#the 'onward. forward' with the 'believe' banner behind him

[lunatriense]

OH MY GOD STOP WRITING SO WELL AND BREAKING MY HEART (i know i requested the sad crimson tide headcanon but still)

Crimson Tide 30

I'm sorry anon, but tysm for the compliment!!! 🥰 Hopefully this will stitch it back together.

One headcanon about this OTP that mends it

Neptune lies on his bed, flicking through photos on his scroll. Photos of Pyrrha — many with him as well — taken over the years, each of them a memory. She's smiling in those pictures, so happy… she wasn't smiling when he saw her last. He sighs… he took her smile away; that's the last thing he ever wanted to do. He flicks to another photo.

Scarlet hair streams behind her like a banner, shimmering in the evening sun. He follows, drawn onward by her melodic laugh through the streets of Argus, weaving between pedestrians and vehicles and the kiosks set up on the side of the road, all the way down to the wharf. She's so fast! He can't keep up, but every now and then she looks back and slows down to offer words of encouragement for him, and they drive him forward.

When they reach the wharf, fear grips his heart. So much water… he can go no further. She knows he won't go further, not out onto the piers, not where he might fall in. She gives him a smile and darts out without a care, to the furthest docking post. Without hesitating, she scampers up onto the post to watch the battle beyond.

This is why they've come. When the sirens sound, when the rest of the city looks out with trepidation, the girl knows only excitement. She runs toward the danger, not away. She wants to see it for herself, not hear the reports later. He doesn't quite get it, but when he's around her he feels like he can do anything… anything except go out to the water, that is.

She watches from her perch as the airships clash with the Grimm, tracer fire and smoke trails crisscrossing the red-gold sky. Among them are a few hunters, either fighting from the airships themselves or leaping out to engage the creatures in aerial combat.

The sight is breathtaking — the little girl gazing up to the battle above. He fumbles momentarily to pull out his scroll and capture the image.

"That's going to be me one day," the girl tells him when she finally comes back in after it's finished, more excited than he'd ever seen her. "I'll become the greatest huntress ever. I'm going to save the whole world!" Crazy as it sounds, he believes her. She's Pyrrha Nikos, and she can do anything.

A little smile comes to Neptune's face — he remembers that day well. "You were right," he murmurs to himself. "You're gonna save the whole world…" His smile falters, then fades. "And I won't be there by your side…" He thumbs over to his messages and opens the one Pyrrha sent him this morning. Even if he'd given up on her, she hadn't given up on him.

He clenches his teeth, then opens up his contacts to call her. No service; she's already out of range. "Damnit…" He backs out and swipes down to Sun's icon, hesitating briefly before tapping it and waiting for the connection.

"Hey man, what's up?" Sun looks to be playing some sort of game and munching on snacks.

"Hey, you know that friend of a friend you told me about?"

"Uuuuh… oh yeah, the band girl? Sure, what about her?"

"No dude, not her, the other friend of a friend."

Sun's eyes widen and the cheese puff he just grabbed falls from his fingers before it reaches his mouth. "Wait… you don't mean the guy with the-."

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Whoa…" Sun is obviously gobsmacked, and why wouldn't he be after hearing that? Honestly Neptune can barely believe it himself.

"I made a huge mistake and I gotta fix it, so I need a favour. I don't know who else can help, so… you think you can convince him to be ready in an hour?"

"Dude, come on, it's me. Of course I can!"

Neptune gives Sun a grateful — if nervous — smile. "Thanks man, I owe you."

Pyrrha sits against the wall, the same melancholy looming over her that has since yesterday, since Neptune had… She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath. She never thought he would leave like that. They were supposed to stay together forever, that's what they'd always said ever since they were children.

Of course she can't really blame him. He's right, she did leave him first, did run off to Beacon; she hadn't realised at the time that the application deadline would already be past when she found out if she was accepted, and he'd seemed so supportive, but it's no excuse. And now with everything… maybe it's for the best that he's staying home, away from all the danger that this life — the life she dragged him into — entails, and all the more for recent revelations.

At least she'll always have her memories. She withdraws her scroll, ignoring the little stab of pain upon being reminded that Neptune saw her message this morning only minutes after she'd sent it — long before she'd left the range of Argus' communication tower — but never sent a response, and instead opening her photo gallery. Inside are countless precious memories, many of them shared with Neptune himself; she taps one of them to enlarge, and it brings with it both a small smile and new tears.

"Neptune?"

The boy turns, a little awkward-looking in his suit, and blushes. "Pyrrha! H-hi. What're you doing out here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing. I didn't think you'd want to miss a second of a party like this."

"Oh, yeah, it's pretty great huh? I, uh, I just needed some fresh air."

She smiles and nods. "Well then, shall I keep you company?"

He returns her smile. "Sure, that'd be great."

She steps closer to lean lightly against the wall with him. "You know, Melanthe is looking for you. She said you promised to dance with her tonight."

His smile wavers. "That's not-! I didn't promise, I told her maybe we could dance!!"

She giggles, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. "It's alright, I don't mind. Although," she steps away from the wall and in front of him to face him, leaning forward just a bit, "I may be a little jealous if you dance with her before me."

"N-no, never! Besides…" He goes beet red, looking away and shoving his hands in his pockets as he mutters something under his breath.

She blinks. "Hmm? I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you."

He mutters again, a little louder. "I said… I don't know how to dance…"

Her eyes widen a little. "Oh… is that…" She takes a half-step closer, straightening as she does and lifting a hand to gently turn his face to meet her gaze. "That's why you were avoiding me last time?"

He nods, obviously embarrassed.

She smiles. "Neptune, it's alright. I don't know how either."

He blinks and snaps his head up, looking at her as though she's grown a second head. "… What? No way! I saw how you moved in the tournament – how you always move for that matter. There's no way you can't dance!!"

She giggles again, but blushes this time as well. "Those are very different than dancing."

He gives her a sceptical look in reply.

She glances to the door of the auditorium she'd exited a few moments ago, from where the music can be heard. "It's just the two of us out here, you know…"

He freezes. "What about it?"

She smiles and extends her hand. "May I have this dance?"

He looks down to her hand, blinking momentarily before blushing and lifting his gaze to her face. "But I don't know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I."

"I'm gonna be clumsy."

"We'll be clumsy together."

"I'll probably trip over your feet!"

She giggles. "Then I'll catch you." She tilts her head and lifts her hand a touch. "Please?"

After a few heartbeats longer, he nods and takes it. "Okay."

He wasn't exaggerating, and neither was she. It only takes a handful of steps before he trips over her feet. She catches him, and for a moment that seems to stretch far longer than it actually lasts she holds him up, her hair spilling down over her shoulder and his. Then the grass, damp from the afternoon's rain, gives way beneath them and sends them both tumbling to the ground where, after rolling a few times, they settle laughing in a heap… just in time for Auric, who's also come looking for Neptune, to find them and snap the photo.

Pyrrha is roused from her memories by the sense of Yang approaching. She looks up to her friend, who stops a few steps from her with a concerned air about her.

"We have company."

Pyrrha blinks and pushes herself to her feet, putting her scroll away as she moves. "What kind?"

Yang motions for her to follow. "It's not Grimm."

Pyrrha nearly misses a step at that. "Atlas is patrolling this far out?"

"Nope; we don't know who it is yet, but someone's coming up on us from behind. In a boat."

Sure enough, once they emerge onto the deck of the ship, Pyrrha looks astern to find that a boat is quickly gaining on them. It's a small and fast island hopper, but far further to sea than such a craft would normally be found.

Yang climbs up the stairs running around the outside of the bridge to shout up to her sister. "Can you tell who it is yet!?"

"It's just… some guy!," comes the response from Ruby on the roof, staring down the scope of her rifle. "He's not wearing a uniform or anything that I can see!"

The rest of the group is arrayed on the deck below, armed and ready, and so Pyrrha leaps down to join them.

"-old you guys we shouldn't have gone by sea. I knew my plan to steal the airship was better!"

"It definitely wasn't, Jaune." Pyrrha gives him a look. "Even if it didn't get us shot down, it would've crippled Argus' sensors and defences, and we're supposed to be protecting people, not endangering them."

Ren joins in with an 'I told you so' look, then they turn their attention the the fast-approaching boat. Pyrrha draws Miló and transforms it into rifle mode, aiming at the craft to get a closer look herself… and her breath catches in her throat.

"Neptune…?"

He trembles, staring at the wall across the room, seemingly unaware of the steaming mug in front of him or the blanket draped around him.

"He's really not looking too hot."

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"Maybe… we should give him some space?"

"That's probably a good idea."

"Go ahead, I'll stay here to take care of him."

Eventually he becomes aware that someone is holding his hand. His vision is horribly blurry, so he can't tell who; he blinks a few times and finds that his eyes burn badly from dryness, so he squeezes them shut.

"Neptune?"

He knows that voice. That confirms what he thought — it's Pyrrha holding his hand, now squeezing it gently.

"Neptune, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I… I'll be… I'm fine…" It doesn't sound the least bit convincing even to him. When he opens his eyes and blinks away the tears, he finds Pyrrha frowning; clearly it wasn't to her either.

"What are you doing out here? I thought… You said you weren't coming…"

"I wasn't, but.…"

"But?"

"But I… I realised I was being an idiot."

Pyrrha shakes her head softly. "You were just doing what's best for you, that's not-."

"Please don't. Don't do that. I was, I was being stupid. Really stupid!" He sighs. "Because… I was afraid." He hangs his head a bit. "I'm still afraid."

Pyrrha leans a little closer and gives his hand another squeeze. "I'm afraid too, Neptune. We're all afraid, you'd have to be crazy not to be."

He scoffs. "Yeah right, I know you better than that, Pyr. You're the bravest person I've ever met. You're fearless."

She blushes slightly. "Bravery isn't being fearless, it's being afraid but facing your fear and moving onward anyway."

"Huh…" He considers a moment. "Anyway, I thought about it and… and as much as all this scares me, as-," he chokes up, and it takes a moment and a shuddering breath for him to continue. "As terrified as I am that walking this path with you is going to get us both killed, I realised I'm even more terrified that if I don't… if I don't, it'll still happen and I won't be there beside you. That I won't have been there when you needed me."

Pyrrha's eyes glisten with unshed tears and her voice quavers a bit as she speaks. "But we're in the middle of the ocean. The water… how did you…?"

"I had to face my fear, like you said." A small smile spreads on his face. "It turns out I'm a lot more afraid of losing you than I am of the water." He glances toward the door. "But please don't remind me where we are. That's the stuff of nightmares."

She gives a little half-laugh, half-sob but smiles and nods nonetheless, then leans in to kiss him, wrapping her arms around him in a close embrace, both of which he's all too happy to return.

#pyrrha nikos #neptune vasilias #crimson tide #rwby #answers #memes

[eddievedders]

Now, look, this is a sad moment right here. For all of us. And there ain't nothing I can say, standing in front of you right now, that can take that away. But please do me this favor, will you? Lift your heads up and look around this locker room. Yeah? Look at everybody else in here. And I want you to be grateful that you're going through this sad moment with all these other folks. Because I promise you, there is something worse out there than being sad, and that is being alone and being sad. Ain't nobody in this room alone.

#Ted Lasso #tedlassoedit #tedlassogif #bbelcher #Jason Sudeikis #Hannah Waddingham #Toheeb Jimoh #Jeremy Swift #Brendan Hunt #every day i wake up and i cry about this show #the tone in his voice #the 'onward. forward' with the 'believe' banner behind him #the way Rebecca's looking so fondly at Sam #the way they're all miserable about losing the match #but he made sure they know they're all sad ~together #honestly at this point i would DIE for the goofy premier league show #my stuff #mine: believe #third time trying to upload this tumblr please let me

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed, Episode 26, part two

(Masterpost) (Other Canary Stuff)

Warning! Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Content note: This episode has a lot of lightning, but this post does not have lightning flashes--I’m using mostly stills for those parts, or I’ve snipped out the unfriendly frames before giffing.

Qing-Jie

Having successfully ruined Jin Guangshan’s party plan to get the Yin Tiger seal, Wei Wuxian dashes off to tell Wen Qing where her brother is. She hops up to hit the road with him, but then sorta-faints because she’s starving. In a rare moment of tenderness between these two, he catches her and gently sits her down again. 

Normally they’re busy out-toughing each other, both before and after this moment, but right now Wen Qing is openly vulnerable. Wei Wuxian responds to that, predictably, with all of his kindness and with his usual slew of unwise, impossible-to-keep promises.

As she eats the bread he’s brought her--a parallel to an important piece of bread in his early life--he says they have to believe in Wen Ning’s survival. Cut to: Wen Ning, not surviving. 

I mean, yes, yes, he’s only mostly dead, but he’s never going to be fully alive again, so.  

24 Hour Party People

Back at the party, Jin Guangyao, deliberately, I think, goes to offer his pops a drink while his pops is still super furious and looking for someone to take it out on. The servant lady is like, better you than me, pal, and helps JGY get his drink ready. Pops, predictably, knocks the drink onto Jin Guangyao.

(more behind the cut)

Lan Xichen is standing by with a hanky and a face full of worry. Lan Xichen is so Lanny that he thinks JGY needs to go change clothes after getting clear alcohol spilled on him, rather than just letting it evaporate and smelling pleasantly of booze for the rest of the evening like a normal party guest. 

JGY launches into a criticism of Wei Wuxian, which Lan Wangji listens to very carefully, frowning. Lan Xichen, Nie Huasang and Jiang Cheng listen as well, and don’t speak up. 

A Clear Conscience

Then Lan Wangji *literally* steps out of his brother’s shadow, and speaks in defense of Wei Wuxian. This right here is Lan Wangji’s turning point, as far as I’m concerned. Xichen is gazing at JGY, totally on board with JGY’s spin of the situation, and his shadow falls away from Lan Wangji’s face as LWJ steps forward.

Lan Wangji says, isn’t what WWX said true? JGY puts on his customer service smile and says that the truth isn’t something you’re supposed to go around saying out loud. 

I’d like to say this is what’s wrong with cultivator society but this is really a universal human thing; every society has rules about upsetting the social order, and they are very frequently at odds with basic compassion and morality. 

Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng stay silent but Lan Xichen goes and throws Wei Wuxian under the bus carriage, saying his character has changed. 

Lan Wangji nods decisively at this, and bows to Lan Xichen, silently asking permission to follow Wei Wuxian. Lan Xichen grants permission, telling Lan Wangji to do his best. Lan Xichen probably thinks he and Lan Wangji are in agreement, in this moment, but that nod of Lan Wangji’s was nothing of the kind.

That nod was Lan Wangji agreeing with himself; he is going to try to bring Wei Wuxian back but he is also going to listen to him.  Meanwhile Lan Xichen is tying himself in knots to appease Jin Guangyao. The divergence between the brothers will just grow, from this point onwards.

Lan Wangji leaves to go follow his boyfriend conscience, while Jiang Cheng continues to silently listen to the commentary of others, and gets so mad he crushes a wine cup.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night.

Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian arrive at the prison camp, and the first person they encounter is Granny, with a defaced Wen Banner in her hand and Wen Yuan on her back. 

Whenever I read a meta or a fic that talks about how the juniors are so sweet partly because they are “untouched by the war” I want to point to this moment. A-Yuan endures an absolute truckload of war trauma by the time he’s four years old, and while Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji both deserve a lot of credit for saving him at great risk to themselves, Granny and Uncle Four are the first heroes of A-Yuan’s story. His kind, mellow personality has a lot in common with theirs. 

This is followed by an eternity of Wen Qing running around asking if anyone’s seen her brother. Eventually Wei Wuxian gets tired of this and gathers the guards together, threatening them with Chenqing. 

He doesn’t need to play it; just holding it up has every Jin dude instantly kneeling and scared. 

The guards send him and Wen Qing go to a giant field of corpses, where Wen Qing runs around checking to see if any of them is her brother. Wei Wuxian starts off kind of detached and angry, but eventually snaps out of it, tucks away his flute and starts helping her to search. 

Wen Qing finds Wen Ning, mostly-dead with a lure flag speared into his belly. Wei Wuxian grimly takes in the situation from across the field of corpses. 

When he arrives at Wen Qing’s side he sees this talisman in Wen Ning’s hand. 

This is the talisman that Wei Wuxian made for Wen Ning back in Gusu summer school, before the war. It’s the one that Wen Ning was wearing at his waist when they met up after the massacre of Lotus Pier. It’s supposed to literally protect Wen Ning from having his spiritual consciousness snatched, as well as being a symbol of Wei Wuxian’s sense of responsibility for, and affection for, Wen Ning. 

Wei Wuxian, understandably, loses his shit at this point. Less understandably, he is about to decide that the best way to express his sorrow and rage is to re-animate the corpse of his friend, right in front of the corpse’s sister. Like, seriously, dude. Dude. 

Ghost General

This super-questionable decision leads to one of the most badass sequences in the show, which is unfortunately chock full of lightning flashes, so not everyone can watch it. Wei Wuxian and his flute and swirls of resentful energy come marching out of the darkness of the corpse field, back to the guards. 

The guards have decided to slaughter all of the prisoners and then run away, which would be a good plan except they should really have skipped right to the running away part of things. When Wei Wuxian accuses them of killing the prisoner in the corpse field, they claim that the Wens have a habit of falling off of a hill and dying. Wei Wuxian can relate. 

At this point Wei Wuxian summons up Wen Ning 2.0, ultra badass edition, who comes flying through the air with his odd, straight-armed fighting stance and cool solid-black eyes and rock-and-roll hair. 

Soundtrack: *Four Sticks*

Wen Ning proceeds to whale on the guards and scare the shit out of his relatives.

Then Wen Qing shows up and begs Wei Wuxian to stop. She explains that Wen Ning is only mostly dead. Like, if he was fully dead would she be okay with this? 

Wei Wuxian tries to reel Wen Ning in and realizes that he is not actually in control of Wen Ning. Ok, see, right from the first day of Wen Ning 2.0, WWX is aware that his control is iffy. Why does he think he’s going to be able to control him later? 

Anyway, this is where we learn Wen Ning’s grown-up name is Wen Qionglin. Wei Wuxian yells this name, and Wen Ning looks up like a cat hearing the “food noise,” and then proceeds to get control of himself. 

This is such a nice symbolic moment, that will be replayed later in the temple, when Wen Ning saves Jin Ling from Baxia. 

Wen Ning has a remote-code-execution OS vulnerability throughout the story; his soul is at risk of being stolen, and he is magically controlled by Wei Wuxian, Xue Yang, Su She, and Baxia.  Meanwhile Wen Qing, Wei Wuxian, and random kids on the street mostly treat him as a child, despite his clear adult capabilities. Wen Ning’s journey in The Untamed is at least partly about asserting his full adulthood, and his ability to overcome magical control is directly connected to that journey.  

After getting Wen Ning to chill, Wei Wuxian calls the floating resentful energy back into his own body, which looks about as comfortable as swallowing a burp. 

On the plus side, apparently resentful energy keeps your hair dry even when it’s raining.

Wei Wuxian should take a page from the guards’ book and slaughter all the Jin witnesses to this situation, but he decides to be the better person and let them live. They go running off down the road, where they encounter Lan Wangji and give him the 411, saying that Wei Wuxian resurrected dead people.

Meanwhile Wei Wuxian collects Wen Qing--half-fainted, again, in an echo of the start of their journey--and collects the Dafan Mountain Wen group, who are hiding, wisely. When they see Wen Ning, Uncle Four and some others start to freak out, but Wei Wuxian tells them that fierce corpses are cool, and they all grab horses and mount up.

Where Are You Going?

Lan Wangji is waiting for them, nonconfrontationally indulging in some visual poetry while he waits. 

In a show where every prop is exquisitely, carefully designed to enhance our understanding character, his Gusu-toned umbrella reveals surprising red and yellow threads woven in, right above his eye line as he looks at Wei Wuxian. 

Wei Wuxian speaks first, saying “you came to stop me?” Lan Wangji doesn’t answer, but asks him where he’s going. Then Lan Wangji warns him that he’s about to abandon orthodoxy forever, if he follows through. 

Wei Wuxian challenges this idea of orthodoxy, asking if Lan Wangji remembers the promise they made together, back in Gusu. It’s worth noting that they both appear to think of it as a co-promise, even though Lan Wangji didn’t speak aloud at the time. 

The conversation will continue in the next episode, because what’s better than a rainy romantic cliffhanger?

Soundtrack: Four Sticks by Led Zeppelin

#the untamed #the untamed gifs #wangxian #wen ning #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #my gifs #episode 26

[harrylee94]

The Tournament - Chapter 1

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: "This kingdom was a large one, ruled by whom many would call a fair and just ruler; the Witch King. This title was passed down from generation to generation, as was the way of monarchies, but upon them was also bestowed a second. Over the years there had been many Mand’alors -- Mand’alor the Ultimate, Mand’alor the Blessed, Mand’alor the Vindicated -- but this one was Mand’alor the Beloved. They were also Din’s buir.

And they were dying."

It is known that when a new Witch King comes to the throne they are in need of a Protector, and in order to find this Protector there must be a tournament.

Notes: I blame the TIOOIW DinCobb Discord for this. It's all you fault. You know who you are! *squints eyes at you*

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

"Thus ends the reign of Mand’alor the Beloved" - Din

The day was cold and damp, the sky grey and threatening rain, though the ground was still slick from the downpour the night before, and the well walked paths that were unfortunate enough not to be paved with wood or stone were doing their best to imitate a bog. Din held back a shiver as he looked over the parapet, watching men carry great logs in through the gatehouse. There were a great number of them, mostly beech and pine, but he knew they had to be ready, even if he was not.

This kingdom was a large one, ruled by whom many would call a fair and just ruler; the Witch King. This title was passed down from generation to generation, as was the way of monarchies, but upon them was also bestowed a second. Over the years there had been many Mand’alors -- Mand’alor the Ultimate, Mand’alor the Blessed, Mand’alor the Vindicated -- but this one was Mand’alor the Beloved. They were also Din’s buir.

And they were dying.

He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, the clouds dark and the wind tugging at his cloak. His buir had well earned their title, using her status and resources to help rebuild the kingdom after the war her predecessor, Mand’alor the Insatiable, had pulled them into. She had spoken to the people, learned their stories, and she acted on them. There were more schools, more medical facilities, a patrol of guards in every town, and a system of communication even to the smallest hamlet.

There had been difficulties, of course. Some of the Lords and Clan Chiefs had not liked how their smallfolk were being given greater attention than they, nor how they were having to adjust to this new way of thinking, and unfortunately a number of them hadn’t, but Mand’alor the Beloved had believed in her cause, and Din had too.

