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warrioreowynofrohan · 3 years

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Aredhel, Reborn

This is a fragment that I started putting together a long time ago, and it stops in the middle, but my writing isn’t cooperating right now so I’m posting it as-is for @tolkiengenweek . It’s a sequel to my two previous Aredhel pieces (but not my Aredhel and Eöl one, which isn’t in continuity with it). Hopefully I’ll manage to follow up on it.

********************

Aredhel leaves the Halls, permitted to return to life for no reason that she can comprehend. She has not sought mercy for herself, though she has asked it a thousand times for her son and been met with a deafening silence. She chooses to return because Fingon is doing so, and he might not be able to bring himself to go if he left behind both of his siblings as well as his dearest friend. Turgon should have returned - would have been permitted to return, yeni ago, not tainted by kinslaying as his siblings are - but he is being stubborn, out of some mix of reluctance to face the survivors of Gondolin and reluctance to face the Lord of the Waters.

They reenter life to be almost immediately caught in their father’s embrace. Through all that follows - returning to Tirion, reunion with their mother and cousins, an apology to the Lady Eärwen that clearly terrifies Fingon more than any battle he’s ever fought in - the world seems faded and distant to Aredhel, as though some part of her fëa had never left the Halls. She cannot stay in Tirion, she cannot seem to hold the thread of a conversation with anyone, even her parents and brother. She knows, distantly, that she loves them, but it all seems so far away.

Her aimless feet take her to Valmar, and she find herself at the one place in the Blessed Realm that is shunned by Eldar and Ainur alike, climbing from the foot of Ezellohar to the two broken skeletons that were once the purest light in the universe, and as she collapses to the grass she feels, for the first time, a connection with the world. How did you do it? she whispers. How do you continue when what you hold dearest has been turned to darkness and ruin and ash? And something connects within her mind, something that never did through all the years in the Halls, never did during her return to Tirion, though all the reunions and necessary, distant apologies. Her feet carry her south and east, to the seashore and the white city, the city of pearls.

She does not go to the throne room of the king and queen, but to the docks, cloaked and hooded and unnoticed, seeking for faces she remembers. She finds one, working, holding a small curved knife in her hand that she uses to shell oysters.

Aredhel raises her hood, sees the Telerin woman start at the sight of her, and falls to her knees. The knife stops its work, poised in midair.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…I wished to apologize. To say that I was wrong.”

“So? What does that mean? What will that mend?” The woman lays down the shelling-knife, goes to a ship, and picks up another meant for carving wood. She lays the blade to a piece of wood lying nearby and the hands, their movements so smooth and deft when shelling oysters, begin to shake, leaving jagged, uneven cuts, leaving it useless. “I built the ships your people so wantonly destroyed, shaped them as you Noldor shape steel, and now I live again, but that which gave me life has left me. We did not hoard them and hide them in vaults, we sailed them and lived aboard them until they were more our home than the shore, and all you left to us were blood and ash and tainted memories.” The tremors through her body come in waves now, and her voice is choked. “My life was the least of what you stole from me. And now you seek what? Absolution? Resolution? This does not end for me. Why should it end for you?”

Aredhel hunches in on herself. “I surrender. What would you have of me?”

“Why come here, and not to the king?”

Olwë wouldn’t do anything to me - for Uncle Finarfin’s sake, if not for my own. He wasn’t who I attacked. He wasn’t who I killed.

“I thought you had more right. I…I know what it is to be betrayed by one whom you trusted. I know what it it is to see what you love dearest cast into ruin. And if I had - him - apologizing to me, truly and sincerely, as I am to you” - her voice breaks - “I would bury a knife in his guts.” She is shaking. “I came here because I didn’t know what else to do. Only that I needed to do something. I surrender. Say what you want from me, and you will have it.”

The Telerin woman just looks tired. “I don’t want your blood. What use would that be? I don’t want you locked up. What good would that do anyone? You cannot give back what you have taken. You cannot restore what is destroyed.

“Leave us in peace. Go.”

Aredhel goes.

....

She flees to the wild lands she once loved, which no longer feel so narrow as they did in the years of her youth, before Gondolin and Nan Elmoth and the Halls, before she knew that duty was a chain and love was a chain. Fear, too, is a chain, as she find when she wanders into the woods of Oromë where she once hunted with her cousins and stops, trembling, as the treetops cut off the sky, frozen, her thought a thousand miles away in drowned lands where the forest went from wonder to horror to prison. She works her way stumbling back to the light, her arms clutching at branches and tree-trunks to pull her onwards, until she emerges again into the free air.

She goes, instead, to the open plains, where she can run and ride and hunt, and take joy in feeling alive again, with a heart that beats and mouth that tastes and limbs that ache. In time she returns to the forest, first to edges and sun-dappled clearings, later to the denser woods in autumn when the leaves turn yellow and brown and fall to create openings where light and warmth enters, and nuts and fruits and berries surround her at every turn. Regaining the woods in summertime takes longer, where leaves create deep pools of shadow, and it is longer still before she wishes to be in the woods after nightfall, looking up at the stars.

(She no longer wears white. She dresses in greys and browns and tans, and in plain or woodland she might be mistaken for part of the landscape.)

She cannot say, for certain, how much of her escape is driven by avoiding walls, and how much by avoiding people, avoiding the need to hear or speak of (or hear people deliberately and delicately not speak of) a son she cannot defend and will not condemn. Did she shun the woods because they felt a cage, or because it felt that at any moment a pale-skinned, black-haired boy might step out of them with a present for his mother of hazlenuts or newly-caught game or skillfully-carved wood? A boy who is gone, who is become something she cannot and will not name.

