#the wandering earth III

[indewthoughts]

This feels like a dream!! I can't be any more happier!!!

#the wandering earth #the wandering earth III #qu chuxiao #zhao jinmai #indewthoughts

[anemoi-i]

Venti’s Presence in Mondstadt and in Lore: A Comprehensive List

Barbatos is an Archon that does everything in secret and wants virtually no recognition for it. Desiring not to become like Decarabian, he "disappeared" so Mondstadt could be free and without a ruler, yet he has still done what he could to retain Mondstadt's peace. Here is a comprehensive list of everything of note that he has done.

Disclaimer: I may miss details. Some things such as character voice lines about Venti, save for Xiao’s are largely omitted. All sources are present.

I. Wind Gliders

“The ability of wind gliders to glide is reliant first and foremost on the Blessing of the Anemo Archon. Of course, it’s also been intertwined with human engineering.”

Wings of Companionship

II.  But I do not intend to make my readers think that we could do without archons. On the contrary, say, if Barbatos had not guided the warm monsoons to Mondstadt with his divine powers, would Mondstadt still be so bountiful as to produce the brews that it does?

The answer would be no. Mondstadt is an inland city and would have struggled to provide for itself if not for the grace of Barbatos. If we look back through history, we learn that Mondstadt is situated on a land that was once frozen, where the living conditions were harsh and brewing would be virtually impossible. It was the power of Barbatos that changed everything.

Along With Divinity: Prologue

III. The songs that had once flown joyfully in the wind were drowned by a venomous dragon [Durin]. In the wake of its earth-shaking footsteps, even the cries and the flames were ripped asunder. The Anemo Archon heard their agony, though he had refused to rule. But to protect his old friends' dream, and defend the wind-kissed fields of green,He woke from his long slumber anew, and with the sky dragon [Dvalin] in battle he flew...

Elegy For The End

IV. In ancient times, Barbatos softly strummed his lyre and summoned the pure thousand winds and songs. Charmed by the free-spirited winds and songs, Dvalin the high dragon descended and swore loyalty to him. Barbatos rejoiced in making a new friend, and entrusted the people of Mondstadt to Dvalin. And so, the wandering Anemo Archon and the Wind Dragon forged Mondstadt's dawn with their relationship.

Skyward Harp

V. On the cliff facing the eastern sea, the ancestors worshipped the masters of Time and Anemo together. The two are intimately related, as expressed in the saying, "Anemo brings stories while Time nurtures them." This bow tells the story of the pioneers and the hardships they went through.

Sacrificial Bow

VI. When Mondstadt was born anew, and the Church finally unshackled, the scriptures of the winds could bear no longer being confined to a shelf, and so the book took flight, left the Church's treasury and was gone. Like the winds of Mondstadt, and like the people of Mondstadt, it belonged to freedom and the winds. The elegant handwriting on the title page reads:

Children of the Anemo Archon, heed these words:

From the winds we have come, and with the winds we shall go.

Never, ever grieve for me.

'Tis but my flesh and bones which rest in the soil:

My soul has become one with the thousand winds.

When flowers bloom, when leaves sway,

That is me who sings the songs of freedom, of the winds.

Lost Prayer to the Sacred Winds: Scriptures of the ancient winds, passed from generation to generation among the observers of ritual in service of the Anemo Archon.

VII. The Skyward Atlas consists of 100,000 odes to a single cloud or wind and calling it by name. The cloud atlas gave form to the winds, and odes infused them with personality. The myriad formless winds are now friends and family in the eyes of Barbatos. Legends tell that in ancient times, Barbatos summoned the four winds with the original version. He thawed the snow, drove away vicious beasts, summoned rainfall, and created Mondstadt.He permitted the atlas to be shared and copied among the people, giving it the name of Cloud Atlas.

­Skyward Atlas

VIII. In the days of the ruling aristocracy, the Church that revered the Anemo Archon was once split in twain by a schism: On one side stood the clergy, who ate at the lords' table, and overturned the archon's statues with them even as they wrote songs and hymns of praise. On the other stood the saints, who held no clerical office, and who walked the streets, the wine cellars, and the world beyond the walls. These saints drank cheap moonshine, blessing the slave and the plebeian with the original holy manuscripts that circulated amongst the people and with words that the wind brought to them.

And while they did so, they penned forbidden songs and poetry.

When the gladiator from a foreign land [Vennessa] arose together with the re-awakened Anemo Archon and raised the banner of rebellion, the aged saint known as the Nameless Shepherd mobilized the true adherents of the Church of Favonius.

Song of Broken Pines

IX. When he opened his eyes, he was in the sky above a mountain swept by roaring snowstorms, the green, tranquil land had already been painted crimson by fire and blood,and the song of that sky-blue bard's lyre was almost drowned in the howling tumult,and that bejeweled, lovely dragon, like a tender lover, had now pierced his neck through with its sharp fangs.

"Farewell, Mother! My journey is ended. I shall sleep beneath this white, shining silver... and perhaps this, too, is good. Farewell, O lovely bard! And farewell, O lovely dragon! Would that we had met in a different time and place, to meet, to sing and dance together!"

So he thought most sincerely as he lay dying.

Durin (Dragonspine Spear)

X. They say that a region's character follows that of its archon, and that this holds true both for the people and the land itself, but was it the unfettered archon who bestowed a love of freedom and wine upon the land and people amidst conflict? Or was it the people who nurtured the Anemo Archon's love of freedom as they pined for it amid the howling wind and frost?

This is a question that can no longer be answered.

Freedom Sworn

XI. Twenty-six hundred years ago was the era of Mondstadt's most ancient inhabitants. They swore a solemn oath, after the new Anemo Archon descended and reformed the world:

"For Mondstadt, as always. For the verdant plains, for the hills, and for the forests of Mondstadt. May they continue to flourish, as always."

"For Mondstadt, as always. For the everlasting freedom of Mondstadt from the blizzard and the tyrant, whose coldness and oppression are one and the same."

­­Royal Longsword (Refers to Gunnhildr Clan & the oath to protect Mondstadt.)

XII. Ludi Harpastum

Ludi Harpastum was established in commemoration of how Barbatos, the Anemo Archon, taught his people to brew wine and live freely. It was a festival meant for all people to enjoy. However, by the time of Vennessa's rebellion a thousand years before Genshin Impact's main story, Barbatos had long departed to avoid becoming a tyrant like his predecessor, while the aristocracy that ruled Mondstadt grew corrupt and abused their power.

The event turned into a mockery of what it originally was. It became an event enjoyed only by the wealthy elites. The head of the Lawrence Clan, the foremost clan among the aristocracy, cared not for the enjoyment of the people and canceled all the games, leaving only the climax of the harpastum. However, only Lord Lawrence's son, Barca Lawrence, had the right to touch that harpastum. Anyone else who dared even approach the ball would immediately face torture. Furthermore, Barca was also given the rights to take the maiden who will throw the harpastum home.

Barbatos awakens during the climax of the Ludi Harpastum in the manga and seizes the Harpastum.

Genshin Impact Manga

XIII. The Letter in the Chasm

Not as if I were to be outfitted as that guardian of Khaenri’ah,

Not as if my destructive self were made to be the lyre of Barbatos,

Not as if I were meant to soar like a Pegasus,

Not if I were the swift, snow-white pair of Morphes,

Add these to the feather-footed and the winged,

And likewise, call for the swiftness of the winds,

And though you should harness these, friend, and offer them to me,

Yet I should be tired to the bone, and worn away by frequent faintness,

My friend, while I would search for you,

The heavens fall to pieces,

And falsehoods collapse.

Mysterious Letter obtainable after completing The Chasm related Archon Quest(s) & World Quests (Information gathered by CatWithBlueHat)

It is important to note that each player who finished these quests only received one line of this letter in Abyssal Language, indicating this is a bigger part of something and made to be very secretive and hard to decipher if not for the efforts of players to translate it.

XIV. The Hexenzirkel

“Once upon a time, it even challenged the Anemo Archon himself, but he replied: “Let us make music, not war, and resolve our conflicts through song.”

Alice, The Mage’s Tea Party (Windblume’s Breath)

XV. Waterborne Poetry

“A soft breeze beckoned me unto a spring. “Sleep, weary wanderer. Your journey is over. May the dancing petals sweeten your slumber.”

Callirhoe, who recalled her journey to Springvale (Waterborne Poetry event)

XVI. Presence as a significant figure to Xiao

He longs for a day to come when he will wear the mask and dance — not to conquer demons, but to the tune of that flute amid a sea of flowers.

Barbatos appears as a cameo in Yakshas: The Guardian Adepti, playing the Dihua Flute. It suggests his music is powerful enough to suppress Xiao’s Karmic Debt. He also has a line for Barbatos indicaing he knows who he is, but cuts himself off.

Yakshas: The Guardian Adepti & Xiao: Mask (Namecard)

Other things to note:

As of Version 4.3 Mondstadt is the only nation that does not suffer from any “filth” that needs to be purged either by a Sacred Tree or otherwise. The battle that took place 500 years ago with Durin did not affect the nation in any way, instead, Durin died on Dragonspine which was already affected by the Skyfrost Nail and is an inhabited land that only Adventurers see as an area to explore. No one lives there. Even with the presence of his “heart”/”core” still beating, it would forever lie in the frozen wasteland unless someone were to deliberately disrupt it.

There are no storms in Mondstadt. Vind, one of the Sisters/Storm Watchers, says that she hopes she never has to do her job.

A large amount of npc’s around Mondstadt, especially in the area of the Anemo Archon statue, revere Barbatos and speak highly of him

It is important to note that during the second rebellion, Barbatos also forged Rex Lapis’ signature to dismantle the Aristocracy, indicating he would go to such lengths to establish freedom for the nation.

Barbatos’ voiceline about Albedo suggests that he knows close to “everything” about him, especially about his fear of “destroying Mondstadt.”

In addition to the above, Barbatos contradicts himself: “Ah, never mind! What goes on within Mondstadt's walls is up to Mondstadt's people to deal with!” Except that twice when the people cried out for help, he awoke to help them and has actively been helping Mondstadt with no recognition. From liberating Mondstadt to helping an Oceanid, this line will not hold any weight in any argument that suggests that Barbatos does nothing for Mondstadt.

Barbatos was already attempting to purge the Abyssal corruption from Dvalin prior to the Traveler’s appearance.

There is irony in Diluc and Jean finding out Barbatos’ true identity considering both the Ragnvindr’s and the Gunnhildr’s were primary protectors of Mondstadt.

The Skyward Atlas suggests Barbatos was originally a catalyst user while Amos’ Bow suggests he changed his weapon to a bow to honor Amos’ memory. He uses Der Frühling (E Skill) in a way a catalyst user might.

His appearance as his dear friend, the Nameless Bard is to honor his memory for the skies, bright sun and birds he could never see. To honor the songs he could no longer play.

#genshin impact #genshin impact lore #venti #krisposting #txt

[rollingsins]

all hers, part viii

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Wes is acting weird. Weirder than usual. Ghostface!Tara

warnings: (+18), ghostface!tara, possessive behaviors, murder of an established character. 

word count: 4k

a/n: peep the murder warning for this one, thought we’d get stabby again ;) as always, thanks so much for the love and let me know what you want to see next!

Wes is acting weird. Weirder than usual. 

You’ve felt it ever since the night of Amber’s party. He had always been one of Tara’s quieter friends. Shy, almost. But he was sweet, and he’d always had a lot in common with Tara. They both liked those awful, gory horror movies. Video-games. They had the same taste in food and in books. In fact, out of all of Tara’s friends, you think you liked Wes the most. He’d been the first to welcome you into the group when you’d started dating Tara, and he always went out of his way to make you feel like you belonged. 

But over the past week he’d been acting even stranger. 

It had started in the cafeteria on Monday, when you’d arrived late to lunch and climbed into your usual spot in Tara’s lap. He’d watched you close as you’d kissed her softly, fed her the last of your grapes. He was just lonely, you figured. He wanted a girlfriend of his own, maybe. 

But then Tuesday he’d looked down at your entwined hands in the hall and made a face. Something you couldn’t quite place in his expression. 

Wednesday he’d left the table the moment you and Tara sat down. 

And Thursday he spent the entire biology lesson staring at the back of Tara’s head. And something clicked. 

“Wes has a crush on you.” You tell Tara that night. She’s in the kitchen, one hand stirring the potatoes, the other minding the chicken. You’d been thinking about it all afternoon. Stewing about it all afternoon. The idea of him and her made your stomach writhe with hot, wanton jealousy. 

Tara looks up at you for a moment. Then, she quirks her eyebrow and snorts. 

“It’s not funny.” You tell her, smacking her arm gently. 

“Why on earth would you think that?” She asks. She’s amused, you can tell by the sparkle in her eyes. You’re not laughing. 

“I caught him staring at you today.” You say, “All through biology. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

She stirs the chicken, a smile playing on her lips. 

“Maybe he was daydreaming.” She suggests, a little wry. 

“Babe. He wasn’t daydreaming. He was staring. He has a crush on you.” 

Tara puts down her spoon, reaches for you. 

“Wes doesn’t have a crush on me,” Tara assures. She pulls you into her, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “He’s like my brother. You have nothing to worry about.” 

She makes her point with a kiss. Strokes the hair out of your eyes. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” You mumble. You feel hot, a little tingly. It had been hard for you at first to understand why Tara got so angry when she thought someone liked you. You think you understand it now. Anger burns under your skin. Anger towards him. 

“Stop worrying.” She kisses you once more. Retracts to go back to her cooking, “Wes is harmless. And he doesn’t like me. I’ve known him forever.” 

It feels unfair, the way she’s allowed to brush this off so easily. Your mind can’t help but wander. Dan. Sam. Sadie. Chase. Amber. All with one thing in common. 

“If he had a crush on me, you’d have killed him by now.” You don’t often bring it up, the elephant in the room. It was unspoken between you. Like if you didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist. 

Tara looks up at you. She isn’t smiling anymore.  

“That’s different.” She says, quiet. Your lip twitches. 

“How?” 

“You know how.” 

You do know how. She’d explained it, one night when you were entwined and your curiosity had gotten the better of you. The Rage, she’d called it. She described the feeling. Hot, ever-present, like burning bright fury coursing through her veins. 

“Well, maybe that’s how I’m feeling right now.” 

It feels like a low blow, the moment the words leave your lips. If you were honest, you had no idea what The Rage felt like. This was something different. Something less. Insecurity, maybe. Jealousy. You didn’t want Wes thinking of your girlfriend the way only you were supposed to. 

“So what are you saying?” Tara asks, “You want to kill him? You want me to kill him?”

You hesitate a moment. 

“No. Of course not.”

“Good.” She says. There’s tension in her shoulders. She stirs the potatoes, a little more violently, “Because I won’t. He’s my friend.” 

She points her spatula at you, accusingly, “And besides, you made me promise-”

“I know.” You cut her off. Rub your eyes, “I’m sorry. Forget it. I don’t know why I said that.” 

You lean into her, press your forehead to her shoulder. She’s tense. You press your lips to the back of her neck, trying to soothe her. Trying to apologize. 

“You’re right, he was probably daydreaming.” You say and she relaxes. 

Wes isn’t in school the next day. It’s still there in the back of your mind, the idea that he wants your girlfriend. You try to shake it, the horrible feeling of suspicion that seeps into your bones. He has no chance with her even if he does like her, you tell yourself, She loves you. She wants you. 

If nothing else you can believe that. 

It’s Friday, date night, and Tara’s taking you out to a new place that opened up a couple of towns over. You want to wear something special, look nice for her, so you insist she drives you back to your house so you can grab your outfit after school. She parks in her usual spot, down a small side street so your dad doesn’t see her and switches off the engine. 

“I’ll only be five minutes.” You tell her, leaning over the console of the car to kiss her, “Thanks, baby.” 

And you exit the car and dash up to the house.  

Your dad isn’t home, a small blessing, so you make your way upstairs and rifle through your closet, looking for the dress you want. 

Not a minute later, someone is ringing your doorbell. 

When you answer, it’s Wes standing at the door. 

He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. He’s jittery, nervous. He swallows when he sees you. 

“YN.” His voice is serious, “Can I come in?” 

This is it, you think as he plays with the can of soda you’ve offered him, he’s about to tell me he’s going to make a play for my girlfriend. 

He’s refused your offer to sit down so you stand, watching as he paces back and forth through your kitchen. 

Your stomach writhes, that familiar feeling of jealousy sinking in. 

Tara will rebuff him. 

It’s that voice in your head, trying to calm you. 

But then again, what if she doesn’t?

Wes sits. Flattens his hands on the table. His knee is bouncing, nervous. He looks as though he might throw up. 

“I have to tell you something.” 

You blink back at him. Grit your teeth. 

“Alright.” 

You wait, but he takes a minute. Decent of him to pay you a visit, you think briefly, as decent as a person could be when he’s about to try and steal your girlfriend from you. Your mind flashes to all those times he’d been with her alone. Taking her to the cinema to watch whatever latest slasher was showing. Talking for hours with her about the importance of elevated horror over a plate of fries at the local diner. You wonder if that’s how he’d fallen for her. A beautiful girl talking animatedly with him about a bunch of teenagers who’d been carved up by a masked killer. 

If only he knew.  

“I don’t want you to freak out.” Wes says. His eyes are wide, earnest. “I’ve thought really long and hard about this and I wanted to come here first. You deserve the truth.” 

He runs a hand through his bleached hair. He’s handsome, you suppose. You could see the appeal. They’d make an attractive couple. Your heart clenches painfully at the thought. 

Tara loves you. Tara’s killed for you. Tara doesn’t want him. 

The voice is back. You’re grateful for it. Wes could tell Tara he wanted her until he was blue in the face, it wouldn’t make a lick of a difference. 

“Wes-” You say. You think for a moment, trying to pick your words carefully, “I know what you’re going to say. And-”

“You don’t.” Wes says. His leg is bouncing again, “Please, YN. I need to get this out now or I won’t be able to say it.”  

You stare. 

“Do you remember that party a few weeks back? The night Amber died?” His voice is shaky, uneven. You frown. That’s when Wes realized he was in love with Tara? The night one of his best friends was being murdered? 

“Of course.” You say. 

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You look down at it, see Tara’s name flash across the screen. 

almost done babygirl? not getting any younger over here. 

“Is that Tara? Don’t answer it.” Wes says, voice urgent. “Please.” 

You put your phone on the counter. 

“Wes, I have dinner reservations. Whatever you need to say-” 

“My mom has this theory.” He interrupts, “I’ve overheard her talking about before. The attacks, they’re not random. They’re all connected.” 

Something niggles at you in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’m confused.” You say, “What are we talking about?”

“Amber made a pass at you that night.” Wes continues on as if he didn’t hear you, “In front of all of us, do you remember?”

Your stomach flips. Wes is staring at you, his eyes wild. Suddenly, you think you’ve got everything wrong. 

“Yes.” You say, voice low, “So what?” 

“Sadie was your ex-girlfriend. Chase was your best friend.” Wes says, “Everyone knew he liked you. Including Tara.” 

The room’s getting smaller, closing in. You press your hand to the counter, suddenly wishing you’d sat down. 

“The other two - I don’t know, maybe they liked you. Maybe you had a thing with one of them at some point.” He’s rambling but you can barely hear him. “I think they were killed because they liked you. Same with Sadie, same with Chase, same with Amber.” 

The blood’s rushing to your head. You grip the counter so hard your fingers turn white. 

Wes doesn’t seem to notice. He takes another shaky breath, looks you straight in the eyes. 

“I think Ghostface is killing people who are connected to you.” He says. “YN, I think Tara is Ghostface.”

The room spins. The hair on the back of your neck rises tall. Every atom in your body courses thick, fast, in a mesh of panic and fear and confusion. 

He knows. 

His eyes are wide, desperate to convince you. 

“Please don’t panic.” He says. He rises, reaches for you. His hands press hard around your forearms. Your face is white, he must see how you look as if you might pass out. 

“I know it sounds crazy. I know it’s a shock. But I’m certain. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t certain.” 

Your mouth opens, then closes. You have questions, so many questions. You want to know how he knows, what he knows. You want to know everything. You don’t know how to ask. 

“Have you told anyone else?” The most pressing question spills from your mouth before you can stop it. His mom is the sheriff, god, his mom is the sheriff. If she knows it’s over. Tara will be in a cell by sunset. 

He shakes his head, wildly, “No. I wanted to come to you first. I wanted to keep you away from her before she could hurt you too.” 

You exhale. You can’t hide your relief. He catches it, his eyes knit tight in confusion. 

“YN, do you understand what I just told you? Tara is Ghostface.” 

You take a breath. Look him in the eye. Wes is sweet. He’s nice. And Tara is his friend. You can talk him down, you know you can. 

“Wes, that’s-” You take a shaky breath, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 

He stares at you, shakes his head. 

“No, no it’s not. YN-” 

“Tara is not Ghostface.” You tell him firmly, “She’s my girlfriend. She’s your friend.”  

“It’s her, YN. I’m sure. Think about it. Where was she, that night that Amber died?” He’s staring at you, searchingly, desperate to convince you.

“She was with me.” You insist, “She drove me home. I stayed with her, in her bed. She was with me the whole night. If she had left, I would have known.” 

Something flickers behind his eyes. His eyebrows knit tight in confusion.