He looked down to the stables, the structure built into the walls of the castle, and smiled his first smile for some days. He could just see a flash of the silver hair of the stable hand working in the stalls as he cared for the creatures. Din had little chance to speak to those outside of his immediate circle at court these days, but once upon a time he would take the chance to talk to everyone, from his tailors to the girl who stoked the fire in the mornings. Cobb Vanth was one of the few whom he had truly enjoyed the company of, short though it had always been, and the memory of those times gave him some light to cling onto in this dark time.

His smile had always been earnest and true, and Din had spent so long surrounded by the pageantry of court that he felt he could be himself around the stable hand.

But now those days were gone, and the inevitable had arrived.

The Witch King was dying, and while the weather itself knew it, few others did. There was speculation of course, Din had heard the whispers of servants and courtiers, but nothing to confirm their suspicions. He, however, did not have the luxury of doubt in this matter.

The title of Witch King, while intimidating, was not merely for show; there was a magic in the line of Mand’alors, one passed from buir to ad, through blood or by ritual, and it tingled under Din’s skin. His own magic had always been small, a weakness for the Lords and Chiefs to exploit and look down upon, even though they had no true magic of their own. His buir had never lost faith in him though, and so, while the occasional taunt stung, he never forgot who he was.

In this moment, however, he wished he could, his skin prickling like the oncoming storm was already here as the magic inside him swelled in anticipation. He’d been in a constant state of hypertension for day. His body ached and his eyes stung from the lack of sleep, but preparations had to be made. He sighed in relief when the last of the timbers were set in the hall, and he nodded to each of the woodsmen as they passed back through the gatehouse, each clutching a bag of coin from their payment and smiles on their faces.

Din looked to the stables again, unable to keep his eyes away, and froze as his gaze caught on that of a silver haired man’s.

Cobb Vanth looked up at him like he knew him, like he knew every deep dark secret that there had ever been orevery would be, and still there was a softness and a sympathy to that gaze, something warm and comforting, without judgement or scorn. There were no smiles today, only a solemn press of his lips, but somehow it was what he needed. Cobb nodded at him -- in a deferential manner of course, but also in acknowledgement and support -- and Din returned it before forcing himself to turn away. He couldn’t allow himself to get lost in a fantasy today.

Taking a deep breath, Din walked the stretch of walkway to the stairs, heading down into the main ward. Mud splashed on his boots as he walked towards the smithy, hoping to check on the progress of the nails, but the quick patter of footsteps pulled him up short.

"My prince!"

A servant was rushing towards him, his balance in the mud tenuous at best, and Din reached out to stabilise him as he gasped.

"My prince," the servant said again, and Din recognised him as a new kitchen hand, though he'd not yet had the chance to learn his name. "Your… The Mand'alor… She requests your presence in the war room."

Din could see sorrow in the lad's eyes, and he swallowed thickly. "Thank you," he said around the lump in his throat. "I'll be there immediately."

The servant nodded again and stepped away. He could feel eyes on him, people watching, the whispers already beginning to circulate, but he ignored them as he tried to ignore his grief, and he made his way into the castle.

The corridors, strewn with reed mats and tapestries depicting the history of his line, had always held a warmth for him in his youth. Even up to the week before it had been a comfort, and the physical warmth the fabric gave from protecting the air against the cold of the stone walls was equally precious. Now the eyes of past Witch Kings looked down on him in judgement, and he shuffled past them as quickly as he dared, eyes forward and steps clipped. The servants he passed bowed or curtseyed as he pressed, but he hadn't the time to return it. The magic in his bones was throbbing to the beat of his heart, urging him, tugging him onwards, and he couldn't risk missing…

The doors to the war room were small, much as all but the main doors were in the castle, but they were carved with the skull of the great mythosaur. It was an intimidating sight, but Din knocked the wood, forcing himself not to fidget as he stood in place.

"Enter."

The hinges were well kept, but there was enough age to them that they creeked a warning whenever someone opened the door, and it made Din wince as he stepped through, closing the door securely behind him.

The war room was not an overly large room, and the windows were small and high in the walls. Very little natural light ever entered the enclosed space, and the lack of tapestries made it especially cold. That wasn't to say that the walls were bare; there were shelves of books, scrolls and maps across two of the walls, drawers below filled with carved pieces for the war games and strategies that had been frequently plotted at the table that sat in the centre of the room. The banner of the Witch King and the banner of the current Mand'alor hung from hooks against the far wall, beneath which was displayed a small collection of ancient weapons, each one well taken care of and just as lethal as the day they'd been forged. Oil lamps and sconces, all lit and flickering their warm light, were spaced carefully in buckets of sand around the room, a precaution to protect the precious paper and parchment.

Din had been in this room many times; his lessons had spanned a great many things, but it was his buir who taught him the art of war, and it was here that she shared her wisdom. Never had he seen a chair here before though, especially not the large seat on which his buir sat, encased in her ceremonial armour and finest clothes. At her left shoulder stood her Protector, hand curled about the sword at her hip as she watched Din approach. Their helms sat on the unusually clear table, but their faces were almost as unreadable as they would have been with them on.

Kovra, Mand’alor the Beloved, had deep shadows under her eyes, her skin was wan, paler than Din had seen it before the Sickness had taken her, but there was not a hair out of place, and she looked as immovable as a statue. There was a brief flicker of warmth in her gaze when she looked at him, but then it was gone and only the Witch King remained.

The air around them sang, the magic of their line swirling about them like a wind that only touched the two of them, and Din followed its eager nudges to kneel before his King.

“Din Djarin,” the Witch King said, her voice strong and full of power, “Prince of Mandalore, child of my heart, you come before me now to take up the mantle which I have carried these many years. Are you prepared?”

Din took a shuddering breath as the magic around them swelled. “I am prepared.”

The Witch King nodded and turned to her Protector. “Saruk Kerta, Protector of the Witch King, Knight and Verd of the Kingdom of Mandalore, you are here to bear witness. Are you prepared?”

Saruk bowed deeply. “I am prepared, Mand’alor.”

The Witch King nodded again and turned back to Din, holding her arm out to him. He took it, grasping it in a warrior’s greeting, and he blinked back tears from the knowledge that the warmth he could feel would cool.

“Din Djarin,” the Witch King continued, her fingers curling into his elbow, “Are you prepared to govern and protect the people of Mandalore, be they from low or high birth, whatever their creed?”

“I am prepared,” Din said, ignoring the tear that had slipped from his eye.

“Will you ensure that the laws of this land are followed by all, that you yourself will maintain and execute them should the need arise, and that your justice and mercy will abide by these laws?”

“I shall ensure this.”

“And will you, as the new Witch King of Mandalore, respect the magic of our line, use it sparingly, in the protection of others, and only in dire need, and respect its needs?”

“I will respect the magic of our line.”

These were the vows he would have to repeat before hundreds of witnesses in a few days time, but here and now they were the most potent. Here they meant more than just a promise of words, it was an oath made with magic as his witness. If he broke it, the magic would abandon him, as it had Mand’alor the Lesser when he’d attempted to use it for his own gains.

The Witch King nodded again as the magic around them rang in acceptance of his vows, and turned to her Protector.

“Saruk Kerta, do you accept the responsibility of Protector for Din Djarin until the search for his own Protector has been completed?”

“I do accept this responsibility,” Saruk replied.

There was a pause, the hairs on the back of Din’s neck rising as the swirling magic froze with them, the moment spreading out into eternity. He dared not even breathe lest the sound break the spell. It was as though the entire world was holding its breath with him, waiting for the verdict.

The Witch King smiled, and Kovra, buir to Din Djarin, leaned forwards to press a kiss to his brow.

“Thus ends the reign of Mand’alor the Beloved,” she whispered, the Sickness thick in her voice once more. “Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, ner ad. Ni kelir ration kuyir ti gar.”

With her next exhale her body went taught, her fingers digging deep into Din’s arm, hard enough to bruise. He almost cried out in fear for her, but his voice was caught in his throat as an intense power rushed into him through her grip. It was as though he was being warmed by a fire after spending a day in the cold, like the Battle Fever was on him, and like he was stood in the midst of a storm on the tallest peak with his full suit of armour on, all at once. It throbbed through him, his own small well of magic deepening from a quiet vibration into a deep hum. It settled deep into him, into his bones, until it felt as much a part of him as his own thoughts.

And then his buir went limp, her weight falling against him as her last breath left her. Curling his arms around her, feeling for any sign of life and finding none, Din sobbed at the loss of his mother.

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

Mando'a Translations:

biur - parent Verd - soldier/warrior Ni kar’tayl gar darasuum, ner ad. Ni kelir ration kuyir ti gar. - I love you, my child. I will always be with you.

Link to Chapter 2

#writing #fic #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #cobb vanth #dincobb #sort of #medieval au

[holy-kingdom-of-faerghus]

Ingrid’s Second Chance

Prompt: Ingrid betrays her country and her friends. She falls in love and dies for it. She fought for the better of Fodlan so why did she feel so much regret? 

The Black Eagle Strike Force marched ahead merrily, Byleth and Edelgard in the lead as they prepared for the incoming battle with Faerghus and the Church of Seiros. Victory from their last few battles filled them all with confidence, the end of the war on the tips of their tongues. 

Ingrid schooled her expression as the royal blue of Faerghus’s banners became visible in the distance. She knew who waited on the other side of the enemy lines, her close friends now enemies; Dimitri, Sylvain, Mercedes, Dedue. All of them had shared food and spent days laughing alongside each other. But not today she supposed as she clutched Luin in her hand. 

A sleek gray ribbon was wrapped around the lance’s shaft-- Felix’s hair tie. It had been she who slew her friend in Arianrhod, His harsh words echoing in her mind, he had called her a traitor, turning her back on her people, her friends, her word, and most of all Glenn. He couldn’t understand that she was doing what she thought was right. She was sure that Glenn would see from her perspective had he been alive. But then again she supposed that even if he had agreed with her views he would never help her-- help Edelgard. 

Her gloved fingers reached up to rub the ribbon gently, it reminded her of her past. Of days in the training yard in Fraldarius, Glenn helping her tie her blonde tresses back before they began yet another grueling training session. Tears pricked at her eyes as more memories flooded her head. 

She was in Galatea now, sitting on her comfortable bed, a letter from Felix in hand. He had written her promising that he wouldn’t be a knight. Telling her that all they were good for was dying for the sake of something so silly as chivalry. She remembers the white hot anger coursing through her veins as she read. 

Suddenly Edelgard’s demanding tone filled the air distracting her from her thoughts. 

“Right, there’s no time to be sentimental now Ingrid. You’re on a battle field.” 

Edelgard was warning her army that the battle would begin as soon as they neared the first squadron of Kingdom soldiers. This gave Ingrid enough time to clip any stray strands out of her face, steel her nerves, and reassure her steed. 

“Glenn would’ve loved you.” She thought solemnly as she patted the snow white pegasus below her. “Damn it.” She cursed, once again ridding her head of her somber thoughts. “Get your head in the game Galatea.” Her heart stopped as the name slipped off her tongue, her mind imagining the hungry yet hopeful people of her fathers territory. The smiles on their faces when she told them that one day she would bring them enough food for a feast. She remembered tussling in the dry dirt of her farmlands, easy laughter escaping her lips. 

“Ingrid.” The pained expressions her servants wore when they watched her eat her filling dinner. 

“Ingrid.” The neighing of the knights pegasi as they traversed the Galatean skies.

“Damn it Ingrid snap out of it!” A hand was waving in front of her face, bringing her back to reality. Caspar’s wyvern was hovering beside her, its rider leaning over so that he was very close to her. “There we go! Finally back with us yeah?” He smiled his ever present cheery grin. “We’ll be heading in a few minutes, make sure you’re here with us by then okay?” He then waved at her before soaring over to Byleth’s side, yelling some sort of joke as he went. The blonde sighed before gently nudging her steed forward, easily falling into formation. 

“Ingrid, you’re with me.” Byleth commanded from the ground, his voice clear and to the point, though there was a tinge of concern mixed in. He pulled something from his pocket and held it up to her. 

“Right, oh what’s this professor?” She lowered to the ground and reached over to take the item in his hand. “A-A ring?” It was a light silver band, it had many ruins engraved into it, but they were too small to decipher. A flush coated her cheeks, not believing it to be real. 

“It’s an evasion ring, I know how hard this battle will be for you so I’m hoping this will help you evade anything that comes your way.” Though his tone remained neutral, the look in his eyes was something akin to sincerity... or was that something else? “I’ll do my best to keep you safe but even I can’t promise that I can do the same for your heart.” She smiled at his well meaning words and allowed him to slip the ring over her leather clad finger. 

“Thank you professor, in turn I will watch your back. Please don’t worry about me, I knew what taking this route would entail.” Byleth gave her a look that said he didn’t believe her but refused to push. Edelgard’s war cry was then heard and they ran into battle.

Her armor was tattered, cuts marring her pale skin, rain drops sliding off her face and lips, the stench of blood and metal in the air. Despite the discomfort she felt, she charged onwards, never yielding. Not even when she pierced through soldiers that she trained with as a child, not when she tore her javelin from Mercedes’s sopping corpse. However the loud voice that called her name caused her hands to become clammy. She halted for a moment, paying no mind to Byleth’s worried glances. Her forest green orbs searched the bloody terrain until her gaze fell on the one who yelled her name with so much heartache.

It was Sylvain, riding into battle a top his beloved steed Berg (short for Bergamot, but he refused to let anyone besides his close friends know its full name). His wild red hair was matted to the sides of his face, rain drops cascading down his armor. His honey like eyes were filled with betrayal as he neared her. Gautier’s Lance of Ruin in his hand, glowing eerily in the cold light.

“Stand down Ingrid, I know you don’t want to die here.” He pleaded with her, his eyes swirling with desperation, heart ache, and love. The look had her grip on Luin loosening, though she clenched her hands, reminded herself that every action had consequences and that this was one of hers. Her own heart breaking within her chest she forced a hateful glare on her face and said the very words that caused Sylvain’s mask to crumble.

“I will not. I will never ally myself with the likes of you.”

His upper lip curled up in disgust (for a second she swore she saw Felix’s face instead) as he looked at her for the first time and truly saw her for the person she had become. A bitter smile formed as he raised his lance and prepared to strike. 

“Stubborn as always. I always did like that about you.” He lunged forwards, relic extending to pierce through her. But she was too quick for him and forced her pegasus to barrel roll out of the way. Breathlessly she huffed out her last words to him before utilizing her own relics full power. 

“And you never cease to amaze me with your false flattery. Don’t waste your breath.” Pushing as much of her spirit and strength into her strike as she could she then zoomed forward and pierced her friends heart in one fell swoop; her crest fading away as she realized what she had just done. “Oh Sylvain... it shouldn’t have come to this.” 

Sylvain fell from his steed, crumpling to the grassy field beneath him. Blood leaked from his fatal wound, a sharp cry escaping bloodied lips. His eyes were glazed as he glanced up at the sky above, his mouth muttering soundless words. Ingrid felt tears well up in her eyes at the sight, silently streaming down her face. As he exhaled his last breath she made out a few of his words. 

Felix, a promise, His Majesty, an apology, then nothing.

She hopped off her pegasus and knelt beside his corpse, gently shutting his glazed over eyes with two fingers. Not for the first time since she chose this path she felt her heart twinge with regret and she wondered again if she had chosen right.

“Ingrid are you all right?” 

Byleth slid to a stop beside her, the Sword of the Creator in hand. One glance at Sylvain’s body and he immediately knew. He moved to obscure her view of the corpse and placed his glowing palms on both sides of her face.

“Stay still and I’ll heal you.” A few seconds later the pain across her body dulled immensely. “Do you think you’re still in fighting condition? You may retreat if not.” She blinked at his words, letting out a shaky sigh before flashing him a determined look. 

“I can still fight... I just needed a moment to collect myself.” She promised, turning her head away from her teacher. “I-I came this far already. I need to see this battle through.” A sympathetic look flashed in the mans eyes before he nodded.

“Well then, come with me and we’ll finish this war with Faerghus. King Dimitri and the royal guard are the last obstacle before Rhea.” Ingrid nodded stoically, shaking the blood off her weapon and mounted her pegasus, following Byleth as she always had. For a split second she wondered where she would have been now if she hadn’t followed him into the Black Eagle house. Alas, she thought, it was too late for such thoughts, too much Faerghusi blood soaked her hands. 

She ushered her mount forward, adrenaline rushing through her veins. The man she had sworn to serve was just a little ways away from her, screaming at a newly killed Dedue as he collapsed to his knees, Dorothea’s Levin sword protruding from his chest. She couldn’t tell from this distance but she was sure that it was not just rain that soaked his face. 

How cruel, she thought, knowing all your friends died to protect you at the hand of a traitor. Her gut wrenched in horror as she realized how numerous her crimes were. 

Byleth was already forging ahead, swinging his whip like sword at the King. Dimitri dodged most of his slashes, but ended up getting a large slice in his cape. 

He twirled Areadbhar in his hands and expertly lunged at Byleth, his crest flaring up brightly behind him. Luckily, the professor saw it coming and rolled aside, the lance barely missing him. Their duel continued on for what seemed like forever (Ingrid was busy dealing with the royal guard so she wasn’t fighting against him yet), however, this also meant that fatigue was kicking in. For the first time during their duel (that she knew of) Byleth miscalculated his foes next attack and was about to be pierced by the legendary lance. Fearing that the strike would connect, Ingrid literally leapt from her pegasus, deftly threw Luin, then tackled Byleth to the side (knocking him unconscious along the way). Dimitri turned just enough that Luin only punctured his thigh, causing a guttural growl to escape him. This caused her to curl up and roll so that she could avoid further injuries. His gaze turned from Byleth to her, his sea blue eyes widening before narrowing again.

“Not only have you become the emperor's lap dog, but you have turned against your own people. How could you Ingrid, I thought you wished to be a knight? What would Glenn have said?” He heaved, yanking Luin from his thigh as if it were a tiny needle. It clattered to the ground beside him, it’s otherworldly glow slowly fading away. 

She gulped, picking herself up from the ground. The only other weapon she had was her javelin and a silver lance, her chances of beating him were next to none. Recklessly, she decided that she had to have faith in her allies and stall until they arrived to assist her. 

“Your ma-- no Dimitri.” She said thickly, sweat beading down her neck. “Edelgard has a reason for all of this, her war is to rid of the secret evil of Fodlan. G-Glenn would have understood why I did it. I know he would.” 

“So I see, you’ve become so desperate to believe you are seeing justice through that you’ve begun lying to yourself. Perhaps you and I are not so different my old friend.” He murmured lowly, an odd look in his wise eyes. Areadbhar’s crest stone gleamed evilly at his words. “Alas, no amount of lies can save you from the truth. You, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, are a traitor to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. As your king... it is my duty to execute you for high treason.” 

The two battled each other for a long while, long enough that Ingrid soon began to lose hope about reinforcements. She was not suited for fighting on foot, both she and her opponent knew this, so fatigue soon found her. Suddenly a harsh blow from Dimitri’s lance split her own silver one in two. Obscenities escaped her lips as she struggled to avoid his onslaught. However, the wet concrete beneath her caused her to stumble, which led her to slide... straight into Dimitri’s next attack. 

Burning hot pain flooded her entire nervous system as Areadbhar was shoved into her heart. Her gaze began to waver and soon she fell to the ground, her king standing over her. A small, breathless, laugh escaped her lips as memories flooded her mind. 

Snow days in Fraldarius with Felix and Glenn, sparring in Fhirdiad Castle with Dimitri and the Kingdom knights, late night talks with a younger Sylvain, hidden smiles from her father, Glenn’s lessons, shared laughs with the Blue Lions, warm tea with Byleth, oaths sworn to her new Adrestian comrades, Edelgard’s private advice before a hard battle. 

All these things filled her mind as she laid on the hard tile. She briefly wondered if this is what Ashe, Felix, Mercedes, Sylvain, and Dedue had felt like when they died. Did it hurt just as much for them? What did they see before they breathed their last? She supposed that she would never know. Or maybe she would see them again. Wherever it was people went after death. Was there an afterlife that Sothis reigned over? Ingrid wondered if the goddess would accept her soul there. Perhaps not, she thought, for she had joined the side that wished to kill her children after all. 

Her minds eye had never been clearer, she mused, a new thought surfacing. Perhaps all this heartache and suffering she had experienced and caused could have been avoided if she had chosen the Kingdom. Damn her naive teenage heart; Byleth was a wonderful man, one she had been so set on following to the ends of the earth, but not even he was worth all of this. So that being said...

“Y-you always b-beat me in t-training...If only... I stayed...” Ingrid confessed as the life left her, words only heard over the sounds of battle by a few others. Dimitri met her eyes and smiled sadly, a soft good bye leaving his lips. Byleth blinked groggily from his place on the side lines, noiseless tears escaping as he watched the one he so loved perish before him. 

Her words didn’t fall upon deaf ears however, Sothis’s power humming beneath his skin. He had used all of his divine pulses but he would give all his remaining energy if it meant he could grant her wish. 

Dimitri saw his movement from the corner of his eye, Byleth dropping his sword in surrender. With a tired sigh, he nodded towards the blonde’s body, one last mercy before he killed his professor. 

“Thank you.” Byleth hummed softly, sitting beside Ingrid’s corpse and pulling it onto his lap. He pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his mothers ring. He slid it onto her finger and rocked her close, apologies escaping him as he channeled all his remaining power into a final divine pulse. Behind him Dimitri poised his relic and prepared to strike. 

“I love you Ingrid. Sothis please grant our dying wishes, let her go back and have another chance.” 

A sharp movement, a lance through the heart, a splatter of blood, Edelgard’s heartbroken screams in the distance, Dimitri’s soft cries, a mournful lovers dying plead to the Gods, thuds of falling bodies, a clatter of a lance, and a flash of green light. 

Ingrid opened her eyes, a slight pain in her gut and a relieved feeling in her heart. Today was the day that the Blue Lions would be assigned their new professor! She sighed happily, the feeling of life flowing through her veins more welcome than before. She had a good dream but couldn’t remember what it was. The only thing she remembered hearing was “stay and second chance.” But it was probably nothing important... What was important was today’s breakfast! Stomach rumbling with hunger, she left her room to join her new house mates for breakfast. 