Fingon finds her, from time to time, with uncanny ability, though he was never her equal as a woodsman. They share meals, wanderings, conversations light or serious. He does not tell her to return, though he speaks often of their parents and at times ventures to say how much they miss her. She does not know how to explain. Fingon can feel that their positions, failing and pardoned and returned and grieving for the lost, are the same, but it does not feel so to her. He fell in battle, and with a host of heroic deeds to his name. Her father fell in combat, the greatest one in the history of Arda. She died because she trusted the wrong person, loved the wrong person, ran off, was irresponsible and impetuous as always, led an enemy back to the one safe home she still had; her place in the First Age’s history is the dislodged rock or careless shout that starts an avalanche. Turgon has never blamed her for Gondolin’s fall, but that is because she never spoke to him while they were in the Halls, never knowing what to say. I am sorry that my son existed? She isn’t. She isn’t. She isn’t. She is only sorry that his father orphaned him, left him alone among strangers in a strange city with no parent to guide him.

One morning she awakes at her campsite to find her father there, tending the embers of her fire. She does not know how he has found her; he is gifted in scholarship, in diplomacy, in governance, in craftwork, in all the arts of war, but not in woodcraft or tracking or the arts of the wildnerness (save, by necessity, of keeping thousands of people alive in bone-chilling, soul-numbing temperatures).

They speak a little of other things, of her life in the woods and his in Tirion, but he cannot long restrain the question he has come to ask. “Aredhel, can you not come home?”

She offers the easier explanation first, the other being too painful to place in words. “I don’t want to go back to be pitied as a failure.”

“We all failed, dearest. Every one of us.”

“You did not. Not like me. You died fighting Morgoth and every Elda and I expect every Vala respects you for that. Fingon died fighting a balrog. My younger cousins died in battle. Even the philosopher did better than me! I was one of the most eager to go, I killed people in order to go, atta, and I have nothing to show for it, no achievements, nothing to boast of, and I will not go back to be petted and pitied and patronized, I won’t -” and she knows she still sounds like a spoiled child even now, when the others have grown wise and thoughtful and penitent.

Her father simply looks at her, long and quiet, as if trying to perceive all the words she has left unspoken, and they finally struggle to her lips.

“I don’t want to know what they all think of him. I do know what they think of him. I don’t want to be consoled for what my son did or became by people who didn’t know him and can’t understand him, and to know they are thinking of it every time they look at me, I’ll hate them for it and it will break out and I’ll cause trouble for everyone again - ” she’s stopped looking at her father, not wanting to see in his eyes his opinion of such a grandson, not wanting to feel the wrath against him that would come from it. “Why does everything I love fall to evil? My son, Tyelko, Curvo, my - ” she cannot bring herself to say husband, “- him? Do I have no judgement, no discernment? Am I being punished? I loved him when he killed me, I love my son and my cousins yet, and I don’t want to explain or to justify or to live among people that hate them -”

She is weeping now, and her father pulls her into an embrace. “You did not deserve this, Aredhel. Not what happened to you, or what happened to your son.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet now. “I think, sometimes, it is all of a piece. If you do evil to gain something, whether it be ill in itself or not, it will burn you when you find it. As with my cousins and the gemstones. I killed to gain freedom from limitations or constraint, and when I took it it burned me.”

#tolkien #the silmarillion #aredhel #fingolfin #fanfic #tolkiengenweek #cw trauma

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imjeralee · 3 years

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Comfort in Despair: Chapter 29 - Deimos

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

@marydragneell here is the latest update

Deimos

…

[There's Nothing Here.]

…

Gengar has safely taken you to the Wild Area, carrying you on his back.

The shadow has disappeared along the way, seemingly decided to give up pursuing you, for now.

Your mind has been unable to settle, to register the horrific incidents that had just taken place. Your Pokemon are dead. You were attacked in your own home. Nothing is safe.

A little voice in your mind has popped up, wanting to be heard, and it’s all about giving up. It would be so easy to quit, to surrender and submit to it all - whether it be your fate or destiny, or maybe it had been this way all along and this was how it was meant to be right from the very start, but for some reason, you had resisted it.

For a long time, you had not experienced fear but tonight, it had all come crashing back to you. You realised how helpless you were, how tiny and insignificant everything truly was.

As Gengar descends, having found a suitable place for landing, the cold rush of wind that hits you provides a tiny window of clarity.

No, I can’t give up. It’s only just begun.

You let out a choked rasp of anguish. A loud gasp rips from the back of your throat and a single tear pours from the corner of your eyes. No, no, this won't do. Squeezing your fist into a tight ball, you regather your composure and quickly squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head before re-opening your eyes.

Whatever it is, you're determined to make it pay.

You will destroy it, if it's the last thing you do.

The change of scenery from the sleepy town of Wedgehurst to the vast and empty expanse of the Dusty Bowl is unfamiliar to you. The Wild Area is so dark and empty, it’s unsettling. You think back to your researching days, when you would spend many nights here on your own, in the dark, in the wildnerness with nothing but a torch, some food and pokedolls…and wonder how on earth did you do it?

When the pokemon lets you off, Gengar helps you sit down on a rock where you can gather your thoughts. You haven’t spoken since the ordeal and it looks like you’re still in shock. Your face is pale from fright yet your expression is impassive.

He’s worried, and he asks Mimikyu to help whilst he stays by your side: you've essentially run from home in your pyjamas and with no shoes, so she is tasked to find you some warm clothes.

The doll departs and quickly finds a campsite nearby – she spies a young couple sleeping inside their tents and sneakily ransacks their supplies, grabbing a pair of socks, shoes from the backpacker girl along with her coat.

Mimikyu returns with her goodies and hands them to you; she’s surprised you’re not reprimanding her as you usually would whenever she does something bad or wrong.

Instead, you silently don a stranger’s shoes and coat...and then you check the contents of your bag. You didn't pack much, if anything at all. Also, Rotom is missing. You must have left him at home.

Gengar and Mimikyu watch as you come across your radio next, pull it out and turn it round, switching it on, only for a horrific static noise to come blaring out followed by a deep male’s voice iterating the nursery rhyme “Ring-a-round-a-rosie,” repeatedly.

You hurriedly switch it off but the voice continues and seeing how shaken you are, Gengar slaps it out of your hands and onto the ground before he proceeds to stomp on the device, breaking it in half. To top it all off, he shoots it into smithereens with a Dark Pulse.

“Thanks.”

He gives you a nod of acknowledgement.