“She didn’t drive you home.” He says, voice a little flat. “I saw Sam pick you up. I watched Tara put you in the car.”

Your heartbeat pounds. Idiot, you think, of course he saw you. why did you lie?  

The look in your eyes is all he needs. His blue eyes blink back at you as he pieces it together. Hurt, confusion, realization. 

“Oh my god.” He says, as it dawns on him, “You already know. You already know it’s her.” 

Your fingers grip white on the countertop. You swallow hard. 

“Wes. You’re confused. You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

He backs away from you slowly, runs his fingers through his bleach blonde hair. 

“I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. Are you in on it with her?” He’s staring at you with wide eyes. He’s scared. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

“Wes, calm down.” You reach for him but he jerks back away from you. “Wes.” 

Your mind races. In all your effort to unravel his theory, you’d only confirmed it more. Tara flashes through your mind. Her sweet smile. Dark, chocolate-eske eyes. Freckle-kissed face. 

You think of Wes driving madly to the police station, pointing the finger at her. You think of the Sheriff pulling up to Tara’s house in a squad car and dragging her away in handcuffs. 

You think of Tara in a cell. Tara in an orange jumpsuit. The smack of the Judge’s gavel as he declares he guilty and locks her away for life. Far away from Woodsboro. Far away from you. 

You’re thinking of her when you grab the knife. 

It happens in a flash. Wes launches himself at the door, trying to make a break for it. Adrenaline rushes through you. The handle is cool around your palm as you wrap your fingers around it. You surge forward, grab the back of Wes’ shirt and tug him towards you. In a panicked, heavy swing, you thrust the knife forward and sink it into Wes’ back.  

He cries out, stumbles forward onto the carpet. The knife is lodged deep between his shoulder blades. You don’t think, you act. Rush forward and take the handle between your fingertips. He yells out again as you pull the blade out. Thrust it forward once more, then twice, then three times until his whimpering is dying down and your hands are coated thick with his blood. 

He falls limp beneath you, face down on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. Your hands shake as the knife clatters to the fall. 

Over the blood in your ears, you hear your phone buzzing. 

You stumble backwards, grab it from the kitchen counter. It’s Tara, her smiling face looks back at you as you coat the phone bloody. 

“Five minutes my ass.” Her voice is light, she’s teasing, “Maybe I need to buy you a watch.” 

“Tara.” You whimper into the phone. Your hands are shaking. You stare down at Wes’ bloodied body. 

He stares back at you, lifeless. Dead.

“Baby?” You hear the concern in her voice, “What’s wrong?”  

“Tara,” You gasp into the phone. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out, “Tara, please you have to come, I’ve done something really bad. Tara-” 

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there. Stay on the line with me, sweetheart. Tell me what happened.” 

But you can’t, you don’t even know it yourself. It’s all a blur. The shake of Wes’ knee, his blue eyes earnest, worried. Fearful as he backed away from you. Glassy now as he stares back at you. Tears roll down your face as you sob into the phone. 

By the time you hear the front door open, you’ve sunken down into the floor, wide-eyed, clutching the phone in your hands as you look at the sight in front of you. 

When she enters, you watch as she freezes. Blood splattered across the floor. On the ceiling. All over you. Wes’ lifeless body at the center. Her eyes linger on him, wide and mournful. 

“Baby. What have you done?” 

“I had no choice.” You feel tears spill from your eyes. The awful metallic smell of blood permeates from your red hands. “He knew, Tara, he knew.” 

She’s moving over to you, kneeling down to your level. You sob as you feel the warmth of her on you, her fingers on your face, brushing your blood soaked hair out of your eyes, on your shoulders, tugging you into her. 

“He knew what, baby?”

She takes your hands, looking for something, inspecting. Cuts, maybe. There’s no point. It’s all his blood. 

You choke back a sob. She pulls you in close. 

“He knew you were Ghostface.” You say, tears are streaming thick and fast down your face now, “He came here to tell me. He didn’t know I knew.”

Your voice shakes, “He was going to go to the police, I had no choice-”

“Oh, honey.” She pulls you into her, nestles her hand in your hair. You choke back a sob. Press your face to her chest. Her scent, her arms around you soothe you instantly. But you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve her comfort. You just killed somebody. 

“Tara, what did I do?” 

“Hey. It’s alright.” Her hands are either side of your face, cupping your cheeks. “It’s going to be okay.” 

She presses a long kiss to your lips. Your lips quiver against hers. 

“It’s all going to be okay.” She murmurs as she pulls back. You feel her take charge, “You’re going to go and get into the shower. Wash your hair. Scrub under your nails. Put the clothes you’re wearing in a plastic bag and wait for me upstairs, okay? I’m going to clean this up.” 

A fresh wave of tears falls thick down your face. 

“Tara-” 

“Baby. I need you to be strong for me now. Okay? Tell me what you’re going to do.” 

You swallow. Her voice is urgent, her eyes flitting between yours. 

“Baby.” 

“I’m going to shower. I’m going to wash my hair and scrub under my nails. And then I’m going to put my clothes in a plastic bag and wait for you upstairs.” 

She kisses you. 

“Good girl.” She murmurs against your lips, “That’s my good girl. It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart.” 

You shudder as she retracts. 

“Where’s your dad? What time will he be home?” 

You didn’t even think about him. Panic swells in your chest, fills your eyes. 

“I don’t know. God, Tara, if he comes home and sees this-”

Her hands grip firm around your shoulders. 

“Shh. It’s okay. Don’t panic. Just think. Where is he usually on a Friday? What time does he finish work?” 

You blink, struggle as you think hard. 

“Friday drinks.” You say, finally, “He goes to that bar on 2nd with his work friends. He’s not home until like eight.” 

“Good.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your forehead, “See? Everything will be fine. Now go upstairs, and do exactly what I said.” 

You try not to think. 

You shower, exactly like she said. Put your clothes in a bag and leave them on the bathroom floor. 

Then you slip into one of Tara’s old hoodies and curl up into your duvet and press your eyes closed. Try not to think about how Wes had felt under you as you drove your knife into him. Try not to think about his screams. 

She doesn’t come up for a while. You hear her down there, moving around. You can smell the bleach wafting up the staircase. Finally, after what seems like hours she’s moving into the bathroom and turning on the water. 

She’s naked when she emerges, drops her towel and rifles through your wardrobe for an outfit. Slips on a pair of your sweatpants and an old t-shirt. 

“What did you do with him?” Is the first thing you say. Salt on your lips from the tears. You can still taste the metallic twang of his blood. 

“Don’t worry about that. Come on sweetheart, we’re leaving.” She pulls you up out of bed, wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Home.” 

The kitchen is immaculate. Scrubbed down, perfectly clean. Almost like it never happened. There’s a large suitcase by the door when you get down the stairs. You stop in your tracks. Your heart drops. 

“Tara, is he in there?” 

Her hands are strong on your back as she leads you forward. 

“Yes he’s in there. It’s broad daylight, sweetheart. It was the only way.” 

You didn’t even think about the logistics. The clean-up. The neighbors. The body. The body that was inside your Dad’s suitcase. 

“What are you going to do with him?” Bile rises in your throat. Tara rubs your back, presses her lips to the side of your head. 

“It’s better if you don’t know, babe. Come on, let’s get in the car.” She tries to pull you forward, but you resist. 

“Tara. I want to know.” 

She stares at you for a long moment. 

“I’m going to wait until it’s really late and then I’m going to drive out to the river and dump him in it.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. She doesn’t allow you a moment longer to think. 

“Baby. Come on.” 

The drive home feels like a dream. You stare out through the windshield, trying to blink back your tears. Her hand grips yours tight over the center console. The radio blares some pop song. Kids play in the street. Grief washes through you. Grief you caused yourself. 

Tara helps you out of the car, half carries you upstairs to her bedroom. You can’t stop thinking about him. He’d been here only a couple of weeks ago, laughing and smiling and smoking weed in the living room. The lump in your throat aches at the thought. 

You curl up under Tara’s covers. Breathe deep, trying to surround yourself in her scent. You feel her tuck herself into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, not an inch of space between you. Her lips ghost the back of your neck. 

“Are you hungry?” She’s murmuring, “I’m going to order us some food.” 

“We’ve missed our reservation.” You say, a million miles away. You could have been there by now. Sharing a plate of sushi and holding her hand over the table. 

“We’ll go next week.” She promises, as if things are perfectly normal and there isn’t a body in a suitcase in the trunk of her car. As if it isn’t your fault he’s in there. 

“His mom’s going to be so upset.” You can’t stop the tears from flooding over now. You’d met Wes’ mom once. Judy, the town sheriff. She was a hard ass. And she loved her son with everything she had. Tara squeezes you tight. 

“Don’t think about that, honey.” 

“I’m an awful person.” You whimper. 

“No you’re not. You did what you had to do.” Her voice is firm, “You were protecting me. The way I protect you.” 

She kisses your neck. You close your eyes, try not to think. Feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her body pressed against you. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Coconut, you think, coconut and vanilla. 

“If you didn’t do what you did, I’d be gone now. I’d be locked away. They’d take me far away from you.” 

At that, you turn in her arms. Lean up to kiss her, fierce. 

“Nobody’s taking you from me.” You say. You lock your hands around her neck, brush your nose against hers. “Nobody.” 

Not Wes, and certainly not Judy. You’d die without her. You’d kill to keep them from her. She’s yours. She belongs with you. 

Your heartbeat steadies, slightly. You take a shaky breath as you look into the warm brown of her eyes. Brush your fingertips over the spatter of freckles across her nose. She’s everything to you. She’s more important than anyone else. Anything else.

“Nobody.” She affirms. 

Next part

#scream #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x fem reader #wednesday #mine #ah #fanfiction

[nightswatchdisbandmentera]

Consider this quote that has launched a thousand ships...

“Every man who walks the earth casts a shadow on the world. Some are thin and weak, others long and dark. You should look behind you, Lord Snow. The moon has kissed you and etched your shadow upon the ice twenty feet tall.”

(Jon VI, ADWD)

This is one of those quotes that has a lot of hidden meanings, depending on the leans through which the reader interprets it.

I often see it used as shipping fodder - understandably so, given Jon's connection to both Arya and Daenerys. But I would argue that it really has a lot of symbolic significance to Jon, kings, and dragons.

For instance, Mel talking of men casting shadows upon the world and then immediately mentioning that Jon's own shadow looms large over one of the greatest wonders of the world reminds me of several quotes about Tyrion:

“Some woman, no doubt. Most of them are.” He favored Jon with a rueful grin. “Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.” And with that he turned and sauntered back into the feast, whistling a tune. When he opened the door, the light from within threw his shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood tall as a king.

(Jon I, AGOT)

“Oh, I think that Lord Tyrion is quite a large man,” Maester Aemon said from the far end of the table. He spoke softly, yet the high officers of the Night’s Watch all fell quiet, the better to hear what the ancient had to say. “I think he is a giant come among us, here at the end of the world.”

(Tyrion III, AGOT)

Tyrion has often been likened to a small man who casts a giant-like shadow - often within the context of him wielding some sort of power/influence, as we can see with Vary's remarks. It's quite remarkable that Jon, a mere boy, is also equated with casting a giant-like shadow, especially within the context of him wielding innate magical power. I also find it difficult to ignore that Tyrion's shadow is said to stand as tall as a king, especially if we add the context of Jon comparing their heights earlier in that chapter.

We thus have shadows likened to kings. So where do the dragons come in?

“A trader from Qarth once told me that dragons came from the moon,” blond Doreah said as she warmed a towel over the fire. Jhiqui and Irri were of an age with Dany, Dothraki girls taken as slaves when Drogo destroyed their father’s khalasar. Doreah was older, almost twenty. Magister Illyrio had found her in a pleasure house in Lys. Silvery-wet hair tumbled across her eyes as Dany turned her head, curious. “The moon?” “He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi,” the Lysene girl said. “Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth, and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.”

(Daenerys III, AGOT)

It's said that dragons are birthed from the moon. Daenerys' herself is presented as some sort of moon maid often in the text - which makes it all the more believable that she's the moon kissing Jon in Mel's quote.

But we must also consider Mel's quote within the larger context of the book in which it appears. For Jon, ADWD is full of symbolism regarding death, (re)birth, kings, Azor Ahai's legend, and dragons waking from stone.

Burning dead children had ceased to trouble Jon Snow; live ones were another matter. Two kings to wake the dragon. The father first and then the son, so both die kings. The words had been murmured by one of the queen’s men as Maester Aemon had cleaned his wounds. Jon had tried to dismiss them as his fever talking. Aemon had demurred. “There is power in a king’s blood,” the old maester had warned, “and better men than Stannis have done worse things than this.” The king can be harsh and unforgiving, aye, but a babe still on the breast? Only a monster would give a living child to the flames.

(Jon I, ADWD)

A repeated motif with the faith of R'hllor, especially as it pertains to Mel and her attempts to bring about Azor Ahai, is the idea of human sacrifice. Especially the sacrifice of king's blood. How curious that this line is repeated several times in the Wall plot? And how curious that we end the book with Jon's assassination.....

Throughout ADWD, Mel sees Jon in her visions, especially as she looks for Azor Ahai. Val later reminds him that there is some significance to what Mel sees

“His milk name. I had to call him something. See that he stays safe and warm. For his mother’s sake, and mine. And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires.” Arya, he thought, hoping it was so. “Ashes and cinders.” “Kings and dragons.”

(Jon VIII, ADWD)

There irony here is that they're right. Mel sees Snow in her visions (though Jon is thinking of lowercase 's'). But only Val equates this to kings and dragons. We know that Jon is both.

“Pyp should learn to hold his tongue. I have heard the same from others. King’s blood, to wake a dragon. Where Melisandre thinks to find a sleeping dragon, no one is quite sure. It’s nonsense. Mance’s blood is no more royal than mine own. He has never worn a crown nor sat a throne. He’s a brigand, nothing more. There’s no power in brigand’s blood.”

(Sam I, AFFC)

There is a deep irony to this quote. We know that Jon is dead (or near death) by the end of ADWD. And if we consider R+L=J, then it seems that Melisandre has just found her sleeping dragon, whether she knows it or not. This could create a very interesting parallel to the Tragedy at Summerhall. which was intended to birth dragons but instead brought about a metaphorical dragon in Prince Rhaegar....who happens to be Jon's father, and who was initially thought to be Azor Ahai/TPTWP. Thus, there is an intended parallel of a Targaryen princeling mimicking dragons waking from stone with both Rhaegar and Jon.

Not only that but according to prophecy, Azor Ahai has been credited with having birthed dragons

“He is not dead. Stannis is the Lord’s chosen, destined to lead the fight against the dark. I have seen it in the flames, read of it in ancient prophecy. When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons out of stone. Dragonstone is the place of smoke and salt.”

(Jon X, ADWD)

But we have what seems to be a different interpretation of prophecy that has Azor Ahai forging Lightbringer, and there is the mention of a moon....

“A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. ‘Nissa Nissa,’ he said to her, for that was her name, ‘bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.’ She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.

(Davos I, ACOK)

So all in all, we're told that dragons (allegedly) came from the moon, and that Azor Ahai's forging of Lightbringer caused a crack in the moon (which sounds very similar to the crack that brought forth dragons).

Side Note: Are these two different prophesies? Different interpretations of one prophecy? The second one talks of a very literal flaming sword, but did the crack in the moon also bring forth dragons? In that case, are there supposed to be two Lightbringers (a sword and dragons)?

When we consider all of these things, Jon is placed in a rather peculiar position. He could be the dragon being born from the moon....but what if he is the sun itself? (Or as close to the sun as he possible can be?)

Let's take a step back and consider again how Daenerys fits into all of this.

Dany pressed her heels into her silver and rode closer. “My lord,” she said softly. “Drogo. My sun-and-stars.”

(Daenerys VIII, AGOT)

Khal Drogo looked down at her. His face was a copper mask, yet under the long black mustache, drooping beneath the weight of its gold rings, she thought she glimpsed the shadow of a smile. “Is good name, Dan Ares wife, moon of my life,” he said.

(Daenerys V, AGOT)

As stated earlier, Daenerys has always been presented as a moon maid. In her interactions with Khal Drogo, he often called her the moon and she equated him with the sun; which makes for a very interesting comparison later on when Drogo's life is exchanged for dragons, and Dany kisses him sometime prior.

There aren't many similarities between Jon and Drogo, but Dany's House of the Undying visions place them both as her husbands.

Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.… mother of dragons, bride of fire …

(Daenerys IV, ACOK)

Then we have the matter of Azor Ahai and his flaming sword, Lightbringer.

ADWD hints at the possibility that Jon will be the one (not Stannis) to successfully forge this legendary sword.

Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. 

(Jon XII, ADWD)

What's interesting about Lightbringer is that it's not just an ordinary flaming sword. There's more to say on the properties of Lightbringer but based on textual clues, we can assume that it must meet two conditions:

It must give off heat

It must be bright...as bright as the sun (Jon's ADWD dream indicates that his sword is giving off a light that encompasses the world around him: "his blade burned red in his fist...The world dissolved into a red mist."

Lightbringer being a stand in for the sun often comes up in relation to Stannis' false sword.

“Now he comes north humbled, with his tail between his legs. Why should I give him any aid? Answer me that.” Because he is your rightful king, Davos thought. Because he is a strong man and a just one, the only man who can restore the realm and defend it against the peril that gathers in the north. Because he has a magic sword that glows with the light of the sun. 

(Davos I, ADWD)

Stannis Baratheon drew Lightbringer. The sword glowed red and yellow and orange, alive with light. Jon had seen the show before … but not like this, never before like this. Lightbringer was the sun made steel.  [...] “Westeros has but one king,” said Stannis. His voice rang harsh, with none of Melisandre’s music. “With this sword I defend my subjects and destroy those who menace them. Bend the knee, and I promise you food, land, and justice. Kneel and live. Or go and die. The choice is yours.” He slipped Lightbringer into its scabbard, and the world darkened once again, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. “Open the gates.”

(Jon III, ADWD)

This brings up a very interesting question for the reader to consider. If Jon is the one to successfully forge the true Lightbringer, then he becomes one who would wield the sun itself; which is undoubtedly going to be very important in the upcoming war for the dawn when all of Westeros will be covered by never ending darkness.

Jon himself is never directly linked to having the countenance of the sun, or being golden like the sun, but it must mean something if he is the one to harness the sun.

So going back to Mel's quote, it's a bit of a mental exercise to try and tease out what role Jon plays in this. The moon (which birthed dragons) has embraced him. But is Jon the dragon to be brought forth by the moon's actions? Is he the sun? Or maybe a hybrid of both?

#jon snow #prophesies and visions #azor ahai #lightbringer #dragons #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #my stuff

[lup-ines]

My Favourite Astrology Placements/Aspects (Part One)

1. Venus Conjunct Mars

Ugh, I love this placement. People with this placement are so fucking sexy and everyone around them knows it. All my former partners who have had this placement could throw it DOWN, if you know what I mean.

II. Sagittarius Rising

I love the energy they carry. Even though this isn’t a “traditional” beauty aspect in astrology, I love the way sag risings look, especially their smiles.

III. Venus Conjunct Jupiter

You attract love so easily and depending on the aspects to your Venus, you usually have very good luck in personal and platonic relationship. I’ve never met a person with this aspect who I did not vibe with immediately. Seriously, such down to earth people.

IV. Gemini Men

BEFORE Y’ALL COME FOR ME, HEAR ME OUT 😭😭. Despite how problematic gemini men can be, as an Aquarius with an Aquarius stellium they are one of the only men who I’ve felt met the level of intelligence that I seek in a partner. At their worst, they are big-mouthed know-it-alls with wandering eyes, but at their best they are intelligent and charming people. My last partner was a Gemini sun and although it was fun, NEVER AGAIN LOL. They make great company though.

P.S. I adore gemini women though.

#astrology observations #astrology #sagittarius #gemini

[painted-bees]

>>part i and ii<<

iii)

 Cold, dark, and vacuous as space; the environment was unaccommodating to a flesh like this. Blissfully, it could not feel what there was to be felt. It did not experience the depths to which it sank. It could no longer survive the womb from whence it came.

  It could no longer survive. 

  But it was so tenderly embraced. Admired. Loved.

  This flesh, warm and beating, required exposure to the rose and violet hues of morning, and to convalesce beneath the heat of charitable blood. Only then could it feel again. Only then could it survive. 

  When it felt again, it felt discomfort. Ache roused it; sharp and dull, tender and tingling, stiff and burning. It sweated and shivered beneath that which compressed it; a warm, knobby mass. Flesh, but unlike itself; covered in fields of tawny bristles. Fur.

  A rush of hot, moist air preceded an explosion of movement that jostled it painfully. The weight was lifted, the fur, and so too was its warmth. All was carried away on percussive beating; cloven hooves against packed earth. All that remained was aching flesh, slowly cooling atop a bed of needling bister reeds. It could not stay here long. And so, gingerly, it rose and walked.

  Its shadow, tarry and black over reeds, stone, and into the sea–

  Did not immediately follow.

iv)

  Raf was unable to sleep while anxiety gnawed holes through him.