#fire emblem ingrid #fire emblem byleth #fire emblem reincarnation #ingrid brandl galatea #fire emblem three houses ingrid #ingrid/byleth #ingrid x byleth #Blue Lions #blue lion house #blue lion writing #blue lion angst

[of-the-silver-lining]

Prompt #5: Matter of Fact

(This is something of a follow-up to last year’s Scour)

(Content warnings: Character deaths, death in general, corpses)

A haze hung over the desert as the five of them, dressed in their full-body protective gear, opened the hatch of the tank cruiser and stepped out onto the undisturbed dust. No breeze blew, and their footsteps, their breathing through the tubes, and the hum of the aetherial barrier within their suits were the only sound to reach their ears. 

The sun burned as an orange disc above them in the perfectly still and silent air, and they started forth without saying a word. Rocks and the distant Gyr Abanian mountains loomed above them in the haze like silent, floating ghosts. Withered shrubs still dotted the landscape, as still as if they were frozen in time.

Before them through the haze, the silhouettes of tents and motionless flags grew visible, and soon, countless shapes that dotted the ground, little dark mounds.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” Annelise said. Her voice was muffled through her breathing apparatus and the mask of her suit, and small in the deafening silence. She paused, and the others turned back to her.

Lilimo sighed audibly in her tiny suit. “I’m afraid the time for raising doubts is over. We’ve come all this way because we need those samples.”

Biggs III’s enormous suit towered over her. “If you don’t want to come, you can wait with the tank cruiser,” he said gently.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just...” Her eyes under her dark bangs darted from the mounds on the horizon to G’raha Tia and back. She probably hoped he didn’t see through the glass square on her headgear, but he did.

“This place is a grave,” said Arvin, a sad look in his dark eyes behind the glass. “This is where it happened, it should be as sacred as anything in this world could be. I feel in my bones we should not be here. All we can do is be respectful.”

“They would want us to continue our work if it means we can someday heal the planet,” said Biggs.

“Come now,” G’raha Tia said, fearing Annelise would push the matter, “Our time is limited. We cannot waste our air supply.”

With that, he headed onward and the others followed. The tents and lean-tos of the old military camp came more into view, the cloth of some of the tents still a brilliant Ala Mhigan purple and silver. Banners of the Alliance hung limply over some of the tents; from here, besides Ala Mhigan purple, he could see the blue of Ishgard and the yellow of Gridania.

And then, there were the bodies. They appeared as vague shapes littering the ground, until the group drew closer, and G’raha could make out the beaked griffin uniforms of Ala Mhigan Resistance members. When they reached the edge, they stopped, wordless, looking out over the corpse-ridden camp.

They were not dust and bones beneath faded cloth. Their skin had not rotted away or been dried out by the natural processes of the desert sun. They were perfectly preserved, as if time had stopped the moment they died, freezing the entire scene like a macabre painting. They looked almost unreal, like wax sculptures. Fingers were clawing at the dirt, hands were reaching for the sky. Some were clutching each other, some were curled up as if in the womb, and some held their heads in their arms or covered their noses and mouths with their hands or clothing. Their faces were frozen in agonized screams, contorted in pain, or, perhaps worst of all, wide-eyed in shock.

The five companions stood silently for a moment, taking in the utter horror of the scene. Annelise raised her hands and muttered words of prayer under her breath, and after a moment Arvin did the same. Lilimo put a hand to her chest and said, “To all those who rest here, please forgive us our disturbance.”

Biggs stepped forward and knelt by one of the soldiers, a wide-eyed young Hyuran man who lay on his stomach, head turned, mouth open, and teeth biting into the dirt. “It seems the theories were correct,” he said gravely.

Lilimo nodded and knelt next to him. “In this concentration, Black Rose has frozen all natural processes, even after all this time. All forms of aetherial flow are still utterly halted here. They do not decay, because no process that could decay them can continue. All micro-organisms are also dead, the sun does not dry, the rain does not fall, the wind does not weather. The toxin lingers in the air and the soil to keep it that way. I wonder if this land could ever recover.”

“Gods...” Arvin murmured. “One struggles to believe they are two hundred years old.” Through his headgear, his usually tan face looked a sickly shade of gray.

They continued on their way through the camp. Arvin, despite the irrepressible horror on his face, was a historian to the end and diligently removed a notepad from his pack of supplies and began scribbling notes. “These tents must have been where the Ala Mhigan soldiers slept,” he said aloud, as if trying to break the tension of their silence, “It looks like they came running out and... And, over there, I think I see all the banners in a row, that must have been where the Alliance leaders met. I wonder if... if we have time to see the tent where they met with Emperor Varis zos Galvus. I suppose it should be on the other side of... of... the hill.”

G’raha Tia was a historian as well, and distantly, he could understand the young Hyuran man’s fascination with a perfectly preserved scene from two hundred years ago. This, however, was not history to him. These were the nations of Eorzea as he had known them. It was nothing like history. As if the world had not become surreal enough, it was like stepping back into his original time, his all-too-recent other life.

Soon the five of them split up. Lilimo and Biggs went to gather samples of the cannisters used to deploy Black Rose as well as the air, soil, and other materials, and Arvin went to survey the camp and flesh out his drawings and notes. 

G’raha Tia was about to start off alone toward the middle of the camp when Annelise caught his shoulder with her gloved hand, and he turned back to her. “Wait,” she said. “You don’t need to do this. You can go back and wait for us.” Through the glass, most of her face was hidden beneath her breathing apparatus, but he could see the worry for him in her dark eyes.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said flatly, “But as I’ve said before, I do need to do this.”

“You must have seen enough,” she urged. “I promise, we’ll tell you if we... if we find anything.”

How could she understand? From the moment he awoke, everyone he met had been telling him things. He heard the end of stories he had lived in, and two hundred years worth of the future’s history--of Iris’s deeds of heroism, and of Cid’s life’s work left behind and the memories and legacies of the Ironworks. He explored the lifeless wastelands that remained of places he once knew, and it still failed to impress upon him that the world he knew was truly gone.

The decision he had made when he closed the doors of the Crystal Tower could not exactly be called spur-of-the-moment, but it was closer to that than to a long-prepared plan. He had closed the door filled with excitement to see the possibilities of the future, but with little thought to his own preparation for the permanence of what he was about to do. 

He never imagined anything like this. Every day he labored to accept the enormity of it. He knew it in his mind, but his heart held out some strange hope. Somehow, he still wondered if he would wake up at Saint Coinach’s Find in his tent and it would all have been a dream, or Cid and Biggs I and Wedge and Iris would appear and lower the curtain on some charade: “Wasn’t that a show! You’d better not be thinking of leaving us, G’raha Tia--look what might become of you!”

He didn’t have time to explain.

“If she’s here,” he said. “I need to see it for myself.” 

Thankfully Annelise did not follow him. In the middle of the camp, a large tent stood, striped in the colors of Ul’dah and Ala Mhigo, and some ways before it lay a cluster of bodies. These were all dressed differently, not in uniforms of any kind. A large man missing one arm seemed to be the only one among them dressed militarily, though from his elaborate armor he must have ranked highly. As he noticed the bull on his pauldron, he realized he must be looking at Raubahn Aldynn, the Bull of Ala Mhigo.

He continued on to the others, where a blonde-haired Hyuran woman all dressed in red lay staring at the sky. Some paces away he found a heart-rending sight; a Miqo’te woman was slumped over a white-haired Elezen girl, a staff still clutched in her hand, as if she had been trying to heal her. He bent down beside them. The healer’s glassy eyes were staring in shock and horror, but the Elezen girl’s were closed as if in peaceful sleep, the first serene face he had seen. Perhaps the healer had managed to give her some comfort in her last moments. 

Then, he noticed the tattoos on the Miqo’te woman’s neck--tattoos just like his. She was from Sharlayan, and an Archon. So the Scions were indeed here, as history had recorded. His heart sank with dread. She must be Y’shtola Rhul, Master Matoya’s pupil. Which would make the younger woman possibly one of Master Louisoix’s grandchildren, and the woman in red Lyse Hext, the Scion who had returned to fight for Ala Mhigo.

He rose to his feet, beginning to feel dizzy and ill. On the dusty, sandy ground, he spotted a peculiar trail: footprints. They led away from the bodies toward the southeast, and they were spaced far apart, as if the person was running. Likely they were there before the massacre, he thought at first, but he examined the ground beside the bodies, where it appeared they originated, as if someone had knelt or sat there, and then scrambled up to take off running.

Treading beside them so as not to disturb them, he followed the footprints as they led through the camp past more corpses. He saw many mail-clad bodies of Ishgardian knights, lying on the ground and up on top of the rocky outcroppings, where they must have been standing watch. At the edge of the camp, the footprints went on into the desert, and the runner’s pace showed no sign of slowing.

They must have been left there shortly before the gas had been deployed, G’raha told himself. Or they were left by someone else who had returned to the scene; perhaps other groups had developed the means to survive out here. After all, how could anyone have survived Black Rose long enough to run so far? Unless...

He pushed any speculation from his mind, focusing on the sound of his even breaths as he pressed on, loud inside his suit in the silence. He was compelled to see what was at the end, if he could reach it before his air ran low and he had to turn back.

Past the rocks, G’raha Tia squinted over the wide, flat plain, and distantly to the east, he could see the walls and towers of a city--the ruins of Ala Mhigo. Presently, he caught sight of a glint in the dead orange light. Glare on his mask, he thought at first, but as he pressed on, a shape came into view among the sparse, scrubby desert plants that were still rooted in the ground, a dark form lying in the dust.

The breathing that reached his ears turned shaky. He crept closer and saw the glint of metal--a clasp on a leather bag that lay on the ground. He could see leather boots, travelers’ clothes of green and white, and... an enormous bow and quiver on the corpse’s back, and the shine of golden hair. The footprints ended.

He ran to the fallen figure. All he could hear was his breathing quickening into frantic gasps. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to the side. He did not recognize her clothing or her bow, but beside her lay her small harp, the same harp he had heard her playing and singing to in Mor Dhona’s forest of crystals, the same harp he’d asked her to borrow to awkwardly pluck out an ancient song, and coaxed her to play along with him at the campfire late one night. Her fingers were curled and clawing into the dust, where they had left deep scratches.

Her hair was longer than it was when they had explored the Crystal Tower together, and it lay obscuring her face. It was undoubtedly her, undoubtedly... but he had to be sure. 

He knelt beside her, and with shaking hands, he touched the corpse’s hair, and slowly brushed it away from her face. He found himself looking into the familiar face of the Warrior of Light, the face he had seen many times in the Crystal Tower. It was no surprise, but that didn’t lessen the horror. His friend’s eyes were squeezed shut, her brows furrowed in sorrow, as if she had been crying.

A cry tore from his own throat and he stumbled back. He fell to his hands and knees, fighting back the urge to retch and the urge to tear off his suit’s headpiece and breathing apparatus. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he gasped desperately into the mask.

He had finally found her, and the truth had found him. The revolting, undeniable, inescapable truth. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, the Eighth Umbral Calamity had ended the Warrior of Light, and all the hope she had brought to the world, along with almost everyone he had ever known. It made no difference what vain hope he held on to. Whether or not his heart had refused to face the truth. It was not a matter of belief. It was a matter of fact.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, sitting beside her body with his head bowed. Eventually, the others found him. They must have guessed what he had found, because they didn’t call out to him, but walked up quietly beside him.

“Is it really her?” Lilimo finally asked and G’raha nodded. “She looks so...” she began, but Arvin nudged her with his knee and she fell silent.

Biggs knelt down beside G’raha and rested his large hand on G’raha’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“This is all wrong,” he choked. “All of this... is a mistake. As you said, I should not have come here.” Hot tears streamed down his face. He knew he was making no sense, but he didn’t care what they thought of him. “I told her that history would remember her... but not... this is not.... This was never supposed to happen. How could this be the fate of the world?”

“It’s not,” Biggs said, to G’raha’s surprise. “That’s why we’re going to change it.”

“This may be our world, but we’ve always known that,” said Annelise. “After all, it’s what we are all working for.”

“Aye,” said Lilimo. “Many of us grew up with the Ironworks, living with Cid Garlond’s legacy, dreaming of a different world that could have been.”

“Knowing in our hearts that it should have been,” Annelise added. “I’m sorry we had to awaken you to this. It was cruel. But it’s only because we have a real chance.”

“I can’t promise that you will meet her again,” said Biggs. “but after all this time, our dream might be close to being realized. Even if none of us ever see it, I hope you can take comfort in knowing you were part of it.”

When they left the desert of Gyr Abania, G’raha was silent, his heart hardened with a new resolve. The facts may be indisputable, but he refused to accept them, and he was not alone. They would upend time and space itself in the hope those facts could be unwritten.

#oh my goood so yeah i was working on that for days #i hope make-up day can be used for such an old prompt #i have no excuse for myself except my add #really really really needs some editing and rewrites #but i will resist #i think it broke me out of my writing slump though #but god damn why do i write such horrible depressing stuff #cw: death #ffxivwrite2020 #g'raha tia

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 1825 - Edo

Notes: I’ve been trying to figure out a way to do this one for a yonk! I couldn’t resist, especially given the first time we see Aziraphale in almost-present-day in the show :)

1825 – Edo

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

Crowley strode onwards without looking back, a shadow lost in the mantle of the rain. “You know I make trouble wherever I go.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, hurrying after him, his geta clattering on the cobblestones, his waxed umbrella held high, raindrops drumming noisily on it. He had heard the news in the marketplace and when he had spotted the demon in the streets of the city, two and two had added up far too clearly. “But there’s trouble and there’s driving off foreigners completely! I hardly think that’s fair to the people here or out there. Isolationism is hardly beneficial to any society!”

Crowley stopped where he was and turned. Aziraphale could see the muscles in his jaw twitching and his hands clenching. The demon must’ve noticed his attention, because he shoved his hands inside the damp sleeves of his kimono.

“Tell me this,” he said through gritted teeth, “If Heaven told you to do the same, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale sighed unhappily. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose so.” He moved a little closer, tilting the umbrella so it sheltered the demon too. “But it really doesn’t seem fair at all.”

Crowley’s taut expression softened. “Does it ever?”

Aziraphale gazed at him. Lately, Crowley had been growing more and more gloomy and pessimistic. A sign of the times, Aziraphale supposed. Ever since that damned volcano had thrown the whole world into disarray, the poor fellow had never fully regained his good humour. He looked leaner too, whittled away, the sharp lines of his black kimono doing little to hide it.

Crowley shifted under his scrutiny. “What are you doing here anyway, angel? You never said anything about a job in these parts.”

Aziraphale pinked a little. “It’s more… follow-up than an actual task, I suppose,” he admitted. “I was in these parts last year. Divine inspiration. That sort of thing.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I was rather hoping to see how it all turned out.”

Crowley cocked his head, his tightly-bound-up hair gleaming by the light from a nearby lantern. “Art, music or food?”

“Pardon?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “I know you, angel. You wouldn’t follow up unless it was one of those three things.”

Aziraphale knew he ought to puff up with indignation and reproach, but it had been so long since Crowley had even tried to tease him that he simply put out his chin and folded his arms over the cream folds of his kimono, the ripple of the printed feathers on the sleeve overlapping his discreet blue and brown patterned obi. “If you must know, it’s food.”

“Ha!” The triumphant smile was barely a shadow of its former self. The demon glanced up the narrow street between the wooden houses, then back at the angel. “Should be off.”

Aziraphale reached out before he could stop himself, touching Crowley’s trailing sleeve. “Would you like to see?” he asked. It felt like an echo of a time, nearly two millennia ago. Wine and oysters to cheer a disheartened demon. Crowley’s lips narrowed to a line and to stave off the coming rejection, Aziraphale added, “They also have the most marvellous wine. They make it from rice!”

“Wine, eh?”

Aziraphale tugged lightly on his sleeve. “To celebrate your mischief?”

For a brief, aching moment, he could read the indecision and some other darker emotion in Crowley’s face, then the demon dipped his head.

“Go on, then. Let’s see what nonsense you’ve been putting in peoples’ heads now.”

Relief bubbled up with laughter and Aziraphale flapped a hand. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” he said, turning and motioning for Crowley to walk alongside him back in the direction of the river. Crowley’s zori-clad feet barely made a sound compared to his own clattering shoes on the wet road. “They’ve been using all the component parts for quite some time, the fellow I inspired was simply working on a new twist.”

Crowley chuckled quietly. “I’m appalled, angel,” he said, though it pained Aziraphale how flat and tired Crowley’s voice was. “Changing a classic? Are you sick?”

“Oh, hush,” he said, gently chiding.

Around them, the narrow street widened into one of the thoroughfares that led towards the water, the scent of the evening tide washing through the city. Lanterns glowed and bobbed outside the teahouses and eateries, the indigo banners flapping and snapping in the heavy autumn breeze.

From behind closed doors, the scents of hot pots and fragrant food drifted along with muted conversations and music and, occasionally, raucous laughter from the drinking houses. Though night was rapidly falling, the city was far from quiet.

“In here,” Aziraphale said, when he finally spotted the familiar doorway. The sliding door was open onto the street and inside, there was warmth and light. People were coming and going and he couldn’t help the little thrill of pleasure at the satisfied faces.

Fortunately, they were easily accommodated. He pretended not to notice the small and rather deliberate gesture Crowley made, especially not when it led to a small booth spontaneously emptying out, the guests hooting and laughing as they wove off into the evening.

The booth itself could easily have seated half a dozen people around the square table, flanked with wooden pillars and screens to separate them from the next table. A paper lantern on the wall gave everything a pleasantly soft glow.

Aziraphale slipped off his geta and knelt down at the low table, beaming up at Crowley. “Isn’t it charming?”

The demon folded down opposite him, slouching against the wall rather than kneeling. “Not exactly fancy, is it? Sitting on the floor?” The angel glanced at the very obvious wooden platform that all the booths were elevated on. “Fine, almost on the floor. Would’ve thought you’d demand a chair.”

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “You know I never object to following local custom. Anyway, I rather like the mats they put down. They’re surprisingly comfortable.” He beamed at the server when she approached and wasted no time in requesting the chef’s latest creation as well as two bottles of sake.

“Two bottles?” Crowley said as the server trotted away. “You think we need that much?”

“They’ll be more than enough to make a start,” Aziraphale said primly. He folded his hands on the table and gazed around. “I do rather like it here. It’s such a shame that so many people won’t have the chance to experience it.”

Crowley groaned, slouching even lower against the wall. “Don’t go on about it,” he grumbled. “Probably won’t even last anyway. You know what Europe’s like. They’ll probably blow the doors off some time in the next few decades. Can’t have Johnny Foreigner refusing to do business, can you?” He made a face. “It’s amazing how persuasive you can be when you’ve got a bloody great cannon.”

Aziraphale winced at the bitterness in Crowley’s voice. The accuracy of his statement was neither here nor there. “I suppose,” he allowed, then bowed his head respectfully when the server return, setting down the bottles and cups.

One of Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “What are those supposed to be?”

“Sake cups,” Aziraphale said, setting one in front of each of them.

“Cups?” Crowley pushed up from the wall. “They look like anorexic sugar bowls.” He wrinkled his nose. “See why you asked for two bottles. We could knock one back in one go.”

Aziraphale ignored him to pour a measure of sake into each of their cups. “Moderation is considered a virtue.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley snorted. “You mean the appearance of moderation?” He pulled his cup closer, the base scraping across the polished table top. “Just because it’s a small cup doesn’t mean you have to stop filling it.”

Aziraphale smiled, picking up his own cup. “Precisely,” he said, raising it in a toast. “Kampai!”

That got a crooked grin out of the demon. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“I like seeing a job well done,” Aziraphale said and took a generous sip of sake. It really was quite lovely stuff. “Where are you off to once you finish here?”

Crowley took a considerably more generous gulp from his cup and hissed through his teeth. “Oof!”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Yes. That’s why I only got two small bottles. It has a bit of a kick.”

Crowley smacked his lips and eyed the cup, then knocked back the rest of the contents. “Good call,” he said.

Aziraphale leaned over the table to refill his cup. “So, where next?” he prompted.

Crowley shrugged. “No idea yet. You?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Much the same. I was considering exploring a little while I’m here. Take advantage of the warm weather.”

“And the wet,” Crowley grumbled. “Pisses down all the time.”

“It generally does in the rainy season,” Aziraphale observed, trying not to smile.

Crowley snorted, though it almost looked like he might smile. “Oh, shut up, angel.” He settled back against the side of the booth, knees jutting up between him and the table, his hands wrapped around the small sake cup.

They’d both worked their way through another cup each when the server returned with lacquered platters, which she set down on the table in front of them. Aziraphale made a sound of delight at the beautifully-presented little stacks of seafood and rice, decorated with sliced vegetables.

“Oh, it’s even better than I hoped!”

Crowley leaned forward, peering at it. “What’s in it?” He sniffed. “Doesn’t smell cooked.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “It’s served cold, my dear.” He picked up a pair of chopsticks and studied the neat, identical little domes of rice. “It’s entirely made of rice and seafood.”

“Handy, being near the sea, then?”

Aziraphale nodded happily and deftly picked up the rice-ball and its tuna crown and delicate band of seaweed holding it all together. “They’ve been eating all the parts for ages, but Hanaya had been playing with ways to improve it. I just gave him a gentle nudge.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.”

“Not as good as it looks?” Crowley inquired, still eyeing it with suspicion.

Aziraphale scanned the array of platters and spotted the small dish among them. “Merely missing something,” he said. With a spot of soy sauce, the morsel was positively heavenly and he flapped his hand at Crowley as he chewed and swallowed. “Oh, you must try some!”

“Yeah,” Crowley said warily, picking up his own chopsticks. “But what is it?”

“They call it Edomae zushi.”

“Sushi?” Crowley picked some up and took a mouthful. He chewed thoughtfully. “Y’know, I don’t see this taking off.”

Aziraphale plucked another piece and smiled knowingly. “On this occasion,” he said, admiring the colour of the tuna by the lamp light. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

“Story of my life,” Crowley said with an exaggerated shudder and twisted up his face. He took another drink from his cup, then considered it and held it out.

“To zushi?” Aziraphale suggested impishly.

For a moment, Crowley cracked a smile. “To your eternal, misplaced optimism,” he said. “Kampai!”

#fic: crossing paths #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic

[snowbellewells]

A Story Told at Last: Part Two

{Well, here it is finally!  I apologize for the wait on the conclusion of this story; I never meant for it to be so long between installments. All I can do is ask for understanding and hope those who were reading will still enjoy this ending despite the delay.

Many, many thanks to @branlovestowrite for this amazing story banner that I simply love to bits!! And also to @whimsicallyenchantedrose for beta reading and for the helpful insights and comments she provided. I am continually grateful to the @cssns itself as well for offering an event that gives a chance for such fun both participating and contributing.}

** Previous parts can be found here: Prologue  ///  Part One

And now for the conclusion of this little tale....