Next, you fish Vulpix’s capsule and release her. Once she emerges, your pokemon looks up at you expectantly. Your small team fall into line together and you glance at them all as they wait for your next instructions.

With a deep breath, you release a sigh and close your eyes briefly, then reopen them.

“…There's something after me, and it kills pokemon,” you utter, “Cutiefly and Sunkern are dead. The khira dagger broke and the talismans didn’t work. I don't know what it is. It's not a human, pokemon, spirit...I don't even think it's a demon. I can’t really explain it and I know how it sounds, but…it’s not from this world.”

You had stumbled over your words, your voice trembling. The pokemon, except Gengar, blink in alarm, exchanging glances between each other before they begin to crowd around you.

You step back, shaking your head.

“I’m releasing all of you. It will keep going after me so if you stay, I’ll only get you killed. Go home. You’ll be safe,” you utter shakily, and Mimikyu and Gengar look at you with widened eyes. "I want to thank you all for your help. I've enjoyed our time together, even though it was short."

Poor Vulpix is the most confused, padding up to you and sitting at your feet, looking up at you with her glossy eye. She had just been adopted and now she will be abandoned again. She sits on her haunches as you shake your head sadly before she lets out a mournful howl. Lowering yourself to a crouch, you gently pick her up and embrace her tightly, before letting her back down.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

It’s Gengar and Mimikyu next, and you pick up the ragdoll and hug her firmly before moving onto Gengar.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Gossamer Cave.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

You shake your head.

“I can’t let you go on your own.”

“You can’t go with me.”

“But I promised to fight with you, to stay by your side,” he replies.

“I’m sorry, Gengar. I can’t take any risks. This is the only way I can keep you safe. You should go back and be with your trainer.”

"But you are my trainer now."

That makes you hesitate; Gengar's loyalty is touching and you let out another gentle sigh under your breath.

“What if you can’t find the cave?”

“I will.”

“Then we’ll wait for you here,” Gengar replies and you smile weakly at him. “We’ll wait for you.”

Without further ado, you turn your back on your pokemon, heading towards the opposite direction where the path that leads into the Dusty Bowl awaits. The pokemon begin to trail after you - you can hear their little footsteps - but you turn round and shake your head firmly, warning them. Vulpix and Mimikyu joins Gengar's side, watching you leave.

“Are we really free?” Mimikyu asks.

“Free or not, I’m waiting for her here,” Gengar says, folding his arms. “If you want to leave, you can go.”

“Suit yourself, mi.” Mimikyu replies.

…

Mimikyu heads for the tall grass. She’s a little stunned; Gengar and Vulpix are going to wait for you to return, but you had released them because it was no longer safe to be around you anymore.

Unsure what to really do or where to begin, now that she’s a free pokemon, Mimikyu wades through the undergrowth with little idea of where she’s going or where she should be heading to, or where her new or next home should be.

She accidentally bumps into a tough-looking Tyrogue who attempts to chase her away from its territory but she teaches him a lesson in sharing by letting loose a shadowy claw and slapping him away. The weakened Tyrogue has no choice but to let her wander around to her heart’s delight but even then, Mimikyu discovers she doesn’t like living in the tall grass. It’s too primitive.

She dawdles for a long time aimlessly until she comes across a clearing where a bunch of wild Mimikyu can be seen gathered together up ahead. Home! She’s home…

Immersing herself into the group, Mimikyu lifts a claw and attempts a friendly wave.

“Mi mi,” she says, but when they turn round, they only emit squeaking noises and she is greeted with haunting disguises that resemble Pikachu, her most hated enemy.

The disturbing black squiggles that are meant to resemble its eyes...they are so empty and hollow and sinister, it scares her.

Seeing her own kind dressed up as a Pikachu, desperate for attention and love, pretending to be something they’re not, lying to themselves in order to escape their never-ending cesspit of loneliness and melancholy, Mimikyu shakes her head furiously, coming to the realisation that she doesn’t belong here.

Instead of dressing up as Pikachu, they should be dancing around a burning effigy of the electric rodent!

Used to a warm bed and roof over her head, along with three meals a day and drink at virtually no cost, she realizes how difficult it would be to adjust to the wildlife and she does not remember how she used to live before she was taken in by humans.

Now she will need to look for food and drink on her own, as well as a place to sleep for the remainder of her days. She scampers away in fright at the newfound revelation, or crisis, and finds a pond where she sits at the damp, mossy edge, looking at her reflection.

She’s an ugly little ragdoll but a kind-hearted human took her in and she had a family. She had Gengar, Runerigus and Vulpix.

She begins crying, lost and confused and scared, until the shadow of a tree wobbles and a familiar pokemon steps out, carrying a one-eyed Vulpix under one arm.

“Gengar! Vulpix!” she exclaims, looking up as the shadow pokemon floats over to her. “You didn’t leave mi?”

Gengar shakes his head whilst Vulpix begins licking her face. "I knew something like this would happen to you,” he says. “You're not used to wild life anymore, are you?"

“No, mi want a nice home and warm food. I’m sorry for leaving. Let’s go, let’s find her.”

He nods, and together, they return to the main path where they attempt to follow their trainer’s lingering scent.

…

On your own, you have been unable to determine your bearings, where is north, south, east or west; you were certain you were at least on the right path by recalling some familiar landmarks of the region such as the huge, Musharna-shaped rock or Rhydon-shaped tree and you’ve ended up trekking onto uncharted territory, a path no-one had ever stepped foot on and now a sandstorm had whipped up from virtually out of nowhere.

The harsh wind billows from every corner; luckily, you’d packed a pair of goggles earlier to protect your eyes from the sand but the storm is too strong and you find yourself being blown away on one occasion too many. You persevere, pushing your body forwards and to the limit, lifting your arms up to shield yourself, planting one foot in front of the other slowly but steadily.

You hear a familiar buzz closeby before a small, red pokemon pops up and into the air and your eyes widen with shock.

"Rotom!" you exclaim as he bobs in front of you, "what are you doing here?"

"I fell azzleep in your bag, zzzipped myzzzelf up inzzzzide a pocket and juzzt woke up. What'd I mizzz, zzrt?"