  Hearing his own voice as he described Margie over the phone, and explained the details surrounding the last time he had seen her, made the whole thing feel like an overreaction on his part. It didn’t make sense that she was just–gone, much less that she had been swallowed by some kind of freak tsunami. What’s more, the woman on the other end of the line assured him that no other reports had been made matching his description of the tidal flooding. She suggested that he search around the island, in case Magritte had simply gotten lost and wandered down the wrong road. And then she gave him a reference number. 

  It had left him feeling…unassured. Though she had done her best to sound patient and courteous with him, the nature of her suggestions and the unnecessary detail of “there’ve been no other reports of flooding” bode poorly for him. He wanted to have someone looking for Margie at sea, but now he was unsure that anyone would be dispatched at all. If the lady on the other end of the line hadn’t taken him seriously, would she have even bothered to forward the report through to the appropriate channels?

  No, probably not.

  Why did she have to say anything disparaging about his concerns regarding the water? He knew what he saw. He walked through it. Anger twisted alongside anxiety in his gut.

  By the time he had gotten into his old, little sedan and drove back down to the beach, the ocean had receded beneath the bluffs. Even so, the stony shoreline remained wholly submerged beneath the tide. It might have been easy to convince himself that he had imagined what he saw before. However, though the road was above water now, the tide could never have been able to reach the bluffs under normal conditions.

  He pulled to the side of the road, held his phone out the window of his car, and took a photo. Looking at the picture on his screen, the tide was evident even despite the low-lighting gamma noise that obscured the shot. The entire visible length of the stony shoreline was under water. It wasn’t normal, and he wasn’t crazy.

  It made the landscape look so dramatically different, in honesty, that it wasn’t unreasonable to think Magritte might have easily gotten turned around by it. It was entirely likely that, with certain landmarks missing, she’d have headed in the wrong direction and gotten lost. And, knowing how averse she was to bothering strangers, she likely wouldn’t have been able to gather the courage to knock on anyone’s door so late at night. As Raf drove his car at a crawling pace over the vacant, silent roads, he allowed himself the comfort of believing he could find her sooner rather than later. 

  His certainty waned as one hour bled into another, and then into another. It was in Squirrel Cove, on the other side of the island, where Raf had to contend with the fact that Magritte might actually, really, be missing. And, at 4:30 in the morning, he finally felt fully justified in making the missing person report.

  To be certain, though, he took advantage of Squirrel Cove’s cellular signal and gave the cottage a call. He’d been out looking for over three hours. Perhaps she had found her way back home while he was out.

  No. She didn’t pick up the phone.

  On the doleful drive back, Raf continued searching for her, taking every hopeful detour he came across. And then, he turned around and scoured the same streets again.

  He couldn’t go back to the cottage. Not without her. If he returned to the empty house and sat down, the reality–the true reality–of the situation would paralyse him. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to consider if it were a malevolent stranger or some natural catastrophe that had taken Magritte from him. He didn’t want to contend with the overwhelming suspicion that the strange tide was no coincidence; that she had been swept to sea. She had walked to the beach and, when he went to find her, both she and the beach were gone.

  She would have drowned hours ago and, if that were true, it was unlikely that Raf would ever receive the closure of knowing for sure. He tried not to think of how cold the water was, and he tried not to deliberate whether or not she’d have fallen asleep before the exhaustion made her sink. He tried not to imagine how frightening it must have been, nor how heavily the dread would have weighed. He tried not to. 

  He kept driving.

  The events of the past year might have destroyed a younger version of himself. His uncle had been the only solid foundation upon which he could stand to rely on. Uncle Bill’s passing had torn the very ground out from beneath Raf’s feet and, in the wake of it all, he clung to Magritte every single night as though she were a liferaft. Her buoyant optimism and unsinkable love granted him the space to wallow in grief-stricken overwhelm without falling into the familiar pits of self-loathing, despair, and deafening loneliness. 

  It hadn’t been a good time. Not for either of them. But it had been survivable. He knew that it would all eventually come to pass, and he looked forward to it. He looked forward to having the energy to enjoy things again, and he looked forward to waking up each morning without dread. He looked forward to getting back on his feet, so that he could make it all up to her. He looked forward to treating her again, and to being a source of joy in her life. She hadn’t merely stuck with him; she helped him carry his burdens. All the while, she had given no indication that she wished for an escape. From their situation, yes–but not from him. 

  And she had done so well to convince him that they’d get through it together; that she’d be there as the one constant he could always fall back on. He believed her.

  Despite everything, he believed her.

  Perhaps it would still be true if he hadn’t neglected her company in favour of underwhelming weed and the same twelve songs he had been listening to for the past three months.

  Oh. Fuck. He hated that.

  She hadn’t lied, he just fucking abandoned her.

  Raf’s eyes had stopped scanning the sides of the road, staring numbly ahead. The stars were fading from the sky as it paled into the indigos of early sunrise. His thoughts turned quiet as the unremarkable hum of the car’s engine filled his brain. For the first time that night, rather suddenly, he felt nothing.

  And so, it was a bit jarring when his arms automatically veered his sedan to the side of the road and his foot slammed hard on the brakes. As he got out of the car, he became aware of the intense, strangling heartbeat in his throat. Raf had reacted before his consciousness registered what his eyes had seen. His legs were already carrying him in long, hasty strides by the time he realised he had driven past–and parked in front of–Magritte.

  “Jesus Christ. Fuck me.” As soon as she was within reach, Raf pulled her into him and closed his arms around her. His vision splotched as an overwhelming wave of relief displaced the blood in his head. The weak laugh that escaped him wobbled with faint delirium. “C…Christ.” 

  Burying his face into her wild, tangled hair, the smell of sea rot and wet animal musk assaulted his senses. He didn’t care--he couldn't care. He smoothed her coarse, salt-crisp curls beneath his palm with heavy strokes, too frenetic to be soothing. It was the sharp pain of burs needling into his fingers that brought him tenuously back to his senses.

  Reluctantly, he pulled back to inspect her. Wisps of her frizzy auburn hair clung wetly to her face. Her cheeks were flushed red and hot. As he held her gently by the shoulders, he became aware of how her body trembled in his grasp. Her shirt was as damp and stained as the rest of her, in mud and grass.

  And blood.

  There was blood.

  Most concerning of all, her stare remained distant and unfocused even as he looked her over.

  Raf gently cupped the back of her head with a caress much more gentle and deliberate. His hand pulled away unstained, and what he thought might have been a clot tangled in her hair turned out only to be a decaying piece of leaf that broke apart between his fingers. 

  "Margie, what the hell happened to you?" The hand that wasn't hooked gingerly around the back of her head closed around one of her wrists and gently coaxed her arm away from her chest. She had been holding both arms tightly to her body, hands curled inward. As Raf turned her palm over to inspect it, he understood why. What met his eye resembled sliced beef.

 He immediately turned her hand back towards her. "Okay."

 The same kind of gashes, though less severe, carved her elbows, knees and shins.

 "Okay, okay. Margie." He smoothed her hair back, out of her face. "Can you look at me, please?"

 There was a moment of delay, but to his relief, her gaze did sluggishly turn up towards him.

  She drew in a small breath. "Sorry I'm late… Can we still play music together?"

  Raf's eyes shut automatically against what felt like a punch to his gut, and he clasped a hand over them reflexively, inhaling sharply. "Y-yeah." A weakly sighed laugh dissolved into a strangled sob. "We can do what ever the fuck you want." Holding himself together with an abrupt, wet sniff through his nose, he reached an arm around Magritte's shoulders, intending to walk her to the car. And then he realized she had no fucking shoes.

 He paused, unsure that his knees could support his own weight, much less hers. His legs had threatened to give out from under him the moment he stepped out of the car. With a steadying breath, he took his chances. Magritte continued to hold her hands protectively to her chest as Raf dropped his other arm down behind her knees and lifted her off the ground.

  "We gotta…take care of you first, alright?" With arms full of Magritte, he fumbled to open the door to the passenger seat before placing her down as carefully as he could manage. "Can–can you tell me if you're okay?"

  Slowly, she turned her head to look up at him before providing a small, uneven nod. "My hands hurt. And my throat…cold." She was trembling visibly, now. Much more than she had been before.

  "Alright." The quiet vapidity of her voice and the vagueness of her response was unencouraging. This wasn't the vibrant, vivacious Magritte that had invited him to walk with her last night. This was a shadow.

  Raf gently closed the car door before walking around to the driver's side and dropping himself into the seat. He cranked the heat up as high as it would go.

  They were on Potlatch already. Without realising it, Raf had been driving himself back to the cottage before he came upon Magritte on the side of the road. Home was scarcely a minute away. Still, it was a minute of concerning silence.

  6:48am.

  The clock on his dash told him that if he wanted to catch the next ferry to Quadra, there wasn't much time to spare. He parked the car in front of the cottage, but left it running.

  "Margie, I'm taking you to the hospital. I just need to grab some things first, alright?"

  She nodded. This time without too much of a delay.

  "Good, good, good." Raf placed a kiss on her forehead and almost recoiled from the heat and sweat that met his lips.

  Despite it, she still curled into herself and shivered. 

  Was it shock? A fever? Both? Would her skin be so hot to the touch if it were hypothermia?

  He smoothed back her hair in one more soothing gesture before leaving the car and darting into the cottage.

v)

  It had been a blur.

  Faintly, Magritte recalled being told something by someone–and nodding. She remembered a warm, dry sweater being fitted over her head, and having her arms carefully–carefully–pulled through the sleeves. When her fingers strained to push past the enclosing fabric, her yelp of pain had been answered by a purr of soothing consolations. That same voice encouraged her to drink water from a bottle held to her lips; as much water as possible. She recalled the feeling of being gently tucked under a blanket–and the feeling of being lovingly kissed, at random intervals, on her forehead, her cheeks, and her nose.

  She hadn’t realised that this had all taken place in the passenger seat of Raf’s car.

  In fact, Margie only became aware of the vehicle some time after it had loaded onto the small ferry, off the docks of Mason’s Landing. Its engine was off and the air inside the car had slowly cooled while the heater was unable to run. Bundled warmly in her blanket and slightly reclined, Margie was finally cognizant enough to recognize the dashboard of Raf’s sedan–as well as the cradling darkness of the ferry’s car deck. And, as she turned her head towards the driver’s seat, she found Raf beside her; fully reclined, his eyes closed, and his lips slightly parted in light slumber. His hand rested limply, palm down, across her knee.

  How did she get here?

  Where were they going?

 As the hardworking boat engine filled her ears with its loud, steady hum, Magritte felt a distinct déjà vu in how the ferry rocked and swayed over the ocean waves.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled the last time she took the ferry. It was just a week ago, on the way to Cortes Island. But it wasn’t spent in darkness like this. She and Raf had both abandoned the car to watch the ocean from the upper deck. The breeze had been salty and chilly, but not freezing.

  She remembered the sound of rushing wind. The sound of a giant’s gasp breaking the surface of the water. She remembered ghostly dorsal fins dancing atop of inky waves.

  Magritte’s eyes snapped open. “I saw the orcas! Raf-!”

  Raf’s eyelids rose with an ease that suggested he hadn’t been fully asleep. Without lifting his head, he let out a groggy, “Huh?”

  “Last night! I was surrounded by them!” Magritte beamed at the memory of it, but as she said it outloud, it sounded a little silly. “...I think?”

  “Orcas?” Blinking tiredly, Raf sat up and searched her eyes with a worried stare. “Do you…remember what happened?”

  Her smile faltered, and then faded entirely as her brain pulled up a string of fragmented images and feelings. The muscles in her arms felt stiff and tired for how they were tucked so tensely against her chest. But more than that, her hands had plagued her with a terrible, consistent burning the entire time.

  She remembered grasping at the rocks.

  Slowly, nervously, Magritte lifted her arms out from under the blanket to assess her aching palms. The moment her vision filled with more red than she had anticipated, she turned her hands quickly away. Oh, it looked worse–way worse–than it felt. And it felt bad. 

  Automatically, she turned her wide eyes to Raf. “I fucked up my hands.” Her voice was a panicked whisper.

  Raf sat up and readjusted the backrest of his seat before carefully enveloping his hands overtop of hers. Gently, he pressed down, lowering them to her lap. “We’re going to the hospital. Your hands are going to be fine–”

  “It was oysters,” she cut him off, “I grabbed a bunch of oysters.” Her attempt to pull up her hands for reinspection was firmly halted by Raf’s steadying grasp.

  “The doctor will look at them, it’ll be fine.” He leaned in closer and assessed her face with an expression of tender concern. “What about the rest of you? How are you feeling?”

  She swallowed back a painful lump in her throat. It went down like blistering lava. “Confused. I feel like I got hit by a bus and the things I remember from last night suck in a weird nightmare kinda way. And it hurts to swallow.” That’s not what concerned her, though. “Raf, how fucked are my hands? Can I still play piano?”

  “Margie.” Raf, who had been watching her from under a tightly knitted brow, diffused his tension with a deep, bodily, exhausted sigh. “Sorry, Margie, I’m not–” He cut himself off by massaging his eyes with his thumb and fingertips. And then he dropped his face into both of his palms, pressing them upward towards his hairline so that his fingers raked through his bangs. “I thought you were fucking dead, man. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I’m sorry, I’m not worried about piano right now. I just–I want to know you’re alright.”

  He didn’t pull his head out of his hands, but from behind his palms, Magritte heard him inhale a wet sniff through his nose; a sob.

  “Oh–what?” Magritte’s fear was bowled over by a sudden wave of guilt. “Wait, what!?”

  “You were gone,” Raf rubbed his eyes once more before removing his hands from his face and allowing his heavy, lethargic stare to fall onto her, “all night.” He swallowed. “I haven’t slept. I spent hours driving across the island looking for you. The tide was up past the road, and so I thought that maybe a tsunami took you out. I don’t fucking know. You’ve been like–catatonic for the past hour and a half. I don’t care about your hands, Margie, I just want you to tell me you’re not gonna pass out and die on me before we get to the hospital. That’s all.”

  Margie wilted as he spoke. She had been reckless and, as always, he suffered unfairly for it. He was pissed off at her, and rightly so. She couldn't even hug him the way she wanted to. Her aching body loathed to move. “Y-yeah! I’m alright, I promise I’m alright! Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Her voice meekly tapered off.

  “I’m not–” Raf groaned. “I’m not mad at you.” He exhaled another deep sigh that ended in a humourless huff of laughter. “It’s just been a stressful night and I just kinda want it to be over. Your hands…are gonna be taken care of, I promise. And whatever happens, we’ll still make music together, yeah?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Are you alright?”

  Magritte nodded, cradling her hands against her chest once again.

  “Actually?”

  She nodded again. “Just sick…and scared.”

  Magritte had broken eye contact to stare dolefully at her feet beneath the dashboard. She’d have curled up into that tiny dark space, if she could. She felt Raf’s gaze hang on her for a moment longer before he reached over to cup her face and press a weighty, lingering kiss against her left temple.

  “I love you,” his voice was soft in her ear, “so fuckin’ much.”

  Buoyed by the gesture, Magritte sat up to look at him again, warm sincerity lighting her guilty features. “I love you too! I really didn’t mean to vanish on you like that.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” There was no sarcasm tainting his affirmation. “But…what actually happened?”

  Margie sunk back under the blanket as she tried to string memories together in her head. “I don’t…really know. I remember being in the water, it was cold…orcas… Oh-!” Her thoughtful frown deepened. “I couldn’t see anything, no islands, no lights, not from boats or houses. Nothing. Just water and stars. I don’t know how I got back to shore.”

  “Did you wake up on the beach?”

  “I can’t remember.” She glanced up at him apologetically. “I don’t even remember getting into the car.” It felt like recalling a vivid dream. No memory of falling asleep, no memory of waking up…just a disorganised cluster of…experiences. They all bled into one another, but at the same time, there were so many missing pieces.

  Raf nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “The tide was low when I got to the beach. Like–really low. I couldn’t see the waves. So I went looking at starfishies and stuff”

  She watched him shut his eyes as she said this, and he sucked in a tortured breath. “Margie,” he let his breath go, “in the future, if the ocean just…disappears like that–go…get off the beach, alright? That’s–that’s tsunami shit.”

  She turned her eyes forward once again, with a sheepish little, “Oh.” She’d never heard anything of that sort before. “You’d think that’d be common knowledge.”

  Raf paused to cast her a condolatory look before professing, “I’m just so…so glad you’re back.”

 Magritte opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the ferry’s PA system announcing their arrival into Quadra Island’s Heriot Bay. 

  Leaning back in his seat, Raf dropped his hands onto the steering wheel. “A bit behind schedule, but…I’ll bet we can still make the 9:30 ferry to Campbell River before it leaves.”

  Warmth softened his features, but as he stared dully out the windshield of his car Magritte could see the dark circles of fatigue bruising his lower eyelids–and the irritated, dry redness that coloured the corners of his eyes. His whole body slumped as his posture slowly lost the battle against gravity.

  Oh, my poor man needs some proper sleep…

  And so did she.

  As long as she didn’t have to move, she was mostly fine. But her joints ached and the muscles in her legs felt sickly. Magritte dreaded the idea of prying herself out of the car to drag through the fluorescently lit hallways and stairwells of a hospital. Blisters on her feet served as additional discouragement. The blanket Raf had provided her did its job in keeping her cosy and warm–but her hot, sensitive skin was keen to make her shudder and shiver at any manner of change in the air. It was a fever that begged for bedrest.

  “We could just…nap, instead.”

  That won a small, lopsided smile out of him as he let out a bemused snort. Wistfully, he replied, “No.” Maintaining his little smirk, Raf rolled an affectionate gaze towards her.  “When we get back home, though, I’m gonna slam dunk you into bed. And then we’ll sleep for a whole god damn year.”

>>part vi<<

#more to come... #we have yet to meet Cortes properly..! #Hi-Note #magritte #rafael #cortes

[lonelycowgirls]

Remember, remember...

Stella adored the 'ber' months. Warm lattes, flavoured with sweet syrups within her favourite mug cozies; chilly walks spotting each of the colours covering the trees lining their road; cuddling up to the cats with Planet Earth III on the telly, before tucking into crusty bread rolls filled with leftover meat from the Sunday roast while watching Strictly. These were the best months, and Harry was home to see them again.

Standing in their dimly lit hallway, she threw her fluffy scarf around her neck, jumping slightly when she felt warm hands run around her hips to slide around her waist.

"Come on, we've got half an hour before the prices on the gates go from affordable to fucking extortionate."

"Last time I checked, you were a multi-millionaire."

"Doesn't mean I'm looking to fork out on only ten minutes of fireworks while I freeze my balls off." He punctuated with a kiss to her cheek. The sound of cats screeching pierced her ears from down the hallway in the living room. Delilah must have been 'playfighting' again. Harry removed his arms to pluck his wooly hat from the tip of the banister, Stella grabbed the keys and they were out the door.

Grabbing her hand, Harry pulled Stella onto the bustling pavement of families heading in the direction of the local park near the heath. Little children skipping down the road carrying flashing swords and wands. Babies stuffed into padded suits, strapped to dads' chests, their legs flopping with each step their fathers took. Stella quickly shot a text over to Gemma to let them know they were on their way, while Harry stopped to take a photo with a couple of fans.

"Ah, thank you so much. I really appreciate that." He said, smiling while scratching the back of his neck - always so bashful in these scenarios.

"No seriously, you're her favourite artist." The older blonde woman said, beside her daughter who was beaming from ear to ear. Harry touched a hand to his chest and bowed slightly in thanks.

"Thank you. Did you make it to any shows?"

"Only, like, every one at Wembley and one of the Cardiff ones." The younger girl laughed nervously, in disbelief that she was speaking to the man of her dreams. Stella caught Harry's eye and smiled with a nod. She knew Harry's heart would swell with gratitude, but he'd feel guilty that he'd never be able to thank this girl for all the money and time she'd spent on him - indirectly supporting the amazing life he lived. The girl asked him for a hug, before they parted ways. Harry flung his arm around Stella again and brought her in close.

"You hear that? I'm her favourite artist. She went to five shows!" He squeezed her neck tightly before kissing the top of her head. She giggled, rolling her eyes fondly. Linking their fingers on her shoulder, she glanced up at him as they walked.

"She was really nice. You probably made her whole night." Despite still walking in step, Harry managed to lean down and capture her lips in a quick peck, smiling down at her before having to look where they were going again.

As they headed towards the gates, where two older men were stood donned in high-vis jackets, Harry slowed down to slip his hand into his back pocket, fishing out his wallet. Stella's phone vibrated and she looked to see a text from Gemma.

Gem: We're just by the candy floss stand when you get in xx

Harry paid their entry fee and slopped through the muddy grass that had been dug up by so much footfall, while Stella had her bag checked.

"Aw, babe look at that puppy." He pointed towards a small black labrador that was playing - or more trying to play - with a much older looking bloodhound. Stella cooed and took a quick video on her phone to add to her Instagram Stories. The interaction ended up with Harry having his picture taken with the puppy and its owners that Stella knew would be all over the internet by the end of the night.

Wandering the grounds a little more, Stella kept a beady eye out for Gemma and Michal. "They said they'd be by the candy floss... wherever that is." She said, stopping to get her phone out again to call her.

"There they are!" Harry said, taking off to tackle Michal around the waist, simultaneously ruffling his sisters hair.

"Took you two bloody long enough!" Gemma said, scowling at her (not so little) brother and readjusting her new fringe, while side-hugging Stella.