~ Part Two ~

Henry came back to himself the next morning to the sound of anxious pounding on the door of his room. Sitting up slowly, blinking and struggling to regain his bearings, he began to hurry toward the sounds only when he also heard Violet’s worried voice through the wooden barrier, calling out with concern for him.

“Henry? Henry, are you in there?” Several more sharp raps against the hard surface followed, just before he could reach the doorknob in his befuddled state. “We got worried when you weren’t downstairs to meet the bus, Profess - “ Her words cut off abruptly as Henry finally managed to turn the knob and swing the door open to face her.

While he hadn’t really considered the rumpled mess of a picture he must present, the way Violet’s mouth fell open in surprise, and how her hand reached out as if to either feel his forehead or offer him support somehow before quickly pulling back, said quite a lot. Her prettily rosy cheeks paled as she stuttered anxiously, “H-Henry...are you alright?”

Feeling more than a bit awkward and embarrassed standing before her in the previous day’s clothing and obviously late for the group’s scheduled departure time, Henry shuffled from foot to foot before clearing his throat and attempting to smooth his sleep-disheveled hair back into lying calmly on his head. Violet, as was her way, looked impeccably neat and professional in sturdy khakis and a pale lavender sleeveless shirt that he knew must have a matching cardigan or jacket somewhere in her suitcase. She didn’t look judgmental in the least though, only concerned for him, despite his growing embarrassment. 

“I’ll be fine, just a little off balance,” he offered uncertainly, already reaching behind him to begin shoving necessary items into the satchel he carried with him on their excursions. “Would you just, please, make my apologies to the others, and our driver? Ask them to give me five more minutes, and I’ll be right down.”

He was scrambling by then, to find his shoes, locate his keys, and get dressed almost all at once, so that he didn’t realize Violet had not left yet after agreeing to his request. She had instead taken a step forward into his room, one more question of if he was really alright on the tip of her tongue when he whipped off his old T-shirt, ready to pull on the clean one he’d found.

Her startled gasp arrested him in the midst of raising his arms to pull the new shirt over his head, turning wide-eyed to face her and already flushing red in his cheeks and well down his neck and chest. Slowly lowering his arms, and the material down to cover his bare torso as well, he couldn’t dismiss the hopeful idea that Violet seemed unable to stop staring at his chest, even once again clothed in one of his usual tops, and that she was swaying just the slightest bit toward him, as if drawn by a magnet.

The odd moment broke at last when Henry stepped forward, just as Violet did the same, and they nearly collided. Both jerked away again, Henry already apologizing and bringing a hand to his stinging chin, even as Violet rubbed her forehead where they had made sharp contact.

“It’s alright, Henry. Truly. It’s fine,” she assured softly, reaching out to clasp his wrist with gentle pressure and calm his rapid flow of words.

Her former professor’s deep brown eyes raised to search hers hopefully, clearly easing as she nodded in added confirmation. “Honestly,” she added with a small smile, patting his arm before releasing her hold. “I’m really just glad to see that you’re okay.”

Catching her hand before she could retract the soft, delicate fingers completely, he squeezed back with gentle gratitude. Shaking his head ruefully, Henry let out a low chuckle and confessed to her honestly. “Alright might be a bit of a stretch, really. In fact, you may think I’m downright insane when I tell you what’s happened, Vi. But, let me get ready before we make everyone else even later, and I’ll share on the way.”

She nodded, stepping back to go so he could change and be ready to leave for the site as soon as possible. Yet, before she slipped back out the door, with one last promise she added, “Whatever you say, Henry. But, just know this… whatever it is that’s going on...I doubt I’ll think you’re crazy. I believe in you.”

Henry’s breath stalled at her admission, and he turned toward her to thank her, to express a similar faith, but Violet had already fled the room. There was nothing else he could do but hurry to rejoin her; her words and his excitement at his vision too, driving him onward so as not to disappoint her galvanizing confidence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

By the time their bus had reached the crumbling remains of Emmaline’s tower once more, Henry had told Violet all he’d seen and heard in his vision. To his utter astonishment, though wide-eyed and stunned, she had taken every word as truth and believed him. 

Once they were at the ruins, she still seemed a bit overcome - Henry couldn’t say that he blamed her, as he was more than a little disbelieving himself - but they piled out of the van as everyone else did, perhaps even more anxious to know what else they might learn or see after his midnight vision. Violet did, however, turn back to look at him once they were both on solid ground, a light touch to his upper arm to convey her concern as she whispered low enough that the others bustling around them couldn’t hear. “You’re sure, that you’re alright to be out here, aren’t you, Henry? I mean… you aren’t disoriented or lightheaded or anything like that?”

Even if he were, there was no way that Henry Mills was letting his last day in this scenic escape, this place of legend at which he had worked and scrimped and saved to arrive, be lost to a weird dream or a strange bout of vertigo, whatever it was that had come over him. He was careful of course not to seem impatient with Violet though; her care for him touched him greatly, warming and thrilling him inside much more than he would like to admit. Instead, he merely shook his head slightly, hoping to assuage her worries by appearing unfazed and moving forward with this last day’s exploration of their site. “Thanks, truly. I appreciate you checking,” he offered, “but I’m fine - no lingering side effects.”

As he spoke, they neared the last vestiges of the archway where they had discovered the compass the day before. Henry could tell that Violet ached to explore further, to make sure there was nothing else of note, to study the intricacies of design and execution that were more to her interests than his, but that she was equally reluctant to leave him after the strange stupor in which she had found him just a short time ago.

Good naturedly smirking at his own odd behavior, Henry urged her to see to what she wished. “Vi, really, go on and have another look. It’s not like this opportunity comes around every day. I promise, I’m not going to keel over.”

She shook her head at his lighthearted teasing, all ready with the stubborn reminder that he didn’t get the scare of wondering what had happened, worrying whether or not he was alright, but she bit her tongue in the end. Bickering wasn’t going to make him see his health as more important than their find, and it would probably only make him feel badly to know just how concerned she had been at the pale, unsteady sight he had presented when he first opened his door to her that morning. Plus, it would waste precious time, and so instead she moved off with a nod of begrudging consent and one more gentle press of his hand.

Henry, meanwhile, when he had made certain that Violet wasn’t holding back on his account, moved carefully toward the crumbling frame of the window in an outer wall still partially standing some feet away. It was slow going for the bits of stone and splintered, weathered furniture scattered in the way between, but he picked his way through the detritus without falling himself or destroying anything which might be of value. The niggling feeling that the window he stood before was the very one he had seen in his vision, the one from which the rogue lieutenant visiting his imprisoned lover swung to escape the princess’ guard, and he could hardly fight the need to touch it - see it - for himself, as if he could somehow derive the rest of the story, what had happened next, from the space he had seen in that reverie.

And though as much as he had promised his concerned protegé that all would be well, Henry still felt a bit off balance and unsettled, as if whatever presence or power in the air was still lingering from his encounter that morning. No sooner had he neared the wall, than he was reaching out to rest his hand on what would once have been the window sill, now loose and partially eroded by time.

Taking a moment to look more closely at the cracked stone and dusty grooves, Henry curled his fingers into a gap curiously, the piece of rock still in place shifting to the side and allowing his fingertips to slide deeper into the opening. For a moment, he felt nothing, just empty space and a disorienting sensation of brushing up against a wide open void, then his grasp caught against an edge of paper or leather, almost like the corner of a book. Straining to reach just a bit further, he managed to grasp the item and clutched tightly to draw it out.

Several more bits of debris and rubble fell away as Henry attempted to carefully extract his treasure. Once free of its hiding place, however, the mystery was revealed as indeed being some sort of leather bound journal or logbook. Brushing off the cover the best he could, despite the determined cling of years and years of cobwebs and mildew, Henry held his breath, hoping the pages wouldn’t crumble to dust, that they were still legible. It might contain the proof and the answers he had been seeking.

Ever so gingerly, Henry carefully opened the cover to find a flourishing if faded script scrawled across the opening page of the book in his hand. And even before he could locate the author’s purpose or name, he felt his surroundings begin to swirl and fade to grey once more, for the second time in one day, he was seeing the tower as it had been and the princess within it long ago…

“What have I done?!?” Emmaline’s tormented wail echoes in the thin air of the tower’s height, as her sword clatters to the floor from her suddenly nerveless fingers. The guard she felled is clearly not dead, as his chest rises and falls steadily even in unconsciousness. Still, though her father had trained her well in swordplay, until her technique and form was nearly as flawless as his own, she had never before actually struck someone with such determined intent. To stop them - and even end their life if necessary, rather than see her lover caught and killed.

Turning at that, her eyes still frantic at the blood that runs from the slice across his cheek beneath his eye, all too close to putting out the brilliant blue light forever. Her lip quivers, and Princess Emmaline struggles to bite back the ridiculous show of weakness and emotion, even while stumbling toward Killian at the same time.

He catches her in his arms, smoothing her wild hair back form her damp brow and whispering reassurances that she only did what she had to, that she isn’t cruel or evil, only a brave woman taking her stand in an impossible situation, and - if possible - he loves her even more, “bloody brilliant” she is in his adoring eyes.

However, the stolen moment is not meant to be theirs for long. Shouts from below remind them that the man they have felled to make their escape was not the only one, and unless they wish to be forced to do even more damage, they must go - immediately. Pausing a mere second longer, Emmaline snatches up a small brown book from a desk in the corner of the room. Pressing it to her mouth as if imprinting a kiss in its surface, she hurries to the window where her sailor stands waiting to spirit her away - from her family, her kingdom, her duty - but also to freedom and a life, something it has become clear she will never regain locked away in some gilded cage.

Working loose a part of the masonry, she slips her private diary into the aperture created, hoping against hope that it will be found. That her parents and her brother will be able to read it and know that she has discovered a way forward, even if it isn’t what they had always planned. She hopes she will see them again someday, but if not…

Looking up to meet her rogue lieutenant’s pained but knowing gaze, she is relieved to see she needs give no explanation. He understands, just as he always has. 

Then, with a final backward glance around her prison, she is swinging over the side with him, his steady presence next to her helping as they begin their descent on sturdy ropes, toward the ground below where horses wait to take them to his ship in the harbor....

Henry jolts back into his own place and time more immediately with this second vision. Already anxious to read the book still clasped in his hands, his heart thrums with excitement in his chest at knowing just what it is he holds. He gulps in air like a fish floundering on the docks, but it doesn’t slow his haste or enthusiasm. This is it; the evidence he had always believed he would find. Princess Emmaline existed, she was real; her story had happened just as it had been said. And now, at last, he could show the rest of the world the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***~

Six months later ~

Hand in hand, Henry Mills and Violet Clemens stand in the sacred space once more - the site that drew both of them halfway around the world, but also to each other. Since their research venture to the Misthavian ruins, there has been widespread recognition that the tiny kingdom did exist and that its lost princess had been a real, living being of flesh and blood. Though it was asking a bit much for the reigning historical and scientific community to believe that she had been locked away due to a fear of her magic, as detailed in her diary, it had become accepted knowledge that Princess Emmaline had been held in the windswept and isolated tower they had explored, she had been denied her birthright and crown, and had - much like her homeland - vanished almost completely from history… if not for the tokens Professor Henry Mills and his team had discovered.

They are now both published and much-lauded experts in their field; both already had been experts, it was just a matter of the rest of the world realizing it. More important than glory and fame though, to both Henry and Violet, was that now they could return to this place, so close to both their hearts, and perhaps offer closure to two souls who had been awaiting it much longer than either of them.

As the couple stood at the small display which had since been constructed at the scenic overlook near the ruins, there was an absolute sense of accomplishment. It was just a small podium with a guest book for tourists and visitors to sign and a protective case allowing the compass and diary to be returned where they belonged, but still available for the curious, the lost, and the lonely to see, to read, and to learn from the Princess’ story and take heart again. It was just how Henry had wanted it and had fought against various museums and universities to have it be displayed - as he could only hope the long ago royal would have approved.

Looking lovingly to the woman at his side, Henry smiled unabashedly as the sparkle of her engagement ring caught his eye and he simply brought their joined hands to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. He could still remember that first dim evening, when he had ventured within the tower’s remaining walls with cautious reverence. He had sensed that he was not alone, the presence that - while not threatening - had still sent a shiver skittering down his spine. Violet had long since talked with him of a similar awareness as they worked within the aged structure, and it was what brought them back now, to say one final farewell before embarking on a joined life together, to bid another lingering pair of lovers rest at long last - impossible as that quest might seem.

“Do you think we’ll know if they’re here?” Violet whispered to him, her eyes wide and half-hopeful, half-worried.

“I’m not sure what to expect,” he answered seriously. “It was just a feeling I couldn’t shake when we were here before. I don’t know whether to believe it will be more or less this time around.”

They waited, breath caught between nervously bitten lips in silence, before Henry stepped closer to the preserved ancient stone walls rising around them. “If you can hear me…” he started, tentative but determined, hopeful, and in a voice gaining strength as he continued with Violet’s reassurance at his back. “Princess? Lieutenant?...The world knows now, about Misthavia and about you.  That you were real, that you existed, and about your love for each other. No one believes Killian stole you away against your will anymore. And though most people of the modern age don’t believe in magic, they know now that you were wrongfully imprisoned, your Highness. They understand that though Misthavia ceased to exist as a separate nation, you never had your chance to rule to try and save her. And…” Henry paused here, swallowing a lump that took him by surprise as it formed suddenly in his throat… “and, though we can’t for sure know what became of either of you, it is known that Lieutenant Jones saved you, Princess Emmaline. That you loved him and he loved you. And I’m going to choose to believe in a happy ending for you both… that you sailed until you found a place where you could be together, come what may.”

“I do too,” Violet echoed into their still surroundings, offering him a gently affectionate smile as she gazed up into his intense and open brown eyes - the moment stretching powerfully between the two of them, cementing their faith in each other and their bond, whether or not anyone else bore witness.

Then, surprisingly, Violet’s eyes widened as she looked off to Henry’s side. “They - they’re here…” she breathed, almost too stunned to speak at all in the quiet evening around them.

Peering in the same direction Violet was, awestruck, Henry was slowly able to discern two clouded white shapes in the murky grey dusk, becoming ever more solid and opaque as Henry and Violet stood watching. Though far from corporeal, they were two human forms, one slighter with almost an outline of a medieval, bell-sleeved dress and what appeared a flower crown upon its head; the other taller and wearing what seemed to be a sword at its side, with broader shoulders.

Though the apparitions seemed to turn toward Henry and Violet, as if offering their gratitude, they came no closer, and merely hovered in place as the two historians held their breath for fear the moment might vanish. Soon enough as it was, the two cloudy shapes, once princess and pirate sailor, appeared to bow in farewell, then move toward the overlook, as though seeing the bright horizon and the waves far below that they had been separated from for so long. Just before the modern couple’s eyes, their ghosts began to fade into nothingness, gradually losing consistency, as if finally slipping the tether that had held them to the ruin. Vindicated at last, and free to move beyond, they set sail at last for peaceful shores.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @thisonesatellite @resident-of-storybrooke @winterbaby89 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @ilovemesomekillianjones @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @scientificapricot @spartanguard @let-it-raines @thislassishooked @profdanglaisstuff @shireness-says @bromfieldhall @branlovestowrite @hollyethecurious

#cssns 19 #cs au ff #cs two shot #adult henry #cs as ghosts #a story told at last #the conclusion

[imaginexsa]

Nightmare (Pietro x Reader)

A/N: Hey guys!! So sorry for the long update again!! I’ve just been so tired hahahaha really sorry. Also kinda sorry about how this fic turned out😅 it wasn’t really how I expected it’ll goooo but I guess it’s still pretty cool ya know haha anywayssss, enjoy!

Request: hello, I was wondering if you could write a fic with pietro and a reader who’s a mutant and has similar powers to Wanda but stronger and dangerous due to a demon/spirit(similar to enchantress in suicide squad) that has possessed her and her powers. So director fury thinks she would be a good asset to the avengers, so she introduces her to the avengers and pietro takes a great liking in her. Sorry if it’s to much. P.s: you know how Wanda’s powers are red, the readers powers is black.

Demon is speaking in italics.

Warnings: slight cursing, very slight blood

You awoke with a start, gasping as you sat up, frantically looking left and right. Curling your fingers tight around your blankets, you dropped your head down as you tried to collect your breath, hopping to calm yourself down.

“Aw, is little Y/N having a nightmare?”

You flinched at the voice as you shook your head, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest as the thing inside you chuckled.

“Don’t be scared, I’ll comfort you,” it said as black smoke started to emit from your body, wrapping itself around you. “Just let me take over and you’ll feel all better.”

“Stop it!” You shouted as you gripped your hair, slowly feeling the smoke seep back into your body. You stayed in that position for a while till everything felt quiet. Sighing, you flopped back in bed, staring at the ceiling. 

Turning to the side you reached out and grabbed your phone to see that it was only three in the morning. You let out another heavy sigh before you remembered something, biting your lower lips you hesitated before deciding that this was for the best as you dialed a number.

You felt yourself getting more and more nervous as each ring passed. It was quite late, so maybe you shouldn’t disturb. Just as you were about to put the phone down, someone answered.

“Hello?”

Swallowing your saliva, you spoke. “Hi, is this Director Nick Fury? This is Y/N.”

You shuffled your feet as you stood behind the domineering presence that is the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., both of you going up the Avengers tower. Looking down at your feet, you decided to break the silence. “Do you really think I can control my powers? Because I can be really dangerous.”

“You can’t control me.”

The voice hissed in your head but you ignored it. Fury turned slightly to look at you. “I believe in a lot of things, and you controlling your powers is one of them.”

You smiled slightly, feeling more at ease when the lift doors opened, making you stiffen up again. Fury walked out and you followed quietly behind.

“Avengers,” Fury called out, gaining the attention of everyone who was there.

Glancing around, you saw everyone looking around you curiously. You saw a flash of blue before someone was standing in front of you. A man with silver hair and bright blue eyes were looking at you with a cheeky grin. “Hi.”

He had an accent and he was pretty cute as he looked at you, sticking his hand out for you to shake. “I’m Pietro, Pietro Maximoff, and who might you be?”

You shook his hand as you smiled back at him, finding him charming. “My name is Y/N.”

“Avengers,” Fury said again. “This is Y/N and she’ll be part of the team from today onwards.”

“So, what can you do?” Tony Stark asked. You looked at all of them, recognizing them from TV.

“I can, um,” you started to say as the voice in your head interrupted your train of thoughts.

“Let’s show them.”

A dark smoke started to surround your body, the Avengers looking shocked. You disappeared before reappearing behind Tony, coming out from his shadow, scaring him as he jumped back.

“What the hell?”

You closed your eyes as the smoke retracted back into your body. You could hear the voice in your head laughing. “Pussy.”

A small smile graced on your face as you scratched your head. “Sorry, there’s a demon possessing me and it’s kind of a shadow demon. It’s a major nightmare.”

“Nightmare! How dare you.”

“Excuse me, but did you say demon?” Bruce Banner spoke up.

“Yeah…I guess we have some kind of connection, it can’t really live without me,” you said sheepishly. You could feel the demon rolling its eyes. “Shut up.”

“Woah, that’s so cool,” Pietro said as he gave you a toothy grin. “You’re pretty cool.”

You felt your face go warm. “Thanks, I guess.”

As the rest of the members did an introduction, they went off to do their own things, Pietro volunteer to show you to your room. Wanda, his sister walked up to you with a concerned look. “Y/N, I can hear a voice in your head and it doesn’t sound like you. Is it the demon?”

“You can read minds?” You asked, surprised as Wanda nodded.

The demon growled. “Mind your own business.”

Wanda frowned and you apologized for its rudeness. Pietro watched the both of you as he cocked his head to the side before he clapped. “Shall we bring you to your room?”

You saw his enthusiasm and chuckled. “Sure.”

~

A few months passed and you were settling in a lot better than you expected. You found some great friends and you might have actually found someone you really like.

“You ready to go, Y/N?” Pietro popped his head into your room and you felt your heart skip a beat as you unconsciously smiled.

“Always ready,” you replied with a wink as you both walked out together.

Ever since you started spending time with Pietro, he managed to bring out sides of you that you never knew you had. Having a demon in you did not help in the making friends zone of your life, so it was refreshing to get close with someone who wasn’t afraid of you.

Pietro had been sticking with you these past few months, training with you, going out with you and everything. It’s was pretty amazing how he managed to stay even though the demon in you could get pretty scary.

“What’s so good about him. He’s the polar opposite from us.”

“Exactly,” you muttered.

“Did you say something?” Pietro asked, glancing to you as you shook your head, both of you reaching the quinjet.

The past few months you’ve been training to control your powers and today was the first time you get to go on a mission. You really hope you wouldn’t screw up. 

~

You appeared from one of the HYDRA soldier’s shadow before raising your hands as black smoke surrounded the two soldiers in front of you. You clapped your hands together which made the soldiers hit each other, knocking themselves out. 

A blue streak headed towards you before stopping beside you. “You’re doing real good, draga.” 

You grinned, as you continued fighting. You, Pietro and Steve were supposed to infiltrate this HYDRA base and retrieve information as well as help any victims that were there.

“We got everything,” Captain said through the comms. You closed your eyes as black smoke engulfed you. When you opened them, you appeared behind him, shocking him. He let out a breath. “Please don’t do that.”

You chuckled as you looked at him unapologetically. “Sorry.”

He gave you a look as you saw Pietro coming out. Pietro stopped in front of both of you. “That’s all?”

“We’re just supposed to retrieve information and any possible victims, that’s all,” Steve started. “We a- Pietro! Behind!”

For a speedster, Pietro seemed to be caught off-guard as a bullet came whizzing past and he was thrown forward. Steve quickly moved to stand in front of you, his shield covering both of you. You stared at Pietro’s body on the ground, your chest tightening.

“Y/N, take Pietro and- Y/N? What are you doing?” Cap asked as he saw you step out from behind him, black smoke pouring out of you immensely.

“Y/N, get back! You’ll get shot,” Steve called out as you walked forward but you couldn’t hear him, you could only hear the pounding in your head.

“Finally.”

You appeared behind the HYDRA soldier through his shadow and reached your hand out. You weren’t touching him but he started gasping for breath.

Steve helped Pietro up as he saw that your shadow was holding on to the neck of the HYDRA soldier’s shadow. “Y/N, don’t do it.”

