking at the cracked flagstones, one arm crossed in front of her as she tried to shrink away.

“I… didn’t expect to find you here,” she admitted finally, after the silence became painful. “I thought you were in Starkhaven.”

“Well, I’m not. I guess one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.” The joke fell flat even before it left his lips, drowning in the hurt of her eyes. He swallowed. “Cailan recalled me. But… you shouldn’t be here. Rosslyn, what’s going on? Your father would never have let you be sent to the Wardens.”

She snorted, not quite laughter. “Father’s the one who sent me.”

“What?”

“He’s… he’s dead.” A deep breath swelled beneath her Warden’s cuirass. “They’re all dead – Mother, Oriana. Oren. I’m sorry to bring the news.”

There was more to it – there had to be – but his mind refused to work, to parse the sullen bite of her lip and the way she turned away and would not meet his gaze. Whatever he had hoped of seeing her again shrivelled in his chest as grief roared in like a flame, not just for himself but for everything she had so clearly suffered already. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and carry her away from the battlefield, shield her from the ugliness of the darkspawn horde and the duty of all Grey Wardens to face it. She deserved better. Everything was wrong.

“What happened?” he managed instead. His hands stayed fisted at his sides.

She hunched further inward, as if he might have struck her. “Have you seen Fergus? He travelled ahead – he doesn’t know. He should have arrived by now – maybe yesterday, or the day before. I don’t know the layout of the camp well enough.”

“I’ve been supervising the outer defences for the past two days,” he answered. “But if he arrived, Teyrn Loghain will have settled him – he’s in charge of all deployments.”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll take you.”

“But –”

He turned back with a smile and a nudge of his head to offer encouragement, and tried to bury the separate sting of pain her reluctance caused even as she fell into step. To see her discomfort with him persist even after all this time chided as harshly as if she had shouted, or curled her lip in disgust at the sight of him – and yet the desperate apology, his only chance to beg her forgiveness, would not leave his throat. Glancing back as they wended through the picket lines, the war between horror and fatigue writ itself in every line of her body, in the strange, ill-fitting armour and the lank hair spilling from its braid, and his heart clenched. What benefit would it give her to ease his own conscience, when he had nothing else to offer? As a Grey Warden, if they both survived the campaign, he would likely never see her again.

She made no sound when they passed the infirmary. Wynne, the senior enchanter in charge of the mage healers, flagged him down to complain about the state of the beds and the lack of rest her charges were being allowed, but he barely listened. Rosslyn was staring at the soldiers lying on the narrow pallets set up under the canvas shelter. Some were quiet, still, but others writhed and moaned about monsters, terrible thirst, a song they couldn’t get out of their heads; all were marred by milky, sightless eyes and leathery patches of greying skin that pulled their lips back from their teeth like blooms withered by frost.

“This is the taint?” she asked. “This is what it does?”

“I’m afraid so,” the mage replied. “We do what we can, but it is beyond even magic to heal.”

Alistair touched her arm, fleeting. “This way.”

When they finally reached Teyrn Loghain’s pavilion, they found him poring over a supply list, dressed in a formal black tunic embroidered with gold, which gave his skin a sour cast and deepened the severe set of his mouth. He did not immediately leave off his task as protocol demanded, but straightened slowly, the Antivan leather of his gloves creaking as he turned and made a lazy attempt at deference.

“Ah, Your Highness. What can I do for you?” There was condescension in his smile, but when he glanced behind Alistair and caught sight of Rosslyn, the expression contracted into a scowl, a flash of recognition. “I see you’ve come with Duncan’s newest recruit. The king has been beside himself all morning about you,” he added with a jut of his chin.

“You don’t seem to share his enthusiasm, Your Lordship,” she pointed out, straightening to hide her grief under courtesy.

The teyrn huffed. “The Wardens are impressive but not as relevant as Cailan thinks, and despite your… upbringing, you are untested in the field. Tell me, will you be riding into battle with the rest of your fellows?”

She hesitated. “I’ll follow what orders I’m given.”

“If Cailan has his way, you will,” he told her. “For whatever good one extra Warden recruit will do.”

“The Wardens have been instrumental in our victories so far,” Alistair reminded him, terse.

“Skirmishes. Nothing to what is to come, or so the Wardens are promising Cailan.” Loghain’s mouth twitched. “Duncan only encourages his recklessness with embellished tales and dire warnings.”