"Harry got stopped a few times, s'cool though." Stella said, smiling slightly. She'd gotten used to Harry's lifestyle by now, but it still made her a feel bad for getting irritated.

"We're just gonna pop to get us some hot chocolates, my treat." Harry said, turning to head to the van with Michal.

"Alright, H. Thanks." Gemma said, turning back to Stella, both of their faces illuminated thanks to the glowing sign of the candy floss stand. "So, how's things now?" She gave Stella a knowing look.

"It's alright, we're settling a bit more now. He's really trying to not... piss me off." The two women laughed, Gemma nodding along, knowing exactly what she meant. "Think it's just how it is with us at the moment, feels like we're at a bit of a crossroads I'm not gonna lie."

"Well, if you ever need anyone to talk to you know where I am." Stella nodded. They spoke some more about Anne and her new children's book, then spoke about Dolly's first curated shoot with Vogue, then the boys were back.

"I got you marshmallows, Stell, that alright? Didn't know if you wanted them or not."

"Course it is, thank you." She looked up at Harry and fiddled with his fingers to connect their hands through his gloves again. His eyes lingered on Stella, thankful to have not fucked up this time - even though it may be the tiniest thing.

The four of them headed over to the crowded bonfire area, Stella lifting to her tiptoes to actually feel the warmth on her cheeks.

"Did you see Planet Earth last week?"

"Aw yeah, those poor seals nearly had me in tears!" Stella commented, taking the lid from her cup to blow on the liquid inside.

"Me too, honestly it's the best thing on telly at the moment. It's absolutely heartbreaking sometimes. Really makes you think though, in terms of climate change and all."

"God yeah, we're fucking everything up." Cocking her head in her partners direction as he sipped on his own drink. "Harry's on about getting solar panels for our place."

Gemma nodded, "sounds like a good shout, mate. I know someone who-" She was cut off by a sudden enormous bang. She heard the distinct 'fuck me!' from Harry a few feet away. Everyone's heads flew up towards the sky, now painted with pink and gold sparkles. Stella laughed at Harry's sister's startle as well as her own, nudging her side before feeling a strong arm loop around her neck again.

Harry stood behind her, leaning his head back to empty the dregs of his drink into his throat - Stella not having even started to sip hers, almost as if he'd always been immune to the heat that she was so sensitive to.

The familiar 'ooh's' and 'aah's' sounded off around them, as well as a few screaming cries of young children. Stella admired the gorgeous clear sky and the explosions of colour above her, smiling with the warmth of her man behind her. He swayed them both slightly as they both watched the display, she glanced up at him, seeing the twinkling lights reflect in his eyes and feeling butterflies swarm her belly.

He looked down back at her, a look of awe still on his face from the glittering show before them, before it morphed into an enquiring smirk.

"Love you." Stella mouthed, smiling contentedly. The smirk grew, him leaning down to kiss her lips tenderly, once, twice, murmuring a 'love you' against her lips, before moving up to peck her forehead. She licked her lips, the taste of him topped with sweet notes of chocolate. Bumping her hips back into him, she giggled when he tightened his hold around her neck and pushed forward, playfully teasing her for what would inevitably come when they got back home.

They'd leave the gates of the park and head back down the road, their joined hands swinging between them. They'd walk up the steps of their home and she'd fumble with the lock, as usual, eventually shoving it open frustratedly, knocking the autumn wreath that adorned it. Once inside, she'd toe off her ankle boots and peel off her layers, him following suit. Trotting to the kitchen with Delilah weaving between her legs, flicking the kettle on before being caught by Harry and subsequently lifted onto the counter.