You snapped his neck and Steve felt chills going down his spin as he watched you. You didn’t look like yourself anymore, dark smoke surrounded you as you had a pair of horns growing on your head with a bit of blood trickling down from the base. Steve was not one to get easily scared but the grin on your face was terrifying.

“Y/N?” Pietro called out as he struggled to sit up, holding on to his side.

“She’s gone,” you spoke, but it wasn’t your voice. “I finally have her.”

Steve stiffened as he frowned. “You are the demon.”

“How smart, Captain,” you smirked. “I guess her control snapped when you saw loverboy here on the ground.”

“Give her back,” Pietro gritted out as stood up, wobbling slightly.

“So you could keep following her like a good little pup?” The demon asked, laughing. “She’s dense but it’s so obvious to me that you clearly like her and it’s almost as if it’s love at first sight, am I right?”

Pietro ignored the demon as he took a step closer. “Y/N, I know you’re in there, you gotta come back. You can do it.”

The demon growled before disappearing and appearing behind Pietro. There was a flash of blue and Pietro was hugging you.

Cap noticed you raising your hand, claws out and ready to strike Pietro. Steve nearly called out but saw that your hand stopped short, trembling.

“How?” You asked, you voice slowly changed back to normal. Closing your eyes, you felt your horns painfully retracting as your whole body went limp. Pietro held you close and tight against him as he kissed your forehead.

“You’ll be alright.”

You felt your eyes close as everything went black.

“Why.”

Tags: @melconnor2007, @sammysgirl1997, @shannonr2003

#pietro oneshot #pietro maximoff #pietro x reader #reader insert #quicksilver #quicksilver x reader #oneshot #marvel oneshot #imagine

[sulahnnan]

Following the collapse of the Inquisition, she took to the place she knew best. Not home--though the Lavellan clan had never felt like home--but to the thick forests of the Emerald Graves. It was here that she built upon the legacy of the Inquisition; to fix the impossible. Her objective was clear, far more clear than the unfortunate series of events that had befallen her with the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the loss of so many innocent, devoted lives. But nothing was impossible, and being put through trial after trial like a puppet manipulated by the hands of someone she trusted had taught her that.

For years she searched, and everytime she returned to care for her sister empty-handed, the surmounting, ever-building anger was evident within her. First in the way that she grit her teeth and tensed her jaw, then the tightness in her muscles visible through that of her flesh, and finally in the fire that burned within her eyes. It had first been mentioned by the doting spirit that gravitated to Cenah’s side as her condition worsened, a strange understanding and foreshadowing that he warned her of in the only way he knew how. It would leave the warrior vulnerable to hungry spirits pressing against the thin layers of the Veil that she traversed through, dipping through the Beyond via the ancient Elvhen passages that had been so carefully locked away by the very soul she had been hunting. But he had underestimated her, for she knew far more than he may have realized, or perhaps this too, was all part of his plan.

She spent years searching, climbing the highest peaks, searching every cavern, trekking through rain and sleet and snow, yet her spirit did not dwindle. Her search did not slow. The fate of a cruel world meant little, but the burning desire for revenge and the well-being of her suffering sibling was enough to force her onward; to encourage her tenacity and diligence across all of Thedas. A daunting task for a single soul, but she was never truly alone. Despite the turmoil, there were many who were still devoted to the Inquisition’s cause, and despite Ellana’s origin and reluctance, the connections she had were available for her use. Whispers of his trail reached her ears very rarely, often leading to dead ends and further frustration. Such ploys were perhaps necessary, however, for it gave her hints of his existence and a pattern of his whereabouts. Even if it meant her falling into whatever red herring he had planned, it gave her something to work off of--piecemeal, if you would, before the inevitable concluding reunion.

She had remembered the first time she’d caught a glance at him--one that he had not expected. Sore and calloused feet tread over the face of weathered rock, and it was beneath the canopies of the grave trees that her pace slowed. At her hip, her wolfish companion dipped its head towards the earth, wet nose sniffing the soil of the unseen trail before them. Ellana had watched with curiosity and without too much hope, but with enough trust in her animal guide. The din of night was upon them, and through the falling darkness, they had caught trace of something. With a lifted head and bristling hackles, her animistic guardian locked its attention unto something upon the horizon. Ellana followed its gaze, and at its end had been a dark wolf with unblinking, glowing eyes. Upon recognition, she took but a step forward which had ushered her protectorate into a frenzy. They took off instantly as if the animal in question had been the sought after prize of a hungry pack, and in its footsteps followed the former-Inquisitor. 

There had been snarling and a snap, and as she pushed through the leafy foliage and thorny bushes stone-faced despite the sudden rupture within her chest and the beating of her heart in her throat. Rough bark scraped her forearm as she held her functioning hand ready on the lighter of two swords upon her hip, brambles biting deep into her calves as she skirted through the thick forestry only to catch her companion biting down unto the black tail of its prey. Its jaw released in order to snap down again, the intent to corner and subdue the fleeing wolf, but it had only given the other’s assumed form room to escape. Guided only by the blood the wounded creature left behind, Ellana tracked it deeper into the Emerald Graves, finding the track of four paws shift into a set of footprints, and through a hidden, now locked and inoperable Eluvian. Since, she had been wise to heed the attention her wolven guide gave, though even they had been more cautious from that point onward. That would not be the first, nor the last sighting Ellana witnessed, for the peering, glowing eyes became a familiar one through the darkness. But to give chase meant to play too easily into his hand, and she would not fall victim to his ploys again.

Despite Cenah’s waning health, she did as much as she physically could. she knew much; the Well of Sorrow gave her insight--knowledge to history she knew not before. As Ellana pursued every lead that she could, Cenah focused on what she learned about rifts and the Fade. Progress was slow, but they both knew very well that their success would not come overnight.

It had been years, but in time Ellana had returned to Skyhold; an indomitable fortress now left vacant after the Inquisition’s disbandment. Bundled with pelts around her shoulders and the white fur of her companion brushing up against the exposed parts of her legs, they moved through the familiar threshold of the stony walls. The biting wind gave way, though the warmth the halls once had illuminated with lit torches and the occupation of civilization had now been replaced with the chill of emptiness. Despite desertion, history sustained over the decades, and would continue to do so as long as the walls of Skyhold stood. 

Banners emblazoned with an all-seeing eye and sword hung high upon stoney surfaces, a throne of not rulership, but judgement standing like a beacon of faith in order. Streams of sunlight permeated through the panels of stained glass, reflecting particles of dust that had once settled in the absence of humanity, for between unlit braziers, Ellana moved. Bare feet pressed into the cold stone before finally coming to ascend before the would-be throne she and Cenah had both come to occupy. First, she examined it--familiar with its edges and its faded fabric. Her functional hand had settled, fingers pressing into the wooden arm as her canine guide sat dutifully to its left. With a swift movement, Ellana too, had come to seat herself familiarly within its confines. The twitching, wooden fingers of her recreated arm had settled naturally upon her thigh with the seat’s barricade preventing its lack of use from sliding out of place. But it was here, calmly that she sat. Here that she waited, as if expecting an unannounced arrival.

A whisper upon the wind hummed within her ears, tousled locks, once angular and short, now framing her face in cascading tendrils of spun sunlight. Wisps of golden threads billowed across her sharp features and into her vision as the cool gust settled, drawing her attention down the foyer she had entered only recently. Her heart leapt, but her sombre expression remained. She did not expect his appearance, but she felt it. Within the walls where it began, he was bound to linger.

Her back arched and her posture straightened. With a confident lift of her head, the former-Inquisitor gazed down the length of her nose as a wisp of light floated into view at the end of the hall. It dissipated, and from around the corner he appeared, the glow of his staff dwindling as he entered. There was a hitch in his step, a pause as if to offer some sort of respect within the walls that he built with his own hands--as if the abode had been hers. In a way, it had been. Perhaps just as much as his, but that was precisely where they remained in every aspect of their existence. Where he, in his twisted attempts to free an enslaved people, was very much their exterminator, but Ellana would be his undoing.

His steps continued; a comfortable saunter within a fortress of his own, alongside a fond but painful stare. The eye contact was made and held, her focus unbreaking. 

“Vhenan,” came a sorrowful sigh as he proceeded forth, a fond term of endearment Ellana had once believed, but now regarded with disgust and bitterness, but none of which was betrayed in her face save for the tightening of her jaw--a tell tale sign of her waning patience in the games he had pulled her through. “You deserve answers. More than I’ve offered you,” he began again without so much as reaching for his staff--unnecessary, it was. A simple prop, if anything.

“No,” she breathed, features twisting in the slightest ways. Slender brows arched, her nose wrinkling, but she had not turned her eyes away. If she had, he would have disappeared as quickly as he had arrived--never to be seen again until he deemed it feasible. So instead she resisted, and fought every step he took whether it was his physical encroachment, or emotionally charged.

Ellana leaned forward, the immobile, wooden digits sliding forward over the curvature of her knee, her free hand planted and curling around the other, like the strong root of a tree grounding her and urging her growth as she came to stand. As she had, the wolf at her side had done so in tandem with her actions, watching only after her slow descent from the raised dias. Without further desire for conversation, she reached for her weapon, resulting in a displeased response from the mage before her. In physical strength, she was far superior, but vulnerable to the magic he was capable of casting. This much was obvious in the clash of their specific assets, let alone the raw, unbridled power he was capable of summoning.

“You’ve done enough.” So much was perhaps a cue, for beyond the once-occupied walls of the Inquisitor’s chambers wandered the weakened Cenah. A shadow of the once bubbly counterpart that centered and stabilized her militant sister. Supporting her physically had been Nadas’ara, with whom Ellana’s relationship had been forever turbulent, but within such times of desperation, and clarification of an uncomfortable and foggy past, their unity was, perhaps, what was needed.

“And you will do no more,” Cenah finished weakly, and a flash of blinding emerald light obscured the warmth of the sun’s rays. Cenah lifted her hand into the air, a shaky albeit grand gesture as a seam of light surged through the room to tear a rippling hole in the veil large enough to engulf the room’s inhabitants and usher them into the fade. The process itself was simple enough, and that alone in theory would do little in the ways of ensuring the means to an end, however it was not the Fade’s reflection of Skyhold that they arrived within, but instead a dark void. Cold, twisted spires coiled upward, charred stone suppressed any and all light from beyond. A thick blackness choked out everything but a sheer trickle of light manifested by the veil; a single, dim beacon created by the veil itself, yet manifested into a single torch. Within the darkness, several sets of eyes gleamed, though their figures became instantly illuminated once the veilfire had been taken into the grasp of Nadas’ara, followed by the chamber’s sickly surroundings, and the copious glyphs now illuminated across every surface of the room.

Exhausted, Cenah shuddered within the grasp the hedge mage’s supportive arm, yet determination shone in her eyes. Far before them stood Ellana, a stalwart and defensive wall whose positioning suggested that, despite any effort Solas might have taken, he would not get so far as beyond her line of vision. She did not need to see who or what resided within the blackened city, nor would she allow any sort of curiosity to draw her eye. Instead she stood with her weapon before her, a light and maneuverable blade crafted by none other than Cenah herself, and prepared to do whatever she had to in order to end the game he crafted.

Behind her, the floor beneath Nadas’ara began to glow--a circle, a spell being cast as Cenah found her footing, and Ellana barricaded them. A gentle sheen reflected over them, a protective guard quickly cast before the lengthy summon Nadas’ara began. “No more,” she repeated as he proceeded forth, eyes of caged gods upon her, their whispers, anger, and eons of memories heavy within the air. Ellana swung her arm out, allowing her brisk momentum to assist in the movement of her blade. Pommel first, she thrust it towards Solas as she neared, despite the end of her weapon colliding with a protective barricade. He did not falter, but neither did she. Harder. 

His limb extended, magic manifesting. She cut through the air and drew her blade over her shoulder before turning in place and using her body as a battering ram to disrupt his summoning. A crack formed, spiderwebbing out from the point of impact. Again. She pressed onward. 

Sliding a foot forward, she engaged her core and pulled the blade up from behind her hip into a horizontal line, cutting through the defensive wall he’d cast. Hit after hit, she tore it down, opening up a window of opportunity. Solas had, in response, defended his body with the sturdy grip of his manifested staff. “Ellana,” he breathed, buckling under the strength and weight of her aggression, “listen to me--”

A cry in Elvhen came from the arcane warrior’s lungs echoed through the dark and suppressing confinement of the would-be prison, and beneath Solas sprouted another glyph. Emerald chains manifested and clamped around his ankles before spiraling up his legs much like snakes and anchoring him to the ground.

“Ma vhenan--” 

Her strength overtook him, and in a heap they crashed into the ground. With her knees pressed against either side of his ribcage and her sword to his throat, Ellana loomed over him heaving; her chest expanding and depressing rapidly in a series of painful breaths. Her grip shook, but her body remained strong. Despite the encircling chains beneath her, his stolen mark blossomed with light to react in response to her fortitude, but all Ellana had been met with was a earth-shattering cry of agony bursting from Solas’ throat.

Cenah, who despite her state, who had suffered so greatly, drove a dagger through the mage god’s bicep, severing the major tendons instantly. She carved through muscle and sinew, and forced the blade’s edge through his arm entirely in order to sever the crackling anchor he had both bestowed and forcefully ripped from Ellana. Despite the years of emotional turmoil she had compacted into anger, the warrior’s shoulders shook, and it was the weakened rogue who found the strength that her sister did not have. 

“I told you,” Cenah rasped through painful breaths, “I told you I’d come for your life. And for this.” But such an existence was a fate worse than death--to live for an eternity within the prison one created. No hope for escape or redemption, but instead the constant reminder of the atrocities committed and embodied within the existing members of the pantheon he’d imprisoned.

Blood pooled beneath her knees, just as it coated Cenah’s hands. She sheathed the dagger and stumbled to her feet, Nadas’ara sweeping forward to support her in time, offering both his body and staff for her to weigh her exhausted body upon. They stood as Ellana kneeled and cast her judgment for a final time not for the Inquisition or the security of Thedas, but for herself and for Cenah.

“Fen’Harel ma halam.” She uttered venomously as she leaned back, toes curling beneath the weight of her knees so that she could easily rise when she chose to. Instead, she leaned forward, weapon set aside in favour of reaching towards that of his face. Rather, her grasp fell short, and had instead curled around the wolfish jawbone that lay askew upon his chest. With an adamant pull, Ellana tore it from around his neck, then at last, rolled back and moved to stand. 

“Mar solas ena mar din.” She warned as she stepped over him, reaching out to pluck the sword off the ground where she had disposed of it moments prior. She shook her head, sorrow now replacing the fiery determination within her eyes as the binding magic he had enacted upon the Elvhenan had now locked him within the inky walls of the Black City.

“Ar lathem, ma vhenan. Y mala suledin nadas.”

#hoboblaidd #( it's be 84 years ) #( I have closure ) #( I HAVE FUCKING CLOSURE ) #( KAREN I HOPE YOU SUFFER ) #( I HOPE YOU CRY AND I HOPE YOU LISTEN TO THE WHOLE FUCKING EXTENDED THEME ) #( AND I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT YOU CAUSED THIS ) #drabble;

[darkestphoenix]

Work In Progress Wednesday

Banner created by @ao3commentoftheday. Reposted with permission.

I haven’t posted any of my work publicly in years, but I suppose there is no time like the present. It’s a mixture of Mass Effect: Andromeda, Dragon Age: Inquisition and some of my random original writing. 

Fandom: Mass Effect Andromeda

Character(s): Sara Ryder

It was the ever-present remnant of childhood insecurity that still remained regardless of how deeply she buried it. The rational part of her knew that the was nothing she could have done and that Scott’s stubbornness might have resulted in him refusing their father’s helmet and potentially causing her to lose both of them.

But the niggling feeling still remained no matter how much she tried to ignore it.

Scott was a born leader, always had been. Confident and decisive, he had a way of figuring things out and inspiring loyalty and respect from the those who knew him. Sara had always felt plagued by uncertainty that caused her to second guess her choices and hide behind attempts at humor as a means of deflection.

Yet it was her, not Scott or even Cora, who was responsible for the survival of everyone in the Initiative while dealing with dangerous and unsuitable terrain, a bit of rebellion and hostile aliens intent upon killing them.

No pressure.

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Character(s) Ellana Lavellan

She had failed, Corypheus had found the survivors of Haven and had slaughtered them all. She had deceived herself by believing that she could make a difference and no matter how far she walked, she would never see any of them again. She was merely chasing corpses and when her body finally gave out on her, she would die far from her clan, frozen and alone.

Ellana wanted to stop so badly; to sink into the snow and just rest. Perhaps closing her eyes for just a few moments. Surely a brief respite wouldn’t hurt? She had closed the Breach, faced Corypheus and his Archdemon; didn’t she deserve to rest? 

Nevertheless, Ellana knew that the second she stopped moving, it would be the end of her. Thus she continued onwards, as quickly as she dared with the agony in her chest and throbbing in her ankle and hand serving as “helpful” reminders that she still hadn’t-wouldn’t-slip away. She grit her teeth and forced herself forward, her body shivering and her vision blurring occasionally from pain, the flakes of snow and pieces of her red hair that the crisp wind blew into her face despite the arm she used to shield it. 

Fandom: Original Fiction

Character(s) Emily Gray AKA Prism

It wasn’t every day that a naked and sobbing man stumbled out of a portal pulsing with dark energy while begging for mercy. 

Even on her weirdest days-and she had had her fair share of them-Emily Gray, known as the hero Prism to the world at large-was cofounded by the situation before her. Judging by the expressions on the faces her allies-the ones who had visible faces-they undoubtedly shared in her sentiment. The assignment they had all been given had been staggering in nature and almost completely unbelievable. The world as they knew it would end if they didn’t manage to stop an ancient evil that would make its timely escape into their world from its own dimension and return it to its abode. It was almost incomprehensible…and definitely far above her pay-grade. 

Some of her fellow heroes were rather unique, Emily would have bet money that she had glimpsed a giant sentient toothbrush on the news a week ago, as were the multitude of villains that pervaded society. Her own abilities however, which involved creating crystalline configurations on physical surfaces and individuals around her, were-thankfully-fairly straightforward. She wasn’t the most powerful of heroes, but she was fairly level-headed and good in a pinch, if there were none of the powerhouse heroes about.

Fandom: Original Fiction

Character(s) Vestraya the Black Dragon

Sometimes she recalled stories of a time when dragons had filled the skies and the world had been filled with flames. In her darkest moments, she longed for it. For a time she had been the monster of legends, reducing villages to ash and charred remains and engaging in wanton destruction for the thrill of it and perhaps to punish the tiny nuisances that had dared to claim more and more of the world around them. 

She had slain knights, men and even some women, who were either bold enough to believe they could challenge her or so blinded by bitter hatred of her that they sought to cause her as much suffering as they could in recompense. When one group finally succeeded in injuring her, due in no small part to a clever conjurer and his spells, she finally fled to a distant land and chose to try to temper her behavior.

She also thought it wise to learn more about the humans that infested the world around her and used her magic to mask her true form to spend time among them. She was always careful, as there were those who could gaze upon her for an instant and tell that something was terribly amiss. As such, she witnessed the worst of humanity, their petty cruelties and rank sadism, as well as the very best in their limitless kindness and selfless acts that seemed to exist as a balance. 

#dragon age inquisition #mass effect andromeda #ellana lavellan #sara ryder #original writing #original fiction #my ocs #superheroes #dragons #wip wednesday #writing #my writing #taking a massive plunge #snapshots in my head #tw: mentions of violence #tw: death

[starcunning]

Suffer Me to Cherish You: 14 Nov

Everything is better with two cloves of garlic.

I’d like to dedicate this chapter to @seraphicrose, though she won’t thank me for it.

Previously: Week One, Week Two Previously: 11 Nov, 12 Nov, 13 Nov

Chapter Seven

They had left Ishgard after that. Shasi had had a lifetime’s fill of harsh snows and bitter memories, and Myste was sure they could find someone to help anywhere they went. So she let it drive her, and found herself on the far side of the world with the orphan boy.

She had hoped he would like Kugane, but he met it with detachment, reserving the passion in his gaze for the people they passed on the street. When they went together, he would reach out his hand for hers, and she would take it, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Time for bed,” she told him, looking at his reflection in the mirror on the door. She looked different in black, but the pourpoint offered better protection than her duelist’s costume, and she had meant to take care of it for some time. She did not much resemble Ser Ompagne—nor Fray—but then she no longer resembled her old self either. She had cause to be glad of that, though her gaze still lingered on the scar on her cheek. “Myste,” she said, and he lifted his head. She turned to face him. “You’re not going to bed,” he accused her. “No,” she admitted. “Not yet. But that doesn’t excuse you from going.” She crossed to stand beside him, doing her best to look stern. “If you don’t go to bed now, you’ll want to sleep late tomorrow. And you wouldn’t want to oversleep our destiny, would you?” “No,” he said, properly chastised. “Will you brush my hair before bed?” “Of course I will,” she told him.

They sat together before the mirror—her in her gambeson and him in a nightshirt—as she brushed out his hair. It was so long, so soft and glossy, and she could not help but think of Ysayle, then, and her heart ached at the thought. “I am still thinking of what Ser Ompagne said,” Myste confessed. “Do you think that good deeds can erase bad ones?” “Yes,” she said. “I think most people do.” She lifted a lock of hair, carefully brushing the tangles from the ends, holding the strands so as not to pull at his scalp. “Atonement … penance … these ideas come from that hope that good deeds can balance out bad ones.” “Is there ever a thing so bad that you could never be forgiven for it?” Shasi paused, setting the brush down to run her fingers through Myste’s hair. She felt no snags as she poured the silk through her fingers and sighed. “I think that depends on the person,” she said. “It’s easier to forgive someone who didn’t hurt you directly, or who hurt you only by accident, but … no one should ever expect to be forgiven.” She sighed. “As much as they might want to be. Now. Let’s get you to bed.” “Was there ever someone you couldn’t forgive?” he asked as he stood, reaching up to push all of his hair back, bundling it together in a loose queue. “Yes,” she said, looking away. “And I’m sure there are people who won’t forgive me, either. Best not to think of that now, little bird. Get some rest.” “Do you think we’ll find someone tomorrow?” “I’m sure we will.”

In truth, she was anything but. Still, sometimes a lie was the more comforting thing, and if they failed to find anyone, it wasn’t for lack of trying. They had been a week in Kugane already, had walked among her markets and embassies, visiting tea houses and theatres, and though Myste was moved to pity so often, he had not been moved to act. And her restlessness had not been left in Ishgard as she had hoped. It had driven her from her bed the last three nights, until she had simply surrendered to it. Shasi walked different routes, saw different parts of the city—once an onsen, a few okiya; tonight’s route led her through a park. She had seen it in daylight, the lovers gathered beneath the maple trees; the artists composing landscapes or tanka to reproduce in calligraphy. The lamps beside the pathways enkindled at dusk, and few remained overlong to enjoy their glow. They shone on Shasi alone as she walked, drawn inexorably onward to the district at its far side.