“It sounds like you don’t think this is a true Blight.”

He gave Rosslyn a long stare. “We shall see. Now, do you have a specific reason for interrupting me, or may I return to planning how best to save all our lives?”

“His Highness –” she replied, with delicate emphasis “– brought me to ask you whether the contingent from Highever have arrived.”

Loghain frowned.

“I need to speak with my brother.”

“I sent him out at the head of a scouting party into the Wilds to track the position of the enemy.” A shrug. “He has yet to report back to me.”

Alistair took a step forward. “Cailan told you three days ago to pull our forces back from the Wilds after the last patrol was lost.”

“It was a necessary decision – or would you rather be fighting blind to the darkspawn’s numbers?” Loghain managed a sneer. “If you had more experience in these matters, you would see the value of that decision.”

“When did you send him?” Rosslyn asked.

“Yesterday afternoon, when he arrived. If that is all?”

Alistair made an effort not to grind his teeth. Cailan always excused the old teyrn’s informality as a holdover from the days when he had been in the Rebellion with their father, but the casual way he confessed to breaking a direct order rubbed at the years of training that enshrined the chain of command as the basis of necessary trust on the battlefield. A soldier had to believe their actions were part of a larger plan, and the generals needed every part of the whole to work in concert to achieve victory. If not for his worry over Rosslyn’s increasingly glazed expression, he might have gone straight to Cailan about this newest show of arrogance.

“We’ll take up no more of your time, Your Lordship.” He bowed stiffly. “But I’ll hear of it if you send any more scouts into the Wilds.”

He had to touch Rosslyn’s arm again to get her attention; Loghain had already gone back to his list.

She felt like ash, like one strong breeze might scatter her into a thousand insubstantial pieces, and his heart thundered as he guided her unresisting into the lee of one of the equipment tents, where they might at least have a semblance of privacy.

“If he’s in the Wilds…” She faltered, squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” he murmured. “You Couslands are made of strong stuff. Listen, I’ll order the guards on the gate to send a runner for you when he comes back. He’ll be glad to see you.”

“No, he won’t.”

What kind of comfort could he offer? Once, they had shared secrets and confidences, had leaned on each other in times of fear, and if he had ever seen her so close to crying, he would have bled to make her happy again. But he had ruined that closeness, and now even the ten inches of space between them yawned too far for him to cross.

“Rosslyn, I –”

“Recruit!”

They flinched. A giant of a human in the armour of a Grey Warden scout was closing on them, his mouth set in a grim line behind a close-cropped beard. One side of his tanned face was framed by a lock of braided hair, but the rest of his shaggy black mane hung to his shoulders in a style unfamiliar to Alistair. The man nodded to him before fixing his gaze on Rosslyn.

“We’re waiting on you.”

“Yes, ser,” she replied, straightening. When she turned to Alistair with a pale smile, she still could not quite meet his eyes. “That’s Rhodri. I have to go. I… It was good to see you again, Your Highness.”

Another bow, and another needle digging into his heart. Queen Anora’s lessons in propriety and his own awareness of his mistakes kept him from the urge to press his palm against her cheek, but the hesitation it cost him left her smile a receding memory as her weight shifted.

“If I see Fergus, I’ll tell him you’re here,” he blurted.

She nodded, and he watched her retreat, until she had long vanished from sight and his heart had sunk all the way to his boots.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age: origins #dragon age fanfiction #alistair theirin #alistair x cousland #alistair x warden #warden x alistair #cousland #warden cousland #rosslyn cousland #grey warden #ostagar #my writing #as the world falls down

[cosmicproserpina]

the end

They cover her body with her own robes — a crude shroud. It's done not for tradition but because someone says her naked body looks immodest. It's the eyes they hate the most. None among them can meet her dead gaze and not one carries the courage to touch her now, let alone pull her eyelids shut. A grave is out of the question and pyres are a labor to build, so they leave her for the worms and the rot. She isn't the first girl to die to sate the appetite of men; she won't be the last.

It's three hours before she's found. It's three more before her soul's pulled from the gentle Underworld and returned to her irrevocably altered body.

She awakes in an arcane circle surrounded by three blind crones with haggard faces and crooked spines. One laughs, gleeful at their own magical might. Another prattles on with a quick tongue about a better incantation for the 'next one' they find. The last says nothing, and only watches Proserpina with a single red eye.