His lips upon her neck and her hands underneath his thick woolen jumper, she'd have a familiar thought as his tongue peeked out against her skin, warming her from the inside out; yeah, Stella adored the 'ber' months.

~~~

Another short one, hope you enjoy and I hope all my British pals had a fabulous bonfire night/weekend!

Check out the rest of the pieces from this universe here.

Nel xo

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic rec #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut

[delfiore]

don’t fear the reaper [part i]

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

SPOILERS FOR MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS

synopsis: she took the gamble. what more could she lose?

word count: 0.6k

a/n: this is the product of 2am mom brainrot . . . what the actual fuck is this

>> part ii, part iii, part iv

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

She looked and saw the fear in her children’s eyes, cowering behind the rails as they yelled at her, “Witch! Witch!”

Her fingertips, black and rotten, shakily hovered in front of them, asking them to stop.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I did all of this for you. Please don’t be scared.

A force knocked her off her feet, and she landed with a thud on the ground. When she looked up it was you, standing with a protective arm extended in front of the version of her from this universe, the version of her that deserved to be happy.

Why does she get to be happy but I don’t? It’s not fair.

“Stay back.” You said firmly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please, Y/N.” She pleaded, her knees buckling underneath her. “P-Please, I did all of this for us.”

“There is no us here, witch.” You seethed. “You hurt my wife, and frightened my kids. I want you to leave.”

She remembered once when she said those exact same words to someone else, someone that threatened her family’s happiness. She had blasted them away from the bubble of reality she created, and now she was on the other side of it, threatening someone else’s happiness. Everyone else’s happiness, but never her own.

When will it ever be her turn? 

What is the purpose of this existence but a constant cycle of pain and suffering?

Her chest tightened and ached. She let the sobs take over, and crumpled upon herself on the floor. A hand touched her chin and lifted it. She saw her own sorrow reflected in the eyes of the other her, despite the cuts and bruises.

She was the monster parents warn their kids of at night, an unrelenting killer that won’t stop at anyone’s cost.

The Darkhold had corrupted her mind, already fragile as it was. She let herself be selfish for once, but it came to nothing. It wasn’t her life, it would never be hers to live. A million universes and none in which she could be happy, not unless she was Wanda Maximoff.

The Tower shook like a thousand earthquakes, and rocks began to break off the mountain and rain down on her. America Chavez had disappeared behind her portal, just as a boulder hurried down to block the entrance.

Wanda looked up and saw another boulder rushing down towards her.

“No.”

She closed her eyes.

“This is not how your story ends, Wanda Maximoff.”

The booming, low voice was all she could remember, then the faint image of a bald man with glowing white eyes.

Bright light blinded her when she opened her eyes again. It was quiet. She was in a room many floors above a big city, New York City.

She looked down. Her fingertips were healthy and light-colored, no more the black monstrosity she had had to live with. Her nails were even painted a pure white.

“Oh, there you are.”

She looked over her shoulder, and there you are, with a bright smile.

You approached her heartily and pecked her on the lips. “You ready, babe?”

“F-For what?”

“For the premiere.” You let out a short laugh. “Hello? Earth to Lizzie?”

Lizzie?

There was concern in your eyes, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes wander down towards the stunning attire you wore. Black really was your color. And on your left hand, the one holding hers tenderly, a beautiful diamond ring on your ring finger.

“Y-Yeah, of course.” She forced a smile, as you led her out of the hotel room.

“In this universe, Wanda Maximoff,” the voice returned, “you are not Wanda Maximoff.”

She furrowed her eyebrows as you led her into the back of a fancy car.

“Wanda Maximoff is merely fictitious, hence, as is your pain.”

And then she saw it. As the car stopped in front of a sea of people, seemingly waiting for her, in a big backdrop with bold graphics was a picture of her face, and Strange’s, and Wong’s and America’s. The title read ‘Doctor Strange In The Multiverse of Madness’.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

>> part ii

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff imagines #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff x you

[eskeptical]

re-ignition (III)

miguel o'hara x reader word count: 1.7k summary: you make an attempt to prove Miguel wrong.

To prove you were ready to be assigned back on missions. That was what Miguel O’Hara wanted of you.

How he wanted you to prove it, however, remained unclear and hazy, like the thick fog that tends to creep in the early mornings (in your dimension, that is - Earth 928 never seemed to have any other setting than the typical clear-skied default as far as you could tell).

It had been a week since the storage closet incident, and a week since you set on doing everything in your power to get back on mission duty. 

You knew very well that your former self would be repulsed at the sight of you beating Miguel to the cafeteria with a coffee ready in hand to give, maybe an empanada if you were feeling a tad more desperate than usual. 

(You felt yourself sickening quicker at the fact you could subconsciously remember something so useless as his preference - one packet of brown sugar - from a time where you had observed it from the sleek kitchen counter at his place.)

How else were you supposed to prove yourself? Your only chance had been shot straight to hell - with you responsible for the terrible aim - and training until exhaustion had only won you sore limbs and the smell of sweat and ashy concrete stuck onto the image of the training center. 

Your gaze turned towards the metal material surrounding your wrist, and a scoff escaped at the sight of it. The annoyingly orangey modern interface and the cold, technological font with the two words that had been practically engraved onto it given the frequency with which they appeared any time you attempted to navigate through its features made it as useful as a flimsy day pass. 

Access denied. 

Wandering around the vast area bustling with activity, it seemed like everyone seemed to be busy with something - whether it was insignificant chatter or heading off to trap anomalies. The idea of the latter bit at your sides - to see so many others doing what you wanted so desperately would definitely begin your undoing, you were sure of it. 

That is, until you saw a small orange-tinged figure with heart shaped sunglasses, a blue and white captain hat, and a notepad glitching around the lobby.

And with her, an idea popped into your head.

“Lyla!” you called out, to which she quickly turned her head and in a blink popped up a foot away from you. From a closer distance, you noticed her notepad was filled with doodles and curves to appear as though she had written something. She raised a brow, and lifted her glasses. 

“I need your help with something. Are you up for it?”

In response, she smiled widely before answering with a chirp and raising her hand as if to salute, “At your service.”

Miguel's office hadn’t changed from when you'd last seen it months ago. Though, in a similar fashion, your fascination for it remained constant.

In a way, to you it had always served as a peek into the thoughts hidden behind his stoic stance and firm personality. Unlike every other aspect of the Spider Society headquarters - geometric, clean, orderly, and annoyingly perfect - his office contained roughness in it, gravel, uncut edges, scribbles and sketches personified. Always filled with projects gathering dust, too irrelevant when put at the side of greater issues like saving the multiverse and whatever it is that kept him far more occupied.

Unfinished, unpolished, a jumble of thoughts and ideas mixed together in metal and nanotechnology and bolts - and yet it brought a sense of relief to see it, knowing that even Miguel, despite how much he might try to pretend otherwise, isn’t perfect, or as clean-cut as the rest of Nueva York seemed in his dimension. 

Finally glancing over to the orange figurine who had been trailing beside you as you walked, you asked, “So…have there been any new updates while I was gone..?”

The question had been worming its way to existence for a while now. As far as you had observed, it didn’t seem like it - then again, it’s not like you had been physically present on any of Miguel’s squad’s missions to confirm it fully.

Lyla looked at you with a smug grin on her face and a raised eyebrow, “You mean you want to know whether or not he’s replaced you on the team?”

Your eyes widened as the seemingly damp air paired with her getting straight to the point suddenly seemed to warm up your cheeks in an instant. 

“No…no, I was just wondering in terms of, like, the Spider Society as a whole, or–”

Lyla rolled her eyes and gave out a single laugh, “He hasn’t.”

A breath you didn’t know you had been holding captive bubbled its way out of your lips. An exhale, one that Lyla quickly registered and chuckled over. You weren’t sure how much she knew about your past with Miguel, and you weren’t about to beat around the subject to draw any suspicions. 

You finally reached him, well, almost - it didn’t help that his platform was way up high. 

(He had told you once the reasoning for it: he liked the lighting better up there, though the hidden vulnerability in his glance and the closing of his fists had you convinced that there was more to it.

Still, you never inquired further.)

As with most things, Miguel was a step ahead, and before you could say anything, he spoke, his voice loud and firm.

“Why are you here? You don’t have access here.”

“I don’t have access anywhere. Lyla let me in.”

You smiled, if you could call it that - it was more a mix of cowardice and wary eyes as the corners of your lips attempted to lift. 

The platform lowered enough where you could see his face. His eyebags had gotten heavier, you noticed. His expression held indifference, and his hands were planted firmly on his hips.

(Still, you had to admit that even in the worst of shapes, you couldn’t pull away from looking at the sharp cheekbones and set jaw. Magnetic, almost.)

He stepped down, every step firm as he approached you. His lips were pursed, and he raised an eyebrow as he looked over to Lyla, who simply shrugged with a mischievous grin.

Miguel sighed, and turned his gaze back to you with an air of bitterness, saying nothing more.

However-

However, he wasn’t kicking you out. You know he would have done so already if he really wanted to. 

So, naturally, you took it as a chance to continue. Scraping at the very bottom of what little perseverance and self-confidence you had left, you pulled a firm voice as you looked at him and said, “I’m ready to get back on the team.” 

Miguel’s expression hardly changed. He had been expecting it, you suppose. Of course he had. He probably had prepared for it from his platform, observing your every move. He looked you up and down, and for a second, it almost looked like how he used to look at you months ago.

Before you could confirm it, his expression hardened again, and he simply nodded towards your empty hands.

“I assume you’re not here to bring me another coffee. You’re not a people pleaser, so it isn’t surprising you gave up so easily.”

He took a step closer.

“And you at training. Was that supposed to impress me?”

You scoffed, and rolled your eyes, “I wasn’t trying to-”

“No?” he interrupted, and you knew him well enough to tell that under the serious question, a hint of teasing was buried somewhere. “You’re not ready-”

With this, you lunged at him. You hoped the surprise attack would demonstrate the fruits of your efforts, but he caught your intent quickly, turning you around in one move and wrapping one of his arms around your stomach, the other grabbing both of your arms and keeping them in place. 

His cologne, you noticed, was the same. Deliciously intoxicating, addictive enough to the point where you had to do everything in your power to not think about it, about him. If only things were like they had been months ago…

He seemed to sense it too.

His chest rose and fell quicker as it pressed into your back, and his face was close enough to whisper in your ear, hot air warming up your neck, making it inconceivably hard to concentrate. His lips were easily close enough to brush against your ear, and you account for the part of you that wished he did to be a surfacing remnant of the past.

He clicked his tongue, and hesitated before whispering, his hushed voice sent goosebumps like fire to your nape.

“You had a bad start. Not enough force.”

Still, you knew you hadn’t been the only one. You swallowed, before speaking the words that you hoped weren't implying wrong like they had before.

“But…you still didn’t expect it, did you? I saw your eyes. Your arm faltered for a second there.”

This caused him to release you, taking a step back, as his voice lowered, “...You’re wrong.”

There was no need to correct him or respond otherwise. The small doubt in his voice was enough to prove you right. 

(And perhaps a tinge of red on his cheeks would have too, though a silly blush would be more of a wish from you than a reality.)

He noticed the slip up, he must have - shortly after he turned around, his back facing you, you could see his arm raise to rub the bridge of his nose. 

You weren’t sure what that meant, what all of it meant. Your plan to surprise him hadn’t exactly gone the way you wanted, and you should have expected it. Any plans involving Miguel O’hara never did.

His guards were now raised, so there was no point in attempting to take him by surprise again. Sighing, you turned around to walk out. 

“...Be here tomorrow morning.”

You turned around, shocked, “Did-”

“And don’t think it’s because of your plan, which was really stupid, by the way.”

“Then why?” Your confidence had grown enough to ask, and though it was a tad invasive for your liking, hopefully it would draw out more out of him.

Then again, hope would have been too much to ask for. He still had his back turned towards you, so his expression was something more you didn’t have access to.

“Nine sharp or I’m leaving without you.”

“Alright, alright…Thank you, Miguel.” you replied, and before he could regret it, you swung your way out of his office.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara atsv #atsv #across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader

[awingedinsect]

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 10

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: cursing, alcohol use, Vessel is that bitch. Minor character death

“What do you think of my gift?”

Vessel head is bowed. He can feel the mark on his forehead flickering, burning; carving his flesh over and over.

“It’s beautiful.” He says.

He can feel the earth beneath his knees. What was once a blank plane is now something rich and almost real, a dark forest that creeks and twists with ancient power. It’s serene.

There’s a black cloak on his shoulders, the hood draped over his head. Another gift.

He looks up slowly, eyes scanning the trees as they whisper to him.

“Do you have a form?” He asks, hands clamped to his knees. “Can I see you?”

There’s a silence.

“I am something beyond sight.” The forest says. “I am a force, a saturation of thought. Any form I take does no justice to my entirety, nor any name, to what I am. Though to you, I am something you have needed since first you opened your eyes.”

Vessel feels something cold along his spine, slithering over his skin and dragging delicately like a mothers touch.

“…I believe you know my name.”

“Sleep.” Vessel whispers.

There’s a weight over his face. It turns his vision to slits as he looks up, feeling the touch drag along his shoulders and to his chest. His breath grows deeper as he feels his chin tilt up. “I am the author of your dreams. And you are the catalyst of my hunger. Worship.”

His lips part slowly, watching as his colorless surroundings seep fog into the little clearing until it rises up past his eyes. There’s a form in the haze; a singular bit of color that splits into six pieces that slowly gather before him.

Six glowing slanted eyes bore into him.

“Be my voice.”

When he looks down, he sees his arms covered in ash. His hands tremor and climb up over himself, admiring the palette of the trees as it bathes his skin.

“Does it please you to dress me like your home?” He asks. “…Why do I have a new face?”

“This place is what you make it, not me.” The eyes say, trailing over Vessel’s body. “The mask, is a sacrament of your surrender. You don’t need a face, only a mouth. And what is not necessary is not shown. Did you ask them to wear the masks?”

“…yes.”

“Is it almost time?”

“…yes.”

“Then stand, Vessel.” The trees twist and spread into four corners around him, the canopies spreading black and consuming above. He gets to his feet, setting the empty glass he finds in his hand on a table.

“Give your voice to me.”

He walks through the wooden door and opens it into a hallway, feeling the lights and the fog and the crowd all beckoning him. His cloak flows behind him and he reaches up, adjusting the mask one last time before mounting the stairs.

Worship. He thinks, unsure of what it truly means.

Worship.

He steps over wires, brain sloshing a bit more than it ought to be. But he’s truly not sure he could have gotten on stage at all without a bit of liquid courage. II is there, behind the drums. IV stands quiet and still with his guitar, arm free of the sling just for the occasion; it’s obvious how happy he is to be reunited with his instrument.

Vessel’s eyes move to III, dragging over him slowly as he makes his way across the stage. He didn’t talk much before the show, which was probably for the better anyway, if not a little concerning. He had hardly protested when the idea of the masks came up; something Vessel did not expect. Although if only one of them hid their face it might seem a little strange to the hundred or so people gathered in this tent to witness a mostly unknown band with a completely unknown name.

He wanders to the mic stand.

There’s a lot of eyes. More eyes than he had on him the first time. He’s safer this time, for sure; the paint, the mask, the hood… these things come together in a concoction free of normalcy and full of interest that has practically nothing to do with who he actually is beneath. All they want is a show, not him. But even with that thought he can’t look up.

There is a single pair of eyes he wants on him tonight and it’s not in the bloody crowd.

He pulls the mic of the stand and wanders off, trailing the chord head bowed. Can they tell he’s nervous? He prowls slowly as the music starts, looking down at himself bathed in the pale lights. The paint is honestly half-assed; splotchy and missing a whole few centimeters between his jeans and hips, displaying a glaring reminder of how rarely he sees the sun.

Whatever.

He picks up a water bottle and takes a small sip, before twisting the cap back on and just dropping it on the stage floor. He can practically hear III’s anger, and he can’t help but smile a little.

His lips hover over the mic, parting slowly.

“And I’ll see you when the wrath comes…”

“Do you have any songs you wanna add to the set, Vess?” II had asked. He sat with a pad and pencil on the couch. “That song you played at the bar, maybe?”

“Knocking on your bedroom door with money…”

“…actually, I’ve kinda been writing a new one.” He said, fingers twitching at his sides. “…I was gonna run it by you guys at practice, see what you think.”

“Building you a kingdom…” Vessel’s voice is low. Breathy. It draws a few screams from the crowd, something that does nothing to put out the fire simmering in his chest. God, it’s so much easier. He’s just a mouth, and they're just ears. And whether he understands it or not there’s a god who approves of that arrangement enough to make him promises he can’t begin to understand.

He glances at III, heart lurching when he sees the bassist strumming intently to his words.

“Dripping from the open mouth. I’ll show you what you look like…”

Both hand graze the mic, caressing the chord like his heart isn’t beating at twice its usual pace. “…from the inside.”

He steps up to the front of the stage, now casting a brief glance at all the sets of cold eyes now warming up as they watch him. It’s euphoric. Interesting. And it’s enough to make his back sticky with sweat.

“And I’ll see you when the wrath comes around.”

When the breakdown hits him, he can’t help but move. The sound erupts in the little tent like a call to a whole new plane of being and he closes his eyes, jumping side to side on the stage as the crowd reaches and roars for that plane. That Eden. His bandmates don’t hold back either, pouring their hearts through their fingers and giving everything they have to offer. And when he sees III actually kicking the air to the beat his face splits with a glistening smile.

He loves this.

Suddenly his head flares with a shooting pain. He doubles over, hands reaching up with the mic still trembling in his hold. He gasps and scrunches his eyes as a thought loud enough to terrify him seeps through the cracks of his skull;

“Don’t be driven to distraction. I will build you a kingdom, so long as you know to who you belong.”

His chin wobbles, a line of spit falling from his glossy lips. “Let’s load the gun.” He whispers below the music. “Load the gun…”

A wicked laugh falls out of his mouth as he straightens, forcing the pain deeper and raising his hands in the air. He ignores the wet tracks making their way down his face. He just smiles and bows his head, feeling the music flood his fucking form.

He floats on the brief silence as the song closes, chest heaving. It’s an intense quiet. Like a grave, at the bottom of the sea.

Then noise thunders into his ears like breaking waves.

They’re ecstatic; screaming and clapping and demanding more, maybe more moved than he is. He can’t believe it. Do they really like him- the music, that much?

He suddenly feels very awkward, aware of how lost he’d gotten and how insane he must have looked. He just stands there, stiff and still with a mic in his hands.

He gives them a little nod of thanks and retreats back as the next song starts up; one of II’s own.

• • •

Vessel’s still in his costume.

He feels a little silly, standing around in almost plain sight behind the tent. Although he’s sure that a lanky guy in paint and a mask isn’t necessarily the strangest nor most exciting thing to see at this festival.

He sits on the rigging, swinging his socked feet and looking up at the sky as dusk sets in over the chaos. He likes being secluded.

He takes a sip of his beer.

“That was insane.” IV says, pulling his mask off and leaning back against the structure. He drops his head back, swiping his face with his still-weak arm propped up on his guitar, and pops the cap off his own beer with a keychain. “God, I’m tired.” He says, taking a swig. “You?”

“…where’s III?” Vessel asks, voice a little quiet. He’s pretty drained after all that, body quite literally dripping with sweat. IV shrugs. “Off getting lit, most likely.” He says. “There’s plenty more shows to watch before the nights over, and he’ll probably be in as many pits as possible.”

“…and II?”

“Meeting up with some friends, I think.” IV rolls his head over, lashes flickering up at Vessel as he takes another sip of his drink. “What are you wanting to do, Vess?”

Before he can answer, II comes around the tent with a much taller man in tow. Vessel straightens, clearing his throat and blinking behind the mask. He wasn’t expecting company.

“Vessel! I want you to meet someone.” II says, pulling the guy by the arm. He’s a brunette, with soft features and a flushed, smiling face. He’s probably hit up a few drink stands himself tonight.

“Matt, Vessel.” II says, dropping the stranger in front of him. “Vessel, Matt.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vessel says, considering offering his hand but opting to just clutch his beer awkwardly between his knees. “Drummer, right?”

“Likewise!” Matthew says, still smiling wide as he shoves his hands in his jean pockets. “And yep, that’s me. Listen, man, I managed to watch your set- that was fuckin brilliant. Brilliant.” His eyes suddenly flick up and down Vessel’s body, smile quirking thoughtfully. “I like your style.”

If it weren’t for the mask, Vessel’s pretty sure his blush would be record breaking. But he just sits there instead, nodding and tugging his mouth into an award straight line of an expression that says “thanks” in the most casual way he can muster.

He fails a bit.

“What’dya think of the new name, Matt?” II asks, stealing the beer from IV’s hand and taking a long sip. “Does it suit us?”

“no man, it’s sick.” Matt says, turning to his friend, though his eyes are always just a fraction away from Vessel. “Though honestly, can’t believe you changed it! But ‘Sleep Token’ has a hell of a ring.”

IV snags his drink back from II. “Well, we didn’t exactly want to go down as the band that played before the damn crisis of the year happened.” He says. “Besides, it was time for a new vibe. Vessel actually came up with it.”

At the mention of the Blacklit room, Vessel’s body tenses. But he’s quickly distracted once more as Matt turns to him, grinning. “Oh really? What was the inspiration, then? Or does it just sound cool.”

“Um, both… I guess.” He smiles. “I mean, We all need Sleep, right?”

They all laugh a little good naturally, eyes gleaming as the dark sets in.

“Well,” Matt says, rifling through his back pocket and producing a pen and napkin. He starts scribbling it, eyes drifting to Vessel midway with a small smile. “If you ever wanna tell me more about it.”

He sets the napkin down on the rigging besides Vessel, casually dropping his pen back in his pocket.

Vessel swears he catches a wink before Matt turns back to II.

“Man, your percussions were wild. What was the name of that second song? Halfway through I swear…”

Vessel stops listening, eyes flicking down to the napkin as his fingers curl around it. There’s a little flutter in his chest, a smile fast growing on his lips as he unfolds it just enough to see the beginning of an area code.

He shoves it into his pocket, eyes twinkling under the mask and turning to IV.

IV takes a sip of his beer and offers him a small thumbs-up.

That night they all crash immediately. II, IV and of course III. After about twenty minutes of searching they managed to find the bassist in a mosh pit, screaming and shoving every person in sight until the whole thing nearly required security. He was wasted, and fell asleep against the backseat window with II on his shoulder as IV navigated them through traffic. Vessel sat shotgun, blinking away the alcohol with his hands in his lap, mask, robe and paint getting second-looks from other cars.

He thought he looked sick.

The next day they did nothing but practice until 5:00pm, when II suggested they all go get sandwiches. They did. And when they got home, the sun was already setting.

They all got ready for an early night.

“Anyone wanna watch some tv?” II asks, wandering out of his room in an oversized shirt and boxers. III is already digging through the fridge again, and II ducks under his arm, pulling out a beer before disappearing in the living room.

Vessel is leaning against the kitchen counter, a yawn trapped in his mouth while IV downs a glass of water before filling it up a second time for the singer.

“I’m good,” Vessel says after II, checking the clock on the wall. He nods his thanks at IV and sips the glass he’s handed. “I’m fuckin beat. Guess I didn’t sleep all that great last night.”

III is hauling a half-eaten banana pudding into his room, not bothering to say anything at all as he retires for the night.

IV looks at Vessel.

“You know, you do look off.” He says. “You feeling alright, bruv? …I heard you get sick last night.”

“What?” Vessel rubs his eyes. “Me? I…“

A horrified scream suddenly fills the house, turning his blood to ice.

“What the fuck-!“ III speeds out of his room, charging down the hallway to get into the living room where Vessel and IV have already gathered.

They find II on the couch, jaw dropped and wide eyes filled with the reflection of the tv.

“…found dead early this morning, in an abandoned home three blocks from his apartment.”

Vessel covers his mouth, a choked sound leaving him as he sees the face on the screen.

No way.

III and IV are already holding II, trying to quiet his cries. But Vessel feels empty. Devoid of reaction or even the ability to move.

“The man has been identified as Matthew Todd, a 22 year old college student.”

Tags: @thevenomousseprent @moonlit-valkyrie @mmendez0124 @yourviscera @rain-down-on-me @xzero01

#vessel #vessel sleep token #sleep token art #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token iii #art #sleep token #sleep token fanart #sleep token ii #vessel art #fanfic #sleep token iii fanfiction #jennifer’s body au

[nxwbon]

The Pale Elf and the Witch of Waterdeep - Part One

(ASTARION X OC)

Warnings: Violence, Blood, Gore, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 2105

Synopsis: After a dreadful tragedy takes place at Blackstaff Academy, Sana Torleth, overcome with shame and guilt, is forced to flee her home city of Waterdeep. Settling in a tiny village on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate, she takes on a new identity, hoping to forget her past and the dark powers she unleashed.

However, fate has other plans when she is abducted by Mind Flayers, marking the beginning of a harrowing journey brimming with danger, secrets, betrayal, and perhaps, most unexpectedly, love. Unbeknownst to Sana, this path may lead her to a newfound appreciation of the abilities she once thought cursed.

(Six Years before the events of Baldur's Gate III)

The piercing screams and wails of my fellow students filled my ears, a symphony of pain and terror that I couldn't help but relish. As I soaked in the carnage, my dark eyes darted around the clearing like those of a feral cat, chest heaving. Warm blood trickled down my face, glistening in the pale moonlight.

Next to me, a young Tiefling girl lay in agony. Wide eyes, reflecting a mix of fear and confusion, stared up at the night sky. Her breaths were ragged, desperate gasps as she feebly clawed at my ankle, seeking a futile salvation.