For three nights she had stood and stared, pale and placid, at a facade of iron on the other side of the gates. At the Imperial standard graven above the grand front entrance. She could hear the march of booted feet, drawn up short by the sight of her. But it was no crime to look, and she was the eikon-slayer. To the men on the other side of the wall, she was fear made flesh, and if any within those walls had the will to cast her out, they had not the temerity to bring it to bear.

The stars spread over Kugane, and her streets grew empty, and X’shasi Kilntreader looked upon the interlocked diamonds that represented the Garlean Empire as though they would give up some answer now that they had not proffered in the days before.

There were rumors that Zenos yae Galvus yet lived; she had heard them upon her arrival here, where Imperial soldiers intermingled freely with the populace beneath the aegis of Hingan neutrality. How could that be, she wondered? She had watched the light go from his eyes. She had borne the blade that ended him. How could he live when she had put him in the ground? If he drew breath, what kept him from her side? And what did the Empire know of all that had gone before? What did she want them to know?

She kept her silence, and the banners of Garlemald kept theirs. Would that her mind was as quiet, for the question that always came next was How much of my relationship with Zenos yae Galvus was real?

She was glad to hear footsteps behind her, flicking her ear as though that might shake loose her thoughts. A landward breeze swept in from the Ruby Sea, ruffling her hair. The footfalls approached, stopping some short distance away.

“It will not give you the answers you are looking for,” said a woman’s voice. “Believe me, I tried the same.” There was a bitter undercurrent to the words, the barest whisper of accusation. Shasi turned her head to face the speaker: an Elezen woman, dressed in white linen, her black hair unbound, curls tossed by the night breeze. Her eyes were burnt orange, and perhaps the hardest thing about her. Shasi did not know her. “That is meet,” she said, “since I do not really know the question.” The other woman’s eyes narrowed, lifting her chin. She wore a fillet of gold that glimmered with the motion, its finials like twin serpents coiled around a third eye she didn’t have. “What are you here for, then, eikon-slayer?” Her voice quivered with anger—not unexpected, Shasi thought. Her own grief had taken that form too often for Shasi to think otherwise, though she was glad Myste was not there to witness it. He had seen enough, she had to think. The woman stared at Shasi, chastising her for her silence, and then she spoke again. “You are a long way from home to have no questions to pose. Or have you run out of lives to ruin there, and hope to find them here in Othard?” Shasi wanted to laugh—not because it was funny, but because she was cornered. Because she hoped that might disarm her foe, though the Elezen woman bore no blade to match Shasi’s own. “I came to help people,” Shasi said, guilelessly. “Help? Really?” Pain pitched the Elezen’s tone high. “Have you ever considered that not everyone can bear the cost your help comes at?” Tears welled in her ocher eyes. “Yes,” Shasi said, no pride in her voice. “But perhaps the blood price you demand for every eikon slain seems a fair trade to most.” Not to her, the woman’s tone made plain. Something faltered in the Elezen’s expression.

Shasi felt a warm hand in her own, forestalling her from speech. She turned from the embassy, from the woman, toward Myste, in his robes and on the street. Shasi knelt to regard him, putting her other hand on his shoulder. “You should be in bed,” she said. “I want to help her,” Myste told her, addressing neither the unspoken question nor the accusation implicit in it. “Help her?” Shasi asked, turning to look back at the Elezen woman. There was nothing in those features she recognized. “You made a widow of her, and have forgotten her face,” Myste said gravely. “Did I?” Shasi asked, as though waking from a dream. The woman said nothing, but her expression beneath the serpentine arabesques that decorated her brow spoke plainly enough. Shasi could look upon her no longer, and turned her gaze back toward Myste. “It’s up to her,” she said, pushing herself to stand. Myste remained at her side a moment longer, until she touched his back, just between his shoulder blades, shepherding him forward like a shy child being herded to the front of the classroom. The other woman looked at him, her anger softening, expression transmuted into something almost maternal. Shasi wondered if this was how others saw her when she spoke to the boy. Fray offered some silent protestation of the notion, but she could not help but hope so anyway. It was as close to the real thing as she was ever likely to come, in the life that she’d chosen for herself. Myste found his courage at last, voice clear in the night. “There’s someone you’d like to see again, isn’t there?” The question rattled the other woman, who looked away. It could not conceal her yearning; nor could the words that followed. “I think that’s true for almost everyone, little one.” She closed her eyes as though on her tears, lashes dark against her cheeks. Shasi held onto Myste’s hand, the way she held onto hope. She gave his fingers a brief squeeze, an encouraging gesture. “Yes, it is,” Myste agreed, with the gravity only the innocent could muster. “We have seen it and felt it … we bear that guilt with us.” So she did. “The gods made me for this one purpose.”

“There are no gods, boy, but those made by the hands of men.” It was a man who spoke, stepping out of the shadow of the embassy. Shasi did not know him either—he was Garlean, a pureblood, handsome, his dark hair mussed, his chin shadowed with a day’s growth of stubble. He wore no armor, nothing to mark his station but his elegant hands with a swordsman’s calluses, which reached for the Elezen woman, groping in the darkness for her. She seemed startled by his voice, trembling at his approach, but lifted her hand so that his found it. “Hello, wife,” the Garlean said, lacing his fingers with her own. “What do you think you are doing?” the Elezen demanded to know, a note of panic in her voice. Myste recoiled from her, stepping back into Shasi’s shadow. “Helping people,” he said. At the same moment, Shasi replied, “Reckoning the cost of my intervention.” The man had nothing to say, focused only on the hand captured in his own, skimming his thumb over her knuckle, along the side of her finger. She looked at Myste and sighed. “It’s alright,” she said, but then she yanked her hand free, taking a step back, away from all three of them. She did not look at any of them, only stared into the distance, goosebumps prickling the bare skin of her arms. “Whatever sorcery this is, you can’t be real.” The statement was flat, devoid of intonation. “I lit the pyre myself, as is custom, just as I sat through everything else. As was expected of the wife of a Legatus.”

Shasi looked again at the man—the Legatus. She knew his voice. She knew him, if not his wife. Regula van Hydrus turned his head to follow the Elezen’s retreat, his expression resolute, touched by sadness. “I think you’ve haunted me long enough,” the woman said. “Can’t you find someone else?” “Lindleya,” he said, raking his empty hand through his hair, nettled by her rejection. “That I died here none would deny, but I assure you, I am real enough.” “Myste,” Shasi said, her voice soft, but warning lingered in her tone. “Please,” said the boy, earnestness naked upon his face. “Don’t you have anything you’d like to say to him?” That plea seemed to move the woman—Lindleya—for she looked at him then, pursing her lips, and then she turned her face away once more, her gaze wandering the landscape as though those sunset eyes could not bear to look upon her husband’s face directly. When she did, she glanced away, as though he shone so brightly to her she could not bear to look overlong. “I love you,” Lindleya said. Shasi needed neither her Echo nor the other woman’s words to know the truth of that, only the barest glance at her expression. But Lindleya’s lip quivered, and then she spoke again. “But I doubt you ever really did the same.” “Lindleya,” Regula said again, more firmly, almost a scolding. Whatever harshness his tone bore, however, he undercut as he lifted his hand to touch her. Lindleya’s fingers brushed the back of his hand, bringing his palm to her cheek. He traced her features with the pad of his thumb, as though he could gauge her expression thereby, and she leaned into the touch like a shy kitten coaxed from hiding.

It was then and only then that Shasi had the first inkling that Regula van Hydrus, Legatus of the VI Legion, was blind.

She wanted to blind herself too, or at least to turn her face away from the raw intimacy of the moment—to go back to contemplating the interlinking diamonds graven above the door. To think always—or not at all—of Zenos yae Galvus. But then why had she come if not to bear witness to Myste’s work? It was him that squeezed her hand, then, as though to anchor her to the moment.

“Of course I love you, Lindleya,” Regula insisted. “You are my wife for no other reason but that.” It was almost enough. Shasi could see how badly Lindleya wanted it to be enough, the way she leaned into him and then drew back, refusing the comfort of his presence. It was a maneuver Shasi had executed too many times to count, and she felt a strange kinship with the Legatus's wife. “What …” Lindleya warred with herself. She found her steel, and placed it in her gaze, the look she gave her husband baleful and uncompromising. “What about Varis, then?”

Shasi could not fail to recognize the name. It had been spoken often enough in her presence—and her experience with Regula van Hydrus had spoken to a deep and abiding loyalty between the Legatus and His Radiance. Still, to call it unsurprising was to mischaracterize the situation.

“You knew,” Regula said, not a question. His expression was pained. “I had hoped to spare you that. I did not love my Emperor, Lindleya,” he said, his tone bereft of pride. “I merely obeyed him.” “Really?” Lindleya asked, tone velvety. “And in twenty-odd years, it never occurred to you to say no? Or to tell me, perhaps?” She shook her head, turning her face away from him, out of the grasp of his hand. “Regula van Hydrus could twist every order he was given to his liking—except for this. But then I suppose it was for the good of the Empire, wasn’t it?” Shasi almost pitied him, as she had not since she herself had thrashed him in the depths of Azys Lla. But she could not watch him, which left all four of them casting their gaze about for somewhere else it might rest. She settled on watching Myste, whose horror was rising upon his face. Regula spoke his wife’s name again, making of those three syllables an apology. “I have had a great deal of latitude in my command, yes, but in this there was no refusal, no half-measure to be taken. None but the one I pursued—to keep this from you so that you would not suffer. Do not think me proud of what I have wrought.” “You are so bloody stupid, Regula!” Despite her words—despite all the words they had just exchanged, there was a note of devotion in the way she spoke his name. And she did not turn and run, caught in his gravity. “As if I needed to be sheltered from anything, least of all this! Of all the things you foolishly sought to protect me from, this was the killing blow.” She paused to sniff. “I was never confident enough to think I could compete with a prince, much less an emperor. It was simply easier to deny when you were still there to curl up to every night.” Lindleya sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was muffled, her face buried against Regula’s chest. “You are supposed to get more careful as you get older, not more reckless.” “Foolish aan,” he sighed, his voice muffled too. Shasi chanced a glance at the pair to find his face buried against her curls, his eyes closed, holding her as though she might fall down if he let go. “Of course I love you. Not perfectly—perhaps not even well, this being the result—but I love you, and you alone. Perhaps that is reckless of me, too, but I will not repent of it.”

Shasi looked down at their feet as they stood together; at Myste’s hand in her own, her knuckles white. She loosened her grasp, just a bit, and thought to make her request of the boy then and there. Her chest ached as though it were hollow, and she wished there were someone to hold her the way van Hydrus held his wife. But she did not dare ask, and dared not look, only thought of Azys Lla, of the Demon and the Sixth. Of the Legatus who had come to her for help. Of broken blades and broken shields; wounds of aether …

“I wouldn’t change a single thing,” Lindleya said after a moment. “The timing, perhaps—I would have liked a few more months, and a better chance to say goodbye.” She took a step back. “But I love you, and you made me happy. That’s all that matters.” “What regrets I have are naught to do with our time together,” Regula van Hydrus said. “I would have liked to see her grow up.” His tone was wistful, his speech interrupted by the soft sound of a gentle kiss. “I love you, too. And her. Goodbye, Lindleya.” “I’ll be seeing you,” Lindleya whispered, as though it were a promise so dear she could hardly bear to speak it aloud.

Then the lovers spoke no more, and Shasi heard the whispering of the abyss, a point of deepest black in the vastness of the night. Myste let go of her hands, and Shasi drew her blade. Lindleya did not shy from the reach of her weapon, only looked upon her with understanding.

A single swipe cut through the lingering wraith, insubstantial as memory and gone as quickly, the aether dancing along the steel and flowing up her sword arm. It tasted of juniper and the strictures of duty. Shasi put her blade up.

“Legatii,” Shasi said, the single word a gusty sigh, bitter on her tongue. “Indeed,” Lindleya said, tone almost amused as she continued, “the word might as well be synonymous with ‘moron.’” Shasi smiled, despite herself, letting go of Myste’s hand to card her fingers through the silk of his hair. Lindleya’s humor did not last long, the pair standing side-by-side, looking at the embassy in parallel. “You bested Gaius van Baelsar … but that isn’t what happened to our miraculous prince, is it? At least not all of it.” The question hung in the air. It was Myste who spoke first. “You should tell her,” he said. “No,” Shasi said, and Myste opened his mouth to protest before she continued, making plain the refusal was not directed at him. “No, that was not all, between Zenos yae Galvus and I. What makes you call him miraculous?” “We only learned of his existence a handful of years ago—he had been sequestered, it was said, for his own protection. Regula believed it, but … I was less sure. Though he did look … very much like Varis did, at that age.” Lindleya trailed off in the night, and did not elaborate further. Instead she said, “I’m sorry.” “I’m not,” Shasi said, though she felt like she was trying to convince herself. “He … lived. Some few months after the Empire was driven from Ala Mhigo, he lived. But despite having held the province for only the scantest handful of years, the tyranny he displayed throughout that reign could not be abided. Whatsoever he did after,” she said. Shasi averted her gaze. “Everyone knows about Cid nan Garlond, I’m sure, and Nero tol Scaeva could never return to the Empire, so became our bedfellow by necessity, but … Regula van Hydrus was the first Imperial citizen to proffer any hope of collaboration, of peace or at least detente between us. I would not have reached out my hand in understanding to Zenos—to the prince—if Regula van Hydrus had not done the same for me in direst circumstance.” Shasi pursed her lips, feeling the weight of death upon her shoulders. “I am truly sorry for the cost of that alliance.” “… Whatever my personal feelings about what happened, in the end you weren’t the one who struck the killing blow,” Lindleya said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “What Regula did was reckless, and he should have known better. But he didn’t. It is only the last in a long line of equally rash decisions.” “Sometimes it does not feel so,” Shasi confessed. “Good men, sure their arm will not falter, dying for my sake—he was not the first. Nor the last.” “But we will be there,” Myste said, his tone comforting, “to tend to those they leave behind.”’

“You showed me kindness today when you didn’t have to,” Lindleya said, “so … thank you.” “I disagree,” Shasi said. “I did have to be kind—or what is the point?” She felt a smile rise upon her face, wan and watery, but it lingered for more than a moment, and in that there was victory. “Let me repay you with a word of advice, if you are willing to hear it: whatever it is you are searching for, you will not find it beneath the ivory standard. The crown prince may have come from Garlemald, but the Zenos yae Galvus you mourn … perhaps did not. There was no kindness for him here. The Empire will never have that answer—you are more like to find it reading tea leaves.” Had she been so obvious? Shasi drew her shoulders up, discomfited by the notion. “I will trust to your wisdom,” she said instead, “and haunt you no longer.”

Then she looked down at Myste, who smiled up at her, and took her hand, turning back toward the park. She addressed the boy a moment later, her tone laden with concern: “What were you doing out of bed at this hour?” Shasi glanced back once, and swore she saw Lindleya smile in understanding before she, too, turned away.

#smtcy #x'shasi #fray myste #drk job quest spoilers #original content #starcunning writes #ff14 #nanowrimo #myste ffxiv #regula van hydrus #lindleya rem aglaophotis #seraphicrose

[codynaomiswireart]

“Gauze in the Wound” - Part 3

(Parts 1 & 2)

Going into a bit of a flashback on this segment!  The events in this chapter actually take place before part one, where Varian goes in for his trial with the royal court a few days after being arrested.  It...does not go well.  There is a LOT of angst in this portion, so just be ready for that.  Otherwise I hope you enjoy it!

Another Quick Note: Also, for those of you who are fans of King Frederic, Queen Arianna, and/or Rapunzel, I just want to make it clear that Varian’s dialogue does NOT necessarily reflect my own thoughts and opinions on how the characters conducted themselves in the series.  While I do think that everyone has their share of the blame in how things unfolded in season 01, this piece is very much Varian’s perspective on what had happened, so it’s of course incomplete and serves to primarily to try to justify his actions as he sees fit.  Just so you know and don’t think this is meant to be an attack on the other characters, because I do like the others.  There’s just going to be a lot for everyone to have to sift through in the future for sure.

“Often when he was teaching me to write in Greek the Fox would say, 'Child, to say the very thing you really mean, the whole of it, nothing more or less or other than what you really mean; that's the whole art and joy of words.'

“A glib saying. When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years which you have, all that time…been saying over and over, you'll not talk about the joy of words.”  ~ Queen Orual, Till We Have Faces

(Several weeks prior...)

[“Varian,” Quirin interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation at his son’s persistence.  “Children have no place in court.”]

“…What was that you were saying Dad?” Varian couldn’t help but think to himself bitterly as he faced the doors of the palace’s throne room.  Any moment now, they would be opened, and an entire court would be assembled on the other side, all for him.  Waiting for him.  The irony of it all would’ve almost been comical, had it not been so utterly tragic.

…So, how many lies did that make now?  Varian had lost count…

With a low, heavy noise, the doors to the throne room finally swung open, and Varian did his best to ignore the murmurings and whisperings that his presence prompted as Pete and Stan ushered him in across the threshold.  It seemed as if nearly the whole kingdom had turned out to watch this trial unfold.  Varian’s head hung low, his dark bangs dangled in front of his face, and his footfalls were heavy on the carpet as he walked through the gauntlet of eyes lining the pathway to the front of the chamber.  The chains around his ankles and wrists clinked together, and their noise echoed painfully off the marble walls, tiles, and high ceiling as we went.

Varian hated it.  All of it.

He hated the feeling of so many eyes boring into him as he passed before them, and he hated all the people behind those eyes.  He hated the feeling of Pete and Stan’s hands on his shoulders as they forced him onward.  He hated the chains that clung to him like metal snakes, weighing him down.  He hated the decadence of the lofty chamber with its purple banners and gold trim – the levity of colors and light only serving to mock his miserable state.  He hated not having his goggles or work apron on, leaving him feeling even more vulnerable than otherwise.  He hated not having Ruddiger at his side (the little creature having been left locked up in their holding cell until after his trial).  He hated the royal advisor, Nigel, who stood ramrod-straight to the side of the dais, and held a scroll in his hands.  Varian hated that scroll, and the list of charges it undoubtedly contained against him.  He hated the Captain of the Guard who stood dutifully to the opposite side of the dais, his hand resting vigilantly on the pommel of his sheathed sword as his eyes followed Varian to the front of the room.

Most of all, Varian hated the two figures that had yet to enter the chamber, though Varian glared daggers at their empty thrones as he was halted in front of them.

“If only…” the incredibly hostile side of Varian thought to himself upon seeing them as such…Though, in a most fleeting moment, Varian also felt a tiny shudder run down his spine at the idea of how it nearly had been what was now before him those few nights ago – the small part of his old self that still had a say in things feeling a sense of horror at the thought.

At what he had nearly-

“ALL RISE,” Nigel’s voice rang out, interrupting Varian’s thoughts and shoving that small voice inside of him back down into the depths of his soul as the door to the side of the throne room opened, and the crowd of people all rose to their feet behind him.  Varian tensed as he heard and felt their synchronized movements like a tidal wave of judgment threatening to break over him at his back.  “FOR THEIR MAJESTIES, KING FREDERIC AND QUEEN ARIANNA!”

As King Frederic and Queen Arianna entered into the court from one of the side doors, Varian had half a mind to sit down right in the middle of the floor out of spite, but Pete and Stan’s grip on his arms prevented him from doing so.  Varian’s eyes followed the king and queen as they went, and for a brief second Varian made eye contact with the queen.  As Varian’s steely, icy blue eyes peered out at her from the shadow behind his oily, ebony hair, Varian saw a wince flash across her face before she forced herself to quickly look away.

Had her expression been out of fear of him?  Out of pity for him?  Both?  Varian wasn’t sure, nor did he care.  He loathed it all in any event.

As the king and queen came to their thrones, the king bid everyone be seated, and Varian could feel the wave behind him come roaring back down again, feeling reality crash its way down over him in tandem.

“COURT IS NOW IN SESSION!” Nigel’s voice rang out again.  “HIS MAJESTY KING FREDERIC PRESIDING!”

Varian’s trial had now begun.

Opening up the scroll, Nigel stepped forward and cleared his throat.  “Varian, son of Quirin,” he began, Varian’s eyes casting down and his hands balling into fists in anguish at hearing his dear father’s name spoken aloud (and in that stupid fake accent).  “You are hereby charged with acts of trespassing, theft, sabotage, conspiracy, disturbance of the peace, avoiding arrest, deliberate destruction of both public and private property, blackmail, assault, illegal animal experimentation, breaking and entering, kidnapping, holding multiple persons hostage, attempted homicide, attempted regicide, and treason.  How do you plead?”

Varian could practically feel the air get sucked out of the room as everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his answer.

…Varian kept silent.

“How do you plead?” Nigel repeated firmly.  Still Varian did not answer.  After a moment of full, awkward silence, the king finally made to speak.

“On behalf of the defendant,” he began, causing Varian to tense up even further as the blood boiled in his veins upon hearing his enemy’s voice.  “I as judge will offer a ‘not-guilty’ plea to the charges presented.”

“The court accepts,” Nigel replied, rolling the scroll back up in a flourish.  Varian frowned hard at the floor in front of him.  Despite how it may have sounded, he knew full well that the king didn’t actually believe him to be ‘not-guilty’ – quite the contrary of course – but it was standard procedure for a ‘not-guilty’ plea to be the default when a defendant refused to speak.  Varian didn’t know much about Corona law, but that much he knew.

“The court will now hear from the defense,” Nigel continued as he signaled for Pete and Stan to let go of Varian’s arms (though the two of them remained stationed close by his sides, ready at any moment to make a grab for him if need be).

“Varian, son of Quirin,” Nigel repeated, Varian’s eyes now turning to look at him with a sideways glare.  “The court will now hear your testimony.  Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Varian’s eyes suddenly took on a faraway look as he heard those words.

“Promises…Promises!?  The TRUTH!?”

For anyone looking on, it was eerie to watch and to listen to what came next.