They do not care for her, but they do not secret away all their ancient and forbidden knowledge. When offered crumbs, she feasts like a king.

the beginning

Just as she is not the first girl to die to lecherous men, she is not the first the crones have resurrected, either. Proserpina is the ninth and when the crones cast her out, these otherworldly "sisters" welcome her with open arms.

Fearful of mortals — both for their violence and their orderly destruction of the disordered — the sisters remain far from the glittering streets of Amaurot. They take residence in an old temple, one thought to be from a more primitive time when magic was still mystic.

#this is the prelude to her bio / profile #so im putting it here #my resurrected bby #who seeks out revenge and catches the eye of the person in charge of investigating: hades #sa tw #sa trauma tw

[mrfeenysmustache]

Deconstructing the Pyre

Chapter 11

Summary: It’s hard to cope without closure. And even then sometimes we flounder. Kagome is doing her best to just move along when a reunion with an old ally blows it all to hell again. They find some comfort in one another, but soon it is not enough. Kagome must find her way out of the grave she’s dug for herself, but she’s spent so long convincing herself that that’s where she belongs. A SessKag story told in bits and pieces.

Also read on: AO3

——————————————————————————

“Are you sure you aren’t seeing anyone?” Her mother asks, a spark of mischief in her voice, a note of hope.

Kagome watches Sesshomaru exit his steam filled bathroom with a bright yellow towel emblazoned with rubber ducks wrapped around his hips.

“No mama.”

“Well, alright. Just hate to think of you still all alone.”

“I’m not all alone.” She admits, and her eyes widen in unsettled disbelief to realize that she means it.

That is new.

Sesshomaru walks by again, stopping at his nearby dresser to find some socks and underwear.

She nudges him with her foot.

“That’s my towel, you jerk.” She mouths at him as her mother prattles on about how Souta is doing, how Buyo II is getting on, the festivals the shrine is preparing for, and he grins and whips it off before tossing it on her head.

She tears it away and sticks her tongue out at him childishly, cheeks burning as he snaps his fangs at her, heat once more pooling in her belly.

“Well you know what mama, I’ve got to go! I’ll call you tomorrow!” She interrupts, standing and meeting Sesshomaru’s smoldering gaze with one of her own.

“I’ve only just cleaned myself, Kagome. You would really sully me again so soon?”

“Well when you put it that way,” she said glancing down at his rapidly hardening erection, “maybe I should just leave and go-“

Her sentence trails off into a breathy sigh as he scoops her up and rushes them to the bed.

#sesskag #sesskag fanfiction #sesskag fanfic #sesskag fic #sesshomaru/kagome #angst with a happy ending #angst #grief and angst #survivors guilt

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Goretober Day 16: One To The Dirt One To The Pyre

Prompt: Burn Fandom: BBC Robin Hood Summary: Isabella is executed for witchcraft. Warnings: Physical abuse and implied sexual abuse.

They aren’t particularly unjustified when they bind her hands with rope. They aren’t exactly in the wrong about their accusations. But they don’t know the full story. They don’t know what he has put her through. They just took his word for it. They just followed his pointed finger.

Isabella supposes that she hadn’t gone about it in the most intelligent way. The curse was a success, God, it was a success. But she hadn’t covered her tracks well enough this time. She has cast spells before but never one so potent.

She might be on her way to the pyre, but he is on his way to the dirt. With any luck they will mistake him for dead and bury him several days too soon. He will wake to pitch darkness and the smell of damp dirt and worm. The taste of nature herself.

Isabella smiles. It deserves a slow and agonizing death. She looks at the scars and bruises on her arms. The same brand that decorate her neck and collar and her torso. The ones that pair so well with the welts on her back and thin lines that match his whip. She doesn’t regret what she has done. She only regrets that she has left traces of it in such plain sight.

Her hands were her own downfall. They smelled of herbs and spices. The witch’s scent is accompanied by dirt and residue beneath her fingernails. They might have taken it for days spent toiling in a garden had she not been the bride of a lord. If not that then it would have been the smear of rat’s blood. And if not the rat’s blood then it would have been the black stain on her fingers.

Normally she wears gloves but she had been careless and they have seen the permeate discoloration from years of spellwork and potion making. And now, just as her dreadful husband is beginning to decay alive, she is being walked to the stake.