I found myself captivated, almost hypnotically so, by the blood spilling from the deep wound in her side. It painted her cream-colored robes and the leaf-strewn earth in a stark, macabre contrast. A primal hunger awoke within me at the sight. My thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the forbidden allure of tasting her warm, raw flesh. As this morbid curiosity grew, my mouth involuntarily watered, and my heart pounded with anticipation.

I hunched over the Tiefling, my senses engulfed by the roaring torrents within my head, and I prodded the injury with a finger. She whimpered, feebly attempting to swat my hand away.

"Sana!" Professor Yesran's voice pierced the air, high-pitched and fraught with tension. There was a palpable tremble in her call. This display of vulnerability from the usually composed professor was not just surprising; it was deliciously amusing.

A feral growl slipped from my lips as I returned to my feet, my movements slow and deliberate, my body twisting to confront Yesran, who stood solemnly in the shadow of the ancient willow. My lips curved into a mischievous grin, sparked by the palpable tension emanating from my mentor. In a playful act of defiance, I extended my tongue, a bloodied fingertip brushing against it, tracing the sweet, metallic flavor over my taste buds.

Behind Yesran, the imposing figures of Froud and Ervaris emerged, both esteemed Professors and skilled masters of the weave, their hands alight with the shimmering, blue sparks of electricity. At the sight of them, my smile morphed into a rebellious scowl. I could feel my own energy welling within, simmering like molten lava under my skin, until brilliant violet flames erupted from my hands, bathing the clearing in a sinister light.

"Sana, I implore you," Yesran pleaded, her hands reaching out in a gesture of peace as she cautiously stepped forward, the depth of her worry tangible in the charged atmosphere. Her large, green eyes held mine with an intensity that conveyed a myriad of unspoken emotions. "What transpires between us is veiled in uncertainty, yet I hold firm to one conviction—this is not the path you were destined to follow, my child."

Before I could formulate a response, a voice not entirely my own, yet emanating from deep within me, began to rise. It started as a whisper, coalescing from the depths of my being, growing in strength until it resonated with the power of a tempest. "You know not of what destinies are woven," it thundered, its resonance so profound that the very earth beneath us seemed to quiver in response. "I am the Sovereign of Murder, the Arbiter of the Dead Three, and I lay my claim upon this child shrouded in darkness. Within her beats the heart of my legacy, the Dark Thread—a lineage she is destined to fulfill. She will carve a swath of destruction and despair across this realm. Let those who would oppose her seek refuge in their faith, for they will find no solace against the storm to come."

The echo of Bhaal's ominous declaration lingered in the air, leaving behind a throbbing pain that pulsed through my skull. Collapsing to my knees, the once fierce flames that danced upon my palms died away, snuffed out by the cold embrace of the damp earth beneath me. My hands sank into the mud, grounding me in the chilling reality of my actions. A wave of realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, leaving me gasping for air.

My mind was a maelstrom of turmoil, each thought and emotion colliding with the next in a tumultuous storm of guilt, fear, and bewilderment. The magnitude of my actions weighed heavily upon me - those I had harmed were once my peers, my friends. A bitter taste of bile assaulted my senses, searing my throat as I fought to contain it. Despite my efforts, blackened sickness spilled from my lips.

As it subsided, I coughed, glanced to my side, the young Tiefling lay silent, unmoving, her eyes now white and glassy, frozen in a perpetual expression of terror. She was gone. Tears began to stream down my face, the cold air making them sting upon my cheeks. The Tiefling was not the only one. Others lay scattered about, draped in blood, limbs torn asunder, while a few were eerily silent amidst the cacophony of screams and agony that filled the air.

Professor Yesran approached me, her steps measured amidst the chaos, while Professors Froud and Ervaris rushed to aid the wounded, their hands weaving through the air as they cast spells of healing in a desperate bid to stanch the bleeding and mend the broken. The clearing, once a place of learning, had transformed into a battlefield, marked by the violence I had wrought.

Yesran collapsed to her knees before me. I continued to sob, unable to bring myself to meet her gaze, the weight of my guilt anchoring my eyes to the ground.

Her hand reached out, a gesture so gentle it felt alien in the midst of such devastation. The moment her fingers brushed my chin, the instinct to recoil from the touch was overwhelming. Yet, something in her persistence, the softness of her approach, compelled me to relent. I allowed her to guide my face upward, though the battle within me raged on, fighting to divert my eyes from the confrontation of her gaze.

"Sana, what do you remember, my dear?" Yesran asked, her voice a gentle caress that beckoned me to look into her eyes. When I did, I found not the anger I feared, but a profound sadness that mirrored my own.

"Everything!" The words escaped me in a gasp, a deluge of memories flooding back in vivid, merciless clarity. What had started as just another day in our routine dueling class spiraled into chaos the moment I deflected an incoming spell. Panic and power had surged through me, uncontrolled and wild.

I recalled the moment a ball of fire erupted from my hands, aimed at Augustus Draven. The horror of watching it pass right through him, as if he were no more substantial than a wisp of smoke, haunted me. Then there was Lilly Bandal, the half-elf. Her screams echoed in my ears, a sound so filled with pain and terror it threatened to fracture my soul. I had watched, detached, as she was impaled on a sharp branch, her body slumping in a grotesque display of my unchecked power.

Malri Adrin's face flashed through my mind, his eyes wide with fear as he pleaded for his life, a plea I coldly ignored. And Lensa, the Tiefling girl, her presence at the academy so brief she barely had time to unpack her bags. She had been here for only a week, a new beginning cut tragically short.

Each memory was a blade, slicing through the remnants of the person I once believed myself to be. The weight of my actions, the lives I had shattered with a power I didn't understand.

The urge to flee overtook me, a desperate need to escape, to distance myself from anyone I could harm. I couldn't bear the thought of deserving forgiveness, not when the possibility that I was a spawn of Bhaal loomed over me, a shadow darkening my very existence. The thought of continuing to live, of potentially unleashing more destruction, was unbearable. Rejecting Yesran's comforting touch, I pushed her hand away, and the ache that followed felt deeper than physical pain. She had become like the mother I never had, and the thought of her witnessing my fall from grace was a torment all on its own. "Sana!" she cried out, but her voice was a fading echo as I forced myself to stand, ignoring the stiffness in my legs, and ran.

The forest's darkness enveloped me, a fitting shroud for the turmoil within. As I darted through the trees, the faces of those I had hurt haunted me—their screams, their pain, branding me a monster, a vile creature deserving of condemnation. Branches clawed at my robes, tore at my skin, each scratch a token of penance. I deserved every lash, every reminder of the pain I had caused.

Raised on tales of the Harpers, my lineage was said to be one of nobility, rooted in a modest but proud heritage of wizardry and populated by folk heroes of valor and integrity. The realization that I, presumed to be the progeny of such illustrious and honorable forebears, could harbor within me a force as malevolent as the Dark Thread was not just a bitter pill to swallow—it was a revelation that upended everything I thought I knew about myself. It mocked the very essence of the heritage I cherished.

Drawn inexorably toward the sea's call, I found myself on the precipice of Blackjaw Cliff, where the relentless crash of waves against sharp rocks whispered promises of peace from the battle that raged within me. A single, daring leap offered a swift end, a final escape from darkness I harbored.

As the edge of the cliff crumbled beneath my tentative steps, the reality of my decision weighed heavily upon me.

"Don't do this, Sana," Yesrin's voice called as she emerged from the forest, her appearance disheveled. Twigs and leaves clung to her silver hair, a testament to her haste and desperation to reach me.

"You can't help me," I whispered back, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. "We both know the darkness within me will only grow, consuming everything in its path—me, you, all of Waterdeep. It's better to end this now, before the darkness has a chance to spread further." My words hung between us. "This is the only way,"

"No!" Desperation lent Yesrin's aged limbs a grace and speed that belied her years. She lunged towards me, her hand outstretched in a futile attempt to bridge the distance that fate had cruelly imposed between us.

But it was too late. The ground beneath my feet gave way, collapsing like the last vestiges of hope, and I was airborne, embraced by the void. Yesrin's anguished scream melded with the rush of air and the roar of the sea, a haunting symphony that marked my descent into the abyss.

Terror gripped me as I fell, the wind howling in my ears, a relentless roar that seemed to mock my plight. The world spun, a maelic whirl of sky and sea and earth, each second stretching into an eternity of fear and regret. Thoughts raced through my mind, a storm of what-ifs and if-onlys, but above all, an overwhelming sense of dread.

The air, once a roaring companion in my descent, fell silent as I neared the end. Then, impact—a brutal, unyielding collision with the jagged rocks below.

The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a searing, all-consuming force that obliterated every other sensation. My body, caught in the merciless embrace of the crashing waves, bore the full wrath of gravity's decree. Bones shattered with a violence that echoed through the marrow, while skin and flesh bore mute witness to the unforgiving texture of the stone.

In that moment, time fractured, each second a lifetime of agony. The world spun wildly, a chaotic dance of light and shadow, until slowly, a creeping darkness began to edge its way into my vision. Sounds—the water, the distant cries of seabirds, even the fading echo of Yesran's despair—dulled, as if muffled by a great distance.

The darkness thickened, drawing closer with the inexorable pull of a tide. I fought against it, a desperate struggle to cling to the shards of consciousness that remained, but it was a losing battle. The edges of my vision blurred, then darkened, until all that remained was a void, devoid of pain, of fear, of thought.

And then, nothing.

#astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion smut #astarion x tav #baldur's gate oc #bg3 companions #friends to lovers #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 tav #bg3 #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate #bg3 spoilers #karlach #tav #shadowheart #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #halsin #lae'zel #the dark urge #dark urge #durge #bg3 durge #durge bg3 #bg3 bhaalspawn #bhaalspawn tav #bg3 orin

[lilimonstera]

1941 Pt III

”Do you recall, back in, well, say, the 14th century or so…”

“Nnnggg, not the 14th century. Worst time on earth. Nothing good came out of the 14th century,” Crowley grumbled. “Yes, well…” Aziraphale trailed off. He couldn’t meet Crowley��s eyes, instead choosing to look around the bookshop at all the memories it contained.

Luckily, Crowley didn’t seem to notice Aziraphale’s discomfort. He was reclined against his chair, his head hanging back, an empty whiskey glass held loosely in his fingers. His eyes were drifting closed and he felt, for the first time in a long time, that things were on the up. Aziraphale started again. “Yes, the 14th century was quite…interesting. I can’t say I much enjoyed it either.” He threw a glance at Crowley and was both pleased and annoyed to find him utterly at peace. “However, I was just reminiscing about an entertaining diversion I had while you were off doing who knows what evil.”

Crowley hmmed in encouragement, content to let the angel reach the end of his story at his own pace. After all, there were no more bombs to be dropped or guns to shoot tonight (thank Satan for that), and they both deserved to relax in their own preferred ways.

“I met these two nice young men who asked for my assistance with a…” Aziraphale paused, then, deciding that it was really quite best to hurry this part along, finished “a personal matter. A matter of love.”

This finally caught Crowley’s attention in earnest. If there was one thing Aziraphale typically enjoyed talking about, it was love (other than food that is). But the angel’s voice had none of his usual fondness for human emotions, and for this reason Crowley decided to crack open an eyelid to observe Aziraphale’s face as he spoke.

Aziraphale, unaware that he was now being observed, took a sip of wine and steadied his other hand against the table where they sat.

“These two men, boys really, were to be married to two lovely young women. The arrangements were made by their parents to the dissatisfaction of all involved. And the two boys were so clearly besotted with each other that they decided to take advantage of the customs of the time and…declare their intentions to each other.”

Crowley felt a definitive shift in the atmosphere of the room. Aziraphale clearly had a point he was approaching, but the demon was unsure of what that point would be. “What’s that then?” The demon prompted. “Their intention to marry!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Truly, he thought, the poor dear could be so dense sometimes. “In those times, words held much weight. Simply saying ‘I do’ was sufficient to call yourselves married. And having a witness to the spoken words, although not necessary, added an extra layer of stability for the newlyweds. A wonderful practice, I think.”

Crowley nodded, swirling the last dregs of his whiskey around in the glass before setting it on the table. He stood slowly, noting that Aziraphale was still not looking his way. In fact, the angel was quite clearly avoiding looking at him, or anything at all, instead setting his eyes on a single point in the distance. One who didn’t know him well might think that Aziraphale was not paying attention. But Crowley knew all too well that the exact opposite was true. The angel was watching, waiting, and…hoping.

The mood of the room had decidedly changed. Many of the candles had burned low and the unspoken words took up almost more space than the books. As he wandered around the room, Crowley realized he felt hopeful as well. He made his way back to the table, hoping that he hadn’t misunderstood his angel’s stops and starts, hoping they were finally on the same page.

Picking up Aziraphale’s now empty wine glass, Crowley asked softly, “Care for another, angel?”

Aziraphale slowly looked up, making eye contact with Crowley for what felt like the first time in centuries.

“I do.”

He paused, then reached over and offered the empty whiskey glass to Crowley.

“And you?” Aziraphale asked, never breaking the eye contact in the fear that the moment might dissolve.

Crowley took the glass from Aziraphale’s hand, their fingers brushing ever so slightly against each other for a few moments more than might be considered necessary.

“I do.”

#good omens #gomens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens 3 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow

[nevesmose]

Perturabo was silent for a long time, his attention completely focused on the disassembled objects spread out before him.

"No, Fulgrim," he said eventually. "I am not fun at parties. Why do you ask?"

The Primarch of the III Legion smiled. "No reason in particular. I merely wondered if you'd like to take advantage of so many of the family being close by."

Fulgrim stepped away from Perturabo's worktable, elegantly avoiding the discarded parchments and empty grey plastek sprues littering the room.

"Goodnight then, brother. I shall leave you to your..." he paused briefly, for once unable to find the right word. "Figurines," he finished.

"They're miniatures," the Lord of Iron said bitterly. Fulgrim gave the briefest of shrugs and left the room.

Oh, Perturabo, he thought fondly as his brother's door slid closed. Don't ever change.

"I told you he'd say no," a rough, low voice called from further down the hallway. "If it was anyone but you he would've started throwing things."

"Very comforting, Ferrus." The two primarchs walked together for a few moments in a close, pleasant silence. With anyone else Fulgrim would have found the quiet oppressive, felt the need to speak, to act, to perform in some way.

It had never been like that with Ferrus, and in his introspective moments he treasured that quiet as something uniquely theirs.

"How goes the process of civilising our newest brother?" Ferrus asked.

Oh, Konrad, Fulgrim thought. Please change, even just a bit.

"He has been a challenge," Fulgrim admitted. "More so than I expected."

"Really?" Ferrus asked, amused. "I thought you relished a challenge."

"Not this one," Fulgrim answered. "Have you ever considered the logistics of bathing a fellow Primarch?"

"I could be persuaded," Ferrus said.

Fulgrim gave him a pointed look. "Not like that. I mean someone of our size and strength who adamantly refuses to even consider basic hygiene. And our father wants me to turn this... being into a capable leader of his own Legion."

Fulgrim sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"At the moment it's a miracle if he sleeps through the night without some kind of outburst. His latest development is wandering the corridors to scream at every mortal he sees about the exact time and nature of their deaths."

"You must be tired."

Fulgrim laughed bleakly. "Tired," he said, as if it were some arcane alien concept. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Come in, then." Seemingly without intending to, they'd arrived in the hallway outside Ferrus's chambers.

"The Gorgon of Medusa invites me to his quarters," Fulgrim said archly. "People will talk. What scurrilous rumours they might spread."

Ferrus shrugged. "Let them."

The room was cool, sparsely lit and, with the exception of Forgebreaker in pride of place on a wall rack, minimally furnished. The opposite of his own in every possible way, but at times like this Fulgrim found the contrast refreshing.

Ferrus flung himself down onto a primarch-scaled couch as Fulgrim's gaze was drawn to the incongruous sight of a rectangular open-topped frigerator unit containing ice and several glass vessels.

"And what might this be?"

"Oh, that," Ferrus said. "One of the latest archaeo-tech recreations based on analysing residues from ancient Terran artefacts. It's an alcoholic drink somehow brewed with crystals."

Fulgrim took a single delicate sip and wrinkled his nose slightly.

"Apparently it was extremely popular on old Earth, but only for a very short time before something else replaced it. Magnus would be able to tell you more."

"I imagine he would," Fulgrim said, turning his attention back to Ferrus. "But with the greatest of respect to the Primarch of the Fifteenth, I don't particularly care about Magnus just now."

For a long moment neither of them said anything. Then Ferrus slid back on the couch, legs parted, and patted a hand on the seat just in front of him.

"Come on, sit down."

Fulgrim quirked an eyebrow.

"Did I stutter, Phoenician? Sit down. You need to relax."

"If you insist," Fulgrim said. He moved to sit cross-legged in the space between Ferrus's legs. After a moment's hesitation, he leaned his full weight back against Ferrus.

"There you go," Ferrus said, starting to run his hands through Fulgrim's long hair. "You don't have to be perfect every single moment of the day."

"Perhaps," Fulgrim replied, closing his eyes. "But then what would I be instead?"

What is this called, he wondered, sudden and cold. What are we doing? The idea threatened to ruin everything if he dwelt on it. To ruin this, whatever it was that he and Ferrus had.

We're Primarchs, he thought. There isn't any existing human word or concept for what we are or choose to be, other than what we decide for ourselves. Like the first ancients naming the stars.

A single cool metal finger poked him gently in the back of the head. "You're thinking," Ferrus said. "I can tell."

"Congratulations. I knew if you saw other people do it you'd eventually start to recognise the signs," Fulgrim replied without any real malice, tilting his head back as Ferrus's hands resumed their movement through his hair.

He felt Ferrus's chest move behind him as he laughed. "You wound me, Fulgrim. I'll withdraw from society to weep and write poetry."

"Anything but your poetry, I beg of you," Fulgrim said quietly. "The galaxy isn't ready for that level of pain and suffering."

#AND THEN THEY FUCKED #it's primarch fluff and cuddles time #fulgrim is the kind of person you can just throw in a word or two here and there and let him talk for half an hour #ferrus “emotional support” manus #stroking someone's hair is genuinely one of the most intimate things you can do imho #trying to broaden my range by writing about nice things #you can have a few memes as a treat #CERVEZA CRISTAL #divider by @squishyowl #fulgrim x ferrus #fulgrim/ferrus #fulgrim #ferrus manus #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #horus heresy #warhammer 40k #wh30k #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #best way i can describe it is fulgrim is an ADVERBS person and ferrus is a STATEMENTS person #neves writes

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Daenerys X (Chapter 71)

Surprise, crazy survived. For now.

The hill was a stony island in a sea of green.

It took Dany half the morning to climb down. By the time she reached the bottom she was winded. Her muscles ached, and she felt as if she had the beginnings of a fever. 

Well looky here! First paragraph.

Miss thing has a fever before wandering in the sun, drinking muddy water, and eating strange berries. Why's that?

The Blue Grace called Ezzara folded her hands. "My queen," she murmured, "his fever was not brought on by the arrow. He had soiled himself, not once but many times. The stains reached to his knees, and there was dried blood amongst his excrement." - Daenerys V, ADWD

x

He felt her brow. Is it hot in here, or does she have a touch of fever? He dared not ask that question aloud. Even hard men like the Second Sons were terrified of mounting the pale mare. - Tyrion XII, ADWD

I've seen many people argue Khaleesi can't have the bloody flux because she's been gone for close to a month. I don't know how they reached that conclusion, but it's bonkers. The chapters aren't in chronological order. Surviving on that hill for a month while starved, burned, cold, and half naked is not realistic.

Bacillary dysentery symptoms can sometimes appear 10 days after exposure. There's nothing in the text suggesting she's been on this hill longer than that.

+.+.+

The rocks had scraped her hands raw. They are better than they were, though, she decided as she picked at a broken blister. Her skin was pink and tender, and a pale milky fluid was leaking from her cracked palms, but her burns were healing.

Remember this. It will be worth it.

+.+.+

The hill loomed larger down here. Dany had taken to calling it Dragonstone, after the ancient citadel where she'd been born. She had no memories of that Dragonstone, but she would not soon forget this one. 

Wait until she finds out Drogon's hill is nicer than Dragonstone.

+.+.+

The air smelled of ash, every rock and tree in sight was scorched and blackened, the ground strewn with burned and broken bones, yet it had been home to him.

It's hilarious how simple and concise the messaging is when it comes to dragons. And yet so many people ...

+.+.+

Once she found the Skahazadhan she need only follow it downstream to Slaver's Bay.

She would sooner have returned to Meereen on dragon's wings, to be sure. But that was a desire Drogon did not seem to share.

"There is a reason. A dragon is no slave." - Daenerys III, ASOS

I bet a direwolf would help a Stark get back to Meereen. Maybe the bond between dragon and rider isn't so special after all.

+.+.+

The dragonlords of old Valyria had controlled their mounts with binding spells and sorcerous horns. Daenerys made do with a word and a whip. Mounted on the dragon's back, she oft felt as if she were learning to ride all over again. When she whipped her silver mare on her right flank the mare went left, for a horse's first instinct is to flee from danger. When she laid the whip across Drogon's right side he veered right, for a dragon's first instinct is always to attack. Sometimes it did not seem to matter where she struck him, though; sometimes he went where he would and took her with him. Neither whip nor words could turn Drogon if he did not wish to be turned. 

+.+.+

And no matter how far the dragon flew each day, come nightfall some instinct drew him home to Dragonstone. His home, not mine. Her home was back in Meereen, with her husband and her lover. That was where she belonged, surely.

You could always conquer it.

Khaleesi is wavering on where exactly she belongs. I could tell her.

The green swallowed her up. The air was rich with the scents of earth and grass, mixed with the smell of horseflesh and Dany's sweat and the oil in her hair. Dothraki smells. They seemed to belong here. Dany breathed it all in, laughing. - Daenerys III, AGOT

x

She was barefoot, with oiled hair, wearing Dothraki riding leathers and a painted vest given her as a bride gift. She looked as though she belonged here. - Daenerys III, AGOT

x

"Once," said Ser Jorah. "No longer, Khaleesi. You belong to the Dothraki now. In your womb rides the stallion who mounts the world." - Daenerys V, AGOT

+.+.+

Her home was back in Meereen, with her husband and her lover. That was where she belonged, surely.

Keep walking. If I look back I am lost.

Are you ready for some first-rate literary analysis?

Drogon's scorched and blackened Dragonstone hill represents her violent impulses, and thirst for war. In other words, fire and blood. Khaleesi will spend almost the whole chapter convincing herself to walk away from it towards Meereen.

$5 to anyone who can guess what happens at the end.

+.+.+

Memories walked with her. Clouds seen from above. Horses small as ants thundering through the grass. A silver moon, almost close enough to touch. 

Horses getting the ant treatment.

+.+.+

She had to don her crown again and return to her ebon bench and the arms of her noble husband.

Hizdahr, of the tepid kisses.

Yeah, cause I'm sure you're always dripping wet.

Sorry.

+.+.+

One of her sandals had slipped off during her wild flight from Meereen and she had left the other up by Drogon's cave, preferring to go barefoot rather than half-shod. 

Drogon, her Prince Charming.

+.+.+

I must look a ragged thing, and starved, she thought, but if the days stay warm, I will not freeze.

That's not going to work, winter is coming for you.

+.+.+

Hers had been a lonely sojourn, and for most of it she had been hurt and hungry … yet despite it all she had been strangely happy here. A few aches, an empty belly, chills by night … what does it matter when you can fly? I would do it all again.

Keep walking, Khaleesi.

+.+.+

One morning she had found some wild onions growing halfway down the south slope, and later that same day a leafy reddish vegetable that might have been some queer sort of cabbage. Whatever it was, it had not made her sick. Aside from that, and one fish that she had caught in the spring-fed pool outside of Drogon's cave, she had survived as best she could on the dragon's leavings, on burned bones and chunks of smoking meat, half-charred and half-raw. 

The food she's been consuming for days has not made her sick. That's not why she has a fever.

+.+.+

Though she walked through a green kingdom, it was not the deep rich green of summer. Even here autumn made its presence felt, and winter would not be far behind. The grass was paler than she remembered, a wan and sickly green on the verge of going yellow. After that would come brown. The grass was dying.

The dying grass is heavily emphasized throughout the chapter. It might be important, we'll cover it later.

+.+.+

She'd had Irri and Jhiqui and Doreah to care for her, her sun-and-stars to hold her in the night, his child growing inside her. Rhaego. I was going to name him Rhaego, and the dosh khaleen said he would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World. Not since those half-remembered days in Braavos when she lived in the house with the red door had she been as happy.

What might it say about Khaleesi when it's the Dothraki culture and customs that make her happy?

+.+.+

But in the Red Waste, all her joy had turned to ashes. Her sun-and-stars had fallen from his horse, the maegi Mirri Maz Duur had murdered Rhaego in her womb, and Dany had smothered the empty shell of Khal Drogo with her own two hands. 

Ser Jorah had killed her son, Dany knew. He had done what he did for love and loyalty, yet he had carried her into a place no living man should go and fed her baby to the darkness. - Daenerys IX, AGOT

+.+.+

Afterward Drogo's great khalasar had shattered. Ko Pono named himself Khal Pono and took many riders with him, and many slaves as well. Ko Jhaqo named himself Khal Jhaqo and rode off with even more. Mago, his bloodrider, raped and murdered Eroeh, a girl Daenerys had once saved from him. 

Thanks for this quick breakdown of Dothraki characters we haven't seen in ages, George.

+.+.+

Only the birth of her dragons amidst the fire and smoke of Khal Drogo's funeral pyre had spared Dany herself from being dragged back to Vaes Dothrak to live out the remainder of her days amongst the crones of the dosh khaleen.

The fire burned away my hair, but elsewise it did not touch me. It had been the same in Daznak's Pit. That much she could recall, though much of what followed was a haze. 

Oopsie daisy, someone is losing their fucking mind.

Her skin was pink and tender, and a pale milky fluid was leaking from her cracked palms, but her burns were healing.

I agree with the people who say we shouldn't attribute her actions in King's Landing to being mad, but I think it's a mistake to completely dismiss the fact that she's slowly losing it like her father.

She can be responsible for her own actions, and also not right upstairs. See: Cersei Lannister.

+.+.+