For a second, it almost looked as if Varian would only remain silent again.  But then, his face turned downward, his eyes shut tightly, as his shoulders began quivering.  Pete and Stan could hear a shaky intake of breath coming from him, and for a moment, it looked as if Varian was going to cry.  Queen Arianna already began to feel having to restrain herself from rushing forward to bring the boy into a motherly embrace as she saw it.  She knew such a thing would surely be against court procedure – and likely Varian would despise such contact – but O how she longed to comfort the clearly hurting child that stood before her (even after all that had happened)!  How badly she wanted to make things even only a little bit better for him, if only she could-!

But what it all actually came to made nearly all the warmth in Arianna’s heart run cold, and she couldn’t help but sit still as stone upon her throne in horror as the realization hit her.

Varian was not crying.  He was laughing.  A joyless, ironic, pained sound to be sure, but it was indeed laughing.  Perhaps there was a hint of a sob somewhere in it too, but Varian’s anger soon pushed it back down.

“Ha ha ha ha!”  Varian’s chuckles crescendoed, before rounding off with a huff of disbelief.   “Really!?” Varian finally burst out, his eyes turning up to glare at the royals, and the both of them feeling horribly pinned beneath the pure fury that held them there with an expression that swung between sneering and scowling.  “REALLY!?  You’re honestly asking ME to promise to tell the truth!?  Ha!  That’s REAL rich, coming from you!  Why don’t you ask yourselves that same question-!”

“None of that now!” the Captain of the Guard called out as Varian dared to take a small step forward in his outburst, and Pete and Stan made to resume their grip on the boy.  Disturbed mutterings and chatterings could be heard growing in the crowd behind them in response to Varian’s words and impudence.

“Everyone, please!” the king called above the din as he stood, everyone pausing and going silent in response.  Frederic swallowed hard, forcing his next few words to come out as Arianna looked up at him with deep concern in her eyes.  “The court has agreed to hear from the defendant.  Let him speak.”

With great reluctance, the Captain, Pete, and Stan stood down, and Varian jerked his arms out of their grasp, his chains clinking roughly together.

King Fredric sat back down.  “Varian,” he tried again, attempting to refocus the proceedings as Varian’s eyes met his own with a response of pure rage.  “You have been brought here before this court to answer for the charges brought against you.  Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“…That depends,” Varian replied through clenched teeth.  “Do you?”

King Frederic’s eyes narrowed.  He knew this was going to be a hard trial, and he knew Varian wasn’t in his right mind, but he wasn’t expecting this.

“What do you mean by that, Varian?” he dared to ask.

Varian guffawed again in response.  “Oh honestly-!?  Please, let’s not carry on this farce any longer, your majesty!” Varian mockingly bowed for a second as he said it, Arianna wincing once again in response.  “You want the truth!?  Fine!  I’ll give you the truth!”  Varian’s voice grew louder as he carried on, his shrill voice echoing around the chamber (sounding almost foreign to his own ears, as all the words he had been storing up inside of him poured out in a verbal torrent that he hardly thought to stop).

“Yeah, I did all that stuff you said!  Yes!  Fine!  Boom, guilty as charged!  You can all go home now!  Congratulations Corona!  You caught the bad guy!  Case closed!  Problem solved!  Way to finally lock up that maniac who just needed to be gotten rid off after ignoring him didn’t work!  Oooh, but you so counted on that in the beginning didn’t you Fred!?”

King Frederic’s mustache twitched in anger at Varian’s casual address of him, but he held his temper and his tongue as the boy carried on.

“Yeah, if only everyone else had ignored the situation like you did!  If only we all had our own ivory towers that we could retreat to away from danger!  Then everything would be all right for you, wouldn’t it?  Well guess what!?  We don’t all have towers!  And it WASN’T all fine!”  Now Varian felt the first stirrings of his emotion beginning to break as he thought of what he was to say next.  But it was all right.  He knew he was right, and the first stitch had already been applied to the wound he scrambled to close as he went.

He continued applying the verbal sutures.  “The black rocks weren’t stopping, and Old Corona was being destroyed!  And my father! – Your friend! – He ended up paying the price for that!  For what you refused to do anything about!  For what your daughter brought upon the kingdom!  And-!”

“What would you have had me do, Varian!?” King Frederic now interrupted, angry that Varian would drag his daughter again into this.  “You know very well yourself that the black rocks couldn’t be cut!  And I gave your village more land to rebuild!  What else was I to do!  It was not within my power to-!”

“But it was within Rapunzel’s power, wasn’t it!?” Varian shouted back.  “You know it!  I know it!  We all saw it only the other day!  She was connected to the rocks the whole time!  She could’ve done something!  And you knew!  Oooooh no, but NO!  This was your daughter of course!  You couldn’t possibly risk her precious safety for the lives of dozens of villagers living on the outskirts!  Oh, but don’t worry your highness!  Your daughter learned better than you!  She knew better than to put hundreds of lives at risk for the sake of one person!  She made that very clear the night she had me thrown out of here after I came begging for her help – begging for her to help save my father from a disaster she started!  Oh, and before you ask if I went to find help elsewhere, of course I thought of that!  But then I find that apparently my begging had been mistaken for attacking!”

Here Nigel shifted uncomfortably in his corner by the dais.

“But good for you, your majesty!”  Varian gave a couple of slow claps.  “Good!  For!  You!  You played your cards well!  Your people are so loyal to you that they wouldn’t even dream of helping anyone who was rumored to have attacked your precious little girl!  Better safe than sorry though, am I right!?  That’s how it all runs around here, doesn’t it!  Never mind if you’re proven guilty or not!  It’s all arbitrary in the end isn’t it!?  With magic!  Nothing works according to the equation around here!  Nothing around here is fair!  Nothing-!”

Varian’s voice trailed away.  He paused, taking a few deep breathes as he found himself dizzy and winded after his long rant.  He staggered a little, but remained on his feet as Pete and Stan reached out and steadied him (though of course Varian felt no gratitude).  Varian swallowed hard, and when his voice came again it was no longer shouting, but the edge still very much there.  “Yeah,” Varian began again.  “I did all that stuff you said I did.  We all know it.  And no, I’m not sorry.  Why you may ask?  Well…” Varian sneered up at the king.  “I could ask you the exact…same…thing.”

Guilty.  Of course that had been the verdict.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty…

The world echoed in Varian’s brain as he was escorted back to his holding cell in the palace dungeons.  He felt exhausted.  He felt sick – the horrible aftertaste of all his words burning in the back of his throat like bile as he staggered down the stone steps.

The trial had moved on of course, as only trials do in Corona.  With Varian’s unapologetic confession for his crimes, there was little need for witness testimony, though a few were heard nonetheless.  Varian had blocked them out as best as he could…but however hard he tried, he could not block out the sound of the queen’s voice as she had given her testimony.  He honestly didn’t remember a lot of what she actually said, but her tone had dripped with the courage and dignity of a true queen, yet also with all the gentleness and compassion of motherhood.

…And Varian had hated it.

Varian let his arms hang limp as the Captain removed his handcuffs from him, and after taking off his shackles the door was shut and locked behind him.  No one would be coming by again until morning.

Then, silence.

Varian stood in the middle of his cell, utterly despondent as the light of a waning moon streamed in from the barred window.  Cautiously, Ruddiger made his way out from where he had been curled up underneath Varian’s cot to the side, alerting Varian to his presence with a few soft cooing noises.

“…H-how did it go?” Ruddiger attempted to ask through his soft chitterings.  Varian looked down at him for a moment (though his eyes almost left the impression of looking through Ruddiger as opposed to actually seeing him), and then Varian walked a few paces more to where he leaned a tired shoulder against the wall.

At that, the dam broke.

Varian didn’t even bother trying to stop it as the tears and sobs came pouring out of him almost right away, and that tiny voice he had shut away those many hours ago broke back through with a vengeance.  It brought no words with it this time, but only a need to release the heartbreak that burned like acid in his chest.  Leaning back against the wall, Varian sunk his way down into a miserable ball on the floor, burying his face in his arms as he cried in agony, and his brain reeling as the reality of it all began to hit him.

This was it.  He had truly hit rock bottom.

Varian wasn’t sure how long he had been sobbing on the floor, but presently, he wrapped his arms around himself as he suddenly felt how chilled he had become.  He wouldn’t be surprised if he were coming down with some sort of fever after everything.  But what did it all matter anymore anyway?  Why should he bother to-?

Varian’s thoughts were again interrupted that day as he now heard the sound of cloth being dragged across the floor.  Wiping the tears from his eyes for a better look, Varian saw Ruddiger dragging one of the blankets from his cot across the floor, and presently began to pull it over his master’s quivering form.  This done, Ruddiger then brought his face up to Varian’s, wiping away his remaining tears with his forepaws, and giving Varian a few quick snuffly raccoon kisses on his forehead.  “It’s ok,” he seemed to be trying to say.  “I’m here!  It’ll be all right!  I’m with you!  Don’t cry!”

Varian let a few more tears fall in grateful response, Ruddiger wiping them up as Varian pulled him in closer, burying his face in his friend’s fur.

“So, it’s come to this,” Varian thought both gratefully and pitifully.  “I’ve sunk so low I have to be mothered by a raccoon.”

A few minutes later, Varian felt himself beginning to fall into unconsciousness, hugging Ruddiger close as he made to fall into the dark embrace of the first night out of what was to be a long five years-worth for him.  And what about after that?

He felt numb.  He felt hopeless.

Or perhaps…nearly hopeless.

“Please,” Varian found that small voice in himself weakly praying in his mind as sleep took him.  “Please…someone…help me!...”

Xavier stared hard at the fire burning in the hearth, the cup of tea he had made for himself sitting cold and untouched as he rested his chin on his hands clasped in front of him, the blacksmith’s mind deep in thought.  Xavier could hardly believe what he had witnessed during the trial that day.  He could hardly believe that so much bitterness and hatred could be present in so young a person as Varian.

“…What happened to you?” was all the blacksmith could think in grief and bewilderment for the boy as he thought back to what he had seen and heard from him that day.  Of course, on one level, Xavier knew perfectly well what had happened to Varian.  Everyone in the kingdom knew about it.

But…something was still missing.

Xavier couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the whole thing just didn’t feel complete.

“Why?”  The question had been left hanging at the end of Varian’s testimony…and it was a question no one else seemed to be asking.

Xavier cringed as he recalled what he had heard people saying around him as the court had adjourned that evening.

“Can you believe that?” one lady had said.  “The nerve of that child!  I would’ve thought Quirin would’ve raised a more well-behaved son.”

“Yes.  Poor fellow,” a man had replied in response.  “Though even before this whole thing with these horrid black rocks, I had heard that it was all Quirin could do to prevent the boy from destroying Old Corona long before such a disaster came.”

“That’s because of all the witchcraft the he dealt with!” a frightened voice had piped up next to Xavier.

“It wasn’t witchcraft you fool!” another voice interjected a few feet away.  “Everybody knows the boy was a wizard!  NOT a witch!”

“My cousin in Old Corona once told me that it was alchemy.”

“Alchemy?  What’s that?  Sounds like a kind of witchcraft to me!”

“No, alchemy is a science.  At least, that’s what the kid told everyone.”

“Yeah.  He probably told them that so he could go on making his brews and creating his spells to make his monsters and living metal men in secret!”

“Oh come on!  That part has got to be exaggerated!”

“But the witnesses all said it was true!  Oh!  Hey!  If you don’t believe me, we could go over to Old Corona and you can see for yourself!  I’ve heard a whole bunch of his metal soldiers still sit there impaled by the black rocks that the princess used to defeat him.”

“No way!  I’m not going anywhere near that place-!”

Most of the conversations Xavier had overheard went something along those lines, and it broke his heart.  Xavier didn’t know Varian very well, but he had seen the boy a few times before today, and he could hardly believe that such an excitable, energetic, and sweet child could’ve made such a drastic turn as that.  Perhaps most people chalked it up to what Varian had spouted on about earlier, or perhaps a sort of displaced anger in the face of an accident tied to the princess.  But Xavier wasn’t convinced.

Again, something was missing…But how to go finding out about it?

Finding out?

Xavier rubbed his hands over his eyes, really questioning where his mind was going as he came back to himself.  “Really now Xavier ol’ boy,” he muttered to himself, attempting to be practical.  “Remember what happened the last time you tried to help in matters like these?  What a disaster that had been.”

And it truly it had been.  Of course Xavier had found out shortly after that most peculiar day (the one with the whole debacle with his mood potion) that Varian had used a modified version of his elixir for his own schemes.  And what even greater disasters came from that.  Best then for the blacksmith to not try to stick his oar in again if he-

Xavier suddenly sat upright as it hit him like a thunderclap.  “My potion!” he thought to himself with a sour jerk of sick guilt.

Oh no…

Whether Xavier liked it or not, he been an unwitting agent for furthering Varian’s crimes.  In fact, you could even say that it was Xavier’s small potion that proved to be the point from which Varian’s whole revenge scheme was able to start from in the first place.

Varian may have been the one to start the fire, but Xavier had given him the matchbox.

…What to do then now?  Perhaps Xavier was old-fashioned that way, but he felt convinced that given this knowledge was now obligated by honor to try to rectify what he had done.

To the kingdom…to Quirin…

To Varian…

“Well…” Xavier thought aloud, an idea beginning to form in his head as he stood up and walked over to the nearby table, grabbing some paper and ink as he did so.  “Perhaps there is one thing I could do on that front…”

With that, Xavier began to compose his letter.

“Attn: The Royal Advisor Nigel, by urgent request

To their majesties King Frederic and Queen Arianna,

Greetings.  If quite agreeable to you both, I would like to request an audience at your earliest possible convenience.  I have a proposition I would like to make…”

#tts #tangled the series #fan fiction #gauze in the wound #varian #king frederic #queen arianna #nigel #captain of the guard #pete the guard #stan the guard #xavier the blacksmith #*collapses at my desk* #don't worry peeps it'll start to look up from here #flashback #hurt/comfort #angst #courtroom scene

[2krisp]

Writathon 2018 Update 1

In the span of about two hours -- with random distracted outbursts here and there -- I wrote 1345 words of Hard Mode. My original goal had been 1k words for that particular WIPs, so yay!

Hard Mode is about a group of gamers who are stuck in a role-playing, simulation game and must learn to work together to survive. That sounds a little basic, and there’s probably been stories like that before, but I’m having fun with these characters!

If anyone’s interested, I’ll stick the sample that I’ve written today under the cut. I hope everyone else is doing well with their writathons!

"Anyone else see the castle coming into view on the horizon?" Wyatt asked, the alchemist nearly skipping ahead of the rest on the path.

The forest around them wavered out as they moved forward, their path going from crude, dirt roads into cobblestones dusted with other players' footprints. Landon's graphics card did its magic, the castle blinking into view with its stone towers and colorful banners waving in the game's wind. With the castle came the town wall, the stones protecting the citizens from the monsters that plagued the land at night.

With the daylight, the drawbridge was down, allowing NPCs and players alike to come and go as they please. More and more other players of the game were crowding into the castle town, no doubt eager to hear the new plotline.

"We'll have some good competition, it seems," Raine said from beside Landon. Her gaze was sweeping over the crowds, one of her hands placed on the dagger at her belt.

"No one's experience any lag?" Elijah asked. "With this many folks around, this'll be a good indication to how we'll all fare in any dungeons or temples we come across."

"Not lag, really," Noah said. He was squinting at the castle. "Uh, but is the castle supposed to be blinking?"

"No," Landon said, his stomach twisting. How would their group be able to complete the task if one of their teammates couldn't properly see the graphics?

"Dammit," Noah muttered. He sighed and asked sheepishly, "Sorry, but do y'all mind if I log out real quick? Just gotta check my graphics setting."

"No problem," Raine said, setting against one of the trees at the edge of the path.

"Wait a sec. Do we want to reach the castle town first?" Landon asked. "It'd be safer for your avatar in there if you're logging out."

"We're all right here," Wyatt said with a shrug. "We'll make sure nothing happens to his avatar while he's away from the keyboard."

"Besides, I assume we'll get caught up in a cut scene for the new plot once we make it far enough into the town," Elijah said. "Noah won't be able to log out in the middle of a cut scene."

"Good points," Landon conceded. Noah gave him a brief smile before his avatar grayed out with the letters AFK resting above his head. After a moment, his avatar disappeared completely and Landon fidgeted until Noah wavered back into view about five minutes later.

"There we go," Noah said, staring at the castle. "Much better. Onward!"

The group clamored down the path and joined the crowds. Elijah took the lead, his avatar being tall enough to meander through the crowds to head toward the castle. It was from the king of the realm that the players would receive the new plotline, the new goal of Steel and Sorcery. Raine gestured for Noah to go right behind Elijah, considering Noah was the smallest of the group, and amid the jostling of the crowd, Raine ended up a step behind Landon. Landon presumed Wyatt was bringing up the rear.

His presumption was shattered when Raine tapped his shoulder and called out to the other two, "Wait… We lost Wyatt."

Elijah glanced at them over his shoulder before tugging on Noah's arm and leading the rest of them out of the crowd toward one of the castle town's alleyways. "Thought it'd be you who would get lost," Elijah said casually to Noah.

Noah's ears turned red. "What? Why?"

"You're the smallest, that's all," Raine said, her gaze directed at the crowd as if they could spot their lanky fifth member. "Shouldn't be surprised with what I've learned about Wyatt's attention span these past few sessions, though."

"He probably found some market stalls and is spending our gold," Landon said, mentally berating himself for not taking up the rear. He should have been in the back keeping an eye on everyone.

"We have gold?" Noah asked.

Elijah chuckled. "Not much," he said. "Wyatt's probably putting us in the red."

"I'll go find him," Raine volunteered. "We can either meet you guys here or at the castle."

Landon was fine with meeting Raine and Wyatt at the castle, but he said, "We'll wait here. Don't think we can get the mission without the whole team."

"Alright," Raine said. "Be back soon."

She disappeared into the crowd, moving faster than Landon believed possible. Then again, he never tested out the rogue class. He quite liked the swords of the knight class, figuring the balance between offense and defense would suit him better than having a higher speed.

"Are all these players here for the same mission as us?" Noah asked, his eyes transfixed on the other avatars passing them by.

"Maybe," Elijah said lightly. "A new plotline always draws players in. Of course, it also depends on the teams' skill levels. I have my user settings so I can only see other players around the same skill level as us. Helps with lag and loading the graphics."

"Wait, how do you do that?" Noah asked. Elijah helped Noah bring up his user interface and walked him through the graphics options. Once they were done with the little tutorial, Noah beamed. "Okay, that's so much better! There's still a lot of people here, but at least I can see across the road now, haha!"

"How are you at a high enough level to join this mission," Landon asked, "when it sounds like you haven't really explored the basics of the game, like the user interface? I mean no offense," Landon added quickly when Noah's ears tinted red again. "Exploring all those options is just usually one of the first things I do whenever getting a new game, so it's a little odd to hear someone else… not."

Noah shrugged and tugged at the hem of his warrior armor. "I kind of just dive in, usually," he said. "I tend to figure out stuff as I go, but little options like the user settings I tend to forget about because I'm busy playing the game. I don't really think of that stuff until someone else mentions it or teaches me."

"Other people you play with haven't mentioned things like that?" Landon asked.

"I usually play by myself," Noah said. "So… no."

"Well, you'll learn by being with us," Elijah said. "Just stand next to Wyatt, wherever he is, and he'll babble enough to probably teach you how to code a game yourself."

"What about me? What do you need me to babble about?" Wyatt appeared at the edge of the alleyway, Raine right behind him with a shake of her head and a small smile on her face.

Wyatt didn't wait for anyone to answer, for he suddenly produced a bottle of thick, bubbling orange liquid from his user interface. "I'll babble about this!" he said. "I got this from an NPC vendor over by the entrance. He says it amplifies our magic power by five. I think we'll each get at least a small boost if we each take a sip—"

"I am not drinking that," Elijah said, his nose scrunched up. "That stuff looks like my first attempt at cooking tomato soup."

Wyatt raised an eyebrow as he stared from Elijah to the bottle. "Dude, tomato soup is red—"

"Why don't we talk about this later," Landon said, "and get going to the castle? I'll take up the rear this time."

"Sounds good to me," Raine said, gesturing for Elijah to take the lead once more. "I can trust your attention span."

Noah fell in step behind Elijah and Raine motioned for Wyatt to go ahead of her. Wyatt instead grinned and looped his arm with hers. "Since, you know, you can't trust my attention span," he said.

She rolled her eyes but opted to stay connect to Wyatt as they caught up with Elijah and Noah. Landon followed a step behind, marveling at the amused smiles on his teammates' faces. Was he the only one willing to take this seriously?

#writathon #writeblr #writing #wip #my wip: hard mode #writers of tumblr

[a-goddess-called-infinity]

Chapter 5: Calamity pt. 3

Synopsis: We finally cut to Pearl, Steven, and Connie, though we find they may be late to the action. This is where we transition from the "prologue" to current events. Heads clash, questions are thrown left and right, and a brand new face appears.

Words: 2642

AO3 link here

previous - next - beginning

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Pearl valiantly leads the way even though the two preteens trailing behind her were groaning and complaining the whole time. Particularly the not-as-fit Steven. It didn’t help that large portions of the old structure were broken, uneven, and at some parts destroyed. Still, the vigilant pearl was rather stubborn. 

“I knew we should’ve brought lion,” Steven groans. They left him at the house to keep guard. Plus, he didn’t seem that interested in coming, and it’s near impossible to convince the large feline to do anything he didn’t feel like doing.

“Now now Steven, this is good for you,” Pearl reassures, “Besides, we’ll be out of here in no time! It’s much more discreet this way too.” She earlier explained that since this is a gem-made passage, they wouldn’t be spat out into the heat of battle. She wanted to keep them safe after all, especially if this battle is like any she fought all those thousands of years ago.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Connie huffs, getting increasingly tired from carrying around her sword, “I mean, maybe it’s changed—”

“These caverns don’t just change,” Pearl scoffs, “they’ve just been… Damaged. Yeah, a little damage won’t stop us now will it?”

Steven and Connie exchange glances. Silence settles as they trek on a bit longer.

“Peeaarrll…”

“Yes, Steven?” She sighs.

“Can’t we just rest? For like 5 minutes?” He asks before plopping down against a rock. Pearl turns to reply when the caverns suddenly begin to violently shake. Steven shoots back up to his feet, “I didn’t do anything!” 

“Run!” Connie yells as stalactites begin falling. They blindly follow Pearl as she leads the way. She summons her spear to clear away debris in their path with elegantly calculated swings. Steven summons his shield and holds it above his and Connie’s head like an umbrella.

A large boulder crashes in front of them, causing Steven and Connie to skid to a halt. Pearl, however, continues to charge forward. She leaps up into the air and slashes downward with her spear. A wave of energy projects from the spear in the direction she cut, splitting the rock cleanly down the middle. Steven and Connie hurry through.