It is deeply autumn, he favorite time of the year. The trees are vibrant and rustling, shaking off their leaves with each sway. There is a tinge of warm cider in the air and a fragrance of cinnamon. Of dried straw and crops teeming for harvest. It is a shame that she won’t live to celebrate the harvest. It is the one time of the year that she feels fully alive, fully free. When the moon flares full and golden-orange and the beer kegs flow more freely. When the feast is magnificent even to the peasant class. When Robin shows his face for only a good time and some ale.

They will likely build the bonfire up from the same wood that she is to be burned upon. She doesn’t resist as they bind her to it. Maybe if she truly had the power they accuse her of having, she’d put up a fight. But she is admittedly too dumere. Something of a sheep that has finally had enough. She finds that even sheep are quite aggressive brutalized regularly.

But Isabella has gone passive again. She has thrown all of her seething and spite into the poison she’d be dying for and as no fight left in her. It is a shame that she won’t know a life without the beatings and beratings.

Though she hasn’t any fight, she holds her head high. And higher still as Prince John addresses her. “It’s such a shame that such an elegant lady would…” he twirls his hand. “Get acquainted with such nasty things.”

She would like to pretend that the nasty thing she has gotten acquainted with is Thornton.  

“A witch…” a declares with an exaggerated sweeping of his arms. It is more for the crowd than for her. “Black magic. She has poisoned her own husband.”

The crowd leers.

“Do you deny this?”

“I savor it.” She snarls.

“And unrepentant!” Prince John flinches. His theatrics are growing tiresome. She almost yearns for them to just light her up so she doesn’t have to hear it anymore. “An evil creature with no remorse.”

Really she has only done one thing. Mostly she uses her herb work and potions to care for migraines, stomach pains, and other aches and illnesses. And mostly she uses her magik and rituals to promote luck and prosperity and sometimes, if she is feeling daring, clairvoyance. Really nothing noteworthy nor harmful. It is just this one thing, this one dark deed. She doesn’t think that, that makes her evil. And is it really so evil, so unjustified, to rid herself of an abuser?

According to all of Nottingham, her practices and rituals are far more foul than Thornotn’s own practices. It is a ritual of its own the way he tears her clothes from her and throws her into bed and… Yes, he is getting what he deserves.  

Prince John is still prattling as while she scans the crowd. She finds Robin and she wonders if he will save her. They have ended things on such a sour note and they are left with little fondness for one another. But he does seem like the sort who would try to help her regardless, unless that is dashed by a hatred of her heathenism.

She finds Thornton front and center and he looks horrible. His eyes pierce into her, but they lack their ferocity. They are tired and have bags that span acres. His cheeks are hollow and his complexion is corpse-like, shot with raven feather-black veins.

She flashes him a smirk. She might be a dead woman but soon his veins will burst and his flesh will rot away and he will still breathe. At least her suffering will be over within the day. His own returned smirk is her only warning.

The match has been thrown. It takes a moment, one long and horrible moment. But the flames burst up. She hadn’t expected it to get so hot, so soon. The fire is still only a small blaze; perhaps she is just imaging the heat before it truly rises. Albeit, it doesn’t take long for that blaze to reach her toes. When it gets there it is torment. Her nerve endings flare as the fire eats away her feet.

Isabella holds back a scream, her lips twitch into a snarl and she makes a point of holding Thornton’s stare. Part of her still hopes that Robin will come to her aid. That hope is squandered and that part of her burns away when the fire makes it to her knees.

She still suppresses her screams, has bitten her cheeks and a chunk of her tongue off in the effort. She lets the blood drain from her mouth and drizzle onto her chin. A mistake. The crowd takes a uniformed step back and one voice calls out, “it’s more witchcraft!”

She never guessed that Nottingham had such a surplus of fools. When the fire reaches her hips she finally cries out. Her legs have already blackened, there is no skin left to melt, there is only equally blacked bone. Blackened bone and the smell of burning meat and muscle tissue.

The less sadistic of the towns folks slip away. The more respectful of them, simply turn their heads. The smell has pushed several people to heave. She would think that they are the ones on the pyre.

By the time the fire reaches her stomach, Isabella wishes that she were dead. Not that it is her first time itching with such a desire. Still she holds her glare. Unwavering. Hateful. Thornton turns away, but she knows that he can still feel her hatred burning and simmering perhaps hotter than even the fire.