From below a spear came flying, followed by a flight of crossbow bolts. One passed so close that Dany felt it brush her cheek. Others skittered off Drogon's scales, lodged between them, or tore through the membrane of his wings. She remembered the dragon twisting beneath her, shuddering at the impacts, as she tried desperately to cling to his scaled back. The wounds were smoking. 

We love Dragon x Other parallels!

When he opened his eyes the Other's armor was running down its legs in rivulets as pale blue blood hissed and steamed around the black dragonglass dagger in its throat. It reached down with two bone-white hands to pull out the knife, but where its fingers touched the obsidian they smoked. - Samwell I, ASOS

It's not terribly important, but I would think the membranes of their wings are vulnerable. Why only the eyes?

+.+.+

Dany saw one of the bolts burst into sudden flame. Another fell away, shaken loose by the beating of his wings. Below, she saw men whirling, wreathed in flame, hands up in the air as if caught in the throes of some mad dance. A woman in a green tokar reached for a weeping child, pulling him down into her arms to shield him from the flames. Dany saw the color vividly, but not the woman's face. People were stepping on her as they lay tangled on the bricks. Some were on fire.

Would you like to express any regret or guilt for this?

+.+.+

Then all of that had faded, the sounds dwindling, the people shrinking, the spears and arrows falling back beneath them as Drogon clawed his way into the sky. Up and up and up he'd borne her, high above the pyramids and pits, his wings outstretched to catch the warm air rising from the city's sun baked bricks. If I fall and die, it will still have been worth it, she had thought.

Oh.

+.+.+

North they flew, beyond the river, Drogon gliding on torn and tattered wings through clouds that whipped by like the banners of some ghostly army. 

It would be easy to mistake this ghostly army for the Others.

Same with this,

That night she dreamt that she was Rhaegar, riding to the Trident. But she was mounted on a dragon, not a horse. When she saw the Usurper's rebel host across the river they were armored all in ice, but she bathed them in dragonfire and they melted away like dew and turned the Trident into a torrent. - Daenerys III, ADWD

But we know better, don't we?

Burning shafts hissed upward, trailing tongues of fire. Scarecrow brothers tumbled down, black cloaks ablaze. "Snow," an eagle cried, as foemen scuttled up the ice like spiders. Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. - Jon XII, ADWD

+.+.+

The sun grew hotter as it rose, and before long her head was pounding. 

Fever, and headache.

+.+.+

Dany's hair was growing out again, but slowly. "I need a hat," she said aloud. Up on Dragonstone she had tried to make one for herself, weaving stalks of grass together as she had seen Dothraki women do during her time with Drogo, but either she was using the wrong sort of grass or she simply lacked the necessary skill. Her hats all fell to pieces in her hands. Try again, she told herself. You will do better the next time. You are the blood of the dragon, you can make a hat. She tried and tried, but her last attempt had been no more successful than her first.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Dragons sow sew no hats.

That might be an Egg reference. Hey, didn't he go mad and burn Summerhall?

+.+.+

It was afternoon by the time Dany found the stream she had glimpsed atop the hill. It was a rill, a rivulet, a trickle, no wider than her arm … and her arm had grown thinner every day she spent on Dragonstone. Dany scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on her face. When she cupped her hands, her knuckles squished in the mud at the bottom of the stream. She might have wished for colder, clearer water … but no, if she were going to pin her hopes on wishes, she would wish for rescue.

I don't think you want to be doing that.

"Clean fresh water, as much as he will drink."

"Not river water," said Sweets. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Barristan might come seeking her; he was the first of her Queensguard, sworn to defend her life with his own. And her bloodriders were no strangers to the Dothraki sea, and their lives were bound to her own. Her husband, the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, might dispatch searchers. And Daario … Dany pictured him riding toward her through the tall grass, smiling, his golden tooth gleaming with the last light of the setting sun.

Lmao.

Jaime may yet come. She pictured him riding through the morning mists, his golden armor bright in the light of the rising sun. Jaime, if you ever loved me … - Cersei II, ADWD

But it wasn't Jaime who came to Cersei's rescue after her big walk of reflection and self-discovery, was it? No, it was her monster, Robert Strong. :)

+.+.+

Only Daario had been given to the Yunkai'i, a hostage to ensure no harm came to the Yunkish captains. Daario and Hero, Jhogo and Groleo, and three of Hizdahr's kin. By now, surely, all of her hostages would have been released. But …

She wondered if her captain's blades still hung upon the wall beside her bed, waiting for Daario to return and claim them. "I will leave my girls with you," he had said. "Keep them safe for me, beloved." And she wondered how much the Yunkai'i knew about what her captain meant to her. She had asked Ser Barristan that question the afternoon the hostages went forth. "They will have heard the talk," he had replied. "Naharis may even have boasted of Your Grace's … of your great … regard … for him. If you will forgive my saying so, modesty is not one of the captain's virtues. He takes great pride in his … his swordsmanship."

He boasts of bedding me, you mean. But Daario would not have been so foolish as to make such a boast amongst her enemies.

She hung his knives beside her marriage bed? God.

Based on this passage alone, I'm going to guess the Yunkai'i know everything there is to know about Daario and Khaleesi. Good luck, Daario.

+.+.+

It makes no matter. By now the Yunkai'i will be marching home. That was why she had done all that she had done. For peace.

Oh honey, wait until you hear what grandpa's been up to.

+.+.+

She turned back the way she'd come, to where Dragonstone rose above the grasslands like a clenched fist. It looks so close. I've been walking for hours, yet it still looks as if I could reach out and touch it. It was not too late to go back. There were fish in the spring-fed pool by Drogon's cave. She had caught one her first day there, she might catch more. And there would be scraps, charred bones with bits of flesh still on them, the remnants of Drogon's kills.

No, Dany told herself. If I look back I am lost. 

Good Khaleesi. Keep walking, don't turn back.

+.+.+

It was quiet on her sea. When the wind blew the grass would sigh as the stalks brushed against each other, whispering in a tongue that only gods could understand.

And Bran.

+.+.+

Once she came upon a rat drinking from the stream, but it fled when she appeared, scurrying between the stalks to vanish in the high grass. 

Those things are hard to catch.

+.+.+

Sometimes she heard birds singing. The sound made her belly rumble, but she had no nets to snare them with, and so far she had not come on any nests. Once I dreamed of flying, she thought, and now I've flown, and dream of stealing eggs. That made her laugh. "Men are mad and gods are madder," she told the grass, and the grass murmured its agreement.

Hoo boy, I'm desperately searching for a different interpretation of this passage besides the obvious, but I'm not coming up with much.

"Alas," Xaro sobbed, "that was not the word I meant."

"Would you ask a mother to sell one of her children?"

"Whyever not? They can always make more. Mothers sell their children every day." - Daenerys V, ACOK

x

A king must have an heir. - Catelyn II, ASOS

I'll let you reach your own conclusions.

+.+.+

Thrice that day she caught sight of Drogon. Once he was so far off that he might have been an eagle, slipping in and out of distant clouds, but Dany knew the look of him by now, even when he was no more than a speck.

An eagle! Drogon's an eagle!

Something was moving atop one of them, he saw. A dragon, but which one? At this distance, it could as easily have been an eagle. A very big eagle. - Tyrion II, TWOW

Love when we draw that comparison.

Then a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and the air thrilled to the sound of wings. As he lifted his eyes to the ice-white mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun . . . - Jon VII, ACOK

Excited to see where this might be going.

"Look," she said, pointing at the sky with her frog spear, "an eagle."

Bran lifted his head and saw it, its grey wings spread and still as it floated on the wind. He followed it with his eyes as it circled higher, wondering what it would be like to soar about the world so effortless. Better than climbing, even. He tried to reach the eagle, to leave his stupid crippled body and rise into the sky to join it, the way he joined with Summer. The greenseers could do it. I should be able to do it too. He tried and tried, until the eagle vanished in the golden haze of the afternoon. "It's gone," he said, disappointed.

"We'll see others," said Meera. "They live up here."

"I suppose." - Bran II, ASOS

+.+.+

The second time he passed before the sun, his black wings spread, and the world darkened. 

Lightbringer brings equal darkness and light.

He slipped Lightbringer into its scabbard, and the world darkened once again, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. - Jon III, ADWD

And when I say light, what I really mean is fire.

+.+.+

The last time he flew right above her, so close she could hear the sound of his wings. For half a heartbeat Dany thought that he was hunting her, but he flew on without taking any notice of her and vanished somewhere in the east. Just as well, she thought.

It's just like the Starks and their direwolves!

You might have noticed Drogon shows little interest in assisting Khaleesi when she's pretending to care about Meereen.

+.+.+

Do they fear me dead? I flew off on a dragon's back. Will they think he ate me? She wondered if Hizdahr was still king. His crown had come from her, could he hold it in her absence? He wanted Drogon dead. I heard him. "Kill it," he screamed, "kill the beast," and the look upon his face was lustful. And Strong Belwas had been on his knees, heaving and shuddering. Poison. It had to be poison. The honeyed locusts. Hizdahr urged them on me, but Belwas ate them all. She had made Hizdahr her king, taken him into her bed, opened the fighting pits for him, he had no reason to want her dead.

Amazing, right? Khaleesi is more rational than Barry while half delirious.

+.+.+

She had made Hizdahr her king, taken him into her bed, opened the fighting pits for him, he had no reason to want her dead. Yet who else could it have been? Reznak, her perfumed seneschal? The Yunkai'i? The Sons of the Harpy?

Off in the distance, a wolf howled. The sound made her feel sad and lonely, but no less hungry. 

How stupid do you have to be to not understand this? How did they pass any class requiring the study of literature?

Anyway, there's levels to this that I never put together.

Who poisoned the locusts? Who could it have been? Off in the distance, a wolf howled.

<- The Queen's Hand

Skahaz was clad in his familiar garb of pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. The brazen mask beneath his arm was new—a wolf's head with lolling tongue.

+.+.+

She dreamed. All her cares fell away from her, and all her pains as well, and she seemed to float upward into the sky. She was flying once again, spinning, laughing, dancing, as the stars wheeled around her and whispered secrets in her ear. "To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

"Quaithe?" Dany called. "Where are you, Quaithe?"

Then she saw. Her mask is made of starlight.

"Remember who you are, Daenerys," the stars whispered in a woman's voice. "The dragons know. Do you?"

Notice how Khaleesi is hallucinating, and floating in the clouds long before berries enter the picture?

Let me tell you, people struggle with the order of events in this chapter.

There's no comparison to be made between the effects of drinking whatever Mirri Maz Duur gave her, and the berries in this chapter, because THEY HAVEN'T BEEN CONSUMED YET.

"To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

I've yet to see an interpretation better than the following:

To go north, you must journey south -> Sansa.

To reach the west, you must go east -> Arya.

To go forward, you must go back -> Bran.

To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow -> Jon.

+.+.+

The next morning she woke stiff and sore and aching, with ants crawling on her arms and legs and face. When she realized what they were, she kicked aside the stalks of dry brown grass that had served as her bed and blanket and struggled to her feet. She had bites all over her, little red bumps, itchy and inflamed. Where did all the ants come from? Dany brushed them from her arms and legs and belly. She ran a hand across her stubbly scalp where her hair had burned away, and felt more ants on her head, and one crawling down the back of her neck. She knocked them off and crushed them under her bare feet. There were so many …

It turned out that their anthill was on the other side of her wall. She wondered how the ants had managed to climb over it and find her. To them these tumbledown stones must loom as huge as the Wall of Westeros. The biggest wall in all the world, her brother Viserys used to say, as proud as if he'd built it himself.

Easy to mistake those ants for wights. Almost a little too easy.

Unfortunately for Khaleesi, George has been consistent when it comes to ants.

The gaunt outlines of huge catapults and monstrous wooden cranes stood sentry up there, like the skeletons of great birds, and among them walked men in black as small as ants. - Jon III, AGOT

x

Soldiers crawled over the city walls like ants with torches, and crowded the hoardings that had sprouted from the ramparts. - Sansa IV, ACOK

x

He watched as a swarming mass of riders charged a shield wall, astride horses no larger than ants. - Jon VII, ACOK

x

 Across the river the south shore was black with men and horses, stirring like angry ants as they caught sight of the approaching ships. - Davos III, ACOK

x

"An ant who hears the words of a king may not comprehend what he is saying," Melisandre said, "and all men are ants before the fiery face of god. - Davos V, ASOS

x

Around the walls the hosts of Lords Declarant were stirring, emerging from their tents like ants from an anthill. If only they were truly ants, she thought, we could step on them and crush them. - Alayne I, AFFC

x

From on high their garrons looked no larger than ants, and Jon could not tell one ranger from another. - Jon VI, ADWD

It's the people of Westeros.

+.+.+

Dragonstone was still visible above the grasslands. It looks so close. I must be leagues away by now, but it looks as if I could be back in an hour.

No! Don't look back.

+.+.+

The sun was only just coming up. 

[...]

She wanted to lie back down, close her eyes, and give herself up to sleep. No. I must keep going. The stream. Just follow the stream.

Tired. So tired.

"I'm sad." She yawned again. "And tired. So tired."

Tired or sick? - Tyrion XII, ADWD

If you think the fatigue is simply Khaleesi being hungry and walking too much in the sun, I want you to think back on Arya's travels in ACOK, and tell me if it feels the same.

+.+.+

It would not do to walk the wrong way and lose her stream. "My friend," she said aloud. "If I stay close to my friend I won't get lost." She would have slept beside the water if she dared, but there were animals who came down to the stream to drink at night. She had seen their tracks. Dany would make a poor meal for a wolf or lion, but even a poor meal was better than none.

Is that a second wolf? And a lion!

What's with all the ominous wolves?

+.+.+

Dany cupped her hands to drink. The water made her belly cramp, but cramps were easier to bear than thirst.

Uh oh! Cramps!

Yezzan's other slaves had refused to go near the overseer once the cramps began, so it was left to Tyrion to keep him warm and bring him drinks. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

And still no berries.

+.+.+

As she walked, she tapped her thigh with the pitmaster's whip.

x

The stream bent this way and that, and Dany followed, beating time upon her leg with the whip, trying not to think about how far she had to go, or the pounding in her head, or her empty belly. 

x

 Her whip slapped softly against her thigh, wap wap wap. 

What is this? Trying to tame herself or something?

+.+.+

One step at a time, and the stream would see her home.

↓

Every step brought the Red Keep nearer. Every step brought her closer to her son and her salvation. - Cersei II, ADWD

x

She turned back the way she'd come, to where Dragonstone rose above the grasslands like a clenched fist. It looks so close. I've been walking for hours, yet it still looks as if I could reach out and touch it. 

↓

Cersei looked behind her. She could still see the great dome and seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor atop the hill. Have I really come such a little way? - Cersei II, ADWD

This is so funny.

+.+.+

Just past midday she came upon a bush growing by the stream, its twisted limbs covered with hard green berries. Dany squinted at them suspiciously, then plucked one from a branch and nibbled at it. Its flesh was tart and chewy, with a bitter aftertaste that seemed familiar to her. "In the khalasar, they used berries like these to flavor roasts," she decided. Saying it aloud made her more certain of it. Her belly rumbled, and Dany found herself picking berries with both hands and tossing them into her mouth.

Okay! After the fever, after the fatigue, after the cramps, and after the delirium comes the berries.

Bullshit. She had cramps before the berries. I don't know how you miss that.

Reading commentary on this chapter drove me insane. I'm not denying she's had a miscarriage, but why are people so insistent she doesn't also have the pale mare? It's not like she's going to die, what does it matter?

"Yezzan must live. Or we all die with him. The pale mare does not carry off every rider. The master will recover." - Tyrion XI, ADWD

She'll survive. She'll live. Everything will be okay.

Honestly, when she's this deluded about her own invincibility and ancestry,

"I am the blood of the dragon," Dany reminded him. "Have you ever seen a dragon with the flux?" Viserys had oft claimed that Targaryens were untroubled by the pestilences that afflicted common men, and so far as she could tell, it was true. She could remember being cold and hungry and afraid, but never sick. - Daenerys VI, ADWD

When she's been promised a mount to dread,

three mounts must you ride . . . one to bed (Silver) and one to dread (Pale Mare) and one to love (Drogon) - Daenerys IV, ACOK

And when Quaithe warns her of what's to come,

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal." - Daenerys II, ADWD

SHE'S PROBABLY GOING TO GET THE PALE MARE.

+.+.+

An hour later, her stomach began to cramp so badly that she could not go on. She spent the rest of that day retching up green slime. 

Slime.

His shit had turned to brown slime streaked with blood … - Tyrion XI, ADWD

Vomiting is obviously a symptom of dysentery. It's also possible the berries were inedible.

Either way it doesn't matter, she has the pale mare.

+.+.+

In Westeros the dead of House Targaryen were given to the flames, but who would light her pyre here? My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb. 

THREE? Three big bad wolves?

+.+.+

Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up she was shitting brown water. The more she drank, the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew, and her thirst sent her crawling to the stream to suck up more water.

Those afflicted by the pale mare were always thirsty, drinking gallons between their shits. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

x

"The pale mare," the man told Sweets.

What a surprise, Tyrion thought. Who could have guessed? Aside from any man with a nose and me with half of one. Yezzan was burning with fever, squirming fitfully in a pool of his own excrement. His shit had turned to brown slime streaked with blood … and it fell to Yollo and Penny to wipe his yellow bottom clean. - Tyrion XI, ADWD

+.+.+

She dreamt of her dead brother.

Viserys looked just as he had the last time she'd seen him. His mouth was twisted in anguish, his hair was burnt, and his face was black and smoking where the molten gold had run down across his brow and cheeks and into his eyes.

"You are dead," Dany said.

Murdered. Though his lips never moved, somehow she could hear his voice, whispering in her ear. You never mourned me, sister. It is hard to die unmourned.

"I loved you once."

Once, he said, so bitterly it made her shudder. You were supposed to be my wife, to bear me children with silver hair and purple eyes, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. I took care of you. I taught you who you were. I fed you. I sold our mother's crown to keep you fed.

"You hurt me. You frightened me."

Only when you woke the dragon. I loved you.

"You sold me. You betrayed me."

No. You were the betrayer. You turned against me, against your own blood. They cheated me. Your horsey husband and his stinking savages. They were cheats and liars. They promised me a golden crown and gave me this. He touched the molten gold that was creeping down his face, and smoke rose from his finger.

"You could have had your crown," Dany told him. "My sun-and-stars would have won it for you if only you had waited."

I waited long enough. I waited my whole life. I was their king, their rightful king. They laughed at me.

I don't care enough to comment on any of this, but I will point out Khaleesi hearing his voice is turning into a disturbing trend.

Westeros. Home. But if she left, what would happen to her city? Meereen was never your city, her brother's voice seemed to whisper. Your cities are across the sea. Your Seven Kingdoms, where your enemies await you. You were born to serve them blood and fire. - Daenerys III, ADWD

Mad.

+.+.+

Do you want to wake the dragon, you stupid little whore? Drogo's khalasar was mine. I bought them from him, a hundred thousand screamers. I paid for them with your maidenhead.

"You never understood. Dothraki do not buy and sell. They give gifts and receive them. If you had waited …"

I did wait. For my crown, for my throne, for you. All those years, and all I ever got was a pot of molten gold. Why did they give the dragon's eggs to you? They should have been mine. If I'd had a dragon, I would have taught the world the meaning of our words. Viserys began to laugh, until his jaw fell away from his face, smoking, and blood and molten gold ran from his mouth.

Don't worry, it's not like Khaleesi is ever influenced by Viserys.

His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it "waking the dragon." - Daenerys I, AGOT

↓

Daenerys pushed her hair back. "Find these cowards for me. Find them, so that I might teach the Harpy's Sons what it means to wake the dragon." - Daenerys I, ADWD

x

The Usurper's hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one. - Daenerys I, AGOT

↓

The narrow sea was often stormy, and Dany had crossed it half a hundred times as a girl, running from one Free City to the next half a step ahead of the Usurper's hired knives. - Daenerys I, ASOS

x

For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian. - Daenerys I, AGOT

↓

"I am the blood of the dragon," Dany reminded him. "Have you ever seen a dragon with the flux?" Viserys had oft claimed that Targaryens were untroubled by the pestilences that afflicted common men, and so far as she could tell, it was true. She could remember being cold and hungry and afraid, but never sick. - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

When she woke, gasping, her thighs were slick with blood.

For a moment she did not realize what it was. The world had just begun to lighten, and the tall grass rustled softly in the wind. No, please, let me sleep some more. I'm so tired. She tried to burrow back beneath the pile of grass she had torn up when she went to sleep. Some of the stalks felt wet. Had it rained again? She sat up, afraid that she had soiled herself as she slept. When she brought her fingers to her face, she could smell the blood on them. Am I dying? Then she saw the pale crescent moon, floating high above the grass, and it came to her that this was no more than her moon blood.

If she had not been so sick and scared, that might have come as a relief. Instead she began to shiver violently. She rubbed her fingers through the dirt, and grabbed a handful of grass to wipe between her legs. The dragon does not weep. She was bleeding, but it was only woman's blood. The moon is still a crescent, though. How can that be? She tried to remember the last time she had bled. The last full moon? The one before? The one before that? No, it cannot have been so long as that. "I am the blood of the dragon," she told the grass, aloud.

Once, the grass whispered back, until you chained your dragons in the dark.

[...]

Her belly was empty, her feet sore and blistered, and it seemed to her that the cramping had grown worse. Her guts were full of writhing snakes biting at her bowels. She scooped up a handful of mud and water in trembling hands. By midday the water would be tepid, but in the chill of dawn it was almost cool and helped her keep her eyes open. As she splashed her face, she saw fresh blood on her thighs. The ragged hem of her undertunic was stained with it. The sight of so much red frightened her. Moon blood, it's only my moon blood, but she did not remember ever having such a heavy flow. Could it be the water? If it was the water, she was doomed. She had to drink or die of thirst.

Khaleesi doesn't currently know left from right, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt here. It probably has been months, and that would indicate she's currently miscarrying Daario's baby. Yes, Daario's. Not Hizdahr's. Daario's baby. It's not up for debate.

Reznak mo Reznak bowed and beamed. "Magnificence, every day you grow more beautiful. I think the prospect of your wedding has given you a glow. Oh, my shining queen!" - Daenerys VII, ADWD

x

Melisandre had thrown back her cowl and shrugged out of the smothering robe. Beneath, she was naked, and huge with child. Swollen breasts hung heavy against her chest, and her belly bulged as if near to bursting. "Gods preserve us," he whispered, and heard her answering laugh, deep and throaty. Her eyes were hot coals, and the sweat that dappled her skin seemed to glow with a light of its own. Melisandre shone. - Davos II, ACOK

What does this mean for the future? Nothing. She's never having a baby, the dragons will always be her children.

Love the shivering by the way.

+.+.+

"Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …" Dany could not recall the child's name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. "I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons."

Aye, the grass said, but you turned against your children.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Hazzea, Hazzea, it rhymes with Himalaya! You must remember the name, you fucking hypocrite.

Dany listened quietly, her face still. When he was done, she said, "What was the name of the old weaver?"

[...]

"Let us say Elza. Here is our ruling. From the girls, you shall have nothing. It was Elza who taught them weaving, not you. From you, the girls shall have a new loom, the finest coin can buy. That is for forgetting the name of the old woman." - Daenerys I, ADWD

+.+.+

In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn't, not truly.

Meereen was not her home, and never would be. It was a city of strange men with strange gods and stranger hair, of slavers wrapped in fringed tokars, where grace was earned through whoring, butchery was art, and dog was a delicacy. Meereen would always be the Harpy's city, and Daenerys could not be a harpy.

+.+.+

Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you.

The voice was no more than a whisper, yet somehow Dany felt that he was walking just behind her. My bear, she thought, my old sweet bear, who loved me and betrayed me. She had missed him so. She wanted to see his ugly face, to wrap her arms around him and press herself against his chest, but she knew that if she turned around Ser Jorah would be gone. "I am dreaming," she said. "A waking dream, a walking dream. I am alone and lost."

Lol.

+.+.+

Lost, because you lingered, in a place that you were never meant to be, murmured Ser Jorah, as softly as the wind. Alone, because you sent me from your side.

[...]

I gave you good counsel. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, I told you. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and go west, I said. You would not listen.

I know this doesn't need to be said, but I'll say it anyway. There's no glass candle, there's no sorcery or magic brewing.

Quaithe, Viserys, and Jorah aren't talking to her. She's hallucinating, but the most important thing here is that Khaleesi is hearing what she wants to hear. She's talking to her innermost self.

+.+.+

You took Meereen, he told her, yet still you lingered.

"To be a queen."

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros.

"It is such a long way," she complained. "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl."

+.+.+

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.

"Fire and Blood," Daenerys told the swaying grass.

+.+.+

From the corner of her eye Dany saw the grass move again, off to her right. The grass swayed and bowed low, as if before a king, but no king appeared to her.

Hizdahr, you mean? Am I forgetting someone?

+.+.+

The world was green and empty. The world was green and silent. The world was yellow, dying.

Through the grass came a soft silvery tinkling.

Bells, Dany thought, smiling, remembering Khal Drogo, her sun-and-stars, and the bells he braided into his hair. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, when the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves, when my womb quickens again and I bear a living child, Khal Drogo will return to me.

Everywhere you look, dry dying grass.

I came across an interesting theory when researching this chapter. Mirri Maz Duur's words weren't a prophecy, but you could make a few connections to what's currently happening.

When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.

Quentyn Martell dying in Meereen.

When the seas go dry.

The change of seasons. The dying grass in the Dothraki Sea.

Mountains blow in the wind like leaves

Potentially something related to Mother of Mountains.

When my womb quickens again and I bear a living child, Khal Drogo will return to me.