You let out a heavy sigh. "Where do I even begin?"

Your phone glimpses around before he flies towards you and buries itself into your jacket for safety, peeking out behind your lapels.

"Where are we, zzrt? Actually, never mind! Let me find out, bzzrt!" his screen goes blank as he attempts to find your location but nothing happens; his screen is a fuzzy, jumbled mess of grey. "Lookzzz like I have no zzzignal. Oh dear, bzz."

"I'm not surprised."

"Can we go home, zzrt?"

"Not yet. Sorry, Rotom."

With Rotom as your remaining pokemon, you plough on. He moves to hide in your backpack, trembling with fear.

You’d been stuck in this sandstorm for what appears to be an eternity, with no end in sight and your feet are beginning to hurt.

Stopping, you glance around but you cannot see anything, only sandy smog that batters you from all directions. Looking behind your shoulders, your footsteps have disappeared too.

“Where are we, bzzrt?” Rotom asks.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Rotom.”

“It’zzz okay, zzrt,” he replies. “we’re in thizzzz together.”

You’ve had your Rotom phone for a while now and he’s been so good to you. “We can do this, Rotom,” you reply.

He nods, and you continue your journey though you realise the storm has grown even stronger and the temperature has dropped and now you cannot even keep your balance as the wind blows you left and right, forwards and backwards. You cry out as you stumble around blindly and Rotom gets blown out of your backpack.

“EEP! Help!!!” he cries out as he’s whisked up and into the storm.

“Rotom!!” you yell, attempting to reach for him but he quickly vanishes from view, disappearing amidst the sand.

“Help!” he cries, though you can no longer see him.

“Rotom?? Where are you?” you yell, throwing your glance around wildly.

It’s silent.

“Rotom?! Hang in there, I’ll find you!”

Breaking into a sprint, you rush towards the direction you had last seen Rotom. To your dismay, you are greeted with nothing but the same dreary and blustering, never-ending sandy winds. Panting, you stop. Your mouth is dry, your mind hazy. You cannot even tell if you’re running in circles, if you’d been here before, if you’re heading back to where you came from.

Surrounded by nothing but billowing winds and sand, you realise how truly alone and lost you are.

“Rotom??” you yell into the vast nothingness.

There is no response, as expected.

“How does Ezra see where he’s going?” you mutter to yourself.

The sudden realization comes to you like a tonne of bricks dropping over your head.

He doesn’t.

Closing your eyes, you are freed from the rampant distraction of the sandstorm.

Taking a deep breath, you take one step forwards. Then another, and another. You let your feet wander on their own accord, taking one step at a time. You hold your breath to focus, concentrating as much as you can on pinpointing the correct path, the way forwards.

Allowing your senses to take over, your body begins to feel weightless and free as your feet carry you through the expanse. You guide yourself, clinging to a weak instinct that lingers in your gut which tells you that you’re heading the right way, and soon, your surroundings grow silent.

You stop walking.

The sandstorm has vanished and everything is still.

Opening your eyes, you blink, your eyes slowly adjusting to the light.

Your shoulders loosen up, the tension eroding away. You have escaped the sandstorm, and into a thick blanket of bluish grey mist filled with floating pieces of tiny pearly lights.

Observing them, you reach a hand out and press your fingertip against one of the lights which chimes and twinkles loudly, similar to the fairy lights of the Slumbering Weald.

Up ahead, a white orb of light bobs towards your direction. It grows brighter and brighter and as you squint your eyes for a better look, you make out the shape of a figure heading your way through the thick fog.

It’s a pokemon - the shiny Lucario you had seen all those years ago.

He stops before you, his red eyes meeting yours; he looks no different than the last time you had seen him, his golden fur grizzled and washed out, his expression stoic and calm. The light is emitting from the tip of his staff, which stops glowing and dies away slowly.

“You have found us," he says, with a brief nod of his head. "Well done. Follow me.”

“Wait, what happened to Rotom?”

“He’s fine,” Lucario replies, “You needn’t worry. Come along now. Don’t fall behind.”

Nodding, you trail after Lucario silently as he leads you through the surreal mist. On this occasion, the journey is a short and straightforward, linear path.

When he stops, you join his side, revealing a familiar sinkhole that’s bathed in swirling fog.

“Gossamer Cave! It’s real!" you exclaim as you peer down the ledge; everything is indeed as you had remembered.

“Yes.” Lucario lowers his staff and points the tip at the foggy cave entrance. “You must go inside on your own.”

You nod. “I am alone.”

He shakes his head and draws his staff near his shadow and lifts, reeling something out; it’s a chubby black blob which unfurls to reveal Gengar. You exclaim loudly with surprise, and the pokemon grins sheepishly at you.

Lucario frowns and shakes his head. “You must go in alone.”

“Can he wait for me outside?” you say, and Lucario growls lowly from his throat.

“Fine,” he grunts out, after a brief while.

You smile with gratitude and thank the pokemon profusely before throwing your glance to Gengar. He grins at you widely and you share an embrace. “Why are you here?”

“I was worried,” says Gengar, and you both quickly pull away to blink with shock, realizing his voice could be heard clearly out loud. It must be this strange place; it’s blurring two realities together.

However, you and Gengar merely grin and throw your arms around each other once more, his stubby arms wrapping around your back tightly.

“Thank you, Gengar,” you murmur, the corner of your eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you so much. Where are the others?”

“They’re waiting for you in the Dusty Bowl,” he says. “Don’t cry. You’re not alone. We’re here for you.”

You nod, and he releases you.

Unaffected by your reunion, Lucario steps in and says sternly, “It’s time. We will wait for you here. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Lucario.”

You pass them and begin to descend the rocky stairs without further ado, holding onto the vines for support. A serious flicker of déjà vu flashes in your mind for a split second and promptly disappears. Déjà vu or not, you have been here before and everything is exactly as it was many years ago. This place has remained untouched and unburdened by humans which prompts you to believe that you could have entered a different dimension, somehow.