She roars with it when it reaches her chest. It quite literally boils her blood. It runs down her skeleton with skin that slowly sloughs away to meet the wood below. It is just as well, she knows that the relentlessly searing pain will be over soon. The fire only needs to lick and strip the flesh and muscles above her heart and then burn that away. But the fire climbs to her face before that happens.

This is the worst part. This is when her eyes finally leave Thornton. In an instant her vision flashes a vivid yellow-white and then it goes black and she feels jelly running down her cheeks. She is spasming now, reflexively thrashing and jerking against the chains that hold her in place.

And then it is over, her charred body still, her last breath wafts up to the sky with the smoke. She didn’t use it to curse them all. She didn’t have to. They had damned themselves in killing her, because she is the one who knew how to put him down…

The full moon rises on festival night and in the midst of their bonfire, Thornton bites into the neck of Prince John.  

#BBC Robin Hood #Isabella Of Gisborn #Fanfiction #Goretober

[misseffie]

I dunno if you've answered this before (sorry if you have) but what would have been your ideal ending for the show characters? 👀

Thank you so much for this ask. I wanted to answer sooner but it’s a bit overwhelming to think about this in some depth lol.

Dany: This one is the one that I struggle with the most. Because I did want her to have a doomed tragic hero turned villain storyline. But the way it was done sucked. I think a better developed journey to darkness but also Jon doesn’t kill her. She “turns dark” but then something reminds her of her goodness and she makes a heroic sacrifice of some sort - something regarding The Others. Similar to when she walked into the pyre in season 1. She turns to darkness but dies a hero.

Jon: I wish there was a nicer way to say this but I honestly never cared about his character lmao. I find almost every other character on this show more interesting than him, so I never speculated or cared about his ending. So, sure, I guess him going to the wall is fine. It feels very Frodo of him and I feel like it fits him in a way - but ppl who love his character probably don’t agree with me. I feel like I didn’t mind his ending simply because I don’t care about him very much lol.

Sansa: I wanted her to be Queen in the North and I’m happy about it. But I’m pretty upset that we never got to see her actually show her skills as a politician and a leader. All I wanted in season 8 was a final conversation/confrontation between Sansa and Cersei. I feel like we deserved that. Just to have a scene where there’s hatred and history between them but also a weird grudging respect.

Cersei: I love Cersei. And she should’ve gotten another awesome villainous moment. She didn’t deserve to have her final storyline revolve around a pregnancy and pirate fuckboy. She did nothing of interest this season :/ Her death was so lackluster and very pathetic for such an amazing villain. She should’ve died by Jaime’s hands after committing some final atrocity.  

Jaime: His storyline is the same up to episode 4. Except in episode 5 he actually does kill Cersei. OR, I wouldn’t have minded if we saw that he went there with the intention of killing Cersei (we see him draw a knife/sword/whatever) and then once he sees her crying and realizes they’re going to die anyway he decides to comfort her. But the intention should’ve been there.

Brienne: Similar ending, except Jaime only left her to kill Cersei. Also Brienne would be with Sansa in the North - it makes no sense for her to be with Bran.

Pod: He’s sweet. Should stay with Brienne wherever she goes. And since my headcanon is that Brienne is in the North he also goes there. Pod and Sansa develop an adorable crush on each other. He is very sweet and flustered around her.

Tyrion: I thought he would die instead of Varys. And after hearing him prattling on during the council scene I wish he had.

Bran: Master of Whispers in the King’s council. Also should’ve played a bigger part in defeating the Others.

Bronn: Dead. In a ditch. Like 4 seasons ago.

Tormund: I thought he would die this season actually. I like his character, but I feel like him dying during The Battle of Winterfell would’ve raised the stakes.

Yara: Literally have her do anything. That would’ve been nice lol.

Theon: I thought his ending was alright. But that’s probably because he died early enough that they didn’t fuck up his character. I feel like he should’ve been given a chance to recover and make even more of himself after everything he’s been through.

Sandor: Liked his ending. Or rather I liked the conclusion to his storyline with Arya, I never cared about Cleganebowl or whatever. His brother is already a dead zombie, why did Sandor need to kill him? lol

Jorah: His ending was good. No complaints there. I’m a Jorah fan and his ending was fitting and tragic.

Greyworm/Missandei: I always thought one of them would die. But they deserved to get away from Westeros and move on from a life of war, slavery, and pain. That would’ve been nice. In a world where Dany sacrifices herself for the greater good, it would’ve been nice to see these two leaving at the end to find some peace thanks to Dany.