Potentially something related to Womb of the World, and Drogon. Or maybe the miscarriage.

I'm guessing Khal Drogo returning to her is figurative, and means Khaleesi finally embracing being a powerful khal and warlord. I bet she even picks up a few bells along the way!

We'll have to wait and see if the upcoming Vaes Dothrak storyline fits with the above.

+.+.+

But none of those things had happened. Bells, Dany thought again. Her bloodriders had found her. "Aggo," she whispered. "Jhogo. Rakharo." Might Daario have come with them?

Silly Khaleesi, bells don't sing happy songs.

Remember when Game of Thrones totally botched this, and now a bunch of desperate morons are clinging to the idea that the climax of A Song of Ice and Fire is JON CONNINGTON burning down King's Landing?

"The thunder of his hooves!" the others chorused.

"As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name." The old woman trembled and looked at Dany almost as if she were afraid. "The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world." - Daenerys V, AGOT

Hilarious.

+.+.+

Dany watched him go. When the sound of his hooves had faded away to silence, she began to shout. She called until her voice was hoarse … and Drogon came, snorting plumes of smoke. The grass bowed down before him.

Oh right, him.

The grass swayed and bowed low, as if before a king, but no king appeared to her. 

Her real king.

Drogon's finally paying attention to her. Must mean fire and blood is on the mind.

+.+.+

Dany leapt onto his back. She stank of blood and sweat and fear, but none of that mattered. "To go forward I must go back," she said. Her bare legs tightened around the dragon's neck. She kicked him, and Drogon threw himself into the sky. Her whip was gone, so she used her hands and feet and turned him north by east, the way the scout had gone. Drogon went willingly enough; perhaps he smelled the rider's fear.

No, no! I think Meereen's the other way! You got yourself turned around.

You thought she'd turn back to Dragonstone, didn't you? Nahhh. That's not home, that's not where Khaleesi wants to be.

+.+.+

A vast herd of horses appeared below them. There were riders too, a score or more, but they turned and fled at the first sight of the dragon.

[...]

Soon one horse began to lag behind the others. The dragon descended on him, roaring, and all at once the poor beast was aflame, yet somehow he kept on running, screaming with every step, until Drogon landed on him and broke his back. Dany clutched the dragon's neck with all her strength to keep from sliding off.

Clouds seen from above. Horses small as ants thundering through the grass. A silver moon, almost close enough to touch. 

↓ 

I could try eating ants. The little yellow ones were too small to provide much in the way of nourishment, but there were red ants in the grass, and those were bigger.

↓ 

Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands.

Yeah, for sure, they totally represent wights.

+.+.+

Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario …

Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her.

I don't know, looks like the bride of fire already found a king to eat with.

+.+.+

As the western sky turned the color of a blood bruise, she heard the sound of approaching horses. Dany rose, wiped her hands on her ragged undertunic, and went to stand beside her dragon.

That was how Khal Jhaqo found her, when half a hundred mounted warriors emerged from the drifting smoke.

What a reunion. What an ending! Can't wait to see what happens next.

If I look back I am lost. "It was a cruel fate," Dany said, "yet not so cruel as Mago's will be. I promise you that, by the old gods and the new, by the lamb god and the horse god and every god that lives. I swear it by the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World. Before I am done with them, Mago and Ko Jhaqo will plead for the mercy they showed Eroeh." - Daenerys IX, AGOT

x

Dany commanded Ser Jorah and the warriors of her khas to guard the entrance and make certain no one set the building afire while they were still inside. – Daenerys VII, AGOT

Final thoughts:

Lots to say.

Let's start off with the opening and closing (excluding the epilogue) chapters.

AGOT

Prologue: ice threat introduction.

Final chapter: fire threat introduction.

ACOK

Prologue: cold-hearted King Stannis with his dying maester.

Final chapter: kindhearted King Bran with his dying maester.

ASOS

Prologue: Cursed snowflakes, and Jon Snow.

Sansa VII: Drifting snowflakes, and Jon Snow.

AFFC

Prologue: Pig boy Pate.

Samwell V: Pig boy Pate, back from the dead.

ADWD:

Prologue: Starving, barely alive, slightly mad Varamyr wanders a cold barren land, talking to the elements while narrating his life, then he dies and is reborn as his beast.

Daenerys X: Yup. Same.

Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. "Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. I know skinchangers who've tried hawks, owls, ravens. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue. - Prologue, ADWD

Ha!

+.+.+

Next I'll make a few fun predictions I didn't have the opportunity to make anywhere else in this post:

Drogon kills Viserion (Daenerys kills Aegon), Rhaegal is shot with a scorpion in the eye (Jonnel One-Eye things), and Bran's going to handle Drogon somehow.

Kind of like the show, right? Kind of.

+.+.+

Lastly, I've been waiting for @agentrouka-blog to make a more eloquent post regarding this topic, but my peer pressure has not worked.

Let me steal her thoughts and quickly say the reason the theory that Daenerys will be given a redemption arc after burning King's Landing is such dog shit, is because Meereen is supposed to be the redemption arc. She violently destroys Slaver's Bay, creates a power vacuum, but is given the opportunity to stay, rule, and make it right. To her credit, she does. For nine chapters. Then she chooses fire and blood.

Why would the author do it all over again in Westeros? Meereen was the second chance. She failed.

Goodbye, Khaleesi.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #daenerys x

[faeleur]

part iii! thank you for all your support so far and hopefully you’re enjoying the series! stay tuned for the final part :)

part i. part ii. part iv. masterlist

leviathan x idol!reader: part iii

everything had changed within a few weeks.

during breakfast, you were less talkative and cheerful than usual, but that was overshadowed by levi’s incessant rambling about — you guessed it — the upcoming galaxea concert. asmodeus surprisingly took interest and kept him entertained enough to the point where your quiet demeanor was barely noticeable, easily being written off as tiredness.

throughout the school day, you paid no mind to your professors despite your upcoming exams and final projects as you zoned out, worrying about what you’d have to sacrifice and how you’d possibly make the devildom concerts work without risking your friendship with levi :(

and at dinner, despite beel’s best efforts, you barely touched any food at all and were the first to leave the table, usually saying something along the lines of “need to study.”

your hang-outs with levi slowly stopped as you began to spend every weekday isolated, either practicing in your studio or pulling all-nighters to make up for what you missed in class. levi was sad, of course, but he knew how seriously you took your grades, so he left you be… but he was starting to have his doubts.

it wasn’t so bad at first, but one day, when you didn’t show up to eat at all, the boys just about had it.

“okay, what‘s happening? where the hell are they? this is ridiculous,” mammon said, his eyebrows raising slightly in disbelief.

satan brought his hand to rest on his chin as he thought for a moment. “did anything happen recently to make them withdraw? mammon’s right, for once—“

“hey!”

“—this is unprecedented.”

mammon leaned his chair back, crossing his arms. “i’ll have ya know, i’m a certified y/n behavior expert. usually—”

“no, you’re not. that’s me. who do you think you are?” levi grumbled from across the table.

“oh, then why don’t you—“

“i don’t know! i’m just as surprised as you are!”

“okay, okay, let’s calm down a bit everyone,” asmo exclaimed. “i’m sure it’s just stress from the upcoming exams, and we all know y/n takes their grades very seriously. plus, with the semester break coming up, they may be thinking about going back home for a few weeks, and i can imagine that’d take awhile to plan out, as well.”

levi paled. you? leaving?

i mean, it made perfect sense… earth was definitely more pleasant than the devildom, and it was your home. but…

levi had started to hope that you now considered the devildom your home, too :(

however, if that was the case, levi had just the thing, and he cleared his throat as he excused himself from the table. “i’m gonna go talk to them,” he called as he went to go find you.

as levi’s footsteps echoed throughout the halls of the house of lamentation, he allowed his thoughts to wander, feeling slightly giddy.

while he missed your presence, maybe it was for the better that you had distanced yourself… since he knew he would’ve spoiled his surprise otherwise.

a month had passed since he found out about the surprise galaxea tour, and putting his otaku powers to use, all his sleepless nights had paid off when he managed to get two VIP tickets to the final day of their tour — D2 of their devildom concerts. these tickets included sound check, front row barricade, and backstage… no, he wasn’t going to think about how much they cost. this was the opportunity of a lifetime, and if these weren’t reason enough to make you stay or come back early for break, he didn’t know what was.

that, and it was going to be the perfect moment to tell you about his feelings for you. as one of the first things you bonded over, he was sure of it— he was going to make sure it all was perfect, the whole thing.

quickly reaching your bedroom door, he knocked on it gently, his voice soft as he called your name. “y/n? i know you haven’t been feeling the best lately, so i have a little something for you…”

he waited a few moments, but received no response. he tried again.

“y/n? you okay in there?”

silence.

his eyebrows furrowed as he sighed, turning away. if you weren’t in your room, where were you?

he trudged back to his room, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tried to figure out any possible explanation for your behavior. what if you didn’t like the tickets? he knew it was silly, but now that the idea was in his head he was starting to feel anxious…

his head started to pound, but it was then levi realized that it wasn’t from a headache, but rather from the room to his left… your studio. even with the door shut, he could immediately recognize the song that was playing, and the floor shook every so slightly from the bass.

usually you didn’t let anyone in while you were practicing, but he was your best friend (and had given him exceptions on multiple occasions) and he had a good reason to interrupt. you’d understand, he knew you would.

levi quickly input the four-digit code and felt the tension in the door disappear, quickly swinging it open and entering the room to see you dancing to vega’s solo from galaxea’s latest album… which didn’t have an official choreography yet. were you creating your own? perfect. it was like the stars were aligning.

“y/n, you’re never gonna believe this, but…”

upon realizing his entry, you froze in place and stared at his reflection in the mirror in front of you.

the lyrics of your song echoed throughout the room, a stark contrast to the sweet melody: baby, life is painful sometimes, but your love doesn’t even come close

your breath hitched as you quickly turned to face him, cheeks flushed from the physical activity and from the fact that he caught you.

he grinned, eyes shining as he pulled out his phone to show you the tickets, walking closer… until he noticed the tablet on the ground, recording you.

or… was it a call?

sure enough, the face of a smiling young man, your choreographer, appeared on screen, but he stopped when he noticed the intruder.

“ummm… y/n, who’s that?”

it wasn’t a secret who galaxea’s choreographer was, and you didn’t want to give levi enough time to recognize him. you had to come up with an excuse to make him leave, quick!

“levi… this is my boyfriend.”

that was literally the worst excuse you could’ve made.

you wanted to throw yourself off a cliff for that one

you’d apologize to your choreographer later, as you could hear him snickering in the background, but the important part was that levi actually believed it…

and he did.

in the background, your voice sang: baby, your words are like a knife, why do the best things hurt the most?

levi’s world felt as if it had shattered, raining around him and cutting his skin as it pooled by his feet.

he had to come up with a reply so he could get out of there.

“oh… cool. i’mgonnaleaveyoubenowi’msorrygoodbye,” was what slipped past his lips as he bolted for the door, gone as quickly as he had came.

the minute the door shut you were sinking to the floor, your head in your hands as you let out a groan.

your choreographer erupted into laughter, the audio occasionally breaking here and there.

“i’m sorry, boyfriend? that was the best you could think of?”

“don’t.”

“okay, okay, fine. but you should know i already texted the others about this so come saturday, you will not be living this down.”

there was a brief moment of silence, then:

“you need to be more careful. look, i’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but i’ve worked with a lot of people, and unfortunately, i’ve seen some of them get hurt by who they trusted the most, especially regarding…” he gestured vaguely, “… this.”

you nodded, biting your lip.

“i’ll cut practice short since he’s your friend and i know you wanna go after him, so… from the top. one last time.”

your song restarted, and as you twirled to the rhythm, levi was doing a dance of his own.

“boyfriend ???” he screeched as he mashed the buttons on his controller, mouth open in shock.

“henry, can you believe this? i bet that’s what they were doing every saturday…”

he blanked.

“wait, no, not doing that guy— well, maybe— no, i meant, hanging out with— whatever! what difference does it make?”

he huffed as his body tensed, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

“no, i’m not upset. i’m reacting reasonably, don’t you think?”

henry stared at him, deadpan, and levi rolled his eyes.

“shut up.”

his character on screen got knocked over by a series of blows, and he growled in frustration.

“i just don’t know why they never told me.”

his fingers flurried across the buttons, eyes locked on to the screen as his character resumed the fight, and after a few minutes of quiet, he muttered, “i’m so stupid.”

louder, “of course they’d choose that guy over me.”

louder still, “why would i be worthy of them? have you seen me?”

and when his character emerged victorious, the level complete, he shouted, “okay, fine, i’m upset, are you happy?”

and when he turned to face henry, his friend only looked at him sadly as hot tears rolled down his cheeks, splashing onto his thumb and the plastic of his controller. he didn’t even realize he’d been crying.

“i’m so pathetic, aren’t i? i’m a coward. i never had the guts to actually ask them out and look what happened,” he laughed dryly.

“yeah, maybe i overreacted a little, but i was just… hoping…” his voice broke.

“fuck,” he sobbed before trying to turn it into a laugh. “maybe it’s better this way. they’re human. of course they’d have a human boyfriend. since when has the whole human-demon thing ever…”

and then he thought of your pact, his mark resting on the back of your neck…

and as his eyes flared up in envy, his body trembling, he knew one thing:

vega was right. love hurts.

#obey me headcanons #obey me #obey me levi hc #obey me levi headcanons #obey me levi x reader #obey me leviathan #levi x reader #levi #leviathan x y/n #leviathan x reader #levi x y/n #levi x you #leviathan x you #leviathan x idol!reader #levi x idol!reader #levi angst #leviathan angst #om! x reader #om! leviathan #angst #obey me x idol!reader #idol!reader #obey me levi x idol!reader #obey me leviathan x idol!reader #idol!au #levi fanfiction #fanfic #fae.writes

[stormcloudrising]

Why are the Others Back?

What is everyone’s thoughts on the Others? Why are they back? How are they connected to the Starks?

The Others are the ice to the dragon’s fire, and the two are the great existential threats looming over Planetos. Yet, we know more about the dragons and dragon lords than we do the Others. They and their connection to the Starks, the core family of the story, is at the heart of the great mystery of the books.

They are presented as a great threat that needs to be contained, but there are also a lot of obvious contradictions in what we’ve been told about them…starting with the Night’s King and Corpse Queen. What do I mean by contradictions?

Well, if the NK and CQ were the leaders of the Others and they are a destructive force, why is the Hades/Pluto and Persephone/Kore myth so baked into their legends? At its heart, the legend of two Greek/Roman gods is a fertility myth. 

Hades, the chthonic ruler of the underworld was a fertility god. The planted seeds were his bounty which he stored and nourished in the earth until they bloomed in the spring and were harvested in the fall to feed the populace before the process started over again with the planting season. His abduction of Persephone ties into this myth with her descent for three months representing winter and her yearly return to be with her mother Demeter a signal of the start of the spring and harvest seasons. 

Hades/Pluto was the Lord of the Underworld, but he was also the god of the hidden wealth of the earth, from the fertile soil, which nourished the seed-grain, to the mined wealth of precious metals. Also, he is the god who welcomes all, whose realm is full of guests. He does not cause the death that brings men to his realm, because death comes to everyone, and all are welcome in his realm. 

So, my question is why George has so closely associated a renewal myth with the legend of the leaders and likely progenitors of the Others. Another contradiction has to do with what is implied in the Qarthian myth about two moons in the sky. 

"He told me the moon was an egg, Khaleesi," the Lysene girl said. "Once there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand thousand dragons poured forth and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return." —AGOT Daenerys III

The name of the series is A Song of Ice and Fire. By the way, I think it’s interesting that George reversed the order of things in his series name. Instead of Fire and Ice as in the Frost poem, he went with Ice and Fire, which I think was a deliberate choice with meaning behind it on his part, but that a discussion for another day.

My point is that the two moons in the sky represent the two factions in the story…ice and fire. The fire moon cracked and symbolic fire dragons likely black meteors were born into the world. The destruction of the fire moon likely was the main reason for the Long Night and the great floods legend tells us about. That left one moon in the sky…the icy one. We know this because George drops one of his plays on words with “one day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and dragons will return.”

 These dragons that will return aren’t the fire breathing ones, but the icy Others as they represent the ice moon. They are not the animalistic type of dragons like the fire breathing ones, but they are George’s version of ice dragons.

However, here is where the contradiction comes in. What saved Planetos from destruction previously is that only one moon was destroyed. The ice moon remained in the sky. If the ice moon were to be destroyed as well, it would spell the end of Planetos. 

That ice moon in the sky is a type of balance. It can possibly survive a slight cracking, but it can’t and shouldn’t be destroyed or else, that’s the end of all life on the planet. Thus, maybe part of the reason the Others have returned is to prevent the destruction of the ice moon, maybe by the actions of the fire faction whether knowing or unknowingly…especially Euron whose goal is to reshape all life in his image.

So that’s a second contradiction in the legend of the Others. A potential third one is not about them specifically, but it could tie into their myth. This third possibility has to do with the confusing myth of old northern warriors going out into the frozen cold to hunt, but basically it was to commit suicide. 

Legend tells us that this was done because of the scarcity of food. Leaving their families and going out into the cold meant there was one less mouth to feed, their families could survive on rations a bit longer. 

Now this story seems a bit off for a couple of reasons. First, legend also tells us that the White Walkers were roaming the land, hunting maids and everything with hot blood. They were also known necromancers who brought back the dead to be their armies. So why would warriors leave their families to go out and basically become a weapon of the White Walkers to be used against their loved ones. They had to know that’s what it meant when they went out into the cold.

However, there is possibly another explanation that may make more sense and the legend of old warriors going out into the cold may just have been put out to cover up the actual truth. 

With a winter lasting several years…if I had to guess, I would say about 13, there would have been an extreme shortage of food. Cannibalism is hinted at throughout the text, and it’s likely something that will be practice throughout Westeros when the Long Night falls again. The old warriors may have simply volunteered to be food for their family or forcibly used in this manner. The legend of them going out to hunt could have arisen to hide this truth.

If this was not the case, and the old warriors did indeed go out “hunting” as the legend states with the implication being they knew they wouldn’t return, one can argue that they knowingly went out to join with the Others. The question then becomes why.

EDITED SECTION BEGINS.

It is popularly believed that Dawn, the famous sword wielded by Arthur Dayne and other past Daynes as “Sword of the Morning,” is in fact the ancient house sword of House Stark that Catelyn mentions in her first chapter of A Game of Thrones.

"I am always proud of Bran," Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. It had been forged in Valyria, before the Doom had come to the old Freehold, when the ironsmiths had worked their metal with spells as well as hammers. Four hundred years old it was, and as sharp as the day it was forged. The name it bore was older still, a legacy from the age of heroes, when the Starks were Kings in the North. —AGOT, Catelyn I

The current familial sword of House Stark is just about 400 years old and is not the original. It is instead named after a sword from the Age of Heroes. Now what sword in the story could that be? Possibly one forged from the heart of a fallen star that landed at Starfall.

House Dayne, or more specifically their house sword will be central to the final events of the story. However, they are as mysterious as the Others. Not much is known about them as George says it would spoilery to reveal more. Nonetheless, we do know some things, like they are a First Men house.

At the mouth of the Torrentine, House Dayne raised its castle on an island where that roaring, tumultuous river broadens to meet the sea. Legend says the first Dayne was led to the site when he followed the track of a falling star and there found a stone of magical powers. His descendants ruled over the western mountains for centuries thereafter as Kings of the Torrentine and Lords of Starfall. —The World of Ice and Fire-Dawn: Kingdom of the First Men

We also know a little about their famous sword. It’s very similar to Valyrian steel except for one aspect.

The Daynes of Starfall are one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms, though their fame largely rests on their ancestral sword, called Dawn, and the men who wielded it. Its origins are lost to legend, but it seems likely that the Daynes have carried it for thousands of years. Those who have had the honor of examining it say it looks like no Valyrian steel they know, being pale as milk glass but in all other respects it seems to share the properties of Valyrian blades, being incredibly strong and sharp.  —The World of Ice and Fire – Dorne: The Andals Arrive

We have a sword made from the heart of a fallen star and that is described as pale as milk glass unlike Valyrian steel, which is described as almost black, but is also made from a mysterious metal.

Tyrion wondered where the metal for this one had come from. A few master armorers could rework old Valyrian steel, but the secrets of its making had been lost when the Doom came to old Valyria. "The colors are strange," he commented as he turned the blade in the sunlight. Most Valyrian steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a red as deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and blood upon some steely shore. "How did you get this patterning? I've never seen anything like it." A Storm of Swords, Tyrion IV

When you consider the two opposing factions of the story symbolized by the two moons in the sky, one ice, and the other fire, it makes sense to assume that the fallen star Dawn is said to be forged from was likely a piece of the icy moon that fell to earth in Dorne. On the other hand, Valyrian steel blades, including the first ever blade, which was likely the one used to kill Nissa Nissa, and which I believe to have been Blackfyre, are made from shards of the fire moon. 

The Qarthian myth tells us that many pieces of meteors from the fire moon fell to Planetos, which makes sense if that moon was destroyed or thrown out of orbit. Thus, it also makes sense that there are many more Valyrian steel blades around and likely hundreds more lost during the Doom of Valyria. However, the only meteor from the ice moon we’ve told fell to Planetos is the piece at Starfall.

As the quote up thread shows, Dawn is described as pale as milk glass several times in the text, one famous instance being the mysterious battle at the Tower of Joy that Ned remembers in his dreams.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milk glass, alive with light. A Game of Thrones, Eddard X

Do you know what else in the text is described as pale as milk glass and or alive with light? You guess it…the Others and the swords they carry. Here is the description of the one killed by Sam.

Sam rolled onto his side, eyes wide as the Other shrank and puddled, dissolving away. In twenty heartbeats its flesh was gone, swirling away in a fine white mist. Beneath were bones like milk glass, pale and shiny, and they were melting too. Finally, only the dragonglass dagger remained, wreathed in steam as if it were alive and sweating. Grenn bent to scoop it up and flung it down again at once. "Mother, that's cold." A Storm of Swords, Sam I

And here is the description of the sword wielded by the one who attacks Waymar.

A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took. Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss. "Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold. The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor. A Game of Thrones – Prologue.

Like Dawn, the Others are described as pale as milk glass and their swords are alive with light. What does all this information have to do with Dawn and the contradiction I mentioned about the Others?

Well, if Dawn was made from a piece of the ice moon, and is indeed the ancient familial sword of House Stark, who wielded it in the ancient past?

The Starks have a mysterious connection to the Others in their ancient past. Now we see the sword that potentially is the ancient blade of their house, might have been made from a piece of the ice moon, and has icy connotations in that it is described exactly as the Others are in the text. 

So again, who wielded the sword in the ancient past? Might it have been the Night’s King, and leader of the Others, who I’ve argued is the male progenitor of House Stark? I think the answer is quite likely yes…especially as it’s foreshadowed in the text that Jon will bear the sword in the future.

Now here is where the contradiction comes into play. The Others are said to come during the night. Some have even argued that they bring the night, but I don’t think that’s the case. But what happens to milk glass in the dark? If it was not clear to you in the alive with light references, George spells it out for you with Jorah’s words to Dany while they are in the Dothraki Sea.

"Here and now," Ser Jorah agreed. "You ought to see it when it blooms, all dark red flowers from horizon to horizon, like a sea of blood. Come the dry season, and the world turns the color of old bronze. And this is only hranna, child. There are a hundred kinds of grass out there, grasses as yellow as lemon and as dark as indigo, blue grasses and orange grasses and grasses like rainbows. Down in the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, they say there are oceans of ghost grass, taller than a man on horseback with stalks as pale as milk glass. It murders all other grass and glows in the dark with the spirits of the damned. The Dothraki claim that someday ghost grass will cover the entire world, and then all life will end." That thought gave Dany the shivers. A Game of Thrones, Daenerys III

Now there is a lot of symbolism at play in that passage such as who are the spirits of the damned, that I will be exploring in a future essay. For now, I just want you to see how with Dany’s shiver, and description of the ghost grass, George wants pale as milk glass to be associated with the Others. And what does milk glass do in the dark, it glows.

This raises the question of why, if the Others are this destructive force to be overcome, George is positioning them, and their Night King leader, and the sword he quite likely bore as what one could call, beacons in the dark. 

Because that’s what Dawn is. It’s a herald in the dark. So why was a sword that heralds the end of the Long Night and the start of a new day wielded by the Night’s King, and leader of the icy Others? And why is it called Dawn and not say, Night, or maybe even Blackfyre? See what I mean about contradictions in the legend of the Others. 

Why was Dawn, the sword foreshadowed to be wielded by the leader of the battle for the dawn previously wielded by the Night’s King, because that’s what’s implied in George’s description of the sword and him comparing it to the Others.

So, what are your thoughts about the Others? Why do you think they are back and what is their role in the story…especially if they end up being led by Jon as I’ve proposed.

#asoiaf #thoughts on this and that #the others #white walkers #the long night #northern legends #the starks #house stark #scr meta