Once you reach the bottom, the gloomy and dark entrance of the cave awaits you. The entrance seems bigger than last time; the slit is wider and stretches high above your head.

This is what Ezra was training you for, and now it’s time.

Taking a deep breath, you mentally assure yourself that everything is going to be fine and you are doing the right thing, though your pounding heart seems to tell you otherwise.

Ezra told you an ancient relic can be found here, and it will help you. You trust your mentor with your life.

Stepping towards the dark slit in the wall, you reach into your bag and pull out your torch, switching it on. It will be your only source of light as you navigate through the darkness that awaits you; you shine the light further within and it stretches all the way into the tunnel but to your surprise, there is no dead end in sight.

The tunnel seems to go on and on.

“It’s changed,” you murmur to yourself and as you step inside, a loud crumbling sound permeates the stillness and the entire cave trembles.

You turn round, witnessing the entrance close up behind you; vines entwine together, rocks and mud are pushed into each other by some unknown, unseen force. You're quickly sealed in, and you swallow down.

There's no way out... and you shine your torch around the gloomy walls, listening out for nothing but the casual drip of water from the stalactites splashing over the ground.

The interior of the cave has indeed changed since the previous venture. The left wall is covered entirely with cave paintings of stick figures and you presume this is supposed to be a depiction of early humans.

Stepping closer, you stop in front of the mural and reach over, running your fingertip over the dried paint and rub your fingers together; the paint falls off your skin in tiny flakes.

Following the rest of the pictures along the way, they progress from meaningless stick figures to a series of red handprints along with several names etched beside them, only there aren’t many names that match the number of handprints. You do not recognize the names until you come across Ezra’s name.

These must be the names of people who came here before you, and you glimpse up and around until you spot a rockpool near the wall brimming to the full with a thick, viscous red liquid which appears to be the origins of the paint.

You crouch by the pool and with your other hand, slowly press your palm into the ink, then find a random space on the wall and press your palm flat over the cold, uneven surface. Lifting your palm off, you see your name suddenly appearing on the wall from the stone and your eyes widen.

You decide to follow the rest of the paintings, moving along the wall. The paintings move from showing early humans carrying spears, to humans accompanied with prehistoric pokemon such as Aerodactyl, Kabutos and Omanytes.

The paintings unfortunately come to an end, and the last one shows an unsettling, bizarre-looking blob painted in black by an abundance of red dots that surround it in a spherical fashion.

You scrutinise this picture thoroughly, coming to the conclusion that whatever it’s meant to be, it's similar to the shadow creature that attacked you although this painting depicts it surrounded by humans who are bowing down, most likely in worship. Some of the painted figures are accompanied with small pokemon, too.

You move onto the next set of paintings that are far more colourful; a shining white creature has been painted, surrounded by an ochre ring: Arceus.

There are also early depictions of Palkia, Dialga and Giratina along with a drawing of a large red pokemon which you can only believe is Groudon, followed by an elegant blue pokemon, Kyogre.

It’s a timeline of ancient history, and a faint rumble captures your attention and you shine your torch towards the tunnel that lies ahead.

It had come from deep within.

You grow still, listening and staring into the darkness where the light doesn’t reach.

Holding your breath, you wait for a reply as the ground beneath you quakes and the grumbling from within grows louder and louder until a red light flickers briefly from deep within the tunnel.

Cocking your head to the side, you make a move forwards until your torch wavers, the light flickering on and off and growing dimmer and dimmer.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, giving the device a few hefty slaps with the heel of your palm.

When you get it working back to proper order, the red light has vanished and your brows furrow in confusion.

There's something down there and there are no other areas of interest here so you must continue to move forwards; you carefully navigate your way into the tunnel which descends to a rather steep path that leads you deeper and deeper into the belly of the cave. Along the way, you are mindful of sharp rocks that stick out from the ground and sides and the more you venture, the colder it becomes.

Pulling your coat tightly to yourself, you plod through until the path expands, revealing a large clearing and as you arrive, your breath lodges in your throat.

The cave itself is larger inside than it looks compared to outside, with magnificent, huge walls that stretch all the way to unknown heights. You’re certain if you shine your torch up, the beam of the light would not be able to reach the ceiling.

A square, stone platform stands in the middle of the cave, with four pillars in each corner. Huge runes have been carved on the stone pillars, and you recognise some of them from Ezra’s teachings. Some are faded but from you can make out, they spell a simple message which translates to ‘He Who Hath Come Hath Thy Eyes’.

You wander towards the platform, standing in the middle. Below, a pentagram in a perfect circle has been etched along with a symbol in the very middle, one you don’t recognise.

The rumbling stirs the atmosphere once again, except it sounds closer now, much, much closer….coming from above…and the cavern walls tremble and you instinctively take a few steps backwards, glancing around cautiously.

You are no longer alone; a shadow swoops down from the ceiling and lands on the platform.

The impact sends you tumbling backwards and you drop over the ground, rolling awkwardly before you manage to regain your balance and with your torch, you quickly gather yourself back up and shine the light on the creature.

It’s a dark blob….and it doesn’t move, doesn’t react to your light shining on its form. It’s still, as though frozen in time but occasionally disrupted with a slight twitch accompanied with a low, buzzing, or humming noise and you slowly rise to stand, pushing yourself off the ground.

It appears to be assembling itself; though its body seems to be nothing but darkness, you can make out wave-like ripples and swirls on the surface that run throughout its body in casual waves…as though it’s unfurling and curling. It moves like a fabric in water though its texture appears anything but smooth.

There’s many thoughts racing through your mind: organic or inorganic? Sentient or not? Malicious or benevolent?

Surprisingly, you do not feel threatened by its presence and as it continues to transform, it begins to twitch violently until two rudimentary appendages bursts out from its back, twisting together and stretching up high into the air. They’re wings, and they divide into four, then six.

A single dot of red light accompanies it, shining brightly in the middle of the dark mass. It soon splits into two, then three, four….five…It continues to divide until there are a total of eight that begin to rotate clockwise in a hypnotic fashion.