Varys: Should’ve survived because he actually seemed to care about the common people and should’ve been in that council meeting. I think he might’ve suggested Gendry, since he is also lowborn and Varys helped Gendry survive on several occasions (indicating that Gendry was a backup plan for him).

Arya: My ending for Arya is actually not that different. She still leaves for a bit in order to recover from everything, but Gendry comes with her. But she never leaves forever.

Gendry: I had a few endings that I would’ve liked for Gendry.

There’s a tragic AU I envisioned after episode 4 where he is made King and he tries to turn it down but then, due to all the terrible things he’s seen the common people go through (and being convinced by Davos and Varys) he decides to take the throne in the end. In this scenario, we see Arya realize she wants a future with Gendry (thanks to Sandor’s advice) and she wants to convince him to leave with her at first but then once she starts talking to him and realizes what a good King he’ll make she realizes she’s being selfish, and we see her heartbroken (because she wouldn’t want to be a Queen) before she leaves on the ship. This scene would have a lot of intercutting between Gendry’s coronation and Arya boarding her ship and looking to the Red Keep in a dramatic fashion.

The other ending is Gendry is offered the throne but he abdicates.  This leads to the nobles establishing a council. We see him and Arya leaving on the ship. Gendry tells Davos they might return some day and he makes Davos the Lord of Storm’s End - Davos gives Gendry Shireen’s stag sculpture and tells him he is proud of him and they hug tightly. Maybe him and Arya return a few years later to settle down at Storm’s End.

Davos: His story was always linked to the Baratheons. He should’ve stayed by Gendry’s side. Gone back to Storm’s End and reunited with his wife.

#got #Anonymous #gendry baratheon #daenerys targaryen #sansa stark

[avani008]

Three ways she did not die and one life she never lived for Satyabhama? I am curious...

1. When Satyabhama comes upon her father’s murderers, his blood still bright on their hands, her first thought is to reach for the nearest weapon to end their miserable existences.

Her second is to remember, pointedly, that there are no weapons to hand here, in Satyajit’s palatial abode which should be the safest abode in all Dwaraka; and her third to remember that they outnumber her, three to one. 

“Wait--” says Kritavarma, “--she’s only a girl--”

For that, she will hate him most.

But Satadhanwa is shaking his head; “She’s already seen our faces,” he is saying, and “Suppose she should run to the King?”

She wants to laugh, reassure them that royal justice is far more than they deserve; Satyabhama will see them dead at her own hands or not at all, but Satadhanwa raises his sword again, and--

2. She nocks her arrow, and for an instant, instead of Narakasura’s sneering face, all she can see is a child stretching its arms towards her, calling: Mother, Mother--

It is a moment that costs her. 

3. Rukmini protests, of course-- “A life in the forests would be no punishment for me,” she says, this woman who has known nothing but glorious cities for all her days -- but Satyabhama will not hear of it. 

“There must be someone to go with the others,” she says. “Someone to protect them. Certainly they can’t protect themselves.”

There is only a very little scorn in her voice now. Age has softened her, more than she expected. 

“You could,” Rukmini points out. “Better than I, in fact.”

Once, Satyabhama might have argued in return, but years have taught her better than to challenge sweet-spoken Vaidharbi. “True,” she agrees, “but oh my sister, will you begrudge me so little?”

She lets her eyes casts longingly towards the funeral pyre once more, and Rukmini--as Satyabhama knew she must--relents. She was always too kind. 

“Recompense, then,” the Chief Queen of Dwaraka pronounces, “for allowing you to go to Prabhasa, and so witness the destruction of our kin with your eyes.”

It is nothing of the sort, but it will comfort her. Satyabhama nods her assent. 

&1. When Devaki’s promised eighth son does not return, as Satyabhama knows he must not (unlike so many fools in Mathura), she does not despair. Instead she makes her pretty smiles at King Kamsa and prattles publicly of her great admiration, and in private, makes sure much of her father’s wealth fills certain pockets: those who control great armies that might put an end to his tyranny.

When the Yadavas, grateful and gratified, elect her their leader, she is not entirely surprised.

She has always known, after all, that she was born to do great things in this world, and if she must do so alone? Well, so be it. 

#mahabharata #3+1 #satyabhama #hello hi i did not previously realize that the idea of takes-mathura-back-by-herself satyabhama would fill me with such joy #but thank you for prompting that!