“Light!” Connie shouts, pointing to an opening where sunlight poured into the cave. They divert course to the exit of the caverns. The walls begin collapsing faster and faster behind them and the escape would be close. Even the incline they were running on began to crumble and descend. “We’re gonna have to jump,” Steven notes urgently. Pearl is already well ahead of them and out of the cave, but she had her hand reached out to them. 

They jump in unison as the incline fully collapsed. Arms interlocked, they reach out to Pearl.

Pearl grabs onto them at the last moment.

“I… Got you,” she says, straining heavily to pull them up.

Thankfully, they were able to help and pull themselves up. Once they’re in the clear, Steven and Connie collapse in exhaustion. Soon, the cave and their surroundings are still.

“See, I told you we’d be out in no time,” Pearl says, trying to remain optimistic as she rises to her feet and dusts herself off. She looks down at Steven and Connie, still on the ground of course, and frowns. “Ok, I suppose a rest is in order.”

After they caught their breath, Pearl urges them to trek onwards. They reach an overlook where they had an expansive view of the battlefield.

“Wow…” Steven comments breathlessly as the carnage unfolds. There is more apprehensiveness in the statement than actual wonder. All of those people and aliens dying and spilling blood and running each other through; it was a barbaric sight… Why did he insist on coming again?

Before Pearl can suggest anything, there’s a blast from somewhere above them. 

“What was that?” Connie exclaims.

“Look!” Interjects Steven as he points at the sky. Four objects fly away from Earth, leaving trails of green, purple, red, and orange. They watch in awed silence. 

Pearl’s attention returns to the field. “Seems that that caused the invading force to pull back,” she observes.

“So we missed the action?” Steven asks. There is an ambiguous mix of relief and disappointment in his voice. Pearl didn’t mind the notion.

“Well, I guess we can head back to the warp,” she says with a sarcastic shrug.

“Pearl, the cavern collapsed,” Connie points out.

“There’ll be another entrance,” she counters.

“Maybe we should find the others first,” Steven suggests. 

“Hm, you have a point, the others probably did get out first…” 

“Garnet, Amethyst, and Peridot got on a train which is infrastructure made by that city, maybe they’ll be closer to there?” Connie points out.

“Let’s go then!” Steven chirps. It’s clear Pearl had no choice but to go along with their plan. If she were to be honest, she was rather curious about this city and the technology it was bound to hold. Was there something on this planet that she, one who’s been here for thousands of years, she had yet to discover?

-

Back in the Wakandian tower, Steve and his team were trying to get a grip on what happened. By all means, they shouldn’t be standing here. Well, half of them anyway. Wanda had yet to wake up but she was in stable condition. The Mind Stone that mysteriously ended up in her hand zapped anyone that tried to take it, so they left it there.

“Alright, here are the four rogue stones,” Rocket was saying as he configures the table hologram they were observing to display the predicted path of the stones. 

“At this rate, they’ll be in the next galaxy over by tomorrow,” Natasha retorts as she observes their momentum. It’s a slight exaggeration, but not far off.

“We have one though,” Banner says optimistically, “We just gotta, uh…”

“Redo today’s fiasco with the big purple douchebag? Who, by the way, has the one stone that lets him teleport wherever he wants?” Sam points out. Uneasy and tired glances are exchanged. A huff is heard from across the room from a sulking Thor.

“My main concern is that warship loitering on our front yard,” Steve says to break the tension. A different image is pulled up, one that displayed Thanos’s fleet in just outside of their orbit. Their forces had been retracted off the soil itself, but the fleet is still hanging around, apparently.

“Well it’s obvious, they know we have a stone so they’re gonna take it first before they go for the others,” Rocket suggests as a matter-of-factly.

“Then why did they call a full retreat? Thanos is still kicking, they have leadership, they have a mission. So?...” Bucky counters.

“Unless he isn’t,” Thor says, calling everyone’s attention, “The beast needs time to lick his wounds if he’s going to try again, especially with only one stone in his arsenal.” A short silence descends on the group. Okoye is eyeing the tear-drop gem Banner is still holding onto.

“I do wonder about those… allies that appeared today,” T’Challa ponders as if reading her mind.

“Those three bogeys?” Sam asks.

“Ah, four,” Banner corrects, holding up the gem.

“That does… nothing to clarify what you meant by that.”

“How much for that?” Rocket butt in.

“What? No, no I don’t even know what it, or she I guess, is,” Banner explains.

“She?” a couple of people echo.

“This rock was a girl at one point and she had crazy water powers. I would’ve been toast had she not showed up. She said she needed to regroup with some others so I had her follow me… Then she just poofed into thin air in the Blast,” Banner says, making hand motions, “She called herself Lapis Lazuli.”

“One of the others referred to herself as Garnet,” Okoye reports.

“So we got a team of people with weird abilities named after rocks helping us,” Natasha comments.

After a little longer of back and forth, T’Challa is called down to the city to handle an intrusion of some sort. Steve meanwhile left the others to check on Wanda. He bumps into Shuri on the way down.

“Oh, she’s up, and very frazzled,” Shuri reports unprompted.

“Thank you. Give us a moment, would you?” He requests. Shuri nods and continues on to wherever she was heading.

Steve found Wanda sitting on the edge of her bed looking intently on the Mind Stone. Her lips quiver as if she intended to speak, but she is too shaken to. 

“Wanda?”

She finally looks up, though the look in her eyes is slightly distant.

“O-Oh, sorry I—” she trails off and wipes her eyes. She made no attempt to continue that statement and simply sighs.

“Are you alright?” Steve asks as he sat down next to her. It’s a redundant question, but he wants to pull her back into reality.

Wanda shakes her head and laughs dryly, “You know when I first woke up a moment ago, I hoped dearly all of that was a bad dream, that I’d reach over and he’d still be there. But then I look and all there is, is this,” she says bitterly. If it weren’t for that cursed stone…

“Wanda,” Steve says slowly, “What happened back there?”

Wanda shut her eyes tightly, “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” he says sincerely. He’d like to think not much phases him anymore, though that has been proven wrong from time to time.

Wanda shifts and sighs again, “When I destroyed the Mind Stone, Thanos used the gauntlet to reverse it and got it back. Once he added it to the gauntlet, something went wrong. The power wouldn’t stop, h-he even said that ‘this isn’t right’.”

Steve waits patiently for her to continue.

“He turned to me, I think? He wasn’t looking right at me. Must’ve thought I was doing something. That’s when I heard it, it was so terrible.”

“What?”

“Screaming. Terrible screaming. From… The stones.”

“The stones?”

“Yes, it’s crazy, but what else could that have been? They were chanting over and over ‘release us’,” Wanda finishes as she holds her head in her free hand. Steve vaguely thought of those strangers on the field but didn’t quite make a connection. Steve eventually gets up and thinks for a moment.

“You did what you could out there you know, don’t let it weigh too much on you,” he offers, “I’m heading back up… Do you want me to hang onto that?” he asks, referring to the stone. She shook her head. Without much more than that, he leaves.

Wanda looks at the stone once again. As much as she blamed it for everything, she was still inexplicably drawn to it. It defined everything she was, her power, her love, her mission, her tragedy.

She idly plays with it using her magic. She is reminded when Vision first told her that it was trying to tell him something and she messed with it then.

“I just feel you,” she whispers to herself. 

There’s something different now though. The way it intermingled with her power was the same, but it felt more active, alive even. It coiled and churned and pulled at her small, gentle streams of energy. It beckoned and soothed and thrilled her subconscious. Was this what it was like to have this thing in her head? Was this what it was like to be Vision? The familiarity was wrong and eerie.

Wanda…

She jolts and looks around. She is still alone. It didn’t sound like that was out loud, it was like another unknown voice in her head. Could it be?

Wanda… Help me…

“W-What?” she chokes out, looking back at the stone. It’s glowing a bit brighter, churning a bit more wildly.

Only you… Only you… Only you…

She isn’t sure what it meant by that, but she starts fiddling with it again with her powers. Brighter and brighter it grew until at one point it’s floating on its own as a great white light forms around it.

-

When Steve rejoins the others, three strangers are present; a tall lady with pale skin and a smooth, white stone on her forehead and two kids.

“Look, I don’t feel the need to explain myself to you, we contributed, the battle’s over, and now we just want our allies so we can get out of your hair,” she scoffs with her arms crossed.

“Pearl, they might not even know who we’re talking about,” says one of the kids, a boy with black curly hair and a pink shirt.

“What’s going on here?” Steve asks aloud.

“These three were apprehended just inside of the city,” T’Challa replies.

Pearl is about to retort when the boy interrupts her, “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m Steven, this is Pearl, and this is Connie. We came to help out and got separated from our friends,” explains, making gestures, “There’s a tall one with box-shaped hair, a short green one with triangle-shaped hair, a purple one, and a blue one with water wings…”

“Ah, so you are friends with those rocks,” Rocket quips.

“We prefer the term gem,” Pearl corrects.

“So you’ve seen them?” Steven says hopefully, ignoring their exchange. At that point, Banner came forward and grimly presents the blue gem he’d been holding, “She was looking for you guys before she—”

“Lapis!” Steven gasps as he interrupts Banner to take it from him.

“I’m really sorry, I tried to—”

“No, no, she’s fine, she’ll reform. Thank you,” Steven interrupts again, offering him a grateful smile.

“Reform?” he echos.

“Our power comes from our gem,” Pearl jumps in, “Our bodies are made of light, pure illusion.” The wheels in Banner’s head really start turning at that slice of information, wondering how these beings work.

“Slightly more relevant question,” Natasha interrupts, “Why are you here? How are you here?”

“To help fight! We’re protectors of Earth,” Steven answers enthusiastically. Pearl facepalms.

“... You’re children.”

“Well, I’m part gem,” Steven says, lifting his shirt and puzzling Banner even more. “And Pearl trained me to sword fight!” Connie adds as she held up her large pink sword. “So, where are the other three then?” Pearl asks as the conversation is getting derailed again.

“There was a report that they accidentally hitched a ride on an Outrider dropship as it was retreating,” Sam answers.

“They’re in space?!” Pearl exclaims.

“Well, they haven’t left our solar system yet.”

“Oh I knew it, I knew we shouldn't have come, this isn’t a gem issue I said but no one listens to Pearl anymore do they?” Pearl rambles as she began to pace. Steven futilely tries to console her. Bucky stands with Steve off to the side as things unfold.

“So what, are they part of the team now?” he asks. Steve shrugs, “They got wrapped up in this mess and helped, so I suppose. The infinity stones are our first priority, though.”

Suddenly, there is a scream from the lower level.

“It’s Wanda!” 

Steve and several other people rush down with weapons drawn. They were expecting an Outrider coming for the stone, but they happen a much different scene. The Mind Stone was nowhere to be seen, but there was a stranger in the room with Wanda. She had pale yellow skin and bright yellow hair tied back with a red band. She also had a red cape and a bright blue asymmetrical skirt connecting her arms with “wings”, covering a brown and off-yellow leotard. When she turns to them, she shockingly has the Mind Stone nested in her forehead.

“Who are you, and why do you have the stone?” Steve asks. Everyone tenses up. The stranger only smiles.

“Why, I would hope it’s obvious,” she starts. Her voice is soft and accented, making it strangely similar to Vision’s voice.

“I am the Mind Stone.”

#agci #A Goddess Called Infinity #mcu #su #marvel #steven universe #crossover #fanfic #ao3 #oof theres gonna be a lot of character tags #pearl #connie maheswaran #Steve Rodgers #rocket raccoon #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #bruce banner #sam wilson #bucky barnes #okoye #T'Challa #shuri #thor #lapis lazuli #garnet #amethyst #peridot #mind stone #Infinity Stone #Gemsona!Mind stone

[doomedandstoned]

Cardinals Folly: Heathens From The North Invade!

~By Stephanie V. Cantu~

CARDINALS FOLLY released Deranged Pagan Sons this week on Nine Records. Let us expect a full unleashing of ferocity on the instruments and the wizardry of frontman, Mikko Kääriäinen to lead the magikal ritual as we step into their dark, doomy circle. The composition of this record was born from the frozen north, in heavy metal capitol of the world Helsinki, Finland. There’s something about the Finnish language that is pure magik when you hear it. Here we have a true dialect of power, incantations felt in all Cardinals Folly discography. This album gains in power and freedom in the viciousness of evil expression in the vocal section, and the music, though at times hypnotic, mostly drives us forward in fast-paced blackened doom.

When the record comes on, you are possessed with groove to rock, holding the goat by the horns for this Cardinals Folly ritual. Let it be known, it isn’t a safe place, as you too will soon be playing devil’s advocate in this doom metal anthem march. There are so many elements present here, most notably a primitive, shamanistic rhythm that rocks us into doom metal trance. An aboriginal feel to this pagan theme is felt in the instrumentation, and it is evident there’s a diabolical tongue at play in Satan’s temple. Indeed we are faced with the Deranged Pagan Sons that are Cardinals Folly. This record clocks in at 48 minutes, laying down doom metal law for us in heavy metal fashion. Onward we are led.

WORSHIP HER FIRE

Opening the Gates of Power with this first track, Cardinals Folly revs us up for a wild pilgrimage behind the instrumentation. Saddle up for a doom trifecta ride on the drums, bass, and guitar as we denounce traitors and rebuild our pagan temples. For anyone hearing Cardinals Folly for the first time, Deranged Pagan Sons is a good start to sample the magik of the CF discography and get the alchemical gold this band has refined through the years. The epic quality grasped in the lyrical verse and lore of the songwriting is still present, the unique imprint of the vocalization leading this band is familiar even when unleashed, and the instrumentation does not veer far from what Cardinals Folly is, though is played more ferociously on this album.

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Cardinals Folly brings authenticity to doom metal as a scene and genre. A band raised on cold, northern traditional doom metal continues to carry the torch passed on from bands such as Reverend Bizarre, Count Raven, Minotauri, and Spiritus Mortis. In honor of the Ways of Olde, yet still completely rebellious to what our mode of conventionality is, Cardinals Folly brings the heat with Worship Her Fire as we click our hooves down the left-handed path. The metallic guitar of warlock Juho does not merely riff, we are taken on axe journeys that interweave harp-like threading and hard rhythm. Joni’s drums are centralized with a tribal beat that does not die, the blood of a war mentality heard through the ages in the pounding skins. Here is where shamanic rhythm lends its primal rawness, giving us galloping crusader rage as the bass encapsulates us in saw-like shredding.

Cracking start to the album, and a wonderful turn by turn-composition with the riffs by me and Juho. The lyrics basically continue where our cult track "Blood Axis Raiders" left off in 2009. The old gods are furious, for their heritage has been raped... fight the religion, politics, mankind’s greatest errors.

DIONYSIAN

Wine, festivity, and madness take over as the record begins establishing focus on pleasures of the flesh. Fornication and passing of the sacred cup makes its way around the Circle, a setting not highly unusual for ritualists Cardinals Folly. If you have explored their Holocaust of Ecstasy and Freedom material, you will know frontman Mikko Kääriäinen is synonymous to the serpent in the garden of Eve, forever leading us to temptation. We are reminded we must live before we die, we must retrace our steps to recover the lost divinities of sensual freedom repressed by orthodox disillusionment. We are left to ponder these twisted wisdoms that encourage us to partake in dark fantasies, as the inhibitions of religious doctrine crumble away...

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Another fiery rocking doom tune, dealing with the cult of Dionysos and pagan rites. Probably our best chorus so far? The ultimate anthem for your night with wine, woman and song...? Sometimes it´s just better to ROCK, and Dionysian shows that in beautiful fashion. Attack!

DERANGED PAGAN SONS

Invoking the gods of Chaos, Cardinals Folly assume the role of Deranged Pagan Sons, offering us a sip from their chalice of madness. This is the most powerful track on the record, with instrumentation rivaling some of the best New Wave of Traditional Heavy Metal bands out there right now. Our fork-tongued vocalist gives us lyrical verses which drive forward the doom metal agenda, reminding us we are still within the realm of evil despite more brilliant shining guitar melodies.

The doomed ones ride out With wooden pendants of blood Dark cobble-stoned alleys Feed our souls alive

Deranged pagan sons Warlocks in their prime Not asking anything But graveyards in the night

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Although this track initially takes on a more mellow and noble approach, the vicious doom groove returns soon enough to possess your body for another relentless wave. Riding out with the Cardinals Folly banner unfurling, we crusade for proclamation of the return of true doom metal. A song like this must have been born of early 80s epic metal, with some foundation of Manilla Road lore and Running Wild acknowledgement.

Our ultimate anthem about what we are. Assholes with heart of gold. Hah hah hah! Sometimes life demands hard approach with blasting old school metal riffs, yet the hardship would never change the fact that we believe in good. Through ominous ways. Beautiful galloping riffing blasts your soul on this one.

THE ISLAND WHERE TIME STANDS STILL

Here we enter a more sorrowful atmosphere which takes on more emotional aspects. Synonymously, the water element of this song’s aquatic theme successfully portrays seafaring longings of absent romance. Even if for a brief moment, we feel the deep soul of Cardinals Folly’s majestic introspection before being catapulted headlong back into fierce tides. Restless and wild, we accept there will be no easy moments for us while engaging this album. Cardinals Folly flexes their versatility and virtuosity with highly executed pace setting and rhythm changes throughout this song.

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Definitely one of the album highlights. Most successful transition from slow and mellow to fast and hard. Possibly the last CF song dealing with a Dennis Wheatley book title, and continuation of themes from our old "lost world" song series, such as "Uncharted Seas" and "They Found Atlantis."

THREE-BLADED DOOM

This song takes place in the aftermath of the raiding wars our Deranged Pagan Sons have partaken in. We are left wandering the streets with broken faith, reminded we have played the merciful fool within the false constructs of religion and society. Yet, a hand is still offered for us to join the Cardinals Folly cult as we pick up the pieces. We are given the choice to stay spoiling in the ruins or be pulled up upon mighty horses to ride out the night with fanciful pagan rites.

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Three-Bladed Doom is a steady doom metal march, with each member of this Finnish trio carving out the Truth in us like a sacrificial dagger. The verses lead us with descriptive lyrical segments championing the Cardinals Folly cause as frontman Mikko curses the vengeful Lord that was once your savior.

We´re labeled outsiders Heartless cold brutes By lord, truth, savior Three-Bladed Doom!

Honoring the code You´ve lived by the book Where lord merciful Can´t be more vengeful!

This song answers to the brutality in me. Every riff chord is like a pack of fucking icicles landing on your back when you least expect it. It´s striking. A composition living and breathing beautifully out of sheer willingness to preach with power doom. Again we keep our heads bloody, yet unbowed. It rolls on like The Gates of Slumber used to, searching for its prey...

SUICIDE COMMANDO

If there was a track on this album reserved for the decapitation of the goat in this ritual, it would be Suicide Commando. The fierce underworld howling demons channel through our vocalist in this song, making it seem as if the previous few tracks were merely preparation for the soft underbelly to be split open. Though this record is extremely brutal through and through, this track would be the closest in semblance to the pure evil evidenced in northern black metal. This influence won’t be heard in double timing drums or extreme guitar strumming, but more so in the vocal style of Mikko Kääriäinen. I believe this makes for an interesting hybrid of doom, with traditional Cardinals Folly instrumentation enabling exploration in new vocal territory. We are carried on the winds of familiarity, while still experimenting and holding true to what fans love about this band’s music.

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Suicide Commando is a relentless brute who fights against all odds. Bone-headed heavy metal power riffs support the cause of a man who is willing to parachute to a field full of haystacks -- from 100 metres if necessary. Never tell him the odds.

I BELONG IN THE WOODS

We begin nearing the record’s completion as we recapitulate the energy spent being devious and hedonistic in Pan’s abundant vineyard of pleasures. Here we find an introspective song which leads us by the hand into the most desolate of forests, to honor the hermit within and find our self-illuminating truths. After all is said and done, we stare at the chalice as it lays emptied upon the ground, wondering if our spoils have too been drunken by the earth. Our souls are bared and we are left laying naked with shivering affirmations that we can never return to the false towers built by the constructs of society. I Belong In The Woods is the invitation to remain free, to be accepting of the emptiness that returns after a frenzied feeding. The instrumentation remains a steady groove, allowing a depressive mood and melancholy to settle in without thrashing it away.

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Perhaps the most personal song for me, an ancient composition, and therefore also musically more challenging and less in-your-face. I think the melancholic Warning-y guitars work really well here. The title is taken from Pelle "Dead" Ohlin's (Mayhem) suicide note, btw. For outsider feelings and those desolate times.

SECRET OF THE RUNES

The closing of the magik Circle takes place with a last wisdom from the Viking runes, consecrating our imbued purpose. We invite the grandeur of our pagan deity to help decipher the ancient code in this Cardinals Folly ballad. Romance of the past roots us with surety of awaiting rewards of honor and knowledge after an album of devilish delights. This is reflected in noble vocalization Mikko Kääriäinen is so known for, manipulating our lasting feelings of the album in guise of the spiritual light underlying Cardinals Folly lore. Lastly, we are invited to burn ourselves clean into the fire as the final verse shelters over us the lording Right Hand of Doom.

In glowing embers of fire The secret of the runes Cleansing all our past sins Embodied in ancient priest-kings, oh!

Deranged Pagan Sons by Cardinals Folly

Staring at the ritual fire. Remembering the dead. Taking an intoxicating flame of wine in your soul. Remembering the past. And that you´re still a powerful being. Creates this epic bang of doom. Some say that slow doom songs are not in our blood. Well, sometimes they are proven wrong... like here! Very ritualistic and makes me want to raise a ritual toast to the dead. And all obstacles conquered.

☠

The Pagan Sons became Deranged at Harju Doom Church in February of 2017. Recorded, mixed, and mastered by Juha Kapiainen and Cardinals Folly.

Cardinals Folly is:

Mikko Kääriäinen -- Lord Juho Kilpelä -- Truth Joni Takkunen -- Saviour

Cardinals Folly Live 'n' Loud:

September 15th: Rhythm Repair Shop, Seinäjoki (w. Spiritus Mortis, Musta Risti) October 6th: Otto boy, Kuopio (w. Grip Of Death) October 7th: Marks, Joensuu (w. Serpent Warning) November 11th: Golden Classics, Helsinki (w. Caskets Open, Slave Hands + 1)

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#D&S Reviews #Cardinals Folly #Helsinki #Finland #Doom #Metal #Epic Doom #Occult #Stephanie V. Cantu #Doomed & Stoned