They swivel and weave in enticing motions before they group together to form a horizontal line in front of you. Then they quickly assemble into a vertical line and finally, a small, shapeless cluster. These strange lights hover close to your right, peer at you up and down, then hastily retreat and move to your left and do the same. They appear to be curious about you, inspecting you keenly.

It's identical to what you saw in your bedroom.

Not lights, you think to yourself. Eyes.

The creature is huge, towering many feet over you. Unable to tear your gaze away, you throw your glance left, right and up as the eyes return to its main position in the centre and regard you intensely in return.

Not a human.

Not a pokemon.

“Deimos,” you breathe out.

The eyes glow softly in response, enticing you to come forwards.

Taking one minuscule step, you slowly raise a hand - your hand cannot stop shaking – and though your gesture is bold, to touch it, it stays still and your palm lands on a cold but smooth surface and what feels like a cool breeze surges through your entire body, sending tingles down your spine. You let out a loud gasp from the sensation and retreat your palm.

The crippling fear, the loneliness, the agony, the despair...

It has all but disappeared.

"I know why you're here," a quiet voice whispers in the dark.

It's deep but gentle...and it doesn’t sound male or female...or anything at all, if possible.

“You’re the one who Ezra spoke to when he was a child. You taught him,” you murmur. “And you helped him all those years ago, too. It was you.”

"You want to learn how to stop Phobos.”

"Phobos?"

The eyes join together and arrange themselves, moving towards the ceiling; they shift from blood red to a golden glow at once, the eyes growing glossy. You believe it's looking at something.

“Phobos is one of my kin. He revels in chaos, enjoys feeding more than I do, and he enjoys wreaking havoc unto humans and pokemon.”

You're confused. What exactly are Deimos and Phobos? “Why me? Why Rosie...my mum and dad???”

“You and your sister possess aura, and a large amount of it. Your sister was devoured for that reason, and you’re next. Your mother and father were unfortunately fodder along the way. You are correct; Phobos must be stopped, in order to preserve the balance of the universe."

Its glossy red eyes shows your reflection and the expression on your face...you have never seen yourself look so awestruck yet petrified at the same time, and it's as though it's looking at you too, staring right into your soul.

"You...you'll help me?" you stutter out, swallowing down thickly.

"Yes."

You hold your breath.

"You're in pain. And you have been, for a very long time. I can take it all away. I can make it stop.”

Nodding weakly, your mouth quivers as a shaky breath leaves your throat.

"I just want this nightmare to end," you whisper. "What do I need to do?"

"Let's form a pact," it says. "You and I."

...

You emerge from the cave.

Gengar and Lucario head over; the Pokemon are pleased to see you and as you meet them, you and Gengar share an embrace once more.

“What happened? You were inside for a long time. Did you find it?” Gengar asks as you pull away with a nod.

“I found it,” you reply, smiling, “I know what to do. Everything's going to be okay now. Let's go back.”

Gengar nods; he does not fail to notice the distinct shade of your eyes, which is a curious shade of red.

…

EXTRA NOTES: (these are from AO3, I added them incase anyone is confused -

Deimos was actually meant to converse a bit more with Reader, but the more it did, the more it lost the mystery that surrounds it.

Honestly I wasn't sure myself if this was the right direction to go but I didn't think it would be convincing if Deimos turned out to be a pokemon - Darkrai for example, or even a pokemon I made up because I think that would be hard to imagine - so I've kept Deimos as this cosmic entity/eldritch horror that resides in a cave which is only accessible by those who possess an extremely high level of aura.

It's kind of similar to Mirage Island, I guess?? but it will also not appear unless the individual possesses a high level of aura too. Reader is a late bloomer, which is why it took her so long to reach this stage. Deimos and Phobos are kin, but Phobos is evil and Deimos can be considered good. If you have further questions please feel free to ask.

#pokemon #pkmn #jeralee #fanfic #fic #reader #reader insert #leon #leon x you #leon x reader #dande #pokemonswordandshield #pokemonshield #pokemonsword #pokemonshieldsword #pokemonshieldandsword #Comfort in Despair #archive of our own

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castrosaitabau-blog · 3 years

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WISDOM OF THE MAASAI

In quest for a fathomable perspective, bunduzman had to go further north of Kilimanjaro to the wilderness of Maasai land. In pursuit of a lifestyle, cultural and cohesive human-fauna co existence I finally set my foot on the soil I always wanted to explore since years in memorial. Maybe we could say the time was right, destiny had aligned itself . little did I know of the pot of gold awaiting . I visited my late granny`s sister my only resource person I knew and a cultural hardliner to get the wisdom of the guru.

First impression and am pretty at peace, I knew this all I wanted. Hemming the landscape in abundance are dark black volcanic boulders but dispersed as compared to `shetani lava` free flow lava rocks. beneath the blue skies, amidst hillsides, sparsely distributed shrub tower from the dark soil but there`s magic that this place offers, afore me is the most photogenic Kilimanjaro background and am sure this place harbours wisdom and treasures of the land.

According to maa culture , upon a meet up a catch up is mandatory. My holism side is coming out alive strongly. The maa call it `lomon` and so do i. every minute here is a crucial learning opportunity for me so my indulgence is eclectic.

Soon am shown my accommodation and as per maa culture it is far from the boma (homestead) as am a moran(warrior). Morans sleep further from women and children . the set up is spectacular. Set in serenity and tranquility I must acknowledge my uncle Loserian sundowner`s eye for a choice of such a picturesque scenery.

My room`s background is the most perfect quaint I would ever capture of the Kilimanjaro. Certainly kibo it`s stature like a benevolent giant embracing the Amboseli plains, it`s snow caped top like a kings crown and from my conservation and ecological proficiency I understand the sleeping giant role in providence and sustainability. Set near an oldonyo (hill) rocks are arranged symmetrically in the interference -free solace and solitude.

Everywhere I have gone as an adventurer I have always valued the virtue of making friends. It`s 1700hrs and my uncle and I are sitted for a perfect sundowner moment. The view is blissful as the sunset glares are twilighting Amboseli national park plains.my guide who`s my uncle is quite familiar with the geo-location , a true warrior of the land!

My guide points out a large mass reflecting the gleams and says it`s Lake Amboseli in the horizons, further north and to the east a hill protrudes to my knowledge the landmark of Namanga town. From namanga you go to `sanya ya juu’ a vast area occupied by maas both in Kenya and Tanzania.am overlooking the pastoralists corridor from my sundowner`s point of view.

Deep to Tanzania is kijiweni,then to murtoni, sangarini, murtot, entonet, barazani ,kilombero, shauri moyo, bustani then to mtamburu heading west.day by day my stay opens up a deep understanding of the population dynamics, transborder cultural influence and cultural role in identity and heritage.

My pursuit of a multi lingual perfection is bearing fruits. It`s a couple of days and my maa tutor `mr. ole Naanyu credits my efforts.am familiar with basic words likje ` aaoomon olorika( can I have a chair please?), endaah(food), kuleeh(milk), osoit(rock), oldonyo (mountain), sambu(brown),aang( home), enkaji(house) ndare(goats), enkolong(sun), alapa( moon) enkare( water) just but a few….

Culture is the antidote of propaganda – always my mantra. Basic rules first for a common entity and understanding of anything in my bunduz pursuit.i attribute this to my flexibility and open mindedness that I can morph and fit in anywhere if only I take care of the language barrier.couple of days and am totally in love with thebunduz in maa land.is it the solitude? Is it the simplicity? Is it the community unity and compassion? Sure I feel a sense of belonging every homestead I visit.

My maa is getting better as I can now structure a sentence, `aeeyoo adol ingwesin lo Amboseli’-( I came to see the wildlife around Amboseli) is my introduction everytime I meet a local . `Ayaauwa lomon ol la shumbaa pedol motonyik, ingwesin-(my work is to show tourists birds and wildlife ) is the skeleton key phrase for my stay here . Am euphoric to meet even toddler named after me, `Fidel Saitabau’. it`s maa wisdom to name a child after a relative for matriarch continuity and remembrance.

My quest for a deeper `Ambo-kiili ecosystem burns deep within me . am in tune with the universe and so does my fate.i get a phone call from another uncle who invites me to visit them at their camp and this totally uplifts my spirit. The next Sunday morning am amped in my combat cargo pants and jungle green shirt ready to be picked up. The first sight of his giant sized physique reminds me am in the land of warriors- a reassurance of some sort I must say.

`Big Boy’ I call him knows the ways of the land and totally the Amboseli-tsavo ecosystem and it`s neighbouring conservancies. It’s a Sunday so we on easy mellow chill mode as I get acquinted with his fellow warriors of the bunduz. Their hospitality is warm though in solitude , out in the cold lies the camp amidst bush ambience.

I harbour a great conviction and passion with the conservation inclined personnel as we are in the same area of professionalism- CONSERVATION for future generations. To my surprise , Big boy has planned a reconnaissance survey and am totally stoked! In his Big boy boots , I board his offroad bike as we fade into the wildnerness.

Since my arrival I have been anxious to find out a story of a great tusker and am told not worry no more since I found the soldiers in the field who were there till the demise of the supreme tusker. slowly we cruise and transverse the plains of the conservancies. Big boy showing me the wildlife and local maa terminologies . we go deeper into an eco-tourism perspective as we are sombre on how `Rona virus’ has robbed tourism it`s liveliness.

We are at the AA Amboseli lodge and it`s a perfect totaln dysfunctionality thus when I spot my first aves , the black flecked yellow throated francolin and marabou stalk. To the north we head leaving behind the `lemongo museum’- dedicated to the study of wildlife .Am impressed as am aware of a fully stocked library.To the south west is the Osero house .

In a while we are at Sopa lodge and kibo safari camp all in a total shutdown.As an intrepid adventurer my soul cries as I understand the replica to the tourism kitty.intersecting the junction from sopa is the road down to the Kenya wildlife service headquarters and next to it is Amboseli National park kimana gate all in a total shutdown.on the main road is `The Mada hotels kilima camp also is the same state.

My point of interest is the Or kelunyet village – a maasai cultural village perfect for briefing of the maa culture but that not of my concern as of now. Outside or kelunyet is a watering place that has natured one of the greatest tuskers that has transversed this plain. Compared to the mighty historical Ahmed of marsabit who was mandated presidential escort.

As the water trickle down and fade so is the presence of the mighty tusker Tim who gave up ghost after five decades.But the glory still triumphs the land as every villager around here knew or must have heard of the great tusker and even the global village where he won the hearts of many.my uncle Big boy is a marshal in the wildlife field under `BIG LIFE FOUNDATION’.

February `4th is the morning of demise of Tim. Big boy was one of the first person in the `scene of crime’ as he explains this was Tim`s favourite feeding area just opposite or kelunyet the other side of the road to Amboseli gate.am glad am getting first hand information from a ranger who witnessed Tim`s last presence here before being taken to the museum.

A peace loving, gentle and benevolent tusker he was for tourist to take photos of him sometimes pushing away other tuskers who tried to be vicious . Tim would relax for them to get a perfect caption- a photogenic legend he was.

December 1969 is when the great legend was born in Amboseli national park. four years later he got the name Tim from an intrepid American researcher Cynthia Moss who had arrived in Kenya in 1972-founder of Amboseli trust for elephants.

From her research ,Cynthia Moss reckons that Tim came from the TD family led by his matriachial grandma Teresia and the mum was Trista. For a while we observe the place as my uncle even shows me his last cloacal emittance a prove that this was his area he liked. Rather than outside or kelunyet Tim would sometimes change environment to the yellow barked acacia filled and water abundant kimana sanctuary for water or greener pastures or probably his females, a gentle bull who filled Amboseli with his progeny.

Tim had survived the 1980 Amboseli severe drought an era when Tim lost his grandma Trista from spears of pastoralists. prior in 1977 he lost his mum so he was left to wander alone but survived-a soldier of a kind. Tim`s death was a twisted gut but my uncle Bid boy explained to me he had found him lying and bleeding from injuries incurred from another Tusker perhaps a confrontation. Tim was gentle ,carefull and grandiose as his tusks were ground touching .probably it is the MUSTH that brought about a conflict of interest.

As we transverse the airstrip outside Amboseli gate closer to Tawi lodge Tim`s memories just run my mind obnoxious in some way but I have to let nature take it`s cause. upclose sights of maasai giraffes distinctive by their yellow fawn, common ostrich and gerenuks divert my mind as I go back to the camp reminiscing my day.

Another day another dollar, but dollars won`t come easy here in the bunduz since Rona invaded. My mind is at ease when my uncle promises to show me Tim`s brother Greg, a great tusker like him and of close resemblance and supremacy he says.

Am euphoric by the mention of a foot patrol as I know this will give me an upclose real time floral fauna encounter .For me euphoria is preceding vulnerability .As i rub mosquito repellant on my body ready to zip my self in my sleeping bag as I sleep amped.

At 0600hrs I wake up to the most soothing ambience of aves wildebeasts in the background. sorrounded by bones of great mammalia is our camp.my maa friend gives thanks in maa as we head to make breakfast. we collect `rigiek’ (firewood) as we catch up in a while breakfast is ready.

At 0700hrs we ared out of the camp ready for the routine foot patrol.My uncle takes me through the GPS mapping process and `The Black View IP-68’ for data collection and we begin mapping our waypoints and sightings in the field. We are amidst grants gazelles and wildebeasts as the hilly breeze hits us to a rude awakening .

My uncle Big boy is my resource person as I gain a lot of lessons on bushlife survival techniques. I can identify male and female ostricvhes , their milky like excretion and general ostrich behaviour like laying eggs at the same periodand the role of female and males to protect the eggs tillthey hatch.Bog boy explains the colour variation and advantage in terms of camouflage.

At night the dark feathered male take roll of roosting on the egg as the female feeds while during the day the female takes over brown feathered blending with the savannah. Am more amused by ostriches` behavior once the eggs hatch. The responsibility of caregiver is left to one of the females, the most ferocious one as the others leave.

Our mission is to transverse the conservancy on a `wreck patrol’ leaving no point unattended as the GPS maps our path indicating bordering conservancies.Am now well conversant with the interface and from a conservationist and wildlife manager to be perspective am impressed. The app has a ranger unit entity, members present, patrol method, patrol area ,are poachers armed? Additional is a record of wildlife sighting, tracking live or dead, scat/dropping ,number of animals ,wildlife treatment, illegal human activities, animal mortality, human wildlife conflict, community service by rangers e.t.c

Amboseli neighbours kimana group ranch an area which my grandpa Mr. Elijah Mwatee had demarcated in his tenure of duty long before moving to kwale and kilifi. The group ranches that make up kimana ranch are kilitome conservancy, nailepu, osupuko, naalarami and olitiyani conservancies anf far is the kimana sanctuary and the olgulului group ranch.

As an avid birdwatcher I enjoy spotting the augur buzzard, black flacked yellow throated francolin, the Kori bustard, superb strerlings, helmeted guinea fowls , just but a few. I encounter a rare type of ungulate and Big boy tells me this is their hotspot area. Am talking gerenuks as they browse on the shrubs near the windsock area.

Despite the dominating grant`s gazelles, impalas, wildebeests, gerenuks attract my attention as these arid survivors are wise in their own nature. Gerenuks eat the fleshy part, buds, fruits, flowers and climbing plants and do not require water if ever, rarely reducing predator risk as they graze in open areas.

Gerenuks have a pre-orbital gland ( like topis) that emit a tar like scent bearing substance that is deposited between twigs and bushes. This alerts other gerenuks in the area that there is a claim of territory. Gerenuk itself is a oromo - somali name meaning giraffe like gazelle in Swahili(swara twiga).

A fascinating thing is also gerenuk`s male performing a courtship ritual to an oestrus female. He will approach herand horizontally lift one of his front legs and repeatedly tap the female under belly and flanks. Or else he will rub his pre orbital gland on her body marking her with his scent to mate. The local maas call gerenuks` enkoilii’.

Am glad beinga plant community enthusiast to learn their local maa names. The maa community widely cherish flora and have a name for every plant / tree and to my surprise a nutritional or medicinal value.

The acacia tortilis is treasured in most homesteads as a source of shade local name `ol tepesi’ and loved by elephants as they rub theirselves on their rough bark. The whistling acacia , local name `elwai’ is an ingredient for soup once they slaughter, oremit is a stomach cleanser, `elokii’ finger like euphobia for hedges, `entialong’ a stomach remedy, oltiasmat found near Amboseli gate on the saline soil has an aesthetic value, olo songori ( devil`s whip).

It`s almost noon and the overhead sun is scorching , determined in our hats we beat the shrubs bearing in mind the vulnerability we are exposed to. Of worth recalling is a Laxadonta Africana in solitude usually very vicious behind a bush who was throwing mud at himself. We came to such close proximity about five metres unaware of the staring danger just that a gut feeling saved us.

We are now at Tawi lodge Amboseli as we surpass the thicket and to Big boy`s precision of his line of duty he teels me have a break at ` The zebra plain hotel’. Our GPS reading 37 0025E 12 79S at UTM. Pressure 96 99 690

As I heave a sigh of relief and down my cold concoction am humbled by the dedication the rangers have devoted from `BIG LIFE FOUNDATION’ to ensure a peaceful cohesion of humans and wildlife in the Amboseli conservancies that stretches to kimana sanctuary and chyulu hills.

By the time we arrive at the camp at 1330 hrs we have done a pretty 28 km patrol leaving me with nostalgic memories. On the contrary to fatigue am motivated to explore more of the camps in chyulu hills and the other conservancies.

As my maasai is getting better I can identify wildlife like `ol` logwarak (lion), emuny (rhino), oloitiko( zebra), oe ngat (wildebeest), or birit(warthog), oyayaiii( porcupine) essuni( impala), or ngojine( hyena), or makao( hippo), or meot (giraffe), or kanjaoni (elephants), olo sokuan (buffalo).

By Saitabau Castro.

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